When the ice dragon rushed past white winds, disappearing before Jon Snow’s eyes, he felt a momentary lapse of silence fill the howling air, as men and monsters all saw the beast become a myth again. For a second, even the Night King had stopped in his steps.
The noises resumed, and they remembered their roles.
The Night King came at Jon, spear in hand. Jon managed to unsheathe Longclaw just in time. The blizzard was chilling, people around him in cries, but he only had eyes for his enemy, the one who started it all. This is it, he thought, when frozen fingers clutched the hilt, armed against the Night King’s charge.
The first parry rung from his fingers to toes. He would have fallen were his feet not so firmly planted in the snow. Jon prepared for the second strike, putting all his strength behind it. When it came, shudders spanned throughout his body. Cracked ribs screamed in agony. His strength is superhuman.
As the Night King prepared for a third swing, Jon caught glimpses of dim lights in the dark sky. Rhaegal. The dragon had not fled after all, helping the living from above with hot, melting flames. Relief replaced the pain in his chest, and suddenly Jon Snow was confident.
The third blow was aimed at his knees. Jon quickly deflected it. He swerved his arms upward, and aimed at the villain’s chest. One touch of Valyrian steel, that’s all I need.
The Night King’s parry was almost lazy.
It knocked him off balance, and Jon fell to the snow. Hastily, he crawled away. He felt a sudden whoosh of wind and heard the spear bury where he lay a second ago. When he got to his feet, Longclaw slipped from his fingers.
There would be no time to pick it up. He had to run.
Jon took to his heels, fleeing as fast as his broken body allowed him. He heard another whoosh as the Night King’s spear grazed the back of his neck. He daren’t look back, daren’t see how close his enemy was, if his next swing would be his last. But in the end, wild temptation overtook wisdom, and Jon Snow turned.
The Night King was further behind than he thought. He walked calmly to his quarry, shining blue eyes boring into his, the tip of his spear glistening in crimson. But it was not only him Jon Snow had eyes for.
Beside him, what seemed like a hundred wights stood. Some were giants, their necks and faces disappearing into the white sky. Some were on horseback. Some were children, with empty chests and skeletal feet. One of the madmen, with billowing hair of black, held Jon’s sword in his hand as if it were rotting bone and not ancient Valyrian steel of House Mormont.
As the Night King continued his slow march, on cold command, the others charged.
As they came, Jon yelled for Rhaegal. He looked around for glints of obsidian. When all failed, he turned to run, trying to suppress the sad certitude, that he had cheated on death one time too many.
Then came the shatters.
They echoed behind, around, ringing in his ears, blinding them. Jon’s eyes jumped to the sky, but there was no Rhaegal there. He turned, watching the giants, the children, the wolves explode before his eyes, as if they died by his will. He looked to where the Night King stood. There was no one there, only a wight with steaming skin, long billowing hair, a cloak black as coal. The wight that held Longclaw.
“For the Watch,” he yelled, as Benjen Stark’s face crackled, dissolving into the raging blizzard, before he combusted into cold air.
The shatters never stopped.
*
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