Only a couple chapters left and I'm so sad...
I don't think I'm ready for it to be over!
Hope you enjoy!

The great hall did not erupt like he thought it might.

Bran's words echoed off the thick stone walls, but were met with only silence.

A cold certainty crept into the hall, and it seemed that the very fire had ceased to crackle. The only sound Jon heard was his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Each eye in the room bore into him like hundreds of beams of light, threatening to burn him alive. He held his breath so long that his chest felt that it may combust.

He felt her stand next to him, and felt the warmth of her fingers twining with his own. Her presence shook him from his daze, and he turned to look at his wife.

Her eyes were on his, and there was something there that he could not fathom. It was fear, he knew, but it was his own echoed back in the gray sea that met him. Behind Enrin's eyes he saw a steely determination.

"How long until they reach us?"

It was her that spoke then, her voice echoing across the hall like it was a great cavern, ready to swallow them whole. Her stomach twisted this way and that, and she swallowed hard, pushing the bile away. Even Bran, who had showed so little humanity in the time since she met him, sat rigid with apprehension.

"A day. Tomorrow, at dusk," he spoke, and even his voice seemed small.

Something much larger had lain across them then, a blanketed promise that made their troubles seem petty and insignificant. All the times she had fought with Jon about finishing her dinner; Arya being angry with Jon and Gendry, even the truth of Jon's parentage seemed minuscule. Minor. Something to be brushed away.

The threat that lay across them now, she could feel it breathing down the back of her neck and gripping her soul like an icy vice, ready to drag them down with it.

Tomorrow, they may die.

It had never felt more real than it did in this moment, knowing how close the threat was, knowing that in a matter of hours their true enemy would be before them. It had been so easy to prepare, to plan, to laugh. Jon hadn't realized that it had felt like one of Old Nan's stories; terrifying, to be sure, but deep in your soul you thought you'd never have to face it.

Tomorrow, they would.

Jon squeezed Enrin's hand, a fraction of a movement. He met his people's eyes and knew that his own uncertainty was mirroring theirs. He could think of no words; nothing he could say would comfort them now. They stared death in the face, and there was only two ways it could go.

They lived, or they lost.

"We all must sleep," Jon said finally, his voice sounding rough as sandpaper, "tomorrow, at dawn, we begin preparations."

His eyes met Enrin's again, and she was watching him. Her other hand was clasped in Sansa's, who had her free arm wrapped around Arya's shoulders. Even Bran had come to rest beside Arya, his fingers cautiously resting on her forearm.

He drank in the sight of them, imprinting it to his memory. He wanted to remember them like this, whole and alive and together, no matter what followed tomorrow's dawn.

"Spend time with your families tonight, my friends," Jon said, not taking his eyes from Enrin's, "for a red sun tomorrow rises."

The door to their chambers closed with a small click, but it sounded thunderous in the silence. The room was dark and frigid; no one had come to light the fire. Enrin was sure the serving people were somewhere in the castle, huddled close with their families and loved ones, and the ones who were alone were drinking. She could not begrudge them that.

The cold had seeped into her fingers as she struggled with the long wooden matchstick on the flint. It sparked, but nothing more, the short lived embers pricking the skin of her hands.

Jon pried it from her frozen fingers and struck the match deftly, tossing it into the maw of the hearth, filling the room with a dusky glow.

Jon placed his fingers on his wife's chin, turning her head to face him. They both opened their mouths to speak, but faltered. There was so much and so little to say in this moment.

"I love you," Jon said first, moving his hand to cup her face.

"I love you," Enrin echoed, because it was the only thing that mattered now.

"I had something made for you," Jon said after what felt like an eternity. He strode over to his desk, where a package lay wrapped in his thick, black cloak.

Enrin tried to smile. "The whole world is about to come to an end, and you still thought to get me a gift?"

Jon smirked, but it did not touch his eyes. "Just open it."

She unwrapped the package slowly, unsure of what lay before her. It was large and seemingly heavy, jutting out in all directions.

A breastplate lay before her, almost the same as his own. Where the heads of his direwolves sat on either side of his neck, hers were made of the glittering black stone they'd found in the caves. Beneath it, boiled brown leathers in the colors of House Stark, blue and brown next to the blinding silver of the breastplate. Silver chain mail followed next, impossibly delicate. She stretched it between her fingers, but it would not give way. Tears pricked her eyes as she turned to thank him, but he shook his head.

"There's more," he whispered, motioning for her to continue.

She moved aside the armor, and what lay beneath it shocked her the most.

It was a sword, the pommel hewn from steel and wrapped in thick, dark leather for grip. Atop it sat the same black direwolf's head, it's eyes carved from yellow citrine. The blade itself, though, demanded the most attention.

It was smooth, deadly sharp, glimmering in the light of the fire. The black dragonglass was lighter than any steel as she gripped the hilt in her fist, raising the sword to shoulder level before her. She swung it once, twice, testing the weight. Inside the scabbard, twenty arrows with heads made from the same material, accompanied by an ornate bow carved from dark, oiled wood.

Enrin set the sword back on the table, tears now spilling from her eyes. "This is too much."

Jon only shrugged. "You're a Queen," he said simply, "a Queen should have weapons that befit her."

"And the armor?"

He laughed then, a small sound.

"Normally the Queen would remain in the keep, in the safe room with the other women and children. She would keep their spirits high and give them hope."

He took a step forward, closing the gap between them.

"But I know you, and if I didn't let you fight with me...well, in truth, I'm more afraid of you than of the Night King."

It was her turn to laugh, but it caught strangely in her throat. Her hands shook as she reached up to touch his face.

"Thank you," she said, and she kissed him slowly.

The fire crackled before them, so hot that a sheen of sweat beaded across their bodies. They gripped each other, breathless, their legs intertwined under the blankets. Enrin propped herself up on one elbow, her eyes on Jon's face. After a moment, he cocked an eyebrow.

"What are you doing?"

She reached out gently, beside herself, tracing her fingers over the line of his brow bone.

"I'm memorizing your face," she murmured, her fingers gliding over the paper thin scar over his eye. "I don't want to forget it, no matter what happens."

Jon's blood ground to a halt in his veins. He watched her, the way her eyes softened when she looked at him, the soft curve of her neck. He placed his lips there, slowly, deliberately. He wanted nothing more than to tell her it was going to be okay, that they would return and rule the North together for the rest of time, and no danger would ever threaten them again.

They both knew they were not naive enough to believe that.

"I love you, more than anything, I love you," he whispered against her skin, before his lips claimed hers again.

She opened her eyes as the first light of dawn broke through the window, watery and gray. Enrin blinked to clear the mist from them; her sleep had been fitful, an hour at most. She had dreamed that wolves and lions and dragons had battled in the snow, each unwilling or unable to yield. They fought and fought until blood wept from them and the snow had fallen so thickly that it covered them and turned them all to ice. Their sickly, white eyes had stared into her soul, jolting her awake.

Jon had lay awake as well, his mind curiously blank. He labored all night to form a plan, a course of action, something. But the longer he tried, the slicker his sense became, slipping away and avoiding him in the night.

He felt Enrin's hand in his, and squeezed.

A soft knock on the door jolted them both, but it was Enrin who leaped up first, pulling a thick dressing gown from the chest at the foot of their bed. It was long and detailed, made from the softest silk, one she never wore. She tied it tight around her waist as Jon pulled his leathers on, sliding his feet into his boots.

Daenerys stood beyond the threshold, three goblets and a pitcher clutched in her hands. She wore a simple shift dress of thick, black material, and her silver hair had been braided into a high bun on the top of her head. Enrin stood aside to let her pass into the room.

"Wine, at dawn?"

Daenerys shrugged, setting the pitcher and cups down on the desk. "We do not have time to be proper, but we do have time to drink."

Enrin looked to Jon, who only shrugged and accepted the goblet Daenerys handed him, swallowing it all in one gulp. The silver queen refilled his cup.

Enrin sipped hers slowly, perched on the edge of the bed. The expression on Jon's face was one she knew well; the chewing of his lip, the far-away look in his eyes. Jon was toying with something.

"Dany," he said finally, after a few long moments of them drinking in silence together, "I've got to tell you something."

Jon launched into the story that Bran had shown them, from the beginning of everything. His true parents, how Ned had raised him from birth, the blood in the bed, and Ned's promise to Lyanna. He talked and they sipped, until his words had exhausted him and his cheeks were pale. Daenerys sat watching him for several long moments, her cup pressed to her lips thoughtfully. Enrin gripped Jon's fingers, fear lancing through her, until Daenerys finally spoke.

"What does this mean?" she asked, swirling the last dregs of her wine in a circle. Jon looked confused.

"It means…nothing, and everything. It means that we're not as alone in this world as we thought we were," he replied, his shoulders shrugging, "and as for your kingdoms…I don't want them."

Daenerys' eyes narrowed, not maliciously. One silver brow cocked in confusion.

"They're yours," she said, and her voice sounded sad, "by birth…the Seven Kingdoms are yours. It would be foolish of me to be angry, with how much stock I've put into the claim being mine by birthright. I'm just…Jon-…"

He had raised a hand to silence her, his eyes closed.

"I relinquish my claim to all kingdoms, save for the North," he said, and his eyes were open now, his words stronger, "I will leave the care of the remaining six to you, Daenerys Targaryen, my aunt by blood."

Daenerys' eyes were soft as she gazed on him then, and she reached out for his hand. She clasped it in hers, a soft smile touching her lips.

"I am glad," she murmured softly, "that if I am meant to have kin left in this world, it is you."

They sat for a long while, talking quietly in turn. Daenerys regaled then of stories from her childhood; the house with the red door and the lemon tree outside her bedroom window, her husband Drogo and his gentle ferocity, her brother Viserys and his fearful cruelty. She said that Jon would not have liked him.

As dawn settled into the low sun of the late afternoon, Enrin looked out the window into the courtyard beyond. The horizon had grown dark; swirling black clouds threatened to swallow them whole. She turned to them then, a bleak expression on her face.

"It's time."

Daenerys had braided her long, thick hair into a bun at the base of her neck. It felt strangely heavy, like she couldn't hold her head up straight.

Her chainmail tinkled gently as she pulled her leathers over it, clinching them tightly around her waist. She turned to see Jon waiting with her breastplate in hand, ready to help her buckle it on. It fit perfectly, as she knew it would.

She strapped her sword to her belt and her bow across her back, her hands shaking. Jon grasped them in his, pulling her to him.

Their embrace was desperate, almost cloyingly so, and they pressed themselves so close to each other that Jon felt they may melt together as one.

He pressed his cheek to his wife's hair, inhaling the scent of rose oil and wind and freedom, of Enrin. He held his breath for what felt like an eternity, willing his mind's eye to remember that scent, before it was marred by blood and smoke and fear.

Enrin held him close, her arms around his waist, her fingers locked around her own wrists like a vice. She dared anyone, man or wight, to try and take him from her.

"I'll kill them," she said aloud, pressing her face into Jon's neck, "I'll save you, I'll save our people, I swear it. No matter what, I'll kill them all."

She inclined her head to look at him, into his deep black eyes that were wet with sadness.

"I will save you," she said again, as if trying to convince herself as well, and pressed her lips to his.

The courtyard was full, and yet as silent as the grave. Even the Dothraki, who had been joyous, raucous even, were muted. They stood at attention as Daenerys wheeled overhead on Drogon, Rhaegal shadowing his every turn.

Jon almost leaped out of his skin when Dennas tapped on his shoulder, bowing low. "A rider, Your Grace," he said, stepping to the side. Jon's blood froze.

Jaime Lannister stood before him, his once grand armor tinged with dust and wear. His hair had gone almost completely gray since the last he'd seen him, which felt a lifetime ago.

"Ser Jaime," Jon said, and reached out to grasp the man's forearm. Jaime returned his grip, his eyes pinched and grave.

"I was beginning to think your sister had gone back on her word," Jon said, allowing relief to color his tone. At that, Jaime gave him a sad smile.

"She had, Your Grace," the man said, and Enrin faltered at Jon's shoulder.

"What?" She snarled, her hand finding the pommel of her sword.

Jaime made no move of defense, his shoulders sagging as he shrugged them.

"She's dead, Your Graces," he replied, addressing them both, "she had gone...rabid. She was...I had to. I-..."

His voice trailed away, but his mouth remained agape, searching for words he could not find. Enrin felt Tyrion shoulder past her, and she let him go, to stand beside his brother.

"Speak no more of this, Jaime," he said gently, taking his brother's large hand in his small one, "do not condemn yourself. Come and sit with me inside, while the better men go to war."

Jaime shook his head then, as the ground shook and Daenerys descended from Drogon's shoulder to stand beside them.

"I've brought with me what men remained loyal," Jaime said, looking apologetic, "most have fled. I've brought seven thousand."

Jon's jaw clenched. Even when their ranks bolstered by the addition of the Lannister men, the army of the dead still had twenty thousand on them.

Enrin seemed to echo his thoughts.

"It is still seven thousand more than we had this morning," she said, turning back to the saddle of her horse.

Jaime turned to Daenerys, who stood silently at Jon's shoulder. Reaching into the bag at his hip, he pulled out the rough hewn iron crown that had once sat upon Cersei's head.

"My Queen," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, before he dropped the crown at Daenerys' feet and knelt.

Her eyes flitted from Jon to Enrin, who stood looking on her expectantly. Everything she had waited for sat at her feet in the snow, a frigid wind whistling through the trees.

"Rise, Ser Jaime," the silver lady spoke, her voice shaking only so, "there will be time for crowning after this battle has been won."

Rise Jaime did, dipping into a low bow before he clapped his brother on the shoulder and turned on his heel. Then men that had traveled with him wheeled, falling into formation beside the Dothraki. Daenerys turned from them as well, climbing on to the back of her dragon and wheeling back into the sky.

They had said their goodbyes already; Sansa had wept and Arya had looked pale, but determined. Bran was the last one they saw, in his chair at the mouth of the keep.

"I'll be flying with you," he said, his eyes already following Rhaegal as he gained and ebbed through the sky. His eyes went cloudy then, and Rhaegal screeched from above them.

Jon swung into the saddle of his black war horse, his hands gripping the reins tighter than he meant. The horse snorted in protest, shaking his head. The horses were already nervous.

The wolves stalked between them, all seven on high alert, their ears perked forward. The pups were of size with their mother now, and one dark gray male was almost as large as Ghost himself. Sansa had told them to take Winter as well, but Enrin had refused. The she-wolf had her loyalties now, and Enrin shuddered to think what would become of Sansa if the wolf was not there to protect her.

Jon wheeled his stallion, his breath mingling hot in the frigid air. He led the company out of the gates of Winterfell, and the women and children did not cheer as they once did. They watched their King, their fathers, brothers, sons and husbands go, the icy fingers of dread gripping them all.

The procession was slow; the snow had begun to pile along the well worn roads, making the going slick. One horse went down a mile out, it's leg twisted sickeningly. Jon himself had to silence the beast with Longclaw; he considered it their first casualty.

Winterfell shrank behind them as they trekked North, toward the Wall. Around them, the air seemed to thicken with the promise of bloodshed. The clouds above them grew blacker and blacker as they advanced. Two boys defected, streaking off into the woods, throwing their swords down behind them. Enrin and Jon watched them with a calm detachment; they could not begrudge them the need to survive.

Enrin's mare stopped suddenly, her gray withers quaking. Enrin spoke calmly to the horse, her fingers pressed in to her neck. No amount of gentle urging could spur the beast forward; the mare's eyes were wild with terror, her nostrils flaring as the scent of the air hit her. Jon dismounted, as did the rest of the party. Unbidden, the horses all turned tail and fled south, back to Winterfell.

Jon stood shoulder to shoulder with Enrin, one hand on his sword. The snow fell thickly here, almost blinding them.

Jon and Enrin reached for each other's hands, grasping tightly; words were somehow not enough, and too much now.

In the distance, something screeched.