A white mist rolled over the battlefield like a living thing, swallowing hills and lowlands, devouring banners and camps. From within the veil, they emerged—thousands of wights and twisted beasts, bones clacking, flesh stretched tight, mouths open in frozen screams. The snow fell sideways, driven by an unnatural wind, and the world held its breath.
Winterfell's defenders stood ready.
Northern archers lined the walls, arrows nocked, eyes narrowed. The Unsullied formed in ranks along the trenches, shields braced, spears planted. Dothraki horsemen waited behind them, blades ablaze, their breath rising in white clouds. Grey Worm moved among his soldiers, his expression unreadable but resolute.
On the ramparts, Jon Snow stood beside Daenerys Targaryen. They exchanged no words—only a look. A shared understanding. Fire and blood, ice and death.
High above them, the dragons screamed.
The first volleys of arrows soared into the sky. Flaming tips vanished into the mist. Moments later, distant howls confirmed their mark. Then the fire trenches were lit, forming glowing rings of defense that hissed and popped against the encroaching cold.
The Dothraki surged forward with a war cry, their fire-blades bright as falling stars. They vanished into the fog.
Moments passed.
Then screams. Then silence.
Only a fraction returned—staggering, riderless horses, panic in every eye. What survived was not a cavalry charge, but the shattered echo of a doomed assault.
Arya Stark and Gendry held the east gate, dragonglass in hand. They moved like dancers—one shadow, one storm. Arya's blade flashed through three wights in a breath. Gendry grunted as he swung his forge-hammer, splintering bone and ice.
Grey Worm and his Unsullied held the trenches, resisting wave after wave. The dead climbed the embankments only to be speared, only to rise again. Men who fell rose again too.
Above them, Drogon and Rhaegal swept through the skies, fire raining like molten rain. The flames scattered swarms of wights, but the cold closed in behind them, relentless and unyielding.
Still, there was no sign of the Night King.
Tyrion and Varys directed civilians into the crypts, shouting orders over the roar of battle. Sansa stood near the gates to the Great Hall, face pale but steady. Beside her, Brienne and Jaime held the western flank. Podrick sang a battle hymn between gritted teeth as he fought, every note a challenge to death itself.
The Hound froze near the south wall, fire licking close. His eyes widened, hands trembling. But Arya's shout brought him back, and he surged forward, cutting down two wights that had flanked a wounded boy.
As the defenders strained under the growing assault, a haunting question echoed in their minds:
Where was the Night King?
Near the central walls, Davos Seaworth shouted orders to retreating infantry. He had seen battles before—Blackwater, the assault on Dragonstone—but nothing compared to the scale and horror of this. Wights leapt from broken trenches with clawed hands and soulless eyes. He cut one down with a dragonglass blade, then another, then stumbled back, chest heaving. A northern bannerman caught him before he fell, dragging him toward the second line.
On the southern ridge, a horn blew. A massive white bear—undead, its fur hanging in tatters, its eyes glowing blue—charged into a ring of fire. Grey Worm and a dozen Unsullied converged to stop it, spears darting like silver vipers. It roared, tossing two soldiers like dolls, before collapsing under a dozen piercings.
Meanwhile, inside the courtyard, Samwell Tarly swung a torch with both hands, keeping a cluster of civilians safe by a collapsed wall. His eyes darted around, searching for Gilly and Little Sam, praying they had made it to the crypts.
Elsewhere, Lyanna Mormont commanded a small band of her House's remaining warriors. "Hold your ground!" she shouted. A group of smaller wights charged, and she personally cut them down, defiant and unyielding. "The last of Bear Island fights tonight!" she cried.
From the skies, Rhaegal dipped low over the inner gate. Jon shouted commands to archers below, directing them toward the thicker concentrations of undead pressing the north tower.
Daenerys veered Drogon toward a hillock of ice-wights massing outside the castle. She unleashed a pillar of flame, but behind her, three ice spears launched from a skeletal frost giant. One grazed Drogon's tail. The dragon roared in pain and fury, banking hard as Daenerys struggled to hold her seat.
Bran, still seated beneath the heart tree in the Godswood, was lost in trance, eyes pure white. He wandered deeper into the past, seeking the truth of their enemy, unaware of the battle creeping ever closer to his sanctuary.
Winterfell groaned under the weight of war. Each stone, each gate, each heartbeat was borrowed time.
And still—the Night King did not come.
In the Godswood, Bran Stark sat beneath the weirwood tree. His eyes were white, the ancient roots curling beneath him like tendrils of fate. He breathed slowly, unmoving.
He traveled backward—beyond the present, through time's vast river.
Through him, the past stirred.