Disclaimer: All characters belong to George R. R. Martin and HBO, and I don't earn my money with these stories.

Hey everyone,

after watching the seventh season, my sister and I were so excited that we decided to invent our own Season 8. The story is already written (about 75,000 words and over 50 chapters) and we will publish the chapters every now and then – but the last chapter is scheduled to be posted before the 14th of April, of course. This is a Game of Thrones fanfiction, therefore be prepared for character deaths, etc. So here it is, enjoy and let us know what you think about it.

Best regards,

Catherine and her sister

PS: We aren't native speakers, so there might be a few mistakes, but if you were so kind as to write us a message to tell us of them, we would immediately correct them.

A Wave of Winter

"When you play the Game of Thrones, you win or you die.

There is no middle ground."

Cersei Lannister

"We're all on the same side – we're breathing."

Jon Snow

Chapter 1 – Tormund – Snow

Snow had never bothered Tormund. He had lived his whole life beyond the Wall where there was always winter and therefore snow. He had eaten it when he was a toddler, only to at first grimace at the cold in his mouth and then gawk in awe when it melted and he suddenly swallowed water. He had played with his friends in it, had built snowmen and had thrown snowballs in his peers' faces. He had even made love in the snow a few times. But what he had to endure right now was worse than what he had ever experienced – it was absolute and pure agony.

The Wall had collapsed. Not the whole Wall, of course, but the east side of it together with Eastwatch by the Sea and had entombed all the Free Folk and Crows with it. At first, Tormund had been buried by such an amount of snow and ice that he thought it would crash his very bones. But quickly before he could suffocate, he stemmed the snow above him away with all the force he possessed and was finally able to breathe fresh air again.

That was when he turned around – and saw them. The Army of the Dead together with its leader, the Night King, made their way through the Wall and entered the land of the (still) living – accompanied by the wretched dragon that had melted the Wall in the first place! The probably same one he had seen die a few days prior. He didn't want to imagine what power the Night King truly possessed if he was able to revive a magical creature like a dragon…

Tormund looked around but except for snow, collapsed buildings and dead bodies he found no place where he could hide. He had experienced enough by now to know his only survival chance: play dead. So he buried himself further into the snow and tried to stay as limb as possible, even checking that no one saw the white smoke his breath made. His only comfort was that he could lie down on his back and didn't have to stand – although that also meant that he couldn't see very far.

It took the Army ages to all pass the ruins of the Wall, and Tormund's fear and pain grew with every minute. On the one hand, he was afraid the Dead might find him and was glad that most of them were idiots that followed their leader without thinking or questioning, therefore they didn't even glance around to investigate for survivors they could kill. On the other hand, the cold crept further into his body and into his very bones. It became so freezing that Tormund had to hold his jaw in order to keep his teeth from clattering and he feared that if he didn't die because of the wights, he would die of pneumonia.

When the White Walkers were finally gone, Tormund stayed in his ice prison for a while longer in fear, they might come back, or some stragglers came later. Only when he was certain he was alone, he finally climbed out of the snow and staggered a few metres before falling to his knees. He tried to warm his legs with his hands, but they were painfully cold, too. With all his strength he crawled towards the nearest collapsed building in hope of some warmth. He found an entrance to a small room which would give him shelter for the night, as well as some dead Crows whose thick fur coats he took and laid them around his legs and arms. But to his utter luck he found flintstones in one of the men's pockets and gathered some wood, then he brought his new treasures towards the furthest corner of the room, so that hopefully no one could detect the golden shimmer of the flames from outside. When a small fire started crackling and slowly warmed him again, he knew that there was still something important to do before he could finally rest. So he gathered all the bodies he could find, brought them behind the largest building of Eastwatch and burned them individually, in hope that the fires would soon die out after the bodies were merely ashes.

Devastated and tired, Tormund made his way back to his rudimentary shelter, put more wood on his fire, and tried to fall asleep. His next actions were clear to him: he had to reach Castle Black as soon as possible, so that he could send a raven to Jon, warning him.

The Dead made it through the Wall. They're coming.