Storms were nothing new to him. How many times had he fallen asleep in his high cave to the sounds of them rumbling overhead? Heard the cold stones cascade off the rocks and pile outside the cavern's mouth? He'd even flown in them, marveling at their scope and power. The storm that raged around him stood apart, though. Bolts of lightning, sheets of ice, those he could contend with. The wind was another matter. It batted he and his black once-brother around with ease, sending them near to crashing into each other when it wasn't simply seizing a neck, wing, leg or tail and flinging them around with a strength the towering monsters below could only gawk at. Despite his irate screams, the winds persisted. From between his teeth, bronze gouts reached out and found nothing. The leader of the numberless pack below had other concerns, pushing him with hands and mind to shoot north after the ambush that had been sprung on the aged creature and its fellows. Surprise and irritation began to muddy into uncertainty. The storm, in truth, was barely a thing controlled in the first place and now with the great ones' old on it broken, it was lashing down and annihilating what it would, where it would, regardless of allegiance. The wind alone persisted in punishing them, sticking to them close as a shadow. He shrieked in pain as he crunched against a solid wall of it, the suddenness enough to knock him out of the air for a dizzying moment before the creature on his back slapped the sense back into him. His once-brother was trying to keep the dead thing at bay, but it no more felt his breath than his teeth, even without the barrier of moonlight that had warded it. It no more feared his wroth than it feared for its own safety, answering every lucky blow with a gnash of its own teeth, feeling nothing. It had no blood to spill, no flesh to tear or tire, no eyes to blind. And the winds were in its favor, a thousand unseen flailing limbs knocking he and his once-brother around whenever they began to collect themselves. His own wings screamed for a reprieve but anywhere he might land would simply be swarmed by enemies dead and living. The shrieking thing above him was pushed from his thoughts when his pale once-brother ascended to rejoin the fray, carrying not just his she-creature but her mate.

Jon's nerves were fraught enough without Bran's safety to add to the whole muddled mess. Still, he couldn't help but remember the precocious boy Bran had once been. And Viserion's back stands a deal higher than Winterfell's broken tower. Bran's own voice rung in his mind, cutting him off.

Then I shan't fall. One of the Singers told me the Others may be near a tipping point, Jon, but we need to bring the king down to make certain.

Well, as you can see, we're rather having trouble learning the trick. Peeling away the ward, was that your doing?

More the Singers' than mine. I don't understand, it's only bone, how is it still awing?

Only dragonbone- A numbingly cold gale crashed down on Jon and Rhaegal beneath him like a boot on a mouse, pushing them through a hundred-foot sheer drop before the winds abated. While Jon was by turns trying to keep his stomach full and pants empty, Rhaegal was screaming in frustration. The dragon's…suspicion? that something else was party to the brawl lingered in Jon's mind, but there was no trace of so much as a dead raven flying about. He looked through Rhaegal's eyes again, looking everywhere for anything that might have been an enemy. Wings, a tail, anything… He felt the dragon focus on the cold air currents that were flowing of their own accord, heedless of the storm's own considerable strength. Dark even against the background of deep blue, they looked like a vast rope of countless lashing arms that flung Drogon away from the bone dragon whenever he chanced to get close. Bran. Jon said, thought, stomach sinking.

There's something else with us up here.

What?

Look through Viserion's eyes. The cold currents of air that blow and lash independently of the storm. As if of their own will. He waited for Bran to see for himself, Rhaegal climbing as fast as he dared, doubling back or slanting where he would to make his ascent unpredictable. You're trying to out-dance the wind, Jon thought. Rhaegal's answer was a surly snort.

What is that? Bran's cry of dismay told Jon he'd sighted the new and terribly potent peril.

Something we need to lose if we're going to destroy the bone dragon. How, I've not the first notion. Jon replied. We're wasting time batting at the air. You linger above Winterfell, we'll go support the men who came out of the trees. We may not be able to harm the king yet, but we can hammer his army in the meanwhile. And hopefully throw his formidable protector for a loop, whatever it is. Though it chafed Rhaegal's pride to cede the higher sky to anything, the dragon sank sideways off Winterfell and over to the wolfswood. The cold giants' shouts of the Old Tongue did their part and more to pull him as well, Jon did not fail to notice. Hopefully our scattering will pull the winds off the bone dragon just as well. A bolt of lightning knifed down from above, splitting a street and sending hunks of earth flying. And we sought to keep them out with the dregs of our dungeons, Jon thought ruefully. Poachers, rapers, here and there a highborn son heir to no greater inheritance than his sword arm. And bastards, we cannot forget the bastards, can we? He was pulled out of that thought when Rhaegal sank still lower, perhaps to escape the wind currents. Not too low, boy, else someone might reach up and scratch your belly. When they came upon the giants proper, Jon saw that the men who had exploded from the treeline had exacted a tiring toll on the big lads. The storm-speaker's cadence had splintered into an inane chorus of agonized lowing, lightning crashing down where it would as the one who sung it into being raged. Rhaegal snorted on spotting him. Tired of the weather, eh? That makes two of us, boy. The dragon sank lower over the rampaging giant-shaman, waiting for his moment. A third mind joined them, one no stranger to the hunt- and one, Jon was surprised to see, Rhaegal did not object to making room for. Wodyn, Jon thought, as the giants shouted the name here and there in their efforts to calm the shaman and lead him out of the mire of Free Folk carrying dragonglass. Wodyn. Rhaegal drank the sound of the name down like it was mulled mead, Ghost barely sipping it. Then Wodyn's face was turned away, his hands pointed elsewhere. Now echoed in Jon's mind, though it was no thought of Jon's. He had just enough time to hold on tight before Rhaegal shot forth, slamming the giant on his face before the dragon clamped his teeth down on Wodyn's shoulder. The giant's scream made Jon dare to hope- and then a thunderclap had him deaf to everything but a merry ringing. When Rhaegal's head came up, cold blood was dripping through his bronze teeth, but there was no hearing his roar in the wake of the tempest. Another thunderclap punted the dragon head over tail off Wodyn's corpse, Jon scrabbling to avoid being squashed as Rhaegal writhed, screaming in surprise and embarrassment. His face ended up flush to the scales of Rhaegal's shoulder, the flat surface hot against his cheek before he managed to peek over them. More giants were emerging from the trees, tight-knit and wary, most sporting burns. A third thunderclap had a dozen trees crashing down, felled with a single cut of skull-pulping sound. Rhaegal drew a long inhaling breath at the sight of the figure the cold giants were escorting.

Wun Wun had stood fourteen feet tall, but the slowly advancing giantess could have overtopped even him. Unlike previously, where the cold giants had been content to shout their leaders' names at the top of their lungs, the whole lot of them remained silent, looking uncertainly at the woman. Wild straw-blonde hair whirled over a snow bear pelt, furs hiding the rest of her from elements her race did not feel. Her great hands came up. You cannot be fucking serious. When they crashed together the resulting thunderclap shoved Rhaegal backward with a shriek. Seeming to share Jon's thoughts (in more ways than one), the dragon answered with a lance of bronze fire, only for another wall of wind to stop it cold before it ever reached the giantess. Giving Wodyn's corpse a hard look, her eyes came up to meet Rhaegal's, and Jon's behind them. As frayed as his nerves were, Jon was baffled to find that despite the battle, Rhaegal's ears were keyed to the sounds of the cold giants' voices, to the stony words they roared at each other. Before the giantess could send another thunderclap his way, Rhaegal was airborne, driving his body backward as fast as he could before rising again. He ringed the arrivals in a wall of his own, flickering bronze twenty feet high before rejoining the fight against the Others proper. Even with all of Winterfell a whorl of ice and fire, of blue and red to a dragon's eyes, it was impossible to miss the black blots that marked the heatless Others wherever they stood. They were bystanders caught in Rhaegal's wroth, though, with cold giants already caught up in the heat of battle singularly unprepared for an angry dragon coming down on their heads. One after another they fell to flame and fang, those knocked off their feet swarmed over by Winterfell's defenders. The cold mammoths were a deal bigger even than a dragon Rhaegal's size, but they were only shaggy hair and flesh, ill proof against his teeth and fire. Pulling Rhaegal off the giants took everything Jon had, leaving him barely enough strength to cling to the dragon's back. Enough with the big lads, they're not who we're after- Rhaegal's snort of exception told Jon his feelings on the matter quite bluntly. Jon couldn't help snorting himself. Dragons. A scrabbling underneath some rubble drew mount and rider's eyes both, one among the lanky brutes trying to fish something out from beneath the stone. The monster was so intent on its latest meal, it was heedless of Rhaegal's jaws snapping shut around his spindly body- at least, until a gout of flame had its flesh boiling off its bones.

"Seven save me…" muttered a voice from under the rubble, a smallish form emerging on all fours.

"You live yet, lad." Jon called down. Though the Seven, I'm sure, are near.

"I've been a child the once, I don't relish a second go-around." When the "boy" looked up, Jon beheld Tyrion Lannister staggering away from the wreckage.

"Well, my lord, gods or no gods, it appears today is your day." Jon slid down Rhaegal's side. This is stupid, Jon thought as more bronze fire sprung up to push away the countless enemies in their midst- neatly cutting them off from Rhaegal, immediately beset by a bellowing mammoth. Aye, stupid. Then the mammoth was doused in black fire and driven into the nearest mob of wights, lowing furiously as it trampled the dead to ash and dust. Drogon came down moments later, roaring loud enough to give even the cold giants still upright pause. Jon snatched Tyrion up and dashed toward the dragon, nearly tripping on the broken ground to plant the little lord face-first into Drogon's side. "Climb." Jon said.

"Who, me?" Tyrion replied, ascending as fast as he could to take Daenerys' hand. Something drew her eyes behind him. Big, purple, and beautiful as they were, Jon could not miss them even for all the smoke, snow, ash, and whatever else was coming down around them. Off with you, he shouted at Drogon. With a slap on the side from Jon he began to ascend. Now time to see about getting back into the air myself.

He had Longclaw to hand, about-facing without even remembering doing it. Little good though it'd do me, Jon thought as Lady emerged from the shadows and the smoke. She cantered soundlessly up toward Rhaegal, a specter with teeth, springing up to rip open throats or tear away hands at the wrist or arms at the shoulder. Speaking of direwolves…unfortunately, it appeared Ghost was across the castle, prying a pack of ice spiders away from the entrance to the crypts. With Lady chewing the enemy alive, Rhaegal was safe for the moment, but walking through a wall of fire wasn't something Jon relished. Then a gap appeared in the bronze just big enough for him to squeeze through, Rhaegal's foot visible on the other side. While he stared, an arm shot through the gap and pulled him through, Jon past the flames before he could even hold his breath or close his eyes.

"You've got a dragon that wants riding, Your Grace." Sansa's voice was terse, displeased. Jon blinked her into view, finding Sansa's dress torn and dirty, face alight with sweat and dirt.

"Are you al-" Jon asked on reflex, as Sansa's head turned toward something approaching from the north.

"A rampart collapsed under me, no harm done." she replied, hand extending toward the nearest snowbank. "Call Rhaegal, this won't hide us long." Before Jon could even ask what in particular, the snows flurried freely into the fires to fill their midst with mist, warm and wet. Warm enough to hide in, Jon realized as a punishing wind blew the wall of fire down. A sword-carrying Other was on the other side, squinting into the mist with a healthy amount of wariness. Rhaegal's approach had him nimbly sidestepping, not even trying to confront the dragon. Leaving him for someone his own size, Jon saw as the giantess stepped into view, hands at the ready. Lady manifested between the pool of mist and the giantess, teeth bared. Just as she leapt, another gale roiled up from nothing to push them out of the direwolf's path. "What was that?" Sansa asked, wide-eyed as Rhaegal found them.

"A right royal pain in the ass." Jon replied, helping her climb up to the dragon's back. "It's been shoving us off the bone dragon all night, we can't get near the bloody thing."

"Is this really a good idea?" she asked as Jon retook his own seat in front of her.

"It's either this or leave you here." Jon replied, in a tone that said it was already decided. He felt her arms knot tight around his chest and prodded Rhaegal, the green dragon only too eager to leave the ground to those who lacked wings. After all, its those of us with that are causing all the fucking trouble.

As they rose high above the battle, Jon resorted to pointing where the bone dragon hung unassailably in the air. The winds that ringed it had not died away, though Jon hardly expected them to. Perhaps Sansa is able as Bran is able.

The moon-ward is gone, but a gale with a mind of its own has replaced it. Jon was not disappointed.

A gale? Sansa's voice was a squeak in his head.

We've been through worse. You've been through worse. Jon replied, realizing Sansa was being brave enough to dare a dance on dragonback. Perhaps she wasn't counting on a windstorm to cut in. Viserion did not miss the other two slowly working their way back aloft, ascending slowly and haphazardly. Perhaps he wants to keep the wind guessing as to how and where to hit him. How many stories had he heard of Aegon's Conquest, of the Dance of Dragons, where whole armies were wholly subject to the whims of the dragons circling above them? And here we're being thrown about without a second thought. Madness, Jon thought grimly. Though the bone dragon's empty gaze was elsewhere and the figures on its back too small to make out properly, a gust began to buffet them almost as soon as they were of a height with the vast dead thing. Jon felt Sansa's arms grow tighter. Could he blame her? Certainly, the gusts could grow strong enough to blow one (or both) of them right off Rhaegal's back. Jon felt Sansa bury her face in his shoulder but comforting her was the last thing he could do just now. Just as the winds began to pick up, Jon breathing in to withstand the latest push, Sansa half-climbed over him to shoot a hand out past his face. The wind came on but not half so strong as Jon was expecting, as if they were behind a pane of glass.

"What are you-" Jon had time to groan out before the faintest outline of a figure became visible. Rhaegal turned to greet it with a gale of his own, bright and burning, but it was far the nimbler and on their other side in a blink. Another gust from it, another fleeting reprieve from Sansa. Rhaegal snorted but Jon headed him off, taking them into a dive he prayed caught their pursuer off-balance. When the cold winds nipped at them anew, Rhaegal let out an irate scream. Forget it, boy. Just stay aloft, I don't fancy dismounting with more than a few feet to fall before I hit ground. Jon doubted fire could do it any more harm than a thrown rock, anyway, whatever it was. I doubt we'll be able to lose it. Rhaegal's only flesh and blood…

Then we'll keep it all to ourselves and leave the bone dragon for Daenerys and Meera to tangle with.

Is that wise? Rhaegal is our fastest-

As you said, Rhaegal is only flesh and bone. The fastest of his brothers he may be, but he'll not outrun something that doesn't tire. Drogon's learned well how to be hit from his time over the sea and Viserion can pull off whatever extremities he can snatch away in ambush. Jon breathed.

Best hold on, then, and see how well our shadow can keep up.

Had I come up here alone, I might well have already fallen, Jon thought as Sansa beat away yet another blistering gust. He had left Rhaegal to fly as he would, what did the Bastard of Winterfell know of flying that a fucking dragon didn't? Poachers and rapers, he thought again as the wind howled around them, Sansa all he had between a thousand unseen teeth and his own helpless hide. Thieves and bastards to defend the realm from the likes of these. He looked down, where a sea of dead had flooded around, through and over the last of the castle's defenses to lock up with the defenders proper. Were it dragons we were trying to keep out, we might have built the Wall in straw, mortared with dry leaves. Fires burned everywhere, the only reason the wights didn't have free reign of the castle outright. Not that the living were content to stand still and be slaughtered, at least from Jon's perspective. More than one Other vanished under an assault from all sides by defenders wielding dragonglass, and the stuff hung in the air in black puffs wherever sacks of glass dust had been tossed.

Not far now. Sansa said, sounding as if she wanted to restore what hope in Jon she could. Not far. Her other hand found his face, his fear and exhaustion both breaking off to float away like ice cleaving off a berg. Jon turned toward the bone dragon, snapping at Drogon and Viserion in turn whenever they chanced to come too near.

The dragon has three heads, Sansa. At least, that's how Daenerys puts it. he thought wearily. Sansa hugged him.

Then I shall ensure the dragon will keep them. Can you get us nearer to the bone dragon?

Will the winds allow it?

Warring with me, it will have little choice. I intend to get it off you and keep it off you, so you can do your part and ensure we see tomorrow. Dutifully, Jon bid Rhaegal rise as fast as he was able to keep the dead dragon beneath them. Meera must have spotted them, because Viserion began to sink back into the haze of warmth the flames provided. Drogon shied away as the great skull's jaws gnashed together after him, lightning sparking and crackling behind them. Aloft as he was, Jon realized something.

The king isn't alone.

No, he's got his queen with him. Sansa replied. The moon-ward may be gone but I've little doubt she'll be able to stick something in the way. It wasn't the Others Jon was thinking of, though. The great expanses of empty space between the bones of the dragon's wings were filled with something that shifted in hue as whatever was beneath it changed. From black to clear to storm-gray to white and more.

What is that, stretched over the wings? Jon asked.

Ice spider silk. Strong enough to snare a bull moose in a single strand. Sansa replied.

Well, that's just fine. Is it fireproof? Jon leaned forward, Sansa burying her face in Jon's back with a squeak. The wings, Jon thought, shouted as loud as he could manage to anyone who might hear, forget the bones, destroy the wings and we'll bring it down! Then Rhaegal leaned forward in turn, pulling his body close. Oh, gods, Jon thought as everything paused for a moment, the battle slowing to a halt as he stared down at it all. Just as he felt his stomach slam against the back of his teeth, Sansa was leaping off Rhaegal's back, tangling in something hung in the air around them, the pair of figures whipping away in a frenzied gale.

It was too late to call out to her- Rhaegal was already shooting forward and the bone dragon had gone from the size of a penny to a barrel. Jon spotted something pale geyser up from the glow of Winterfell's countless fires and Drogon slammed into the dragon's side to draw its head away from where Rhaegal and Viserion would hit. Jon felt a hum as the best wards the Other-queen could erect buzzed to life around her and her husband. Don't mind us, Jon thought as Rhaegal's dizzying dive ended with a world-shaking crash into the crackling bones, his bronze flames pasting not the Others, but the great silken expanse of their mount's right wing. At the same moment Jon heard a few of its ribs snap as Viserion hit home, making the abomination's left wing glow molten gold. Drogon roared as he tore away part of its lower jaw, the piece bigger than his own head, but the noise was nothing to Jon as the world slowed again, his eyes sliding up the king's plate-of-ice-clad leg, past the cloak of starlit night. The Other-king wore a crown of snowflakes, but aside from his regal outfitting (and vast breath-of-lightning-having mount) there was nothing to suggest he was anything more than an Other. No demon, Jon thought, no god of darkness and death. An Other, aye…but just an Other. Slowly, the king's eyes found Jon's. The wind whipping past, the sound of a fall a star would envy was lost on Jon, and on the Other-king. Something twinkled in his hand, a fistful of starlight he reared back to throw. Jon began to feel the heat of the battle below on his back. Drogon's head snaked through the bone dragon's horns to snap at the king. Even with his queen to lurch over him and smash Drogon into a wall of silvery light, the starlight left the king's hand to cascade down along Rhaegal's body, Jon without a shred of cover. The first glint slammed into his knee and might have pulped it for all he knew. The second was like a warhammer sinking into his chest, sending him tumbling backward into open air. Warmth seeped down his front as his wounds reopened. Before Jon could feel any pain, another took him in the shoulder, a lance through a straw dummy before the last crashed against the back of his head.

There had been no jaws to close them, but the star-teeth had bitten deep. He was dragging one of the weaving climbers off a pack of men, tearing off two of its many limbs while they bit into it with black teeth long and short, sharp and blunt. Then he yipped as though he were a pup again, shaking off the phantom pain as soon as it had come. The great dead thing high above had fallen far, nearly grazing the tops of the trees before it shook away the fires from the sky that dogged it. Green looped away with as much grace as its injuries would allow, white content to simply fall into the great water that fed the trees while black pressed on, intent it seemed on pulling down the dead thing, forcing it to crash to the hard, cold earth. He ran for the trees, for the great water between them, his characteristic reserved bearing gone as he ran about the wood, nose unable to smell anything apart from the great dying that raged all around. The dead thing's great claw closed around the last remaining fire, screaming its dead scream. Lightning crackled from past its broken teeth, the holes in its great dark skull. Then something smashed into the side of its snout, followed by another and still another. Whistling rocks from long metal logs along the man-den's high walls, singing a call all their own now the dead thing was so near. A lucky note sent a rock smashing away one of the dead thing's legs above the knee, bits of black bone that smelled of metal bouncing through the tree's branches. Despite the grievous wound, it no more felt than feared, and did not stop to consider its crumbling form before bringing its huge head to bear. Something small, no taller than a fawn, leapt free at the last moment before the dead thing's heavy head smashed away the last fire, sending it spinning into the branches of the white tree at the center of the wood. The thing landed in the water, scrabbling gracelessly toward the shore until he padded out to meet it, pulling it to dry land. It was scarcely heavier than the red pup he'd once found in the ruins of a man-den, but he could tell it was no pup. Hacking up mud and leaves, it looked around dizzily.

"Ghost." it said- he said. A male. A dozen trees snapped, crashing to earth under the dead thing's weight as it landed on a single leg, the cold pair atop it little shaken. The protector, the thought bubbled up in his mind unbidden, a mind that was not his own. The pair was male and female, undoubtedly the head of the great cold pack that had come against his own. But which was the protector? The male was wrapped in starlight, but the female…the female shone with the light of the full moon. A greater protector there could not be than the silver mother above all. His brother, once gone and now returned, ran often and long with the shy greensingers who so hated the bright cold ones. The female, he called to him, hearing his brother call to the greensingers in turn. A groan issued from one of the trees, a slow angry rumble, and then it was tearing itself free of the frozen ground as though it were fresh-fallen snow. As implacable as it was strong, it brought a wooden limb smashing down on the dead thing's black bones, long branch-fingers reaching for the moon-female. A sentinel pine trudged over next, wrenching away the tip of one of its ruined wings. "Ghost." The small-man grabbed the side of his head and yanked until he faced him. "You must find Jon." That name he knew as well as his own. Looking back toward the water he espied a body, nearly tripping over himself to pull it free. When he got it onto shore, though, he saw it was not whom he sought. Too old, too skinny, and nothing like a leader of the pack ought be. The small-man was not so dismayed, approaching to stick his hand beneath the drowned thing's furs. He came up with a gleaming black tooth in his fist, his squashed misshapen face curling into a raucous grin. "You're a good boy, Ghost. Now go find the king." he said, rushing off toward the dead thing. Even as the trees knocked the moon-female away, the small-man scaled the leg that remained. A rain of stars reduced the trees to stumps and broken branches, breath-of-lightning searing away even those, but when the starry male bid the dead thing rise, they rose not in the moon-female's company, free to rain death down without care behind the full moon's warding light, but battered and failing. The last he saw of the small-man, he was climbing higher even as the dead thing did, the object of his hunt unmistakable.

His part played, he went back to seeking out the one who'd all but given him life. At last he found him, lying prostrate along the branch that had caught him as he'd fallen. Dragging him off the branch with his teeth, he smelled for life, listen keenly for a hint of breath. His white head to the man's chest, the world stopped until he heard the beat of a living heart within. When he pulled away, panting, he felt the warm ooze of blood below his eye, tasted it as it dropped off his muzzle onto his tongue. A wound. Something slipped from the water, coughing loudly even as it clutched its own long black tooth. A twitch of his nose told him it was the man's litter-mate, though they had been parted at birth, much as he had been from his own siblings. He ran to her, taking her badly by surprise- enough so that the pale fire erupted from the lake in turn to protect her. It looked shaken, but otherwise unharmed.

"Ghost?" she asked. In answer he dashed over to the prostrate body of the man, the red seeping out of him arrested only because of the night's frigid air. At once she was on him, tearing away whatever she dared to bind up the wounds, calling for her numberless kin, those of the green wet place his kind would never go. They did not come, unable to hear her over the sounds of dying, unable to leave the battles they were fighting, or both. She was left alone to cradle the man, a man part of both of them, to push hard on his wounds, to keep the blood from leaving his flesh. He ran his head slowly along her own, licking her cheek, He would stay with her, as the pale fire would stay with her, until the morning came.