Don't freak out. Don't kill me. Bear with me, I promise.
They came slowly at first, shambling down the snowy embankment one or two at a time, their bony hands clutches around rusted swords and spears. Jon's eyes never left them, but he felt Enrin's hand warm in his, and he turned to look at her for barely a moment.
Her eyes met his, and he uttered three simple words.
"Stay with me."
She unsheathed her sword, her knuckles white.
"Always."
Jon released her, and raised Longclaw high above his head. He screamed from deep in his belly, so loud and so long he thought his throat may break open. He screamed for his parents who's folly made his life what it was; for his siblings who may not make it through the long night; his brother Robb who had died for the country and the woman he loved; for their unborn son who's light had been snuffed out before it had a chance to shine, and for his father, his true father who's head had been cut off for trying save them all.
As he brought his sword down through the skull of the first dead man, he remembered everything this world had taken from him. As Enrin shoved her sword through the belly of a man who looked only recently dead, he feared it may try to take her too.
The dead man fell off her sword, the blue light dying from his eyes. She did not bother to wipe clean the black blood from her sword; ten, fifteen, twenty more wights raced toward them now, their teeth gnashing. She struck again and again, and each time she counted. One, two three. She heard Jon's easy breathing next to her. One, two, three.
The frozen mist cleared before them as the two armies met with a sickening crunch. Enrin felt a tug on her leg and looked down to see a child, no older than a yearling, with a great gaping hole where it's mouth used to be. Beside herself, she shrieked, shaking it off and putting her boot through its head.
She and Jon stood back to back, rotating in a circle, their weapons hacking and slicing in all directions. She saw Jorah a ways from her, throwing a wight down so hard that the skeleton burst apart as it hit the ground. She quickly knocked an arrow and put it through the eye of a woman next to him, who's teeth had been poised for Jorah's throat.
Drogon and Daenerys wheeled high above them, fire spitting from the dragon's mouth. What he burned, was replaced by double that; Jon could see the Night King beyond the disarray, atop his skeletal horse, raising the dead as they fell.
"Burn the bodies!"
Rhaegal spun above them, his answering roar deafening. Daenerys followed his lead, pressing Drogon lower to the ground to concentrate his fire on the dead below.
"I need to get to him," Jon shouted, motioning with his blade. The Night King had dismounted and now stood poised over them on the embankment, two other White Walkers on either side of him.
Enrin spared a glance in their direction, parrying the rusted spear of a dead man before her. She shoved her sword into his throat, pulling it away again with a flourish.
"I'll cover you, go!" She shouted back, and they raced together toward the incline of the hill. Her eyes swept over the writhing mass below them.
Her father and the Hound stood shoulder to shoulder, cutting down wights one after another. Enrin called to him, and their eyes met.
"Go!" Tormund screamed, his axes connecting with a woman's arm as she clawed for his face.
They fought up the embankment, black and red blood showering around them. One, two, three.
The first White Walker met them halfway down, his cracked lips pulled back over yellow teeth. He wailed in their direction, his sword raised high. Jon struck low, at his knees, while Enrin staved off a blow from his weapon. Again and again he came at her, his hands almost a blur. He wailed at her again, his face inches from hers, and she screamed back with the effort of holding him off.
Jon shoved his sword deep into the opening between his breastplate and his leg armor.
The Walker froze, his eyes seeming to glow even brighter. He screeched once more, and vanished into dust. Below them, ten thousand wights fell, the blue light fading from their eyes.
The next one came for them then, bigger than the last. He kicked aside a pile of bodies, and they rolled so their eyes stared up at her as the creature advanced. Cold, dead eyes. Children's eyes.
Stygir stared up at her, almost balefully in death. Accusatory. How had she let them get so far ahead? She had been so preoccupied with her own torment, that she'd forgotten to make sure that the young ones were safer at the back of the throng.
She was pushed back as Daenerys and Drogon swept low, bathing the bodies in fire. Stygir was gone from her then, but she still felt his eyes boring into hers.
The fire had created a barrier between them, and the creature stopped, gnashing his teeth and clicking his tongue like a beast. Their eyes met, and she saw nothing. Nothing but a glowing blue light, but it was not life she saw there. It was a pure, burning hatred, that she now felt echoed back in her own eyes.
She leaped over the column of flame, her sword raised high above her head. She bellowed her rage, her hurt, her fear; Enrin brought her sword down on the Walker with a crushing blow that sent it stumbling backward, feet looking for purchase in the snow.
She came at it again, driving low, only to have her blow blocked by the edge of it's spear. It hissed at her, pressing back her advance. She gripped the edge of her blade, placed flat against his, and pushed. She felt the dragonglass break the skin of her fingers, her blood slick on the blade. They stood like that together for what seemed like an eternity, her teeth grinding together as she forced all her weight on him.
The Walker's boot caught a patch of ice below them, and he slipped for only a fraction of a second.
Enrin pulled away, driving her sword up as she did. She watched the blade pierce through its mouth, its protests cutting off in a gurgle.
The Walker dissolved into mist before her, and countless wights all dropped, ceasing movement below them.
For a moment, it seemed like they could win.
She heard Jon's labored breathing, and spun around.
The Night King had him locked in a stand still, blocking each of Jon's downstrokes with his spear. He came down again and again, hacking at the weapon before him. He felt Enrin behind him, swinging her blade through any wights that were left around them. The battlefield had gone almost silent; he could hear his heartbeat and hers, beating in a steady rhythm.
The spear broke under his final blow, snapping in two, sending shards of black wood into his eyes.
The Night King put his boot to Jon's chest, kicking him away. He skidded in the snow, Longclaw spinning from his fingers, coming to rest at the Night King's feet.
Enrin shoved the last dead man away, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She could taste the scent of death in the back of her throat. The field below was a wash of fire, surging and blackening everything beneath the snow.
She saw Jon standing, weaponless, his chest heaving.
The Night King took Longclaw in his hands; she watched as he sent it spinning blade over hilt, headed right for Jon's chest.
She watched her husband close his eyes.
Enrin saw her destiny clearly in that moment. She realized, as her feet carried her like wings over the blood soaked earth, that she could not be the one to kill the Night King.
It had to be Jon.
She hit him with all her weight and, instinctively, he caught her by the tops of her arms. Her breath had been taken from her, and she saw the horror in his eyes as she looked at him, her husband, the man she loved.
"No," he breathed, his grip tightening on her so that it hurt, "no! What have you done?!"
She tore her eyes from him, and she caught the silver shift of the blade where it had pierced her chest. She felt her heart laboring, torn, and her limbs had already begun to go numb.
The blood was warm as it spilled from her; she was so cold.
Jon dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead to hers. She saw his lips moving, but she could not make out what he was saying.
It didn't matter now.
"Finish it," she said, and she tasted the blood in her mouth again, hot and red and alive.
"You have to, promise me." He wasn't listening, she needed him to listen. "Jon, I love you, I love you, finish it. Promise me, Jon."
Promise me, Ned.
He was staring at her, watching her, his eyes were filled with tears. There was no time, no time. She felt her heart beating again.
One, two, three.
"Please," he said, and his voice was so sad that she would have given him anything if she could, "stay with me."
It was so cold. One, two, three.
She pressed her hand to his chest; she could feel his heartbeat there, strong and ready to fight. That was all that mattered.
"Always."
One, two...