Chapter Text
Panic was beginning to well up inside of Jon.
I’m going to be too late, he despaired as he threw himself behind a pile of rubble for cover. The undead dragon shrieked, blue flames spilling from its gaping maw. The heat was almost surprising, but no less terrifying than the first time he’d seen dragonfire.
I need to get past it.
His mind whirled, trying to think of some way - any way - to slip by, but every move he made was tracked closely and stopped. Jon waited for a halt in the flames, and made another attempt for the archway. He was forced dive behind the stone once again as the flames flew overhead.
I can’t -
Movement.
It wasn’t much, barely noticeable.
Enough that it caught Jon’s desperate eye.
A slight figure was carefully, but swiftly, making their way over the corpses and rubble with a surprising nimbleness.
He caught sight of their face in the blue light of the dragonfire, and Jon’s heart stopped.
Arya?
She must have felt his gaze on her.
Their eyes met, and held. Grey on grey, one pair filled with a deadly calm and determination, the other filled with fear and desperation.
She was close. Closer than he was. She’d just have to dart from the cover of the eaves to the archway that led to the Godswood, and she’d be there.
The only thing that stood between her and their goal, however, was an enraged undead dragon.
---
The three siblings stood before the fireplace, Jon resting a hand on Arya’s shoulder while Sansa stood at his side, her fingers brushing against his gently. Bran was seated opposite them, gazing soulfully into the fire.
None of them spoke, choosing instead to relish in each other’s company.
In being together again. At last.
Despite the chilly reception Jon had received from the Northmen, and somewhat from his sisters, they stood together.
A Pack.
Jon could feel several pairs of eyes on them from across the hall - Dany and her advisors hesitant to depart, lest they miss something important, along with Jon’s own company. He noted that the Hound, in particular, was glowering angrily at Arya, and that the young blacksmith couldn’t look away from her. Brienne alternated between glowering at Ser Jaime and Tormund, to checking on her young Ladies, seeming discomforted by the distance between them. Tyrion, standing close by young Podrick, watched Sansa consideringly, casually sipping his wine. Even the Northern Lords seemed entranced by the sight of House Stark standing together once more.
“The Pack survives.” Bran spoke, apropos of nothing. The girls smiled, shooting each other a knowing glance at Jon’s bemused look.
“When the night is over,” Jon began softly, his grip on Arya tightening slightly and his free hand closing around Sansa’s, “I think we have things we need to discuss.” Arya smirked, her eyes glittering dangerously.
“Supposing we survive it, guess we do.” She shot back, and Jon noticed her hand resting over the hilt of her dagger.
“Like how you keep managing to sneak up on Jon,” Sansa teased gently, squeezing Jon’s hand playfully.
“Swift as a deer,” Bran spoke dreamily, his eyes listing towards Arya. “Quiet as a shadow.” She seemed momentarily surprised, but offered a saddened smile.
“Just so.”
---
The memory struck him suddenly, and Jon knew what he had to do.
Swift as a deer, quiet as a shadow.
Arya tensed, realising his intentions, ready to spring forward.
Go.
He jumped to his feet, spinning to face the dragon. The word roared from his mouth continuously, egging Arya on. He could see the slightest movement from the corner of his eye, and then nothing.
Just the gaping, torn maw hanging open in front of him, blue flames building up.
Go.
There was a long moment, time seemed to slow as Jon’s heart pounded and he faced down his death.
And then…
Nothing.
No fire, no pain.
The dragon crumbled, falling in a rotten heap on the ground.