Jorah could not leave. Not like this, not with the wights still coming for them, and inching closer and closer to where Daenerys waited upon Drogon's back, as though they sought to take her with them, as though they wished to drag her screaming into the pit of them all to become a silver-haired wisp of the undead. The rest of the party were climbing up onto Drogon's back, grasping for scales and horns and hoisting up their captured prey onto the beast, and Jorah knew that he could not simply turn tail and run to join them. They needed the distraction--they needed the opportunity to get his Queen and the North's King out of this icy hell. Shouting, he fought his way forward, his sword cutting through bone and withered flesh, ripping through tattered clothes and small, meager weapons that tried to cut at them.
He could hear the screams of her children--Rhaegal and Viserion still circled around them in the air, lighting up wights as though they were little matches, capable of huge fire that spread out among them, torching their enemies. He couldn't focus on it; he had to put his energy into what was in front of him, and if he had to die out here, then at least he would die doing something righteous and good, and perhaps they would write songs of his bravery, and perhaps his Queen would remember him, years along, when she took her throne safely.
He could hear Drogon screech, as he took flight, and his heart sank. He knew he had to keep Daenerys safe--and the safest place to be was, perhaps, in the air. Yet in front of him, so close and yet still with so much distance between them, was the man that Jon Snow had called The Night King, the one with deep blue eyes and an almost frighteningly pale face, so devoid of anything but hatred that Jorah could not look at him.
"Khaleesi!" Jorah shouted out over the mayhem, the sound of dragons and wights mixing into a painful cacophony. "You must leave! Leave!"
For there were spears there, long blades of icicle that Jorah knew would sail through the air, and his breath felt painful in his throat. If he were to hit Drogon--if they were to come crashing down--
"Go," Jorah shouted again, even as he drew his sword to prepare to rush in.
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He could hear the screams of her children--Rhaegal and Viserion still circled around them in the air, lighting up wights as though they were little matches, capable of huge fire that spread out among them, torching their enemies. He couldn't focus on it; he had to put his energy into what was in front of him, and if he had to die out here, then at least he would die doing something righteous and good, and perhaps they would write songs of his bravery, and perhaps his Queen would remember him, years along, when she took her throne safely.
He could hear Drogon screech, as he took flight, and his heart sank. He knew he had to keep Daenerys safe--and the safest place to be was, perhaps, in the air. Yet in front of him, so close and yet still with so much distance between them, was the man that Jon Snow had called The Night King, the one with deep blue eyes and an almost frighteningly pale face, so devoid of anything but hatred that Jorah could not look at him.
"Khaleesi!" Jorah shouted out over the mayhem, the sound of dragons and wights mixing into a painful cacophony. "You must leave! Leave!"
For there were spears there, long blades of icicle that Jorah knew would sail through the air, and his breath felt painful in his throat. If he were to hit Drogon--if they were to come crashing down--
"Go," Jorah shouted again, even as he drew his sword to prepare to rush in.