I told you not to freak out ;)
Three.
The brightness was disorienting.
Enrin gasped, her lungs inflating painfully. The sun was warm above her as it beat down on her skin, almost uncomfortably hot in her armor. Her fingers gripped the blades of grass as she sat up, her eyes coming into focus.
She lay beside a river, it's cool blue waters making a tinkling music as they rushed over the rocks. It was shallow here, and she leaned forward to wash the blood from her face. It was nice here, peaceful, the scent of flowers sweet in her nose. And yet, she could not relax. Enrin felt something important tugging at her, pulling at the back of her mind.
"Hello, Enrin."
She jumped, rolling to her feet. Her hands flew to a weapon that was not on her hip.
It was a girl, not much older than her, with long brown hair and brown eyes that were so dark they were almost black. She knew those eyes.
"I know you," Enrin whispered, "I saw you in a dream."
The girl before her smiled, smoothing her blue silks as she strode forward. Something in that smile made the tugging in her mind more powerful.
"I know you," the girl told her, "I've been watching you for a long time."
Enrin squinted. Something, something was gripping at her, pulling her, screaming for her attention. Her chest hurt.
"Jon..."
She breathed, and the pulling grew more insistent. Her eyes met the girl's once more.
"Jon," she said, her voice loud in the quiet of the clearing, "where is he? Is he alright? Is it over?"
The girl held out her hand, her face a calm mask.
"I can show you."
Enrin reached out slowly, her hands shaking.
Their fingers touched, and suddenly it was like she was watching from above.
Jon knelt over her, and her eyes stared at nothing. Longclaw protruded from her chest, her armor slick with blood. Enrin's hand fell slowly from Jon's chest, and he gripped her, shook her, called out her name.
"Enrin! No! Look at me!"
His hand was on her face, shaking her again, but more blood only poured from the wound in her chest, turning Longclaw's blade a dark crimson.
The wolves were howling a haunting song, their voices carrying over the wind. He felt their sadness deep within him, but the anger was all his own.
Jon slid the blade from his wife's chest with agonizing slowness, as if it still may hurt her. Gently, he reached down to close her eyes. Her body was limp, but her hands were still warm in his.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, as he pressed his lips to her forehead.
He heard the Night King before he saw him, the wind whistling as he twirled the sharp edge of his spear. Jon erupted, white and hot and full of rage.
He picked up Longclaw from the pool of his wife's blood, and as he did, the blade burst into flames so hot they threatened to overcome him. Above them, Drogon and Rhaegal tumbled in the air, their talons locked into Viserion, who spat blue flame from deep in his throat. Below him, the battle stopped.
The Night King paused, his spear coming to a halt in his hands. Jon ran straight for him, swinging his great flaming sword as he did. He had no time for tactics, no patience for evasive maneuvers.
His wife was dead, and if she was no longer with him, Jon saw no excuse to keep trying to survive.
He placed a blow that the Night King was scarcely able to block. The beast before him grit his teeth and dug in his heels. Jon spat in his face.
He struck again and again, each blow parried, but only just. Where his arms would have begun to ache, he felt a renewed vigor; his rage filled him with a fire that nothing else could.
The flames of his sword licked at his hands, but he felt the fire as a strange caress rather than pain. He struck left and right, left and right, feeling the Night King's movements grow more desperate and sloppy.
The Night King parried him low, and Jon kicked out with his boot so forcefully that he sent the Night King skidding on his back in the snow.
Jon leaped.
He straddled his enemy, pushing down with all his weight.
"This is for my wife."
He thrust his sword downward and it cut through the Night King's icy skin like butter, the flames licking at his armor. The Night King screeched, low in his throat, his eyes blazing a bright blue.
Jon felt the shards of dragonglass splintering inside his enemies body, driving his sword further, spearing the Night King through to the ground.
He did not evaporate like the others had. Instead, the blue light of his eyes died and faded away, leaving them a muted, mossy green.
Jon rolled away from him as the Night King seemed to melt before his eyes. His skin sloughed off until it was pink and mottled, like someone had spent too much time in the cold. His face was long and pinched, wrinkling before his eyes. His mousy red hair turned gray and broke, falling in a smattering of wispy strands across his forehead.
The creature was no longer a creature; he was just a man, who's blood ran black and cold from his chest. He reached toward Jon, his thin, sickly arms shaking.
Jon strode over to him, and the Night King's bony fingers clawed weakly at his legs. In another world, another time, he may have felt pity for him.
Instead, Jon reached down and drove the sword deeper into the ground.
The Night King shuddered, and breathed no more.
Below him, the remains of the dead army dropped, their limbs exploding from their bodies. Viserion's cry was cut short, dying in the air. He fell, hurtling toward the ground. The dragon landed on the mountain with a resounding thud, black smoke still pouring from his nostrils.
There was no cheer, no exaltation. A hush fell over the valley, and Jon turned away from his flaming sword, back to Enrin's body.
He pulled her into his lap, his hands slick with blood. He touched her face, gently, tracing his fingers over the scar on her forehead, the one she had gotten the first day they'd been married.
Around him, the survivors stood, and together they began to weep.
Enrin almost pulled away, but the girl held her fast.
"There will come a day after a long summer when the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword, and that sword shall be Lightbringer, the red sword of heroes. He who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him."
Enrin shuddered at her words, and pulled her hand away, but she could not shake the vision from her eyes. Jon held her close, and his grief threatened to swallow them all whole.
"Tell me your name," she demanded, tearing her eyes away. The girl looked at her slowly, measuredly, chewing on the inside of her lip.
"You already know."
Enrin turned to face her then, her eyes picking out every similarity. It was uncanny, now that her mind was clearer.
"Lyanna."
She smiled, the true smile that had made Enrin fall in love with her son. She knew the severity of her situation now, it was clearer in her mind than anything.
"I've died, haven't I?" She asked, but she already knew the answer. Her eyes traveled to her husband again, who held her body fast, his face pressed into her neck.
"You gave your life so that my son could live," Lyanna said, that sad smile still on her lips, "I cannot thank you enough."
Enrin swallowed thickly.
"Is this the afterlife?" Her eyes traveled around the valley. It was all grass, dotted with apple trees and bushes of fine blue roses that gave the air a sweet, cloying scent. Lyanna inhaled deeply.
"Yes, and no," she replied, "I would say it's more...somewhere in the middle."
Enrin cocked an eyebrow, her eyes narrowing.
"Speak clearly, please," she said, attempting to stave off her frustration. She'd never had time for riddles.
"Some of us die, and go straight on to be at peace," Lyanna began, striding slowly to Enrin's side at the water, "your mother was one of them."
Enrin's heart constricted. Her mother hadn't waited for her. She had hardly known her, yet still the thought made her sad.
"You had your father," Lyanna spoke, her voice quiet and sincere, as if she had seen Enrin's mind, "your brother had no one. She knew that you were safe."
Enrin looked down again, to where Tormund had fallen to his knees. He struck the ground with his axe again and again, bellowing his rage and sorrow into the sky. Her heart ached.
"Others," Lyanna continued, "had chosen to stay, to watch their loved ones continue to thrive without them, only choosing to go on when all were dead and had gone to be at peace as well. Fewer still, could not go on, because their business...their purpose, you could say, had not been fulfilled."
She looked at Enrin and gave her a knowing smile.
"When I came here, Rhaegar was waiting for me. He thought I was his purpose. Days, years, had passed and when we still remained here...never sleeping, never eating, simply existing...he knew that he was wrong."
She looked down then, her eyes resting on Jon.
"It's never clear...not until the moment arises. When they stabbed him, killed him, I am afraid to admit that part of me was overjoyed that I would finally get to meet my son."
Her hand reached out, instinctively, as if to stroke Jon's hair.
"He was angry, when he got here. We told him everything. I don't think he ever forgave Rhaegar, in the end. He was the one who sent Jon back when the Red Woman called for him. And that left...me."
Lyanna looked up again, and grinned at the look on Enrin's face.
"I know it is confusing," she said, and her eyes were so familiar that Enrin had to look away.
"I'm choosing to stay here," Enrin said, the words rasping in her throat, "I don't want to...I can't leave him alone in the world. Even if he can't be with me." Her eyes met Lyanna's again.
"I can be with him."
Lyanna looked on her again, a sad smile playing on her lips. She heard him then, in the quiet peace of the valley around them.
"Enrin, please. Don't leave me, come back to me."
Enrin raised a hand toward him, her fingers reaching for him. She had never felt more alone. Every part of her longed to comfort him, to tell him that she was there, even if he couldn't feel her.
Lyanna made a face something between a grimace and a smile, and yet still her eyes were peaceful.
"Sweet girl," she whispered, resting her hand on the back of Enrin's head, pulling her close.
"I told you; we do not know our true purpose until the moment arises. I thought, perhaps, that it would be Jon. That I had to wait here for him to guide him on, if he passed before you. There would be no force that could convince him to go on without you. I see it now, so clearly. I was wrong."
She put her hands on Enrin's shoulders, holding her at arms length.
"My purpose is you."
Enrin almost recoiled, her brows knitting together. "I don't understand."
Lyanna almost shrugged, smoothing the hair from Enrin's forehead, the way Jon always did.
"Perhaps none of us ever will. I fear that our time is short, and to make you understand could possibly take forever. I'm not sure I understand it either."
It was Lyanna's turn to look vexed, but when she looked back at Enrin, there was peace in her eyes once more .
"I have to send you back now. Both of you."
She rested her hand slowly, deliberately, on Enrin's stomach.
She felt it then, deep within her. A steady, tiny heartbeat, of a rhythm with her own. It was a fluttering thing, so light she thought she'd imagined it.
"I..."
She placed her hand on top of Lyanna's, her eyes wide and filled with wonder.
"There is no greater thing," the girl said, "than to feel the life of your son inside you. It is all I can do, the last thing I can do, to send you back so you can raise your son."
Lyanna took Enrin's hands once more, clasping them tightly.
"I can just...go back?"
At that, Lyanna frowned.
"It is no small thing, to return from death," she said, "you will bear the scars of the Night King's blade for the rest of time. It will haunt your days, and your dreams. You can go back, but the recovery will not be easy."
Lyanna watched her measuredly.
"Here, you could have peace. There is no promise with the living; you could go back now, only to return in a week, a month, a year when a sickness could take you. Jon may still pass before you, in the years to come, and you will have to go on without him. Is it a risk you are willing to take?"
Enrin looked at her for a long moment, her teeth chewing at her lip. Her hand dropped to her stomach again.
"And our son?"
Lyanna almost shrugged.
"If you do not return, he has no chance of living. If you do..."
Enrin raised her hand, silencing her.
"Send me back. Send me home."
Lyanna nodded, and walked with her to the spot of flattened grass, where Enrin had awoken. They stood together or a long moment, each watching the water bubble across the stones.
"Is there anything...anything you would like me to tell him? Jon?"
Lyanna smiled, but it was a sad thing. She watched the water again, the warm breeze whistling past them.
"A great many things," she said, finally, her voice melancholy, "but I am afraid that you will not remember me when you return."
Enrin swallowed. The idea made her sad.
"Do not weep for me," Lyanna said, brushing her fingers over a single tear that had leaked from the corner of Enrin's eye, "I can go now to be with my husband, and my father and mother and brothers. I know that I will see you and my son again, when it is time. I hope it is many years from now."
They stood ready, facing each other once more. Lyanna pulled her close, wrapping her arms around Enrin's shoulders.
"Take care of my son."
Enrin pulled away, clasping Lyanna's fingers hard. She willed herself to commit this moment to memory, so that she wouldn't forget. The roses, the sound of the river babbling over the stones. Lyanna's hands, solid in hers.
"Always."
Lyanna took her face in her hands, steadying her. Then, gently, she pressed her lips to Enrin's forehead.
Her ears awoke first, the sounds muted, as if she were under water. The acrid scent of smoke and blood filled her nose, and she was dully aware of an ache somewhere deep within her, a burning that begged for relief. It was her chest, she realized, her lungs laying dormant and deflated, begging for air.
Enrin gasped, her body rigid. Every square inch of her hurt, but nothing more than her chest. As her lungs inflated, her head cleared.
Jon jumped, nearly spilling her from his lap. His eyes were red and wet, grief painted plainly in the lines of his face.
Enrin reached up slowly, painfully, tracing the lines on his forehead.
"What did I tell you about worrying so much?"
Jon stared; he was sure his eyes were deceiving him. Her skin was cold, blue still, but the soft edges of pink had begun to return around her lips. Her eyes were open, watching him, a small smile playing on her lips. Her teeth were stained red with blood, but it was her. His wife. Enrin.
He touched her face, his fingers feather light on her skin. It hurt, but she didn't have the heart to tell him so.
"I don't understand." He breathed, his hand cupping her face gently. He felt as if he were in a dream; as if she would disappear from him in a moment, leaving him in a shroud of mist.
Her breathing was labored, but she was breathing. It hurt to speak, to move, but the pain lessened with each breath she took.
"You don't have to understand," she whispered, resting her hand over his, "you just have to take me home now. I want to go home."
Jon smiled, that beautiful, shining smile that had captured her so long ago. He lifted her gently, and she pressed her face into his neck, her hand on his chest, his heartbeat strong beneath her fingers.
"Aye," he said, "let's go home."