Robb XVIII
The horns rang out over Winterfell, long and low, rolling across the battlements like a death knell. The sound was thick with foreboding, a mournful cry that sent a shiver through stone and flesh alike. Within the great hall, the small gathering fell into a heavy silence, their breath hitching as they exchanged knowing glances. There was no mistaking its meaning.
Robb did not flinch. The weight of command sat heavy on his shoulders, but his voice was steady when he spoke. "Wake everyone," he ordered, his tone brooking no hesitation. "Those who are fighting already know their positions." He turned then, his sharp grey eyes softening only slightly as they met Roslin's. "Get everyone else into the crypts."
The room burst into frantic motion. The air hummed with urgency, but amid the chaos, Robb did not move into action—not yet. Instead, he stepped toward Roslin, reaching for her hand. Her fingers were warm against his own, grounding him, anchoring him to something real in a world about to be consumed by blood and steel.
A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips. "I may be a foolish man, love," he murmured, his voice touched with something almost tender, "but I will ask you one last time—go into the crypts. Stay safe for me. Stay safe for Torrhen."
Roslin shook her head, her grip tightening around his. She stepped closer, pressing her forehead against his, her breath soft and warm against his skin. She closed her eyes as if committing the moment to memory, as if trying to hold on to him before war could tear them apart.
"You know I can't do that."
He exhaled, a breathless, tired laugh escaping him. "You can't blame me for trying."
She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her blue eyes fierce despite the fear simmering beneath. "Now you listen to me," she said, her voice shaking but strong. "You are the love of my life. The man who changed my life, who made me who I am. We have not endured everything we have suffered just for you to not come back to me now. So I need you to swear to me, right here and now, that you will not die."
She placed a fist against his chest, her small hand trembling with barely restrained emotion. "If you let yourself die, Robb Stark, I will find a way to bring you back just so I can kill you myself."
A startled laugh broke from him, raw and unexpected, and then he pulled her into a kiss. It was not hurried or desperate but deep and lingering, an unspoken promise sealed between them. He memorised the taste of her lips, the warmth of her body, the way she felt against him—something to carry with him into the fray.
When he pulled back, his heart hammering against his ribs, he lowered himself onto one knee, his hand still wrapped around hers. His fingers squeezed gently, reverently.
"I swear to you, Roslin," he vowed, the words spoken like a sacred oath, "I will do everything in my power to come back to you."
The horns sounded again—louder this time, more urgent, their bone-chilling call echoing through the castle like the howl of a direwolf in the dead of night.
Robb inhaled sharply, the spell between them breaking. He stood, his hand lingering in hers for just a moment longer before duty pulled him away. One last look, one last silent promise, and then he turned—leaving behind the warmth of her touch to walk into the storm that had come to claim them all.
Robb Stark stood atop the ramparts of Winterfell, the cold biting through his armour like a blade. His breath curled in the frigid air, vanishing into the night as he tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword. His knuckles were white, but not from the chill. Below, the mist slithered in from the treeline, thick and unnatural, moving as though it had a will of its own. It curled around the keep's walls, seeping through the cracks, creeping into the very bones of the men who stood with him.
They did not shiver from the cold. They had known winter all their lives. This was something else.
Robb had stood on many battlefields, had fought for banners, for vengeance, for a crown. But this was different. There was no kingdom to win here, no glory to be had. This was survival.
Beside him, Jon stood silent and still, Longclaw resting lightly in his grip. He did not move, did not speak, but Robb could feel the weight of his intensity, the quiet storm that always brewed within him before a fight. Together, they stared into the abyss beyond the walls, where their army stood waiting, breath held, swords drawn.
Then, under the pale glow of the moon, the forest came alive.
They poured from the treeline like a flood, a writhing mass of death, thousands strong. Wights, a sea of rotting flesh and ice-blue eyes, their broken bodies lurching forward in a relentless, ceaseless sprint. Some still wore the remnants of their past lives—Northern cloaks, rusted armour, the tattered sigils of houses long lost to time.
And at the back, they came. The taller figures, moving with the eerie grace of something not bound by the laws of men. Their armour shimmered like ice, their pale faces expressionless, their eyes burning with something colder than the wind itself. White Walkers.
Robb swallowed hard. It was worse than he had imagined.
Above them, the sky rumbled with the sound of wings. Daenerys Targaryen sat astride Drogon, the dragon's black scales glinting in the dim light. His breath curled into the cold, twin streams of smoke drifting from his nostrils. Rhaegal and Viserion circled beside them, their massive forms casting shifting shadows over the battlefield. The dragons hung in the air like vengeful gods, waiting.
The signal came.
A single flaming arrow streaked upward, carving through the night sky like a comet.
The battle began.
From the walls, archers loosed their arrows, the shafts trailing fire as they rained down upon the dead. Siege weapons roared to life, catapults hurling great stones and barrels of burning pitch into the advancing horde. Flames erupted across the battlefield, sending wights screeching into the dirt, their bodies blackened and broken. But they did not stop. They never stopped.
"Steady!" Grey Worm''s voice rang out, hoarse and raw. "Hold the line!"
The first wave crashed into the Unsullied shield wall like a breaking tide. Grey Worm stood at the center, his spear a blur of motion as he barked orders in sharp Valyrian followed by the Westerosi translation. Shields locked, spears braced, the Unsullied held firm. They fought with precision, striking fast, stepping forward, striking again. But for every wight that fell, two more took its place, clawing, shrieking, battering against the wall of shields like a relentless storm.
Then the Northern lines met the charge.
Steel flashed silver in the moonlight as Robb's bannermen waded into the fray. The warriors who had followed him since the War of the Four Kings swung their blades with all the fury of the living. Maege Mormont fought like a beast unchained, her massive mace crushing skulls with every swing. Alyn Umber carved a path through the dead with brutal efficiency, hacking apart anything in his way.
Screams filled the night—the dying cries of men and the guttural wails of the damned. The clash of steel against brittle bone, the sickening crunch of flesh being torn apart. Blood, black and red, soaked the snow.
It had been Jon's idea to divide their forces into rotating groups, allowing each unit time to fall back, tend to the wounded, and regain what little strength they could before returning to the slaughter. It was a sound strategy—a necessary one. But as Robb stood atop the battlements, gripping the frozen stone until his fingers ached, he found himself regretting it.
Not because it wouldn't work.
Because it forced them to watch.
Forced them to bear witness to the nightmare they would soon have to face themselves.
From his vantage point, he saw everything. He saw the wights crash against their lines like a living tide, an endless wave of death surging forward with no hesitation, no faltering, no fear. He saw the first ranks of men and women scream as they were pulled beneath the swarm, vanishing in the writhing mass of clawing hands and snapping jaws. He saw swords swing, arrows fly, fire bloom across the battlefield—and still, the dead came on.
The clang of steel was hollow here, useless against creatures that felt no pain, no exhaustion. Against men, a well-placed wound could decide a battle. A blade through the gut, an axe to the thigh, even a glancing blow could stagger an enemy long enough to finish them. But the wights were already broken. Severed limbs kept grasping, shattered bodies kept crawling, and a man who hesitated even a heartbeat was lost beneath the swarm.
A guttural war cry split the night, and Robb turned just in time to see the Dothraki thunder into the fray. They moved like shadows in the firelight, arakhs gleaming in sweeping arcs as they cut down the dead with terrifying speed. Their horses shrieked, hooves crushing bone and skull alike as the khalasar fought with a reckless, almost frenzied grace. They were unrelenting, their battle cries a savage hymn against the backdrop of horror.
One by one, riders were pulled from their mounts, dragged screaming into the abyss of the dead. Some tried to flee, wheeling their horses away, but the wights were faster than anything human. They leapt, clung, clawed. The great stallions of the Dothraki reared and kicked, but even they could not outrun death itself.
Robb's jaw tightened as he watched the bodies fall, swallowed by the darkness. He had fought battles before, had seen men bleed and break, had watched armies turn and run when the tide shifted against them.
But the dead did not run. They did not falter.
And soon, it would be his turn.
A section of the outer defenses buckled, the wooden barricades groaning under the sheer weight of the dead before splintering apart in a cascade of shattered timber and torn earth. Robb saw it happen—saw the Northern warriors stationed there falter as the tide of wights poured through the breach like a river bursting through a broken dam.
His breath caught. The line was breaking.
Maege Mormont and her daughters surged forward, leading a charge of battle-hardened Northmen into the chaos. They came like a storm, weapons flashing in the firelight, their war cries cutting through the night. The Mormonts fought like demons, their fury a force of nature. Maege's heavy mace crashed through skulls and shattered ribs, each swing sending pieces of rotting flesh and brittle bone flying into the air. Beside her, Dacey danced through the battlefield, her greatsword cleaving through the dead with a brutal, practiced efficiency.
Alysane, Lyra, and Jorelle fought in unison, their movements swift and deadly, carving a path through the wights with sheer, unrelenting force. Little Lyanna, though smaller than all of them, was just as fierce—her blade moving in precise, furious arcs, each strike finding its mark. The Mormonts did not yield. They did not retreat. They held the line, refusing to give even an inch of ground.
And for a moment, Robb dared to hope.
For a moment, it looked as though they might turn the tide.
Then the dead surged again.
A fresh wave of wights poured through the breach, moving with horrifying speed. They slammed into the Northmen like a battering ram, dragging soldiers down in a writhing mass of grasping hands and snapping teeth. The Mormonts, so fierce, so relentless, were suddenly drowning in the unending tide.
Jorelle was the first to fall. A clawed hand closed around her wrist, jerking her forward with impossible strength. She let out a sharp, strangled cry, her sword slipping from her grasp as she was pulled beneath the swarm. Lyra let out a scream of rage and tried to reach her, hacking at the creatures that separated them—but she, too, was overwhelmed, her body vanishing beneath a press of decayed limbs.
Alysane fought like a she-wolf, her axe carving a path through the dead. Blood—red and black—splattered across her face, her snarls of defiance breaking through the cacophony of war. But even she could not fight forever. A shadow moved in the chaos—a tall, pale figure with eyes like frozen fire. A White Walker.
Robb saw the moment its ice-forged blade struck home, saw Alysane jerk in place, saw the light leave her eyes before she crumpled to the bloodstained ground.
Dacey let out a wordless, furious cry. She swung her greatsword in a wide, brutal arc, cutting down three wights in quick succession. For a moment, it seemed as though she might fight her way free—until a skeletal hand shot out, fingers locking around her throat like an iron vice. She gasped, her weapon falling from her grasp as she was dragged, kicking and thrashing, into the abyss.
Maege fought on.
Her roars of defiance rang across the battlefield, her axe never ceasing, her every strike filled with the strength of a woman who had spent her entire life fighting, leading, protecting. She stood in front of her youngest daughter, shielding Lyanna with her own body, refusing to let the dead take her last child.
But there were too many.
They swarmed her, climbing over each other in their desperation to tear her down. For every wight she cut down, three more took its place. And then—she was gone. Robb saw it happen, saw the wights close over her like a wave swallowing a lone ship in a storm. The last thing he heard was her scream, raw and defiant.
And then, she rose again.
Robb's heart clenched in his chest as he saw her stand, her eyes burning with an eerie, unnatural blue. Her face—once filled with unbreakable resolve—was now slack, empty, the warmth of life stripped away.
Lyanna stumbled back, her sword shaking in her hands as her mother—what had been her mother—turned toward her.
The girl hesitated, frozen between grief and horror. And then, before the wight could reach her, Grey Worm was there. The commander of the Unsullied moved like a shadow, swift and precise. His spear struck true, piercing through the thing that had been Maege Mormont, driving clean through her heart.
The wight collapsed, lifeless once more.
For a long, awful moment, Lyanna only stood there, her breathing ragged, her sword still trembling in her grip. Then, at last, she lifted her blade once more.
Grey Worm did not pause.
There was no time to grieve, no time to look back. His spear was slick with blackened blood, his armour spattered with gore, but he pressed forward, leading the Unsullied with the same unshakable discipline that had carried them through every battle before this.
The dead came from all sides, an unending, mindless tide. Where other warriors staggered, the Unsullied stood firm. Their shields locked together in an unbreakable wall, their spears thrusting in perfect rhythm, each strike precise and unrelenting. They did not retreat. They did not waver. For every wight that threw itself against their formation, there was a spear to meet it, a blade to cut it down.
And yet, for all their skill, for all their discipline, they were still men. And men could not fight forever.
Grey Worm knew this. He could feel the weight of the battle pressing in around them, the relentless assault of the dead never slowing, never tiring. His muscles burned with exhaustion, but he did not falter. He would not falter.
Then, the dead parted.
The wights fell away, shifting like a living sea as something stepped forward from their ranks.
A White Walker.
It moved with an eerie, unnatural grace, its pale skin glowing in the cold moonlight, its ice-forged blade resting lightly in its grasp. Its eyes burned like frozen fire, locking onto Grey Worm with a gaze colder than the night itself.
Robb saw it from the battlements. He saw Grey Worm turn to face the creature, his grip tightening on his spear, his stance unshaken. There was no hesitation. No fear. Only the readiness of a warrior who had spent his entire life preparing for this moment.
The White Walker struck first.
Its ice blade slashed through the air, faster than any human could match. But Grey Worm was no ordinary man. He ducked, his shield snapping up to deflect the strike, his spear lashing out in retaliation. The tip found its mark, slicing deep into the creature's side.
It did not bleed.
The wound was there, clear as day, yet the White Walker did not flinch, did not slow. It only turned its head, those glowing eyes regarding Grey Worm with something almost like curiosity. Then it moved again, faster than before.
Grey Worm fought with all the skill he had honed since childhood. His spear was a blur, each strike a masterclass in precision, every movement calculated, controlled. He dodged, parried, struck, his breath coming in sharp, measured bursts. But the White Walker was tireless. It never faltered, never misstepped. It was not flesh and blood. It did not grow weary. It did not make mistakes.
Grey Worm knew this fight could only end one way.
High above, Daenerys saw it all.
Following Jon's signal, she had taken to the skies atop Drogon, fire raining down upon the battlefield. Wights turned to ash beneath them, vast swathes of the undead burning in great pillars of flame. Rhaegal and Viserion circled alongside them, their own infernos cutting through the enemy ranks, their roars splitting the night.
But even from the sky, Daenerys' eyes were drawn to the battle below. To the fight unfolding between Grey Worm and the White Walker. Her heart clenched as she watched him move, fighting with the skill and speed she had always admired. She knew him to be one of the greatest warriors she had ever seen—but this was not a fight that skill alone could win.
And then, she saw it.
The White Walker feinted left, forcing Grey Worm to shift his weight—just enough.
A mistake.
A single, tiny mistake.
The jagged ice blade drove forward, straight through his chest.
Grey Worm staggered, his breath leaving him in a sharp, choked gasp. The cold bit deep, deeper than steel, spreading through his body like a sickness. Blood welled up in his throat, spilling over his lips in a dark, frozen mist. He tried to move, tried to lift his spear again, but his strength failed him. His legs gave out, and he sank to his knees.
His lips moved, forming a name in a whisper too faint to be heard, carried away by the howling wind.
And then, he was still.
Many more fell.
Some were slain by steel, others by claws and teeth. But death was no mercy in this war. Each time a soldier fell, there was no certainty they would remain among the dead. Some rose again within moments, their eyes burning an icy blue, their bodies no longer their own. Friends turned on friends, brothers on brothers, the bonds of loyalty shattered by the cold grip of the enemy.
The battle dragged on in a brutal, agonising stalemate. For every wight that was cut down, another took its place. No true ground was gained, only bodies piled higher, blood turning the frost-slicked earth into treacherous mud. Blades dulled. Arms grew heavy. The night stretched on, merciless and unending.
Robb knew they could not hold indefinitely.
Jon gave the command to rotate the troops, ensuring those on the brink of collapse could fall back while fresh warriors pushed forward, their ranks shifting like a tide against the relentless swarm. Robb and Jon were to be among the reinforcements.
He turned from the battlements, his breath steaming in the frozen air as he made his way through the courtyard. There, great pyres blazed with an unnatural fury, the flames hungrily devouring whatever bodies they could reclaim—friend and foe alike—so they would not rise again. The scent of burning flesh mixed with the metallic tang of blood, thick in the back of his throat. The cries of the wounded echoed over the howling wind, a wretched symphony of pain and despair.
A man was carried past him, a jagged wound running down his leg, his face contorted in agony. Another followed, half his arm missing, his tunic soaked through with crimson. Some did not scream at all—those were the ones who frightened Robb the most. The ones whose gazes were already distant, hollow, as if death had already begun to claim them, just waiting for the rest of their body to catch up.
They were being taken to the Great Hall, where the keep's last line of defense was not a sword, but the hands of those who still fought to save lives. Robb hesitated.
He shouldn't stop. His duty lay beyond these walls, where men bled and died for a chance to see the dawn. But his feet carried him forward regardless.
The Great Hall was another kind of battlefield.
The long tables had been shoved against the walls, cots and makeshift bedding spread across the stone floors in chaotic rows. The air was thick with the mingled scents of blood, sweat, and burning herbs, an attempt to mask the overwhelming stench of death. The moans of the wounded filled the space, cries of pain punctuated by the clipped commands of the healers as they worked in desperate urgency.
Not all could be saved.
For those beyond help, mercy came in the form of a dragonglass dagger, each healer carrying one at their belt. Not as a weapon, but as a grim necessity. If infection set in, if the fever took hold, if the light in a man's eyes flickered to blue—there could be no hesitation. No second chances.
Robb's eyes searched the room, and then he saw her.
Roslin.
She moved swiftly between the wounded, her sleeves pushed up, the skirts of her dress soaked in blood—none of it her own. Her pale face was streaked with sweat and grime, but her hands were steady as she wrapped a thick bandage around a man's severed arm, tightening it with practiced efficiency to slow the bleeding. Her lips moved, murmuring something—perhaps a reassurance, perhaps a prayer—but she did not falter.
She had thrown herself into the work, tireless, unshaken, as relentless in her duty as any soldier upon the walls.
Robb's chest ached at the sight of her.
He wanted to go to her. To touch her, to hear her voice, to steal even a single moment before he marched back into the hell awaiting him beyond these walls.
But he couldn't.
If he let himself reach for her, he might not have the strength to walk away.
So he clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. Every instinct screamed at him to stay, to hold her, to take whatever time they had left before the storm swallowed them whole. But there was no time. No room for hesitation.
Forcing himself to turn away, he stepped back out into the bitter cold, the wind howling around him like the wail of the damned.
The courtyard was alive with movement, a frenzied pulse beneath the heavy weight of the night. Men clustered in tight groups, checking weapons and adjusting their armour. Their faces, etched with the strain of exhaustion and fear, were set in grim determination. The low murmur of final prayers and quiet farewells filled the air, some men speaking to gods they barely believed in, others whispering reassurances to comrades they might never see again. There were no heroic speeches here—only silence and the sound of armour clinking as warriors readied themselves for what came next.
Robb strode past them, his breath misting in the frigid air, moving with purpose through the chaos. He caught glimpses of men gripping their weapons tightly, their knuckles white with tension. His boots crunched against the frost-covered stones as he made his way toward the stables where his men were assembling.
Robb's chest tightened. He had fought beside these men since the first days of war, and now he had to send them out again into the jaws of death. But there was one thing left to do. One companion who would not be left behind.
He reached the heavy wooden pen where Grey Wind was kept, and immediately the direwolf's massive form appeared in the torchlight, prowling restlessly within the confines of his cage. The wolf's silver-gray fur bristled, and his piercing yellow eyes locked onto Robb with a silent understanding, as if he knew what was to come.
"Come on, boy," Robb murmured, his voice low but steady, as he approached the gate. Grey Wind let out a soft huff, his ears flicking back as he sensed Robb's presence. Robb opened the gate and stepped inside, reaching out to run his fingers through the thick fur at Grey Wind's neck. The wolf pressed into his touch, a grounding force in the chaos that was unfolding around them.
"We're going to need you out there," Robb said quietly, his words heavy with the weight of the battle ahead. Grey Wind's muscles coiled beneath Robb's hand, and the wolf gave a low growl, as if acknowledging the fight that awaited them. The direwolf had fought at his side through countless battles, and Robb knew he would not falter now.
Robb exhaled sharply, steeling himself for what lay ahead. The time for waiting was over. The fight had come, and it would be unlike any they had faced before.
Before he could leave the pen, a familiar voice cut through the clamor.
"Robb," came Sansa's voice, firm but tinged with worry.
He turned, surprised to find his sister approaching him, her fur-lined cloak billowing in the wind, Tyrion Lannister beside her, his face set in a rare expression of solemnity. Sansa's eyes met his, and there was a mixture of fear and determination in her gaze.
"Are you ready?" she asked, her voice soft but resolute.
Robb paused, his fingers lingering on Grey Wind's fur before he looked up at her. Sansa had been through so much, and yet here she stood, on the verge of battle, a part of him reluctant to let her face this horror. But there was no time to protect her from it. They were all in this together now.
"As ready as any man can be," Robb replied, his voice low, carrying the weight of the night. "If anything happens to me—or Jon—on the field, you two have the command," Robb said, his voice steady but heavy with the weight of what he was about to face.
He turned to walk away, but Sansa paused, looking over her shoulder as she began making her way toward the battlements. She flashed her brother one final smile, though it was strained, her eyes filled with a mixture of pride and fear.
Tyrion stepped forward, his hand catching Robb's arm with a firm grip. "Good luck, Robb," he said quietly, his voice laced with the rare sincerity that came only in moments like this. "Try to survive, for all our sakes. I don't think your sister can bear any more heartbreak."
Robb's gaze softened as he looked at Tyrion, a faint trace of a smile tugging at his lips, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll try," he said, his tone laced with the same mixture of resolve and uncertainty that hung in the air around them. "Just... keep her safe."
Tyrion gave a short nod, his expression grim but resolute, before he turned to follow Sansa, his small figure blending into the chaos of the courtyard. Robb watched them go, his heart a little heavier than before, then forced himself to focus on the battle ahead. There was no time for doubt now.
As Robb turned back toward the gathering warriors, his gaze locked onto a familiar figure standing near the gate. Jon. His brother. His sword already strapped to his back, Longclaw gleaming under the dim torchlight.
The moment their eyes met, a heavy silence fell between them, thick with the weight of what lay ahead. Neither of them spoke; words felt inadequate in the face of the coming storm. The battle was not only one for survival—it was one that would test the very marrow of their souls. And neither of them knew if they would walk away from it.
Jon stepped forward first, breaking the silence, his voice steady, yet betraying the tension that tightened his every word. "We can't let this be the end of us."
Robb met his brother's gaze, his heart heavy with unspeakable truths. They had been through so much together—war, loss, betrayal—but this? This was different. This was not just a battle for a kingdom or for honour. This was a fight to preserve their very humanity.
"No matter what happens," Robb said, his voice firm despite the dread curling in his gut, "we don't let the other turn."
Jon's jaw tightened, and he took a step closer, the intensity in his eyes sharpening. "Swear it."
Robb didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and gripped Jon's forearm with a force that sent a shiver of certainty down his spine. His words were a vow, a promise forged in the fire of battle and blood. "Swear it."
The two brothers stood there, locked in that moment of quiet, unspoken understanding. A silent oath passed between them—one they both knew could be broken by the unforgiving tide of war. But it was a promise they would die trying to keep. If they fell, they would not rise again as wights. That, at least, was within their power to control.
From the distance, the sounds of the battle grew louder, the screams of men mingling with the chilling shrieks of the dead. The air grew colder, filled with the stench of death, and Robb could feel his heart hammering in his chest, the seconds ticking by like an eternity.
Jon drew Longclaw from its sheath, the steel singing as the blade caught the torchlight. It was a sound that reverberated through Robb's very bones, filling him with a renewed sense of purpose. Jon's face was set, his eyes hard as he turned toward the gate.
"It's time."
Robb's pulse quickened as he raised his own sword high, the steel flashing in the flickering light. His voice rang out, raw and unwavering, over the frantic preparations of the men. "For Winterfell!"
A chorus of voices answered, rising from the men around him—a roaring wave of defiance that surged through the courtyard. The clatter of weapons, the thud of boots on stone, the low growl of horses waiting for the charge. Steel was drawn, shields were raised, and the gates creaked under the weight of the moment.
With a final roar of defiance, the gates were thrown open, and the cold night air was swallowed by the sound of battle. The ground trembled with the charge, the echo of hooves and the clash of steel reverberating through the stone walls.
Side by side, Robb and Jon stepped into the fray. Their swords swept through the air in unison, flashing silver as they cut through the night. Together, they charged into the heart of the battle—brothers in arms, brothers in blood, with their fate uncertain. But in that moment, nothing else mattered. Only the fight.
The moment Robb and Jon crossed the threshold, the battle swallowed them whole, a brutal, chaotic surge that left no room for hesitation. The dead came at them with an unrelenting fury, their hollow eyes gleaming with the frigid hunger of the grave. Their blackened fingers reached for flesh, their mouths gnashing in bloodlust as the cold wind howled through the battlefield.
Robb's sword cut through the air with practiced ease, its steel meeting bone and sinew. He swung in a wide arc, severing a wight's skeletal arm with a brutal, cleaving strike before driving his blade deep into the chest of another. The creature crumpled to the ground with a sickening thud, but it didn't stop. No, the dead didn't stop. It clawed at his leg with feral persistence, its cold fingers gripping for purchase. Robb kicked it back, but before he could recover, Grey Wind was on it. The direwolf's jaws snapped shut around the wight's skull, crushing it in a single, powerful bite. Robb spared his companion a brief glance of gratitude before returning his focus to the enemy.
Jon fought beside him, a blur of steel in the night. Longclaw, his sword, flashed like lightning—decapitating one wight, then another, its blade cutting through the air with deadly precision. His breath came in harsh, ragged gasps, his movements fluid and relentless. Every swing of his sword seemed to split the air with a sound that felt like the crack of thunder. The ground beneath them trembled with the weight of the battle, but neither Jon nor Robb flinched. They were driven by something primal—by duty, by family, by the instinct to survive.
More men pushed forward, replacing those who had fallen or retreated, but the dead did not tire. They were relentless, an endless swarm that filled the air with the screams of men and the sickening sound of flesh tearing. Robb's sword sang through the chaos, meeting bone, sinew, and frozen flesh. But no matter how many he felled, the tide didn't slow. A man beside him let out a strangled scream as a wight hurled itself onto his back, its teeth sinking into his throat with terrifying speed.
Robb's sword arced through the air, severing both the wight and the man in a single strike, ending the man's suffering before it could spread. Blood mixed with ice on the battlefield, painting the snow with death. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, the acrid smell of burning flesh from the pyres behind them, and the shrill cries of the dying. It was a symphony of carnage, one that did not cease, one that could never be drowned out.
As Robb continued to fight, his gaze flickered to the side. Alyn Umber staggered past, his eyes wild, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was heading back toward Winterfell, another man slung over his shoulder, blood dripping onto the snow like a trail of ruin. Robb gave him a brief nod, a silent acknowledgment of the sacrifice, before turning back to the battle. His heart pounded in his chest, the weight of the carnage pressing in, but he could not stop. The night was far from over. The dead didn't rest, and neither would he.
Amid the chaos, Robb's eyes caught sight of the Greatjon and Smalljon Umber, their backs pressed together, axes flashing in the blood-soaked night. The Greatjon was a mountain of a man, roaring with laughter as he swung his massive axe down with terrifying force, cleaving through the skulls of wights like a butcher through meat. His sides were stained with blood, a deep gash in his side pouring crimson down his armor, but it didn't seem to matter. His bellowed words rang out over the din of battle.
"Is this all you've got?!" he roared, his voice booming like thunder across the battlefield, mocking the very dead that surrounded him. "Come on, then! Come and get me!"
But the dead did not answer. They only came. Wave after wave, they surged forward like a dark tide, no more human than the shadows that clawed at the edges of the firelight. The Greatjon's laughter faded as he swung again, his weapon tearing through wight after wight, but the relentless onslaught never ceased.
Smalljon fought fiercely beside his father, his blade flashing like silver as it cleaved through the enemy. But his eyes never left the Greatjon. When the larger man staggered, a wight latched onto his back, clawing and gnashing for his throat. Smalljon's heart stopped, and in an instant, he lunged forward, hacking at the creature with a wild, desperate swing. But more wights closed in like a pack of wolves, overwhelming the Greatjon and pulling him to the ground.
The Greatjon's roar became a strangled gasp as the wights tore into him, dragging him beneath their monstrous weight. "No!" Smalljon cried, his voice cracking with fury and desperation. He hacked and slashed at the creatures, but it was no use. The dead were everywhere, and they dragged his father into the frozen mud. His final defiant laugh was swallowed by the mass of bodies.
"No! Father!" Smalljon screamed, but his cries were lost in the cacophony of battle. With one last, futile strike, he, too, was consumed by the tide of wights. His body was swallowed by the dead, and his screams faded into the night.
Robb barely had time to register their fall before another wave of wights descended upon him. The ground beneath him seemed to shift, alive with the unholy push of the enemy. He gritted his teeth, raising his sword high, and swung with all the strength he could muster. His blade cut through the wights with merciless precision, the steel ringing with each strike, but there was no time to mourn. No time to feel the weight of the loss. Only time to fight, and fight he did, his heart heavy with the knowledge that for every wight that fell, a thousand more would take its place.
And so they fought, surrounded by darkness, the blood of friends and foes alike staining the snow beneath their feet.
A sudden crack in the defense sent a surge of wights crashing through, a tidal wave of death that poured into their ranks. The air seemed to freeze as the dead surged forward, their hollow eyes gleaming in the torchlight, their claws reaching for flesh. Robb turned just in time to see Harri Karstark, sword in hand, cutting through the tide of wights with brutal precision. His blade cleaved through decayed flesh, hacking off limbs and severing heads in a single, fluid motion.
Without thinking, Robb ran to his side, his sword already in motion. He struck down a wight that was about to lunge at Harri's back, the creature's twisted face twisting in agony as it crumpled to the snow. The clash of steel, the sickening squelch of flesh, and the eerie howls of the dead were all that filled Robb's ears now. He barely heard Harri's voice over the storm of chaos, but he could read the fear in his friend's eyes.
"They're breaking through!" Harri shouted, his voice hoarse and barely audible above the roars of battle.
Robb's heart clenched as he nodded grimly. They had to hold, they had to keep the line intact, or all was lost. His blade flashed through the air, cleaving through the enemy in front of him. Together, Robb and Harri fought shoulder to shoulder, moving as one in perfect rhythm, the deadly dance of war. For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though they might be able to hold the line, to stem the tide of the dead that pressed upon them.
But then, the moment shattered. A wight—faster than Robb anticipated—lunged from behind, its bony fingers digging into Harri's armour with terrifying strength. It dragged him back, and Harri snarled in defiance, wrenching himself free, his sword slicing through the creature's neck with a savage cry. Robb surged forward, his heart pounding in his chest, trying to reach Harri, but the dead moved faster than he could. The wights clawed and tore at him, their icy grip like chains, keeping him from reaching his friend.
Harri's breath came in ragged gasps as another wight latched onto him, pulling him back. His sword continued to swing, slashing through the dead, but it was too much. The wights were everywhere now, dragging him down into the snow, their bony hands pulling at his limbs, sinking into the snow like a tide of decay.
"Go!" Harri gasped, blood bubbling from his lips, his voice barely audible above the storm of battle. "Hold the line!"
Robb's chest clenched as he fought with all his might to clear the wights from his friend, his sword flashing through the air with desperate, furious slashes. But it was too late. The wights overpowered Harri, their numbers too great. With one final, agonised cry, Harri disappeared beneath the writhing mass of corpses, his sword still gripped in his hand, swinging wildly before being lost in the chaos.
Robb's heart was a furnace of rage and sorrow, but he couldn't stop. He could only fight, could only push forward as the battle raged around him. His blade cleaved through another wight's skull with a sickening crunch, but it was hollow. Empty. Harri was gone.
The minutes that followed were a blur, the ground beneath Robb's boots slick with blood and snow. He moved like an automaton, his body acting without thought, his mind locked in the terrible present. And then, as the tide of battle pressed on, Robb saw it. Among the ranks of the reanimated dead, there was a face that should not have been there. Harri. His body was now one of them, twisted and unnatural, his once-clear eyes vacant and empty. His face was still recognisable—frozen in a haunting mask of death, his mouth stretched into a silent scream.
Robb's stomach twisted with a violent rush of nausea, but he couldn't stop. The rage was too much, the grief too great. He swung his sword again, cutting through the reanimated form of his friend—the wight that had once been Harri. It fell to the ground with a sickening thud, its head rolling away like a discarded doll.
The battle had become a blur of blood and chaos, the ground before him a writhing sea of steel and death. The dead pushed harder, forcing the living back step by step, their icy claws scraping against steel, their numbers unrelenting. For every wight that fell, another took its place, rising from the blood-soaked ground like a nightmare given form.
Robb drove his sword through the skull of a wight, twisting as he yanked it free. He barely had time to catch his breath before another lunged at him. But something beyond the carnage caught his eye—a flicker of movement amidst the confusion, something deliberate, something human.
On the far side of the outer bailey, Ramsay Bolton stood in the shifting torchlight, his dagger buried deep in his father's gut.
For a heartbeat, time seemed to slow. Roose Bolton's face was frozen in a moment of shock, his cold, calculating eyes wide with disbelief. His lips parted, but no sound came. His hands clutched at Ramsay's arm as though trying to pry the blade free, but his strength was already fading.
Ramsay leaned in close, his voice a low whisper only his father could hear. "You were dead the minute you brought her home."
Then, with a cruel twist of the blade, he wrenched the dagger free, letting Roose crumple to the frozen earth.
The Lord of the Dreadfort barely had time to bleed. Before he could so much as draw another breath, the dead swarmed him. They descended like starving wolves, tearing into his flesh with jagged nails and broken teeth. His body was lost beneath the writhing mass, his muffled screams swallowed by the howling wind.
Robb had seen men die a thousand different ways, but this was something else.
His blood ran cold.
Roose Bolton, one of the most ruthless and calculating men in the North, betrayed by his own son—not for survival, not in self-defense, but in cold, opportunistic murder.
Ramsay turned, locking eyes with Robb across the battlefield. And then, as if sensing his moment of reckoning, he straightened, his face shifting into an expression of practiced shock.
"He turned!" Ramsay shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. His wild eyes darted toward Robb, feigning urgency. "I tried to save him, but he turned!"
Robb barely registered the words. He could still see it—Roose, clutching at Ramsay's wrist, still alive, still human. He wasn't sure what sickened him more—the murder itself, or the sheer audacity of Ramsay's lie.
And yet, in the madness of the battle, who would question it? Who would even care?
There was no time to confront him. The dead were still advancing, surging through the outer defenses, threatening to spill into the heart of Winterfell itself. If Robb wanted to avenge the betrayal, he would have to survive first.
But he had seen it.
And if he lived through this night, so help him, he would make Ramsay pay.
For now, there was only the fight.
Robb tightened his grip on his sword, shoving the horror of what he had just witnessed to the back of his mind. There would be justice—but first, there had to be survival.
With a furious cry, he threw himself back into the battle, his blade flashing under the moonlit sky.
The battle was slipping through their fingers.
Robb could feel it in the way his sword arm burned, in the way the men around him faltered, their movements slowing, their strikes losing strength. The dead did not waver. They did not hesitate. They did not tire. The living, however, were breaking.
Through the haze of battle, he heard Jon's voice rise above the carnage.
"Fall back! Fall back to the gates!"
For a split second, Robb hesitated. Retreat was not in his nature. He had spent his life pushing forward, leading charges, cutting through enemy lines. But this was not a battle of strategy. This was not a war against men. This was survival.
Jon was right.
"Fall back!" Robb roared, turning on his heel. He grabbed a man by the shoulder, shoving him toward Winterfell. "Move! To the gates! Now!"
A horn bellowed over the battlefield, signaling the retreat. The men who still stood turned and ran, stumbling through the blood-slicked snow toward the open gates of Winterfell. Those too wounded to move on their own were dragged by their comrades, desperate to escape the advancing tide of death.
The dead sensed their weakness. They surged forward, an unstoppable tide, and the retreat threatened to become a rout.
Then, the Unsullied stepped into place.
Leaderless without Grey Worm, they did not waver. With mechanical precision, they locked their shields together, spears braced, forming an unbreakable line between the retreating men and the advancing horde.
"Stand fast!" one of them barked. The others obeyed without hesitation.
A wall of flesh met a wall of steel.
The Unsullied fought with cold, brutal efficiency, driving their spears into the wights, pushing them back, buying precious time. But even they could not hold forever.
"Inside the walls!" Jon's voice was hoarse now, ragged with urgency.
Robb turned, scanning the field one last time. The Greatjon was gone. The Smalljon was gone. Harri Karstark was gone. Roose Bolton was gone. So many familiar faces lost to the snow, buried beneath the writhing mass of the dead.
And yet, there was no time to grieve. Not yet.
A shriek tore through the night as a wight lunged toward him, its gnarled fingers reaching for his throat. Grey Wind struck first, snarling as his massive jaws closed around the creature's skull, shaking it violently before tearing it apart.
Robb exhaled sharply, nodding once. "Come on, boy."
Then he ran.
Behind him, the Unsullied held as long as they could, their line thinning as one by one they fell, but they did not break. They did not falter. The last of the living poured through the gates, dragging the wounded, pulling each other inside. Robb sprinted across the threshold, skidding to a stop just inside the walls.
The last few Unsullied still outside turned to face the dead with cold, unreadable expressions. They did not attempt to flee. They knew their duty.
They stood their ground, their spears cutting through the dark tide one last time before the dead consumed them whole.
Then, silence.
The gates were still open, the space narrowing as the living poured through in a desperate tide. The retreat had turned into a scramble—men shoving past one another, horses rearing in panic, the wounded dragged between the bodies of the barely standing.
Jon stood at the threshold, sword in hand, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. They had to close the gates. Now.
But there were still men outside.
Through the chaos, he spotted Lyanna Mormont. Blood streaked her face, her hair tangled and wild, but she was still fighting. She hacked at a wight with all the fury left in her, her small frame nearly swallowed by the press of bodies.
Then, she turned. And instead of running for the gate, she rushed toward the battlefield.
Robb's heart slammed against his ribs. He watched as Jon surged forward, grabbing her arm just as she tried to push past him.
"Let me go!" she snarled, twisting, her grip still tight on her sword.
Jon didn't loosen his hold. "Get inside."
"No! My men are still out there!" She wrenched against him, her face flushed with anger, but Jon only tightened his grip.
"They're gone, Lyanna." His voice was steel and sorrow. "We have to shut the gates."
She faltered. Just for a second. The truth of it hit her like a blade to the gut.
Then the howls of the dead rose behind them.
Robb turned his head and saw them—dozens of wights closing in, tearing through the last of the stragglers, clawing over fallen bodies.
They had no choice.
Jon turned to the men at the gate. "Close it!"
"No!" Lyanna screamed, still struggling against him, but the heavy iron doors were already groaning shut.
The last few men outside ran for their lives, screaming for the gate to stay open. They would never make it.
Jon didn't let go of Lyanna, even as she went still in his grasp, her breath coming in short, broken gasps.
The gates slammed shut.
The screams outside turned into shrieks of agony, then faded into nothing.
The silence that followed was unbearable.