Gendry

"Bring in the reserves!"

"There are no more reserves, mi'Lord!"

"Fuck!" Gendry snarled, wiping something off his face. Was it melted snow? Was it sweat? Was it blood? Probably all three, the blood both his own and others. It smelled metallic and felt sticky as anything, leaving his skin a slimy mess, but at least it didn't get into his eyes. "It's just us then! Ours is the Fury!"

He hadn't grown among the Stormlanders - hadn't even known anyone from there till he was made Lord of Storm's End by King Aegon - but hefting the massive warhammer like his famous father did in his prime drove all around Gendry to the most exultant heights nonetheless. "Ours is the Fury!"

Visor crashing down in front of his face - vision narrowing to just what he could see through a row of slits - Gendry charged into the fray. Supposedly scores of fighters meant to rotate out with the frontline were now the last remaining 'fresh' troops that could be spared for the defense, now pressed up just thirty feet ahead of the walls of Winterfell. Archery and artillery were loosing over open sights at point blank range, scything down wights mere inches away from the men. Gendry witnessed it himself, a blue-eyed corpse's snarl snuffed out when an arrow punched through its skull.

Gendry had no complaints. There was no time, for another corpse took its place, brained into pieces of rotted flesh by a swing of his warhammer. Powerful but unwieldy, handled with the skilled hands of the blacksmith turned high lord. Three wights at a time were felled with each mighty swing, spearmen surrounding Gendry joining with his left fist to pulverize those sneaking through the openings in his arcs.

And endless stream coming to die.

Tiring, Gendry forced himself to keep struggling. To keep pushing even as the sounds of death and futility raged around him. Near tiring, a wight almost exploited an opening of his, only for a war axe to split it in two. "You're slowing, brother," teased Edric, eminently visible in the same stag helm as Gendry wore, albeit without a visor. Side by side, an odd pair they made - the blacksmith bastard from the slums of King's Landing and the castleborn bastard of the Stormlands itself, yet brothers they were. An anchor in the sea, war hammer and axe deploying a maelstrom of violence cutting down wights in sweeping arcs or simple brute hacks. The single force preventing the entire line from collapsing.

It could not last, nor did it. Sheer mass had its own quality even as the living wiped out ten for every one they lost. The dead replaced their fallen without a thought, more coming behind with each fallen soul turned by a flash in the blue eyes of the wights. A terrible thing, a once loved and trusted comrade first bled out in front of you and then a snarling corpse trying to claw your eyes out. How the line hadn't simply broken from sheer madness was a miracle in itself.

Perhaps it was the steady stream of arrows and darts from the walls… but when it started to slacken for a moment, panic spread like wildfire. "They're over the walls!"

"They felled the dragons!"

"The Queens are dead!"

"Wintertown is taken!"

"Fucking shut up!" Gendry howled, kicking a skeleton and crushing its skull with his foot when it fell to the ground. "Next man who screams I'm killing myself!" He was a man possessed, crushing wight heads as soon as they popped up through the storm. Fear was not an option, fatigue was not an option. Three turned into half a dozen crushed with one blow, hauling the work of four men upon his shoulders as more and more fell victim to the monsters before them. Yet more innumerable hordes were upon them, forcing his booted feet deeper into the churning mud and snowmelt underneath him. Shoving him back.

Shoving the entire line back. Foot by foot until the walls of Winterfell were near to their backs.

A hand grabbed his shoulder roughly. "Gendry!" It was Edric, though Gendry did not spare a glance back at his half-brother. "Orders! Retreat through the gate!"

He didn't bother, sending a right hook into a corpse's head. Pulverizing it into flecks of rotted flesh and brain.

"We have to fall back! Before we're cut off!" Edric shook him. "Listen to me!"

No response, a shadow of something in the distance. Gendry narrowed his eyes, trying to squint.

"Gendry, we need to go!"

The shadow grew into something… "Edric!" Shoving him aside, Gendry lifted his warhammer and brought it down with the force of a dozen men just as the massive white bear leapt out of the void. It cracked right upon the beast's head,smashing it deep into the skull. The bear's momentum still drove it into Gendry, knocking him down to the ground. The wind had gone from his lungs.

It took but an instant. The ground began to shake and a great big pair of glowing eyes from up high attached to an undead giant appeared out of nowhere. Gendry got back to his feet in time as a large tree trunk came swinging down at him. "No!" came Edric's cry, his panicked grunts punctuated by the roars of the giant. A sudden pain hit Gendry in his right arm and he no longer felt his grip on his hammer.

A moment later and the truth revealed itself… through pain. His arm didn't just hurt, it stabbed in pain. Burned in agony. He was no weak man, but the anguish that overcame him led to a scream. Unbearable, maddening. Gendry was close to passing out from the agony as he fell once again. Everything blurred around him except for the sudden rumble in the ground as the undead giant fell beside him with a spear stuck in its head.

"Pick him up!" Edric shouted. "Gendry… come on…"

"Hold…" he murmured, fighting to stay awake. Trying to reach for the smaller hammer on his belt, wanting to continue to fight. "We must hold…"

"Easy, brother." Arms manhandled him. "Fall back!" Gendry tried to countermand the order, but the words were drowned out by the resounding horn of retreat as he was carried away.


Davos

The shadows of battle in the snowstorm painted no picture of which side had the advantage, but the sounds echoing through to the castle gave tell instead.

Davos gripped his spear tighter. He wasn't certain what to think of the battle. He never knew an enemy as unrelenting and endless as the wights. If only Jon had gotten to Hardhome a day or even an hour earlier, then there would be no question about their chances.

The battle was raging hard down below, but his post with his men had to remain in case the dead began to pile up on this end of the wall as well. No matter what, the inside forces stationed could not allow themselves to suffer being flanked on both sides.

All the while he watched out into the storm, he had to bear the noise of the prayers chanted by Melisandre and the priest with her. All along the battlements were the Lord of Light's devout, channeling blessings of protection and fire through themselves. But something was off since the start of the battle. Their voices were dimming with every prayer, and Davos noticed that the intense glow from their pendants had since dimly faded.

The first sign of warning came when the priest had lost the strength in his legs and collapsed. One of the Northmen knelt down to his aid and at the same time he did, Davos noticed that Melisandre's eyes had begun to roll into the back of her head.

He dropped his spear and caught Melisandre just as she began to fall.

"What's happening?" He asked, not out of concern for her, but everyone else.

"This is as much as our lives are worth…" the ruby of her necklace suddenly cracked. Immediately after, the deep red color of Melisandre's hair began to turn pale white, her skin shriveled and turned pale. In mere seconds, the beauty of the Red Priestess had aged a hundred years. "I'm… sorry." the voice that said the words was old and hurt, the lips whence they came turned dry. Melisandre's skin began to crack and flake with the hard wind. Her body turned into ash and she faded away, leaving the crimson dress and cracked ruby pendant.

Davos looked around and many men were aghast at the sight they just witnessed.

As quick as the moment passed, the air seemed to become colder. The flames cast on every man's weapon remained, but they were not as prominent.

Davos wouldn't say it out loud, but he had the feeling he knew what this meant. The Lord of Light's protection was just about gone, which meant that soon the soldiers who fell to the Night's King's army would start to join it.


Jorah

The forces of the Stormlands poured in fast with the dead hot on their heels, and behind them among their charge was the giant, Wun Wun, stomping atop many as he rushed into the protection of the castle with his undead kin following behind. "Close the gates!" Someone from atop the portcullis called, and the great wooden doors were being pushed closed. But a herd of wights was coming in quickly.

"Stand fast at the ready!" Jorah ordered and a collective clunking of shields formed and spears were lowered. "Here we stand!"

"Here we stand!" The men of his house chanted together as the horde of death came rushing through the gates. The van of the wights did not even try to dodge the spears in front of them. Their deliberate sacrifice was a tactic to weigh down obstacles for those behind them.

Jorah had Blackfyre gripped tight in his hands as the wights collided with the shield wall and scratched their way to get through. Dragonglass swords stabbed and pierced rotted flesh and bone.

"Watch out!" The same man from atop the gate called and before the gate was finally shut, the doors burst open to the strength of an undead giant. The beast roared terrifyingly and behind it was the army of the dead in a frenzy.

The scene that took place was enough that any man could be driven insane and broken by the sight of it. The sheer speed and persistence of the wights to get forward no matter the cost to themselves. The monsters were climbing past and over one another, screaming and instilling fear and cold into the hearts of men they sought to end. The wight giant began to pick up body and threw them at his enemies, breaking the lines further.

A great roar erupted from behind. It was not that of a dragon, but a giant.

Watching Wun Wun fight was a spectacle that trembled even the bravest hearts. The use of his enormous axe was the bane of his undead kin. And when the gates had been smashed through and the dead poured in, the giant took up a chain from the wrecked portcullis and used it as a mighty whip, destroying wights with every swing. But there were so many of the undead, it was a nightmare.

Jorah fought hard, wielding Blackfyre with every ounce of strength he had in his body. The dead were more unrelenting than anything he could have imagined. The battle at the God's Eye was hardly anything to compare to the mindless and deathly nature the wights had in huge force.

He pierced the tattered furs of a wilding wight, pushing forward and stabbing through to another wight behind it before shoving them both of his sword and parrying an axe that immediately came his way.

The one constant he made sure of throughout the battle was that he never left his niece's side. Lyanna was headstrong and fierce, but still just a little girl, and the rage of war was an obstacle she never faced before.

Another undead giant was on its way through and behind it was a host of wights in great numbers.

"Fall back!" Someone shouted desperately. But where could they fall back to? They were pinned between the northern gate and the wights that had come over the wall.

The wight giant roared and instead of facing Wun Wun in a fight, it tackled him to the ground, crushing both men and undead beneath their bodies. The wights from behind charged in, tackling soldiers down and killing them mercilessly.

But behind them were the ones that Jorah had yet to see. The White Walkers. Two of the pale soldiers of the Night King followed behind their soldiers on horseback, each holding a sword of ice.

"Get back!" Jorah shouted. "Get back!" It didn't matter if they were pinned in their position, they had to move somewhere, anywhere.

Jorah hacked away at a wight that leapt toward him, meeting the knife of another gashing his arm before he managed to elbow the monster in the chin and slice through its torso.

The archers atop the battlements changed their aim to the inside of the walls, firing their dragonglass arrows at the wights.

Wun Wun finally pushed the undead giant off his body and with a mighty pull, ripped the head of the beast. He picked up his massive axe and with one heavy swing destroyed one of the White Walkers attacking the Umber soldiers.

Jorah killed another wight when he heard a squeal behind him. He spun around and found that Lyanna speared a wight that had slipped by and almost killed him.

But the screams of men took his attention back to the front lines. The other White Walker was cutting through every man in his way. An arrow had killed the horse he rode upon, but the wights around him acted as shields.

There were too many coming.

Jorah gutted the last wight in front of him before he managed to retreat with Lyanna over to a squad of her men. "Fall back to the Western gate! Keep her safe!" Jorah pulled Lyanna into the protection of her men and continued to fight off the dead.

"Jorah!" Lyanna called, but the retreat already began. Wun Wun the giant was grabbing at wights climbing on his body, throwing them at their undead kin, before scooping up a boy in his free hand and falling back as well.

Jorah held his ground, only taking a step at a time to make it back but staying with the other men fighting. The North Gate was lost, the grounds were breached.

The dead were overwhelming now, one of them caught Jorah's sword while another sliced at his leg. He killed them both but found it hard to stand. He swung Blackfyre with one last heap of strength, killing three at once and revealing the White Walker behind them. Without hesitating, Jorah roared like a bear, charging forth with his sword in both hands and slashed at the White Walker, only to meet the sword of ice.

A cold pain entered his chest, robbing him of his remaining strength before he sank to his knees and blood entered his mouth. He choked for breath when the sword of ice was pulled free and he fell forward.

In the corner of his eye, he saw the White Walker already turning away, advancing. Was this it? He would join their ranks as just another piece of meat?

No, he had to stand, he had to make one last mark in this battle. One more time, one more! Jorah found every last spark of warmth in his muscles, pulling himself to his feet and lifting Blackfyre above his head. He roared again and the White Walker turned with surprise in those cold deathly eyes. Blackfyre cleaved right down into the Walker's head, shattering the demon into a thousand pieces as Ser Jorah followed the sword's fall to the ground.


Podrick (Future)

"You should fall back, my lord." Podrick insisted to Tyrion.

"There's no point in it now, Pod," Tyrion replied, gripping his small spear tightly as the echoes of the wights haunted the tunnels.

"It's been a privilege to-" Podrick's words were cut off when he felt something small fall on his shoulder. He glanced to see that there was dirt. Looking up, He saw a set of rotted fingers digging through. "Above us!" He shouted and thrust Longclaw up into the dirt, cutting into the palm of a wight.

From behind, a crash was heard and a wight fell through onto one of the men. The creature was killed immediately but it was not the only one. Everyone began checking every spot in the ceiling and the walls for shifts and fingers. Podrick kept stabbing at every sight of movement he saw, doing everything he could not to let any wight get through. It was a nightmare.

"It's a White Walker!" Someone called out from the entrance before a column of men were felled, a lance of ice piercing through one and the next man behind the other, killing seven in total and giving the dead a gap to squeeze through the front.

"Hold them back!" Podrick called. "Don't let them gain any ground!" The dead were coming from every direction. It was becoming almost impossible to keep track of. He had to move up to reinforce the front line.

He never got the chance to get two steps ahead as he felt a heavy weight collapse onto his back and drag him to the ground. He felt a sharp pain slice at his arm but then heard the dying gurgle of the wight and it went limp. Podrick rolled over and saw Tyrion had speared the damn thing in the back, saving his life.

"A Lannister always pays his debts," Tyrion said with a smirk, but Podrick did not smile back because he saw the wight that was behind Tyrion.

"No!" He rushed to his knees, lunging forward as fast as he could with Longclaw and thrusting the blade into the skull of the monster. When he pulled the sword free, he quickly checked Tyrion who had already fallen to the ground with a pike buried into his back.

"AAAAAH!" Podrick yelled with rage, turning around to the front lines and pushing his way forward to kill every last wight he could. He saw the White Walker standing behind the protection of the wights outside the cave. Podrick picked up a dragonglass spear and threw it with all his strength. But instead of hitting the White Walker, a wight had put itself in its way between the two.

The dead began breaking through the front, pushing back and killing without hesitation. Podrick hacked and cut through every single wight he could, shutting out the pain of injuries the wights kept dealing to him until his knees lost their strength and he was overwhelmed by the dead.


Brienne

"Get inside!" Brienne barked as the last of the Ironborn made it in. Now they could shrink the shieldwall and narrow the space for fighting more favorably.

A host of screams echoed out and from one of the corridors a torrent of wights flooded into the castle grounds. But it was not in the direction of where the wights were flooding over the walls. Had the North Gate been breached and the Mormonts and Umbers fallen already? It couldn't be, not this fast. The only other thing Brienne could think of as she hacked and slashed at whatever blue eyed freak charged at her were the crypts. King Aegon emphasized the importance of barricading the crypts where the fallen Starks were dormant for the Night King to raise. They couldn't have broken through. It was impossible.

With so many wights coming, there wouldn't be a slow and steady retreat inside.

"Fall back now! Fall back!" The semicircle around the door started to shrink as soldier by soldier carefully broke formation and ran inside. Not even half made it through when the horde met the defense. It wasn't working, and the door had to be shut. "Close the door!" Brienne shouted. "Close the door!" She sensed the hesitance, but the orders were obeyed and the door was shut. All she could do was wish her squire luck in protecting her charges.

"Retreat to the North Gate!" Brienne said. The host that had been strong now was dwindling and they needed to regroup. The line holding off the new horde moved slowly, but found and seized the chance to break through. Two men were not fast enough to keep up with the group, perishing behind them.

Brienne led the men with her to the Northern Gate. their best chance was to regroup in a larger force. Another soldier was lost along the way, but the remaining eight of them had made it to the host of Mormont and Umber men, only when they arrived they saw that the situation was no better.

The gate had been breached by two wight giants. One was being fought back by Wun Wun who must have chased them both down from the front lines while the other was swinging a tree trunk around like a club, swiping at dragonglass spears attempting to stab at him.

One man threw his spear with great aim, finding his mark in the giant's thigh and felling it.

Brienne nearly forgot the horde that she and the others were running away from. She turned on her heel and held Oathkeeper aloft. "Reform ranks!" she barked. "And stand your ground!"


Ayra

The dead had climbed over the wall so effortlessly. Without a conscience of fear, they were all just stepping stones piling up below and those behind them simply kept climbing and climbing up until they had washed over the edge like a wave of water, pushing forward into the castle's perimeter and tackling as many as they could with them.

Arya would have been one of them had she not been small enough to duck down when the moment happened, but now she was cut off.

With a kick, she pushed away the burning limp body of her last kill. She hardly had room to dance, but her form was going to be flawless if she was going to survive, so long as she could get back from becoming as isolated as she did.

There wasn't a second to lose as she thrust Needle forward swiftly into the chest of a wight, the fire and Valyrian Steel rendering the creature permanently dead. And without a moment to hesitate, Arya drew back her sword and parried a longsword swung at her and stabbed into her attacker's neck. She had an opening now to duck and run over the bodies of the fallen and rejoin the Fiery Hand, Beric and Thoros.

The swarm of wights had created a gap in the ranks that allowed them to climb over the wall freely and it was getting wider and wider.

"Watch out!"

The warning came but the reaction was too late. Arya had looked over the wall and saw the boulder that was hurled from the storm. It slammed into tops of the battlements, both wall and stone breaking into a thousand pieces that shot in all directions and caught Arya on the right side of her face on her brow.

Arya's right eye shut in reaction to the shattered rock hitting her. She fell back from the hit, slipping on the steps behind her and tumbling down. She lost grip of Needle, hearing it clatter somewhere nearby as she landed on the platform before the next set of stairs.

Covering her injury, she looked around for her sword and ignored the pain from her fall. She saw Needle at the bottom of the steps. She found her strength and hurried down the steps, taking up her sword and removing her hand from her right eye. The pain still lingered and she could feel small bits of rock in her eye. But when Arya tried blinking to get the pieces out, she felt something wet and hot drip down her cheeks. Tears? No, it couldn't be. But then she realized that despite her right eye being open, she could not see from it. It was dark.

She touched around her eye and felt that she had been hit not just at her brow but her eye itself. She was blinded on her right side.

She hissed at the panic that took her and the rage of battle still going on around.

"Arya!" Beric called out to her from above, wielding his burning sword in one hand and taking up a spear in his other. He fought his way through wight after wight, keeping them away from jumping down to her.

Without a second thought to her wound, Arya looked all around for where Needle had gone, but she could not see. There were so many dead bodies and weapons strewn about.

She saw a wight slip past Beric and jump down at her. Were it not for her cat-like reflexes, she would not have drawn her dragonglass dagger in time to stab it in the chest.

"Gah!" Beric cried out as a wight stabbed him in his leg. He stabbed the monster in the collar with his sword and thrust his spear into another, letting go of the latter weapon and falling on one knee.

"Beric!" Thoros called out, but another wight set upon the Lightning Lord. Beric was swift and strong, but the numbers were too many. His blade set many wights on fire, but they did not stop their attacks.

Arya felt a large hand grab her left arm and pull her down. "Come on!" Sandor yelled as he tugged her away from the killspot. She took one last look at Beric only to see him swarmed by half a dozen wights before Thoros could get to him.

A sword was placed in Arya's hands. It was Needle! The Valyrian Steel was diminished of the fire that once engulfed it, but that was no reason to call it ineffective at a time like this. The war was still around, and there was only one thing to say to the god of death now.


Daenerys

Blinking her eyes open, Daenerys felt her head ringing and her vision was disoriented briefly. She found herself buried in snow and dazed from a terrible headache.

What happened? How did she get here? That last thing she remembered was making her pass before Drogon cried out in great pain. Things became intense and then…

Daenerys panicked, scurrying out from where she fell and looked around, brushing the snow from her face to see. She was far away from Winterfell, behind the outer wall and trench. But thanks to the light from the castle and the fireballs continuously being flung over, she could see the blurred silhouettes of war.

Away from her, also laying in the snow, was Drogon. He was starting to get to his feet. She had to get to him and back in the air.

Daenerys ran through the knee deep snow as fast as she could. It was so cold and a great pain grew in her left leg. She must have injured it when she fell.

Drogon suddenly roared and let loose a breath of fire. The flames of her dragon illuminated a host of wights that had not yet crossed the outer defense yet, hidden by the darkness and the storm. But also among them was a figure carrying a long spear made of ice.

Daenerys felt her breath freeze. Was that the Night King? No, this one had long white hair flowing in the blizzard. It was only a White Walker, but it still walked through Drogon's fire without even a drop of water melting from its icy skin.

Daenerys picked up her pace, having the desire to protect her child drive her faster forward. She drew Dragon's Breath when Drogon shot another stream of fire at the White Walker. She yelled out a powerful warcry and swung her sword at the White Walker only to miss as he stepped aside and dodged her. Daenerys quickly turned around and jumped back to avoid a swipe from the icy spear. She kept her sword up, aiming the tip at the White Walker. The blade of Dragon's Breath glowed from the power of the prophecy, but the White Walker was unphased by it as he raised up his spear and thrust it at Daenerys.

With a quick step that was instilled by Jorah and Jon's training, she just managed to dodge the spear, only taking a cold cut below her shoulder, as she simultaneously brought her sword down on the spear. The moment the steel met the ice, the spear suddenly shattered. The dark enchantments that gave it adamant strength were nothing against the power she had now. Without hesitating, Daenerys swiped her sword up and cleaved the White Walker in the face, destroying him into a thousand pieces of ice.

Pride swelled in Daenerys' chest and confidence gave her strength… only for an ear-splitting screech of agony from Drogon to break it into horror.

Swerving around almost violently, Daenerys watched as a cloud of ice and snow howled with the screams of all the slaves in the Bay of Dragons slammed into Drogon. Her son attempted to stagger to his wing claws, only for yet another to crash into him… Then another and another.

His own screams of pain never ceased, a knife driving into her heart over and over. Beyond, shrouded in the swirling snow, Daenerys spotted another figure out there, but the glow from this one's eyes was far more intense and hauntingly familiar.

The Night King was a faint silhouette of ice and shadow in his storm, seeming to swirl around him like a malevolent shield, but became ever so clearer with every step closer he took. His blade was slung behind his back, arms outstretched.

Suddenly the wind ceased. The swirling ice and snow fell to the ground, leaving the gap between them clear. Daenerys narrowed her eyes, drawing back her blade and rooting herself in position. The Night King's eyes locked with her.

Drogon roared and sent his fire out, bathing the Night King completely in the utter inferno of dragonfire, but again it didn't phase the monster approaching. In fact, the Night King smiled at Daenerys. The sight of it chilled her to the marrow of her bones as it was so hauntingly familiar to see.

Daenerys held her sword up at him, but fear gripped at her as tight as her hands did to the handle.

The Night King held his hand out, and from the snow and remains of his fallen lieutenant formed a long shaft and blade of a sharp lance. He held it up, aiming the tip not at Daenerys, but Drogon while that horrid smile still played at his lips.

Her eyes widened intensely. "Drogon! Soves!" she bellowed. Her son understood her terror and erupted into a running trot, flapping his wings frantically… only for the Night King to jerk his free hand. Another gust of wind, this one ever stronger, slammed into Drogon's outstretched wings, pushing against him crashing into the snow. Her son screamed, pitched chest-first into the ground as his wings, tail, and neck flailed in all directions. "No!"

The Night King brushed Daenerys aside with a gust of biting cold wind simply by making another jerk of the arm. The wind was snuffing out the heat of her blood as it took hold of her. Daenerys gripped Dragon's Breath as hard as she could, not letting go as she hit the snow, cushioning her fall. Groaning, she raised her head to see the Night King staring at her. A smirk danced on his face, the Night King's arm pulled back for the throw at the staggered Drogon just as a roar erupted from the howling storm, a green tail lancing down and swiping at the Night King, throwing him back away.

Daenerys looked up at her child and his rider descending to her. "Jon!"

Rhaegal landed and Jon slid down the dragon's side with Longclaw drawn. He rushed over to Daenerys as Rhaegal set fire to the grounds surrounding them, engulfing dozens of wights coming after them through the darkness.

"Are you hurt?" Jon asked, holding her shoulder.

"I'm fine, Jon," Daenerys replied, shooting him a momentary look of affection before steeling herself again. "The dragons…"

"Get on Rhaegal and get out of here… his words were cut off when he yanked Daenerys to him, pulling her out of the way of the ice lance that nearly got them both. The sudden action made her lose grip of Dragon's Breath and it fell into the snow, diminished of light.

Drogon stomped around and blew another breath of fire out at the Night King, an action of anger more than an effort to fight.

Jon leapt to his feet, holding Longclaw out at the silhouette of the Night King. Daenerys knew that she was thinking the same as Jon was at that moment. Her husband was making his challenge to the Night King.

Daenerys heard the muffled sounds of the dead from the south and she saw a great host coming for them.

"Drogon! Keep them away!" She commanded. Regardless of what fate befell her and Jon, keeping the dragons away had to be done. If the Night King killed one of them then there would be no stopping him atop a mount like that.


Arya (Future)

A rusty sword pierced into Ser Davos's chest, sending him to the ground with blank eyes.

"No!" Arya flipped her spear and thrust back at the wight into its chest. She was a second too late and there was no room for that kind of failure. Yet she let it happen. She got distracted at the sight of the White Walker coming through the tunnel, extinguishing the torchlight the deeper it came in.

She had to move faster, be quicker, let her instinct completely take over her actions.

But then she heard the Baratheon roar echo through the tunnel. In the corner of her eye as she carved into the hip of another wight, she saw Gendry bludgeoning his way to the White Walker, crushing skull after skull with his dragonglass mace.

No, not another one. Arya pushed forward through the wights, dropping her spear and picking up a dragonglass sword and drawing her Valyrian Steel dagger. She could fight faster at the cost of being closer, but she had to.

She had to get to Gendry and help him fight. But there were others fighting between her and him. A young boy was thrown back to the wall fending off a wight. Arya saved his life by sticking the wight in the neck with the pointy end of her dagger, but a second wight crowded her way forward, killing the boy she just saved and trapping her back.

Gendry had nothing between himself and the White Walker, swinging his mace with all his strength. But the White Walker was as fast as it was strong, dodging aside and grabbing the mace's shaft with one hand and Gendry's arm with the other. The arm began to freeze into ice, making Gendry scream out. He let go of the mace with his other hand, reaching for his dragonglass dagger but the White Walker threw the mace aside and grabbed him by the neck, freezing his skin and breaking it.

A great cry erupted from Arya as she continued to fight on. Even as her dragonglass sword had broken, she fought. Her dagger cut through flesh and bone where he willed it to, keeping her running after her and digging through the ground above at bay. Then it came for her.

The White Walker brandished a sword of ice. Arya ducked back, picking up another weapon to aid her in this duel. Her grip found a dragonglass axe she dodged and weaved around the swings of the White Walker. The sword he carried was powerful with magic, for when it met the blade of her axe the dragonglass shattered. But the White Walker was left open for Arya's dagger hand to come up and stick him right in the neck.

But her hand was caught by the cold grip of the White Walker. The terrible eyes of Winter locked with hers before a villainous smirk grew on the monster's lips. The last thing Arya felt was a cold sting run across her neck before she lost all her breath and strength.

Cold tears fell onto her cheeks when her body hit the ground, tears that froze into ice.


Theon

It was a fool's hope to think that retreating inside the castle would give a fortifiable defense. The Great Hall was their best defense for a time, but even though the confines limited the fighting space, the numbers and the tenacity broke through.

Theon fought hard with his men and the Starks, but the feeling in his gut told him that it wouldn't be long until some crack in their defense was made and broken through and it was. The dead managed to push through and start to spill into the hall, with greater space for greater numbers to fight.

It was hopeless, no matter where they fled, the Dead would push their way through and get them.

Instincts of battle told Theon that if they remained in the Great Hall, then they would die. "We have to fall back!" He shouted, chopping into a rusted helm of a wight with his dragonglass axe.

"Get the Lords out of here!" Podrick Payne barked. "Protect them!"

The only way that was clearer than the rest of the passageways was the corridor leading to the bedrooms.

Theon ran over to Bran and picked him up. "Rickon, come on!" grabbing Rickon by the shoulder, he led them away from the stand against the dead. There were wights ahead of their path, but not too many. Theon cleaved his way through the opposition, and even forgoing his axe by throwing it into the head of the forth wight in his way. He reached for his dagger, but found a sword being handed to him.

"Take this!" Rickon said, handing Ice to him. Theon nearly froze in the moment when the steel of House Stark was given to him, steel that he once feared would take his head.

Without a second to lose, Theon led the way through the halls as the echoes of men dying followed them.

"In here!" Theon shoved his way into the Lord's Solar. Rickon shut the door behind them as Theon layed Bran's body on the bed. He looked around for whatever they could use to barricade the door, but in the time they had, the dead would break through. He looked at Rickon, "I'll fight them off as long as I can. Just barricade everything against the door and stay away from the window!" He went back into the hallway, shutting the door behind him and raising Ice up.

The dead appeared around the corner, chasing after the last of their prey.

Theon wouldn't let them pass. No matter what, he wouldn't let it happen.


Sansa (Future)

"Reload!"

What could she do? Gods, what could she do? A lifetime of struggle, of learning the ways of courtly politics. Mentors such as Littlefinger and Cersei gave her lessons that had been digested and honed until Sansa found herself ruler of all she surveyed. Queen in the North, skills sharpened as she fought to stay there. Only for everything to follow to remind her that in truth, she was as useless as the little girl that screamed helplessly while her father was beheaded.

"Here!" she shouted at the top of her lungs, trying to make herself heard over the raging echoes of battle and death.

The burly fighter… one of the surviving Rivermen that had trekked from the Trident to the Heart Tree, grabbed the crossbow from Sansa's grip. Only for another to be thrust to her. "Reload!"

An endless cycle. Her muscles ached, soft fingers cut from the taut strings of the crossbow as she winched it back with all her strength, placing the dragonglass-tipped bolt when all it was done. "Here!" Over and over, repeat and repeat. All those too small or too weak to fight simply loaded the crossbows for those that could aim them.

The final line of defense for the grove underneath the great weirwood. A line of snow and rock cut through the middle of a great hollow, the most important place in all existence as of now.

The cave in which Jon rested.

"Fuck you!" Someone bellowed into the void. It was dark, so dark. Cold was seeping deeper and extinguishing every candle and torch. Nothing but wights, charging out of the darkness barely fifteen feet in front of them. The ragged column of fighters hurled everything they had at them. Crossbow bolts, arrows, swords, spears, and knives.

But resolve filled them. Every minute counted. Every crossbow Sansa winched and loaded counted to buy Jon time to end this. A single second could tip the scale.

Still she felt useless. She tried to drill to fight, she tried to wield a blade, but she couldn't.

A grunt shook her from her thoughts. The Riverman had pitched back… no, been shoved back. The snarling wight climbed over the snow-covered wall, shrieking demonically. Sansa reacted on an instinct she didn't know she had. The loaded crossbow in her arms, she pulled the trigger. Hitting the fresh corpse in the chest. Instantly its eyes snuffed out, body falling lifelessly down into the mass of corpses charging up the slope.

"Sansa."

It could've been yelled, screamed, shouted, but to Sansa it was but the gentlest of whispers. She turned to behold Kinvara. Wrinkled and wraith-like with paper thin skin stretched over fragile bones, nothing of the beautiful young woman was left but for the eyes. Still a vibrant red, filled with vigor. "Go. Hold the final line."

Sansa found a handful of spheres shoved into her arms. The explosives of the Children, the last of their supply. "No, I must stay here…"

"You must be with him," Kinvara replied, a tight smile finding its way to her face. "Stay with him… until the end."

Gulping, there was no time for hesitation. Sansa rushed towards the final shaft of the cave and a second later a flash of light and heat came from behind, but she did not look back. She only ran towards Jon. Someone had to guard him, but it was also what she wanted.

To die with the man she loved…