Heavy clothing made him appear thrice his size, but when the winds whipped, Jon Snow felt them pierce through his skin like knives. Drogon had been as low as possible to avoid the unimaginable chill near the clouds, but when they had reached the Wall, the three dragons were forced to ascent much higher. He thought the winter would turn him into a block of ice which would slip to the ground and shatter. Was it always this cold at Castle Black?
In the initial moments of flight, Jon had cast all bravery shamelessly aside and clung to his rider with both arms. Daenerys replied to his fright with giggles. They temporarily settled Jon’s heart, after which the dragon shook violently, and he remembered he was soaring through Westeros at the speed of sound.
He was more settled now, and that was well and good. Now was not the time for panic. He had to use his eyes and ears. Jon had already told Daenerys to head northeast, in the direction of Hardhome, and they were now over the vast expanse of the Haunted Forest. He kept eyes peeled through the thick trees, waiting to see a glimpse of blue, or gatherings of people.
When Jon Snow saw them, the piercing blue eyes were already gleaming in their direction.
His heart threatened to crack his ribs. What was below was so immensely staggering by sight alone that he, for a fleeting second, wondered if the dragons contemplated fleeing too.
Anyone would think that the army of the dead was a forest and the trees its lone wanderers, not vice versa. There were… thousands. Tens of thousands. Men in skeletons and hanging skulls. Giants with eyes of brightest blue.
“There!” he screamed at Daenerys. She had seen them around the same time he did, but sheer terror had frozen her firmer than the Wall. Jon’s yells goaded her into action. “Drakaris! Drakaris!” she shrieked in the night sky, and the beasts opened their mouths.
The second that followed was the longest of his life. Fire extinguished the paralyzing winter. The dragon underneath him vibrated so violently that Jon instinctively wrapped his hands around the queen. The forest was set ablaze. Millions of screeches rang among the wet woods, the sound of evil itself leaving the world. The yells of Drakaris merged with the music of dragons. Kill all of them, burn it all, please!
Drogon swerved hurriedly as a spear missed him by inches. Jon saw the spear sail behind them, swallowed by the blackness of the clouds, in a state of perennial rise. As more flew past them, his eye caught the shape of ice lances twice the size of Longclaw. Gods, no.
Suddenly, the wights were not the only ones screeching in agony.
Viserion was flapping around the sky like a hapless bird. Torrents of his blood rained on the burning forest below. Where once was his eye now protruded a lance, both blue and crimson. Daenerys Targaryen’s yells would have saddened the worst of demons.
As the ground rushed to meet the dragon, an eerie reminder of its mortality, Jon Snow, wits lost to the fire, tried to pull Drogon’s scales towards the south, to direct them away from certain death. The dragon, who not many nights ago tried to roast him alive, readily obliged.
*
Comments