Jon
Winter is Here.
The warning of House Stark for thousands of years was finally in true fruition. The winter of all winters, the night that was bane to the dawn. That which dreaded the First Men for thousands of years was again upon them. Long ago, Giants, Man, and Children stood together to fight this evil together. And now, what remained of them would do so again. This time, however, dragons would fight above them.
In the dark of the night, there was still much that could be seen. The shadows and shapes of the clouds and coming storm. The snow already falling was enough for a southerner to call a storm, and it was nothing compared to the towering cascades of white drift that were getting closer to them like colossal waves of the ocean rising up before the great fall and crash.
Jon, Daenerys, and Sansa rode from the castle to where the dragons waited for them in Winter Town. The home for many Northmen was now an emptied place, a ghost town almost.
Jon had raised Longclaw and held it up high in the ride down the road, illuminating the path ahead and spurring every man they passed into a triumphant roar that became a thunderous voice that no gods or devils of the world could have ignored.
Once the three of them had reached the dragons, some of Daenerys' Dothraki were present to take the horses away. Rhaegal, Drogon, and Viserion waited for them, saddled properly with those found deep in the depths of Dragonstone.
Each of them stood together, man and wives.
"Tonight will be the longest night of our lives," Jon said, his voice heavy with emotion, clutching their arms tightly. "But every moment I had with both of you was more than I ever could have asked for. I love you."
Daenerys' response was in a kiss. Even in the cold, she was so warm. Sansa was of equal mind, taking hold of her husband and kissing him just as passionately.
"We'll win this," Sansa assured them. "Together."
"Together," Daenerys repeated.
Jon let his touch slip from them, and they each separated to mount their own dragon.
Rhaegal was anxious, Jon could feel it. The great green dragon stilled when he climbed atop onto the saddle. But once Jon found his grip, Rhaegal, and even the other two dragons, were itching to get into the sky. They knew what was coming just as much as everyone else did, and they were just as eager to burn that army into ash.
"Ezīmagon se jēdar naejot, ērinagon iā morghūljagon!" Daenerys yelled and Drogon charged forth, stretching his wings and launching into the air. Viserion followed right behind, jumping forward and gliding low before gaining height.
"Let's go, Rhaegal!" Jon ordered and his dragon lurched forward and took into the cold air, flying high above Winterfell and joining the other two dragons.
And now it begins.
Sansa (Future)
The sound came like a ghost's whisper. The first horn blew echoing in the valley, and then the second, and then the third.
The tops of the mountains were swallowed over by clouds, disguising them as towering structures that went beyond sight. The warmth of the valley disappeared and the cold of a thousand winters settled all around.
Even with the armor of her house, Sansa did not feel protected. Tens of thousands of men had worn the same protection for centuries and they all died in battle just the same. What difference would it make for her? And a spear in her hands still felt so foreign to her even with all the drills and training etched into her now.
"Do you think the Night King will show himself?" Sansa asked openly to those with her.
"No," Arya said as she tightened the leather straps of her bracer, "that cunt's right where he wants to be. Hiding on his throne safe and sound. I feel insulted that he wouldn't want to personally take revenge on me at least."
"We must protect Jon Snow's body at all costs," Kinvara reminded. "The greatest chance of victory is that he remains in the past long enough to fulfill his duty. No trick or strategy can defeat the Night King now, only focus, skill, and sheer will."
"And a lot of luck," Arya added.
Sansa looked out at the storm approaching. The cloud coverage and thick snowfall had just swallowed the roots of the mountains.
"Winter is here," said Sansa.
"Winter was always here," Arya replied.
Bran
The dragons screeched up above Winterfell, causing another thunderous roar to echo throughout the night of men declaring they were not afraid of the night or the darkness.
Bran wished he could feel brave like them, but he couldn't. Not when this terrifying sensation pulsed through his veins. He felt something akin to this in sight, only whenever the Night King was close to him. Now, it was worse. He was coming, and he was strong.
"You alright, Bran?" Theon asked.
Despite Theon's willingness and desire to act as Bran's guard, there was still a part of disgust lingering in Bran's heart at him. Even as much as Theon suffered, it wasn't enough to satisfy the revenge he craved for Ser Rodrick and Maester Luwin and everyone else who died because he stole Winterfell.
"It's time," Bran replied, not wanting to indulge Theon at all. He looked around at those encircling the weirwood. The Direwolves and Nymeria's pack were all on edge, growling towards the northern wall. Theon, his Ironborn, Meera, Osha, and the Children of the Forest all had their bows knocked and ready with dragonglass arrows. Rickon, Ser Brienne, Ser Podrick, and Ser Wallace all held their Valyrian Steel swords aloft, waiting and ready. Uncle Benjen on the other hand held his morningstar at rest, waiting patiently for the fight to come.
Bran reached his hand to touch the weirwood, but an inch before his fingers met the bark, the wind brushed his face and carried a whisper upon it.
"When the end comes, will you be proud of how much you scourged everything or how many you loathed?"
His hand restricted and fingers curled into a fist. Seven Bloody Hells…
"Theon," Bran said, looking at him angrily, but it was at himself he was angry at, "I forgive you."
He didn't know if he meant it or not, but saying the words felt like it should have hurt, or that he wanted them to.
Finally pressing his hand on the weirwood, Bran entered his power and warged into his flock of ravens that roosted among the branches of the weirwood.
The unkindness of ravens flew off into the sky, against the snow and wind, passing over walls, soldiers, and land. The eyes of the birds were focused greater than the eyes of man in the night, seeing far ahead and able to distinct the shadow of every flake of snow.
A great instinct in every bird warned them to flee back whence they came, not to get closer to the powerful danger drawing near. But Bran's power pushed each raven forward, finally passing over the first barricade.
That was when he saw them.
The Army of the Dead making its charge. Tens of thousands of wights… hundreds of thousands coming unlike anything imaginable. They did not run organized and uniform like the living. They clamored over one after the other like swarming ants - a veritable avalanche of corpses. But it would be futile for them. The first barricade would stop them dead in their tracks, and a trap waited for them on the other side.
Finally, the dead passed the first marker.
Bran guided his ravens back to the castle before returning to himself, gasping for a quick breath.
"First marker!" Bran said, and Podrick brought his horn to his lips and blew a loud note into the air.
Tyrion (Future)
The wind hit them hard but the snow was kept at bay. Seven Hells, Tyrion had forgotten just how fucking cold the Night King's winter could be. He deeply missed his fine robes that were as warm as a hearth with a cup of mead. Perhaps if he lived, he could pass a message onto his new self to keep a trunk ready in case things turned out like this again.
Clouds above swallowed the night sky and the moon, the last bit of the world's own light upon them was gone forever now. This was not a battle they would win. Anyone who thought otherwise was a fool. All they were doing was buying as much time as they could for Jon.
Why must fate be the cruelest bitch of all natural forces that existed? Couldn't Jon have met his Night King a day earlier or a month? Why must it all converge at the same time for both worlds? Or could this be the work of the Night King, a demand for poetic suffering? At least it proved that somewhere in death's champion was something human after all.
Through the biting of the wind, the sound of a horn was carried. The dead have been spotted. They are here.
"Steady lads!" Davos called out with his hoarse but booming voice that punched through the winds. It was too dark to see the opening of the mountain pass now, but at the very least the Night King's storm had not yet reached his army for cover, giving the spotters perfect sight. "Light!"
The men standing by the trebuchets set alight the balls of fire just before the sound of the second horn came. The dead were in range now.
"LAUNCH!" Davos shouted.
One by one, the fireballs were flung high and far out into the distance and without a second's hesitation, the trebuchets were beginning to be reset. In the darkness, it looked like the fireballs went much further than when they tested them after construction, even though the wind was against them.
Light flared out from beyond as the projectiles impacted the hoard in its charge, breaking apart in flaming shrapnel that scythed down thousands instantly. Thanks to the bottlenecking formation the mountain pass made, there shouldn't be a mass of dead at their van, but the numbers behind would be unimaginable for certain.
"Ready up!" Davos shouted. "Light! And Launch!"
Another line of flaming projectiles was thrown into the sky. This time, before they made impact, their was a brief moment that they illuminated something joining the beginning of the battle.
Drogon's roar broke across the wind before his fire streamed down upon the dead, creating a wall of fire. The faint echoes of the screaming wights was both terrifying and satisfying.
Arya
The first horn blasted from the Godswood and from atop the ramparts of Winterfell, the blast was repeated, signaling the start of the first wave of catapults.
A line of lights ignited all at once in front of the castle walls. Green lights burst out as the balls of wildfire were set aflame and a man's bellowing voice ordered the first launch.
Arya leaned on the stone as she watched dozens of fireballs launched into the night, lighting the cold sky green and disappearing behind the outer wall. Flashes of light burst out but died out as quick as they appeared.
Already, the catapults were getting reset and another attack was sent by others on standby.
Breathing steadily, Arya backed away. Her right hand fell to Needle's hilt and she constantly fidgeted with the pommel. Through the wind and the hurls of fire, she could hear them. The muffled noises of the dead were soft, but strong. Everytime a burst of green light flashed behind the stone wall, there was a rise in the screams of the dead.
"First time in a battle?"' Beric asked coyly.
Arya cocked her head while keeping her eyes forward. "First time fighting in one." She could still remember perfectly clear the horrors and pain the night of the Red Wedding, all the blood, all the death.
"Don't let yourself get separated when it gets to us," Beric told her. "If in a battle against men, death is certain if you're alone."
A bit contrary to her battles until now. All she had ever been was alone when she had to fight. "Then do you mind making sure it doesn't happen?"
Beric nodded. "We watch out for each other, that is what my father taught me about battle."
"Mine didn't teach me anything. He couldn't. He taught the boys though. Don't fight if you don't have to. But if you must, win."
"It's our only option tonight." Beric straightened himself just as the dragons flew overhead behind a fourth volley of fireballs.
The flashes of light gave shape to a silhouette of the outer wall, and this time, when the light came, there was the sight of figures climbing over. "I guess wildfire doesn't bother them at all either." Arya felt her grip tighten on Needle.
"No," Beric said, pointing out in the distance, "the cold their King brings snuffs it out."
The great snowstorm had passed over the outer wall and a powerful chill was coming on, even with the heavy leather and furs underneath the steel, it was getting cold. How Wildings could survive thousands of years like this felt impossible.
Another horn blasted as the catapults continued to launch fireballs, but this one was to signal the first pincer attack of the cavalry.
"Lord of Light," Beric drew his sword and every member of the Fiery Hand did so as well, prompting Arya to draw Needle, "hear us now for it may be our last prayer. Guide the dragon through this darkness, that they may lead us to the dawn, for the night is dark and full of terrors."
"Bantis zōbrie issa se ossȳngnoti lēdys!" The words repeated in High Valyrian across the battlements and after them, the priests and priestesses joining them held their arms to the sky, praying in High Valyrian. And then, Beric's sword burst into flames without drawing his blood. All across the walls of Winterfell, swords ignited in brilliant flames, and then so did Needle as well. The flame and light were warm, breaking through the cold.
The low rumbling sound of horses galloping became known then, and Arya could see more wights coming over the wall by the hundreds now. Death was coming for her, for all of them. But she believed in Jon and Sansa and Daenerys. This wouldn't be the day she met death.
"Not today," She whispered.
Loras
As a Kingsguard to Aegon Targaryen, it was Loras's honor to lead the eastern flank of horsemen into battle. That was his impression before the battle began.
The entire cavalry force was stationed behind Winterfell when they were waiting for their call to charge, and once the fireballs began and the battle truly started, Loras felt differently. Even from all the way where they were, he could hear the noise echoing in the wind, enough to shake him.
The only other battle he had ever been in was retaking King's Landing from Stannis Baratheon's men and it was unbridled rage that drove him through it all. Here however, there was no revenge or anger that pushed him forward, nor was there any desire for glory and prowess. It was pure survival against the fear that awaited them. The fear of the cold, the dark, and death.
But when the first horn came and western force of the Vale and Dornish spears led by the Bronze Yohn Royce began, a stir went throughout all the riders with Loras. His front line was made entirely of the soldiers of House Tyrell and behind them were the rest of the Dothraki Screamers. Had this war against death been nothing but a superstition, Loras would have pursued seeking training from the Dothraki, their ability to ride was unbelievable and wild, as was their ability to shoot arrows so precisely while mounted.
The second horn blasted, signaling their time to begin.
Loras lifted his warlance up high and yelled, rallying his men. "Forward until Dawn!" Although his rally was muddled by the wind and sound of thundering hooves, one word carried enough that his men shouted with him.
"DAWN!"
Raising his warlance as high as he could, he shouted his bravery again with his men. Eighty thousand voices calling out to the night as one, and something powerful was in their voices.
Everything stilled as a hush in Loras's mind as all he could start to see ahead of him was the trench of dragonglass behind the wall and flashes of green from the fireballs falling from the sky. The snows began to thicken narrowing his sight ahead even less than it already was in the night. But through it all, he could see the shadows of the western charge making its pass. Slipping between the numbers was going to be dangerous with this thick snowfall.
The cavalry narrowed, galloping closer to the trench and the silhouettes in the storm of men became cleared, but these were not men.
Loras roared just as his lance struck and burst apart a half mass of decayed flesh and armor, taking its head from the body. His arm held strong just as the next one came into target and he knocked it square in its shoulder. For corpses, these things were certainly built like stone.
Once they reached the halfway mark, Loras couldn't keep track through the rage of the battle just how many he had got.
But from up above the winds and cold came the roar of the dragons and a burst of light and fire streamed down into the trenches, both illuminated the battlefield and setting alight hundreds of wights in the trenches.
Two similar roars responded in kind and faint flashes of light from behind burst out when they did.
Loras felt his confidence grow. They could do this. This strategy was sound and the dragons made it impossible for the wights to gather. They just had to do this a few more times and the White Walkers wouldn't have much of an army any longer!
Daenerys
"Dracarys!" Daenerys shouted just as Drogon swooped down underneath the last hurl of bright green fireballs. The warmth within her dragon built up until it was ready to be unleashed.
A great stream of fire burst forth from Drogon's mouth into the trenches, setting alight hundreds of wights piled up on one another. A howling chorus of inhuman screeching erupted with the flames as Drogon continued to set ablaze as many as he could. The heat of the flames was so intense that it pierced through the biting cold.
Daenerys looked behind her and saw Viserion following their path, setting forth the top of the barricade in flames. She looked ahead and Drogon had just finished the last of his attack run. The flames below illuminated many of the heavy horse and her own Dothraki screamers, cutting down the wights that had gotten through before the dragonfire.
They must have destroyed at least ten thousand of the wights already. Their strategy was working perfectly. They just needed to keep this up. But it was a foolish idea to indulge that the battle would go in their favor as long as they wanted.
When Daenerys looked back again, she should have seen Jon and Rhaegal making their pass behind Viserion, but they didn't. She couldn't see too far away, barely able to see Sansa and Viserion, but she should have seen the explosive light from Rhaegal's fire. But it wasn't there.
Then it happened, a sound that overpowered the howling winds past her ears.
It was like thunder, a great and deep crack in the sky, but different. She could only describe it as the sound of a breaking boulder, or an enormous block of ice.
A sudden blast of unrelenting wind crashed into Drogon, throwing his flight out of control. Daenerys couldn't help but let out a yelp as she held on as tight as she could. Drogon rolled over and started to fall, but he was a powerful flier and found his balance. Drogon swooped down to catch himself, almost coming a giant's height from crashing into the horsemen below her. He took up to the skies, growling as he fought against these winds that pushed at him.
There was no question that these winds came from the powers of the Night King, but even so, it was unbelievable that the winds could become strong enough to challenge the flight of a dragon, the lord of the skies.
Daenerys looked back and couldn't find Sansa or Viserion. The snow had thickened too much. Is this what fought against Jon and Rhaegal too? Where had they gone?
Loras
More than a hundred riders had panicked and broke formation when the large black dragon nearly fell on top of them. What in Sevens Hells just happened? Was the Queen losing control? Loras did not have time to think. Already the dragonfire was dying down at an unnatural rate as wights continued to crawl over the walls and pile on top one another to cross over.
And that great cracking sound, it kept shaking the sky and the land through the powerful charge of the horses.
Loras's company was coming up on their second pass and there were even more wights appearing before them. He had abandoned his lance after the first pass in favor of his sword now. He knew his debt to Aegon as a Tyrell would never be fulfilled even as a Kingsguard when he was given a Valyrian steel blade like his sworn brothers. It was such a proud moment for him and there was no better name for it than what he chose.
"Dawn!" Loras shouted with the Queen of Thorns raised up high. But his battle cry did not give him lasting courage when he witnessed a great terror in the battle. Sections of the stone wall in front of the dragonglass trench were beginning to freeze over, turning almost pure white. And then they were broken through by the strength of dozens of undead giants just as big as the one still alive. The stones that made the wall scattered the field in front of them, tripping many horses over, but the most of them fell into the trench, creating bridges that allowed dozens of wights a second to cross over.
One of the giants ran through, taking several dragonglass spears even when the first one felled him. When his body collapsed, it obstructed the path of many riders, freezing them in a corner as wights set upon them in droves.
Loras couldn't do anything for them, he had to keep riding forward. He swung his sword down left and right, striking carcasses and skulls. More and more wights were coming through, but the charge did not cease. They kept on fighting, they had to if they didn't want to fall to these beasts.
Another crack in the sky came, and a rush of the winds followed against everyone around. Loras felt like the Mountain had bashed him from the side and his horse collapsed, throwing him off.
The Queen of Thorns slipped from his gauntlet and his visor was thrown open when he landed on his back. He panicked in that very moment, trying to find hold of his sword but all around he could see that thousands of riders were thrown over as well and the dead were taking full advantage of this, crawling over as many as they could and killing man and horse alike. The screams filled the air and Loras saw several wights coming to him.
But the worst came when his horse panicked. His steed found its footing with Loras's right foot caught up in the footrest. His horse took off in a full gallop, dragging him with it and no matter how much he struggled, Loras could not reach his foot to get free.
The last thing he saw ahead when he looked was a large rock that had been part of the barricade, and while his horse ran to the side to pass it, the distance was enough for Loras to evade it. His left leg collided with the boulder and a sharp pain surged from his leg to his body. Loras screamed, even when his foot finally slipped from the footrest and he was finally free of his horse.
Utter agony and pain took over his leg. He couldn't think of what to do or what to guess happened. It hurt, that was all he knew. He couldn't move and the wights were coming.
He felt hands grab hold of him and he could only beg the gods that he would die quickly, anything to end this pain.
But it wasn't the wights that found him, it was one of the Dothraki, pulling him up and onto his stallion's saddle.
"Athdrivar ajjin vo yeri nakho jin ajjalani!" He said, but Loras' leg still hurt. It hurt so much.
A part of him wished that he was left to die so he wouldn't feel this. But finally, he was able to think of other things, like what had just happened, why him, and what was going to happen next?
Tyrion (Future)
Drogon unleashed another cascade of fire upon the dead. The bodies burned so prominently that a great wall of flames blocked away the entrance of the mountain pass. It didn't matter how many were in number beyond the pass. Even if they piled atop one another in the frenzied charge of theirs, they would be narrowed into an easy target for a dragon.
But Drogon was just as mortal as any human. Soon he would be exhausted and need to rest. That would be when it was everyone else's turn to fight.
There was no counting how many were coming through the mountains. But if it was everyone in Westeros who didn't make it this far with them, then everyone present would have to slay at least a thousand wights each to meet that number.
Drogon made another pass over the entrance to the valley, burning everything in his path before finally retreating back to the great weirwood.
But then a terrible roar broke over the wind, one that was nearly unfamiliar.
From within the great wall of clouds that encased the sky and the mountains, a great creature burst through in flight and a stream of bright blue fire erupted from its mouth onto Drogon.
No, it couldn't be… Rhaegal?
The two dragons collided in the sky and fought hard, ripping and tearing at each other. Rhaegal's undead form gave him the upper hand over Drogon's size, especially since Drogon expended the greater part of his energy burning the wights.
From far away, it was almost impossible to see the fight between both beasts. It was only when each breathed fire upon one another that flashed of what was happening made things only a little bit clear.
Rhaegal had suddenly latched onto Drogon, letting himself become an anchor as both dragons fell out of the sky, even as Drogon tore through his brother to the point of victory. It was too late. Both dragons collapsed onto the field of battle. It was hard to see, but only one of the dragons was still moving. It was Drogon, but something was wrong. The faint animalistic sounds of pain and suffering carried over the wind.
The wall of fire still burned, but began to dim and a dark wave began to pour over it.
"Come on," Tyrion muttered under his breath, "fly… run…"
A roar came and streaks of fire from Drogon burst across the hundreds of wights closing on him.
A familiar feeling swept over Tyrion. It was the same feeling he had when he first saw a dragon in his life, flying over the ruins of Valyria and all the world's problems suddenly mattered next to nothing in that one instance that wonder and dreams came true. Only now that feeling was shattered in his heart as he had to bear witness to the tragedy ahead.
Even as wights swarmed over the wounded dragon, Drogon fought with every last ounce of his strength, burning and crushing all around him until there was no more of his voice and no more of his fire.
A tear fell from Tyrion's eye of the same kind that he cried when he was a boy. The last dragon was gone.
Bran
The flock of ravens couldn't fight the winds the Night King summoned, but instinct within their bodies guided them. The way the wind breezed through their feathers gave them a sense of the currents, even through such chaos as this. The flock followed the torrent as best they could, but two of the ravens were lost and torn away.
With this, Bran could see through the eyes of the flock the results of this power. The cavalry had taken a hard hit from the wights. Thousands of men and horses were slain when the first blast of wind knocked them over. The giants were joining the fights, stomping on men with their enormous feet and bashing them with tree trunks they used as clubs.
The barricade was broken through and now hundreds of wights were easily spilling into the field of battle. But in the last second that the flock had a good glimpse through the storm, it was clear to see that it wasn't just the wights and the giants, but the White Walkers as well.
Bran returned to himself as fast as he could, gasping for air and holding his arm out to Podrick. "The first wall is broken and too many are coming through! Sound the retreat for the cavalry!"
Podrick blew a second horn and the noise was repeated from the walls of Winterfell. But from where they were in the Godswood, they barely heard it. Was there a chance that the men out there would hear the signal to run?