When the war is done, I will see you again. When the smoke clears, when the blood has dried, when the dragons have flown, I will return for you.
—Jon Snow to Bran Stark, Winterfell
Bran was alone in the godswood, staring up at the stars reminiscing on the past. A warm summer wind stirred the trees, and the sound of insects filled the night. The Three-Eyed Raven's cave was dark behind him, but he knew it was there. He could hear the crackling of the fire, smell the smoke and taste of apple tart. It was like he'd never left.
He glanced over at Summer, sleeping beneath the oak tree, and thought about how long it had been since he had seen her. A year and a day now, but it felt longer.
The sound of footsteps broke his reverie. He looked up to see Meera and Jojen approaching, heading east, toward the Wall. He followed after them, running through the woods. The three of them ran until they reached the clearing where the Stone Table stood.
"They're coming!" said Meera.
"What?" Bran asked, confused.
Meera pointed to the sky. "Look."
There, rising above the treetops, was a column of white and blue hues painted on the snowy terrain. A mass of undead so large it made the snow look like it was shifting.
Jojen grabbed Bran's arm, pulled him down, and wrapped his cloak around him to protect against the cold. "Don't move," he whispered in his ear. "Whatever you do, don't let them see you."
They watched the horde approach as it crested the hill and marched towards them. At the head of the host was the Night King, his pale skin gleaming in the moonlight. In his arms, he carried a dead boy no older than Robb. Bran couldn't tell which one it was. His eyes were glazed and vacant, his lips cracked and bloody. He saw as the crow saw and the crow saw that the zombie army moved in unison. They had no faces, only rotting skulls with empty eye sockets. Their mouths opened and closed in silent shrieks as they advanced towards the wall.
They're going to break through, Bran realized. He remembered how Hodor had lost his mind at the sight of the White Walkers. He thought about the inevitability of it all. All the people who were going to die, whether they were good, bad, or indifferent. All the little children, his friends. It was all going to end.
The army reached the foot of the Wall and stopped. There were thousands upon thousands of them, but they were all frozen in place. The Night King turned to his companions. "Rise," he commanded.