The dragons were having a dance of their own, and it was all Jon Snow could do to hold on for dear life.
The thought of mounting Rhaegal had frightened him, but he had at least assumed he would be in control. You know nothing, he was reminded, as Rhaegal twisted and swerved the shoots of ice from Viserion’s mouth, while Jon shouted frantically the only word he could think. “Dracarys! Dracarys!”
Rhaegal did not listen to him. Jon was thankful he did not – the timing of his commands was utterly random. While Rhaegal tried to fight the ice dragon on his own, Jon caught glimpses of the rider. The Night King’s face, if one could call it a face, was as savage as it was serene. He seemed to be commanding Viserion’s corpse by thought alone.
Jon was a passenger, a lost one. Vomit dribbled from his lips as he thought frantically what he ought to do. Every attempt Rhaegal made to char Viserion had failed. He couldn’t use dragonfire below; there was every chance it would burn more friends than foes. The Night King was not using Viserion to shoot ice below too. Instead, he toyed with Jon, keeping his best weapon busy, while the army of the dead lay waste to the living. I don’t know if the Night King has a heart, but he certainly has a mind.
There was a flash of light, a cold gush of air, and Jon Snow knew Rhaegal was struck on the wing.
The dragon plummeted to the snow, Jon clinging on. Fear gripped him. It dragged him down. No, a voice said inside him. This is not how I die. Somehow, he forced himself to sit erect. “Rhaegal!” he yelled, as he yanked at the dragon’s scales, forcing it to steer upward. It did not move.
When the whiteness cleared and Jon saw the fallen blocks of the Wall staring at him, he pictured his broken body splattered among its shattered ruins, forgotten to the world.
Inches from the snow, the dragon rose.
The sudden change in trajectory knocked Jon off balance. His fingers slipped from Rhaegal’s scales. He was tumbling. The snow, fortunately, was gentle, but he felt ribs crack as he rolled around helplessly.
He gasped for breath, fallen on crimson snow. Rhaegal was nowhere to be seen. Mayhaps the dragon had risen in the sky, not knowing its rider had slipped. Mayhaps it had fled. Jon would not blame the dragon if it had.
Thankfully, the shadow of Rhaegal soon loomed over him. Jon managed to stand on his feet, clutching his chest. The pain was agonizing, impairing his eyesight more than the snowstorm. “Rhaegal,” he grunted, looking up at the dragon. Blue eyes stared back at him.
He looked around frantically, a place for cover, a shard of obsidian, a friend who could help. When he did, he recognized where he was. The fallen glaciers from the Wall and the ruins of Castle Black had disguised it, but Jon had been at the Wall too long to not recognize every spot. This was where I was stabbed.
Viserion opened its mouth, drawing in a rattling breath. Jon Snow closed his eyes. He thought of Daenerys Targaryen, and how he had failed her. He hoped the Watchers on the Wall would not.
*
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