Now the real story begins, we start right when Arya killed the Night King and set things in motion that nobody expected.
I already write the first 10K words for this story, but publishing them in one chapter would be way to messy, so I decided to split them up and upload in quick succession.
The Long Night
The screams of the dying pierced the frigid night air as the battle raged fiercely outside Winterfell's walls. The armies of the living struggled desperately against the relentless onslaught of the dead, unleashed by the menacing Night King and his legion of White Walkers.
Arya Stark darted furtively through the chaos, her eyes fixed on the Night King as he approached Bran in the godswood, eager to destroy the Three-Eyed Raven and bring an endless night. She had abandoned the fight to hunt down her ultimate prey.
Slipping silently past clashing swords and undead horrors, Arya entered the godswood like a shadow. She crept towards the weirwood tree where Bran sat helpless, protected only by Theon and a handful of ironborn. Ice-cold eyes watched the Night King stride confidently forward, his icy blade poised to snuff out all hope.
Arya drew her Valyrian steel dagger, the weapon Bran had gifted her. She watched, tense, as the Night King cut down Theon's men with brutal efficiency. When only Theon remained, he charged forth with his spear, determined to defend Bran till his last breath. But the Night King defeated him easily, casting his broken body aside.
At last, the ancient enemy stood before Bran, ready to deliver the final blow. In that instant, Arya flew from the darkness with a primal war cry. The Night King sensed her coming and spun around, seizing her by the throat before she could strike.
Arya struggled in his clutches as he lifted her off the ground. Desperate, she dropped her dagger from one hand and caught it in the other, plunging it into the Night King's icy breast. A look of shock and shattering realization crossed his face as he began to crack and fall away to nothingness.
The White Walkers nearby screamed and exploded into shards of ice as the ancient spell was broken by their master's demise. Across the battlefield, the wights collapsed lifelessly to the ground. A deafening silence fell over the living. It was over. The Long Night ended as Arya stood triumphant with her dagger still clutched in her hand.
As the Night King's body shattered into icy shards, a powerful shockwave of ancient magic erupted from within him. Arya was thrown violently back by the force of it, the very air cracking with power. Across the battlefield, all who witnessed felt the violent tremors shake them to their core.
This was no ordinary magic, but something primal and elemental, tied to the roots of the earth itself. For thousands of years it had given strength to the Night King, allowing him to raise and control the dead. Now, suddenly unleashed, it swirled wildly through the air like a violent wind seeking a new host.
The magic coalesced into an amorphous cloud of energy that snaked rapidly towards Winterfell, searching mindlessly for someone or something to bind itself to. It poured through the crypts where Sansa had sheltered with the women and children. As it surged around her, she could feel its chaotic power resonating within her blood and bone, calling to her Stark ancestry bound to the North.
Sansa's eyes turned icy blue as the magic forced its way into her body and fused with her essence. She threw back her head in a silent scream as the energy coursed through her, ancient spells and enchantments flooding her mind. It was wild magic, beyond the control of any living being.
Sansa emerged from the crypts wreathed in a vortex of raging ice and snow, barely containing the vast power that now dwelled within her. Those nearby cowered in terror as she passed, the icy winds buffeting them relentlessly. Her eyes were two blue flames that danced wildly, overwhelmed by the ancient magic.
As she stumbled through the courtyard, the chaotic thoughts racing through Sansa's mind slowly calmed when her gaze fell upon Arya and Bran. Through the howling gale, she could see her siblings huddled together near the godswood, their faces etched with shock and uncertainty.
Sansa moved towards them as if in a daze, the winds and snow easing with each step. Her mind cleared, anchored by the familiar faces she had thought lost forever. No matter what power raged inside her, she would not let it strip away her humanity.
"Arya...Bran..." she spoke their names softly as she approached. Her voice echoed eerily with the voices of a hundred generations past. Arya stepped protectively in front of Bran, one hand on the hilt of her dagger as she watched Sansa warily.
Sansa halted a few steps away, the snowflakes dancing gently around them now. "It's alright," she soothed. "It's still me." Slowly, she knelt and held out her arms. After a tense moment, Arya rushed forward into her embrace. Sansa clung to her sister tightly, the contact keeping the power at bay.
Bran watched thoughtfully. "The magic chose you for a reason, Sansa," he said in his detached way. "You must learn to control it."
Sansa nodded, stroking Arya's hair as she continued holding her close. The howling winds had faded away, but she could still feel the ancient magic simmering within. She knew Bran spoke truly - to master it, she would need her family's help.
Jon Snow trudged wearily through the gates of Winterfell, fresh blood and dirt caking his battered armour. The battle against the dead had been won, but at a terrible cost. Scores of his men had fallen to the relentless onslaught of the wights. Victory was tinged with grief for the lives lost that night.
As Jon limped into the inner courtyard, he paused at the sight before him. Sansa knelt, embracing Arya tightly, an unnatural glow surrounding them as snowflakes danced on strange winds. Bran sat nearby, stoic as ever but with a knowing look upon his face.
"Sansa?" Jon rasped in confusion, taking a hesitant step forward. His hand went to Longclaw's hilt as he watched his sisters warily.
Sansa raised her head, her fiery blue eyes meeting his. Jon's breath caught at the power contained in her gaze. At that moment, he knew this was no trick - something ancient and Otherworldly now resided within her.
"Do not be afraid," Sansa spoke, her voice layered with echoes of the past. She slowly stood, the winds stirring her auburn hair as she approached him. "I would never hurt you, Jon."
Jon did not flinch as she extended a pale hand to gently cup his cheek. He felt a jolt like ice through his veins at her touch, but underneath was still Sansa's familiar warmth.
"What has happened?" he asked quietly, covering her hand with his own calloused one.
Sansa gave a sad smile. "I cannot explain it. But I promise we will face it together, as a pack." Behind her, Arya and Bran nodded in solidarity.
Jon pulled her into a fierce embrace as the snow whipped around them. He did not yet understand, but knew their fates were now linked by forces beyond comprehension. If darkness lay ahead, they would confront it as one.
In another part of the castle, Ser Davos Seaworth wandered aimlessly through the rubble and carnage left by the battle against the dead. His mind was haunted by memories of little Shireen Baratheon, an innocent child burned at the stake by Melisandre's command. The grief and rage still felt fresh even years later.
As he turned a corner, Davos froze. There, standing solemnly amidst the chaos, was the Red Woman herself. Time had not diminished the intensity of her presence. Her ruby necklace glinted in the torchlight as she regarded him with ancient eyes.
Davos' hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword. "You have a lot of nerve showing your face here," he growled.
Melisandre said nothing, merely reaching into her robes and producing a partially burnt wooden deer - the remnant of a beloved toy that had belonged to Shireen. The sight of it hit Davos like a punch to the gut.
"I made a grave mistake," Melisandre said finally, her voice heavy with remorse. "One that cost an innocent child her life. I cannot take it back, but I intend to correct it."
Davos stared at her, conflicted between rage and curiosity. "It's too late for that now..."
Melisandre stepped closer, pressing the scorched deer into his hands. "It is not too late. I have seen it in the flames. Princess Shireen yet has a role to play in the great war still to come."
Davos looked down at the toy, once so full of joy and now a symbol of tragedy. Could the Red Woman be speaking truthfully? He searched her eyes for deception, but found only sincerity. Finally, he gave a wary nod. Perhaps there was still a chance for justice.
Davos was still processing Melisandre's words when suddenly she cried out in agony. She collapsed to her hands and knees, the ruby necklace shattering in a hundred pieces and falling away, smoking. Davos staggered back in shock as she contorted violently amidst a growing pool of melting snow.
"The Lord's fire...burns!" Melisandre screamed, clawing at her chest as flames seemed to ignite within her. "His light...forsakes me!"
Despite his hatred for her, Davos moved to help, but was forced back by an intense heat radiating from her body. Melisandre writhed on the ground, flesh cracking and flaking away to reveal a withered hag beneath her glamour.
"Ser Davos...you must..." she rasped out between shrieks of pain. "Seek her...where I did my worst..." Her eyes found his, full of urgency and regret. "Only you...can undo...my gravest sin."
With those final words, the Red Woman crumbled away into a pile of ashes, borne away on a fiery wind. All that remained were blackened fragments of a ruby necklace. Davos could only watch in disturbed awe.
Once the shock faded, her last words echoed in Davos' mind. He looked down at the burnt remnant of Shireen's toy still clutched in his hand. Could the Red Woman have been telling the truth? That somehow the princess could return? The very notion seemed impossible. Yet in his heart, a glimmer of hope now flickered.
Spurred on by Melisandre's ominous final words, Ser Davos rushed to Winterfell's stables and hastily prepared the fastest horse he could find. The Red Woman's cryptic message burned in his mind. However unlikely, if there was even the faintest chance of undoing Shireen's untimely death, he knew he must try.
Securing a bag of supplies, Davos mounted the restless courser. "Ride swift and true, lad," he murmured, patting the stallion's muscular neck. With a determined dig of his heels, they shot from the stables out into the night.
Guided only by flickering memories, Davos raced south through swirling snow and biting winds. Melisandre's warning echoed as the miles flew past: "Seek her where I did my worst." He could never forget the place she had chosen to sacrifice the innocent princess.
After relentless days of hard riding, Davos arrived at the site of the blackened pyre where Shireen had burned. Dismounting wearily, he searched the abandoned ruins, finding only ash and soot. He sifted through, desperately seeking answers, some sign of what evil magic could be undone here. But there was nothing.
Falling to his knees amidst the debris, Davos bowed his head in despair. He had been a fool to hope. The dead could not be brought back, no matter how much he wished it. Grief for the sweet child he had failed to save welled up anew, a bitter lump in his throat.
"Forgive me, little princess," he choked out. "I do not know how to right this wrong." Eyes closed against tears, Ser Davos did not see the swirl of ash behind him begin to glow faintly red, as if stirred by some fire rekindling within...
As Davos knelt dejectedly amidst the ashes, a strange glow began emanating from the debris. He turned with a gasp as the cinders swirled upwards, suffused in crimson light. The ashes spun faster and faster, coalescing into a small, feminine form.
Before Davos' astonished eyes, the figure solidified into the shape of a young girl - taller than when he had known her, on the cusp of womanhood, with long brown hair spilling over her shoulders. As the red glow faded, delicate features emerged that he had feared lost forever.
"S-shireen?" Davos stammered in disbelief, afraid this vision would vanish if he moved.
The girl glanced down at her hands, flexing the fingers experimentally. When she looked up and met his tear-filled eyes, recognition slowly dawned across her face.
Shireen blinked in confusion as faded memories slowly resurfaced. "Ser Davos?" she spoke hesitantly, gazing up at the familiar bearded face. As recognition dawned, a brilliant smile lit up her delicate features. "It's you!"
Overcome with emotion, Davos shot forward and swept the resurrected princess into a tight embrace, wrapping his warm cloak securely around her. She felt blessedly real and solid in his arms. "By the gods, it is a miracle..." he murmured, a lump in his throat.
Shireen eagerly returned the hug, her small arms clinging to him. As they finally parted, her brow furrowed thoughtfully. "I remember...the fire...it hurt..." She rubbed her smooth, unblemished neck absently. "How am I here again?"
Davos shook his head in wonder, tears glistening in his eyes. "I do not know, child. But thank the gods old and new, you have returned." With a gentle hand, he brushed a flake of residual ash from her long brown hair. "I swear to you, I will not fail you this time."
Shireen gazed up at him for a long moment. Then she threw her arms around his neck once more. "I know you won't," she said, voice muffled against his shoulder. "You have always protected me, Ser Davos. I trust you."
Her simple words of faith caused a lump to form in Davos' throat. He held her petite frame close, silently making a sacred vow that no harm would ever come to her again while there was breath left in his body. By some miracle, she had been returned; this time, he would keep her safe.
After holding Shireen close for a long moment, Davos led her over to his waiting horse. He lifted her petite frame up onto the saddle before swinging up behind her. Shireen nestled back against his broad chest as he wrapped one arm securely around her.
"Let's away from this place," Davos said gruffly, eager to leave the dark site of Shireen's death far behind. With a click of his tongue, the horse began a smooth canter north towards Winterfell.
As they rode, Davos kept the princess gathered close, as if afraid she might disappear again if he let go. Shireen did not mind; she felt safe and protected, encircled in his strong embrace.
"Tell me true, Ser Davos, is the war still going on?" she asked, her high voice tinged with worry.
Davos hesitated, then said gently, "A great battle was fought, but it is over now. The Starks rule Winterfell once more."
Shireen twisted to look back at him. "And what of my parents?"
At that, Davos fell silent, unsure how to explain. Sensing his hesitation, Shireen faced forward again, sad wisdom beyond her years entering her eyes. She had endured such pain already for one so young. Davos simply held her tighter, lending what comfort he could for the road ahead.
As the castle towers came into view, Davos bent his head close to Shireen's ear. "You have been given a second chance, princess. We both have." She nodded slowly in understanding. Together, they would make it count.
The stillness of the lake was shattered as ripples spread rapidly across its glassy surface. Upon the mist-shrouded isle at its centre, the Lady of the Lake's eyes flew open, blazing with an unearthly jade light.
The pulse of ancient magic reawakening in the North had resonated even in this isolated place. The long-dormant sorceress could sense the tide was turning. With a graceful wave of her hand, she summoned the Green Knight from his burial mound, draped in moss and vines.
"Awake, my champion," she intoned, her voice rippling the water itself. "Go now to King's Landing and bring the little lion princess safely to Winterfell."
The knight thumped his fist over his heart and bowed silently before dissolving into the mists. Satisfied, the Lady sank back beneath the still waters to wait and watch events unfold.
On the Isle of Faces, the elven sorceress Alarielle swiftly sensed the same shift in power. Turning to her handmaiden with urgency, she commanded, "Fly as fast as the wind itself to Storm's End. Bring Lady Margaery to Sansa's side, for their alliance will be key to balancing the darkness now stirred."
With elven grace, the handmaiden bowed, gathering her white cloak. "I shall not fail you, my lady." As she mounted her silver steed, Alarielle prayed to the old gods, the weirwood leaves rustling in the quickening winds of change. Destiny was awakening, and with it came both hope and peril.
So now the fun begins, the next chapter will cover the necessary events of S8 e4 with a twist before we truly move away from the canon.
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