A Song of Fire & Snow (GOT)(Jon Snow)

Chapter 37: Jon Snow

~The Battle of Winterfell & The Long Night~

The sound of battle was deafening as Jon rode atop Rhaegal, the wind whipping through his hair and the cold biting at his skin. The sky was dark, filled with the screeches of the undead and the roar of dragonfire. Below him, Winterfell was in chaos, soldiers and wights clashing in a sea of death. The walls of the castle were barely holding, and Jon's heart ached as he saw his home, the place that had been his refuge, now consumed by war.

Rhaegal let out a guttural roar as they flew over the battlefield, his emerald scales shimmering even in the gloom. Jon gripped the reins tightly, his body moving in rhythm with the dragon's powerful wings. He guided Rhaegal toward the thickest concentration of the dead, unleashing torrents of fire on the wights that crawled like locusts over the walls and courtyards of Winterfell.

Each blast of flame incinerated hundreds, but Jon knew it wasn't enough. The dead kept coming, endless, relentless. The Night King's army was unlike anything he had ever seen. For every wight they destroyed, ten more took its place.

In the distance, he could see Drogon, Daenerys astride him, battling the undead Viserion in the sky. The two dragons tore into each other with fury, the sounds of their battle reverberating through the air. Jon's stomach twisted as he saw the icy blue flames that spewed from Viserion's maw, clashing with the fiery breath of Drogon.

Rhaegal flew closer, and Jon could feel the tension in his dragon, the way his muscles coiled with both fear and determination. The Night King was on Viserion's back, his cold, unfeeling eyes fixed on them. Jon's grip tightened. He had to stop him. They had to stop him.

"Fly, boy," Jon whispered to Rhaegal, urging the dragon forward. "We have to get him. We have to end this."

Rhaegal roared in response, his wings beating furiously as they flew into the fray. Jon's heart raced as they drew closer to the Night King, closer to the inevitable confrontation. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him—the lives of everyone at Winterfell, everyone he cared about, were in his hands. Alarys, Arya, Sansa, Daenerys... The faces of those he loved flashed through his mind, giving him the strength to push forward.

But before they could reach the Night King, Viserion lunged, his icy breath striking Rhaegal square in the chest. Jon felt the jolt as Rhaegal screeched in pain, his body convulsing under the force of the blow. The impact was devastating, and Jon could feel the dragon's strength beginning to wane. Blood dripped from Rhaegal's wounds, staining his scales a deep crimson.

"Hold on, Rhaegal," Jon urged, his voice filled with desperation. "Just a little longer."

But Rhaegal was struggling. Jon could feel it. His movements became sluggish, and his roars grew weaker. They descended rapidly toward the ground, the dragon's wings faltering as he tried to stay aloft. Jon's heart pounded in his chest as they careened toward the battlefield, the dead closing in from every direction.

With a final effort, Rhaegal managed to land, his body crashing onto the snowy ground with a heavy thud. The impact knocked Jon off the dragon's back, sending him sprawling into the snow. Pain shot through his body as he hit the ground, his head spinning from the force of the fall. He groaned, struggling to push himself up, but the sight of Rhaegal lying still, unconscious from his wounds, sent a wave of dread through him.

"Rhaegal," Jon whispered, his voice filled with anguish. He could barely move, his body aching, but he couldn't stay there. The battle was still raging around him, and he had to keep fighting. He had to stop the Night King.

But before he could get to his feet, a shadow loomed over him. Jon looked up, his heart freezing in his chest as Viserion, the undead dragon, loomed above him. The icy blue fire churned in Viserion's throat, and Jon knew he was seconds away from death. He tried to scramble out of the way, but his body was too weak, too slow. His eyes widened as he saw the cold, lifeless gaze of the Night King atop the dragon, staring down at him like a predator watching its prey.

Viserion unleashed his icy breath, and Jon rolled to the side just in time, the ground where he had been lying freezing instantly. His side burned with pain, and he gritted his teeth, pulling himself forward on his hands and knees, trying to escape. He could feel the dragon's breath on his back, the cold so intense it felt like fire.

But he couldn't stop. He had to keep moving.

Jon's mind raced, his thoughts flashing back to Alarys, to Arya, to everyone he loved who was still fighting, still struggling to survive. He couldn't fail them. Not now. Not when everything was at stake.

With a final surge of strength, Jon pulled himself free from Viserion's reach, using the cover of the chaos around him to disappear into the mass of wights and soldiers. His body screamed in protest, but he forced himself to stand, to keep moving. The godswood was his destination. That was where the Night King would be headed, and that was where Jon needed to go.

He fought his way through the battlefield, every step a battle in itself. The dead were everywhere, tearing through the ranks of the living with merciless precision. He watched in horror as the men and women of Winterfell, his people, were overwhelmed, their screams filling the night.

Jon cut down wights as he made his way toward the godswood, but with each passing moment, the weight of the battle pressed heavier on his heart. The army of the dead seemed unstoppable, a tide of death washing over Winterfell, drowning everything in its path.

As he neared the godswood, a cold realization settled over him. There were too many. The Night King's army was too vast, too powerful. He wasn't going to make it in time. The wights began to swarm him, their icy hands grabbing at him, pulling him down. He fought with everything he had, but they kept coming, relentless in their pursuit.

Just as he was about to be overtaken, something strange happened. The wights froze, their bodies jerking unnaturally. Then, one by one, they began to collapse, falling to the ground like puppets with their strings cut.

Jon blinked in confusion, his heart pounding. What had happened? Why had they—

The Night King. He was dead. Someone had killed him.

His mind raced, trying to make sense of it all, but there was only one thought that stood out, clear and powerful above the rest.

Alarys.

Jon's heart clenched in fear. He had to find her. He couldn't lose her, not now.

He sprinted through the battlefield, his legs burning with effort, searching desperately for any sign of her. The dead lay strewn across the ground, but Jon barely noticed. His eyes scanned the chaos, his heart racing as he searched for her familiar figure.

Finally, near the godswood, he spotted Arya standing over a fallen figure—Alarys. Jon's heart lurched in his chest as he ran toward them, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Arya turned as Jon approached, her face streaked with blood and exhaustion, but her eyes were fierce and bright. Alarys lay on the ground beside her, clutching her side, blood coating her fingers.

Jon dropped to his knees beside her, his hands trembling as he reached for her. "Alarys," he whispered, his voice choked with fear. "Are you—"

"I'm fine," Alarys said, though her voice was weak. She gave him a small, pained smile. "Just a scratch."

Jon's heart ached as he looked at her, the sight of her blood sending waves of panic through him. He gently placed his hand over hers, pressing against the wound to check the bleeding.

"I thought I'd lost you," Jon whispered, his voice raw.

Alarys winced but managed to smile again, her hand reaching up to touch his cheek. "Not yet, Jon Snow," she said softly. "Not yet."