Hollow Crown ↬ Daenerys Targaryen

24

Side note: If you're reading this from a phone (idk if it works for other devices) I highly reccomend changing the font setting to Sans Serif. It's so aesthetically pleasing and it oddly boosts my writing confidence. Trust me and try it!

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Faster - it's the thought that races through Percy'a mind on a never ending loop. Screaming, seething, searing itself into his brain until that one word is the only one which he can think.

His wings soar past the jagged edges of the cliffside, occasionally catching and tearing chunks of rock from it to fall into the darkness below. The earth runs so deep beneath him that every glance down is like looking into an abyss of nothingness. Waiting to swallow up anything that falls into it's midst.

It's terrifying. Something that would make his body crawl with chills of fear until he feels as though he's been encased in icy evil. Under any other circumstance he would run - or fly - as far away as possible, something so unlike him yet so necessary.

But he can't now.

Not when he's finally gained an advantage over the Night King.

After countless hours of watching, hiding, calculating, waiting - he nearly roared with joy when he watched the undead dictator lead his minions into the narrow valley. It would cut nearly a week off of their journey toward Winterfell, and while time may not be of the essence to them, they must not have seen a reason not to.

One by one, each of them sluggishly trekked down the snowy hillside, many of them simply plummeting off the side into the darkness.

The Night King hadn't batted an eye, simply continuing to lead them down until the last of the dead dissapeared from Percy's visibility. That was hours ago - just past dawn, the sun now reaching it's peak behind the thick clouds. It doesn't light up the land like it would anywhere else, but the whiteness of the snow is enough for him to navigate around easily.

Percy had followed them from a distance in hopes of trapping them somewhere that would slow their journey, or perhaps even stop it. Though that's a delusional hope, he can't help but hope it anyways. It's what led him to now, knocking his large body into anything and everything that might fall into the path of the Night King - or on top of him.

Just ahead is where the cliffs on either side meet, the peak even sharper than it's edges. Cutting off the sky view and making the valley a cave which looks even more menacing closed off than it did open. For now he must either choose to fly above the cliffs and risk losing direction, or below them and into the darkness which contains the enemy.

The two decisions war inside his mind as he grows nearer. He weighs the pros of each, though neither truly have any, not bothering to look at all the cons. Should he go high, lose the army and let them march through the cave even closer to Winterfell and the living? Or should he go low, down into the abyss and risk a closed off fight with the dead?

Surely he would die, should he choose option two. There are tens of thousands of them - that he knows from the times he had tried and failed to count them - and one of him. Thousands of dead men who are controlled by a millennium old warrior with training not even the best of knights could claim to have, against one fire breathing dragon who's controlled by a high born with some fighting knowledge and a lot of witt.

He may as well forge his gravestone now.

Just as the thought passes through his mind, and with Viserion's consciousness preparing to scold him, two synchronized screeches are heard from behind him. They're loud and angry, bouncing off the sides of the cliffs and chipping pieces of rock from them. Two screeches familiar and comforting to both Percy and Viserion.