He had just turned seven and ten a few weeks ago. Everything was ready. The troops had been trained relentlessly, pushed to their limits in drills and mock battles, practicing as if their lives depended on it—because they did. Weapons were plentiful, each man and woman armed to the teeth with swords, axes, and spears, their shields polished and strong. Arrows and bolts were stacked high, each shaft honed for the fight ahead. Armor gleamed in the pale moonlight, not just as protection but as a symbol of their resolve.
The host was immense—130 thousand strong, a sea of warriors from all corners of the North, from both sides of the Wall. Northerners, black brothers, and Free Folk stood united, shoulder to shoulder, all prepared to fight for their lives and their future. There was no room for doubt or fear. This was a fight for survival, a fight to stand against the darkness that threatened to consume everything. They would face the Others and their nearly million-strong thralls, the undead horde that had no mercy.
The army was in position. The defensive troops were firmly stationed inside the Skrilging Pass, a chokepoint that would prove to be their first line of defense. Every movement had been calculated, every tactic planned. But they weren't ready yet. Not fully. Not until the bait—cavalry riding on swift horses—had lured the dead into the pass, with the Others hot on their trail. Once the wights were in, the spearmen would block the passage, holding the line as best they could against the unstoppable tide. It was a desperate gamble, but they had no other choice.
The light cavalry would then split off, maneuvering through the dangerous terrain to join the two main cavalry hosts on either side of the pass. High above them, on the cliffs, giants and archers waited in silence, ready to unleash their fury from above. But it wasn't just swords and arrows that Rick had relied on. He had spent countless hours designing weapons and machines of war—dragon bows, ballistae, and other inventions of his own making, all built to allow for rapid firing and quick reloading. The aim was simple: take out the dead before they could even get close. A single arrow, a single bolt, was all it took to sever the connection between the wight and the White Walker who controlled it. Speed and numbers. That was their advantage. They had to be quick, relentless, and overwhelming.
All they needed now was the signal—the signal from the infiltration group. The group that would bypass the army of the dead, slip past their ranks unnoticed, and head straight for the White Walkers, for the Night King himself. The heart of the enemy would be within their reach, and once they struck, they would either win the war or die trying.
The infiltration group on Bear Island was preparing for their departure, the cold wind whipping around them as they readied the final few supplies. The mission ahead was dangerous, but Rick was not one to shrink from such challenges. In fact, he was leading this group. He trusted these people more than anyone else—Freyja, his loyal direwolf companion; Val, her sharp wit and strength always at the forefront; Ygritte, the fiery redhead who had proven herself time and again; Sigorn, ever the silent warrior, and Tormund, the boisterous and often unpredictable redhead.
Also among them were a few men Rick had been strongly recommended to bring—Benjen Stark, his mostly reserved uncle, and three of his black brothers from the Night's Watch, their grim faces showing the weight of their experience. Maege Mormont was present as well, the Lady of Bear Island. She had decided to join the group, leaving her House in the capable hands of her second-oldest daughter, Alysanne, while her youngest, Dacey, was up North with Eddard Stark's cavalry.
Tormund's first encounter with his daughters was an eventful one. The towering wildling, full of joy and excitement, strode forward, arms wide to embrace his girls. The hopeful smile on his face faltered as one by one, all the she-bears bypassed him without a second glance. Instead, they headed straight for Rick. The youngest, Brenda, shot him a glare so fierce that Rick wondered if it could freeze the very air around her. The weight of her silent judgment was palpable, and Rick felt himself bracing under the intensity of it. He couldn't help but chuckle internally, wondering if that stare could truly be deadly.
Maege stood off to the side, watching the spectacle unfold with genuine amusement. Her laughter was a hearty, unrestrained sound as she enjoyed the moment at Tormund's expense. But even in his misfortune, Tormund's charm soon began to work its magic. The girls, who had been so cold at first, were won over by his exaggerated tales and his boisterous nature. They couldn't help but laugh along with him, though it took a while for Tormund to truly win their affection.
Despite his unshakable confidence, Tormund couldn't resist one last attempt to get closer to Maege. He had tried once to get closer, perhaps even to take things further, but Maege was no easy woman to sway. After his attempt, Maege's morningstar had struck with impeccable precision, the heavy weapon stopping him in his tracks. He found himself pinned to the wooden wall, his pride bruised more than his body.
Rick, watching the interaction from a distance, couldn't help but smirk. Maege was a force unto herself, and while Tormund had learned his lesson, he knew that Maege was far from cruel. She was simply playing with him in her own way, and her amused smirk told Rick all he needed to know.
When it came to Rick and Val, their bond was undeniable. They spent their time together in quiet contentment, lost in each other's company during their time on the island. There were no interruptions, no distractions. They were two people who understood each other's need for solitude yet found comfort in each other's presence. Their connection, though not as overtly passionate as some might imagine, was intense in its own right. There was a subtle understanding between them, a respect that held them close even when they weren't speaking.
Meanwhile, Ygritte and Sigorn shared a bond of their own. Their love was quieter, less fiery than that of Rick and Val, but just as powerful. The couple, while deeply connected, didn't share the same insatiable energy Rick and Val had for one another. Their affection for each other was more subtle, a quiet strength built on shared experiences and trust.
The time had come for them to leave. As the group made final preparations, Rick could feel the weight of the journey ahead of them. They had sailed far to get here, but the real dangers awaited them in the frozen North. The ice, the cold, and the looming threat of the Night King were all too real. With one final look at Maege, Tormund, and the rest of the group, Rick gave the signal to board the small boats.
The group spent just over an hour crossing the frozen land, their breath misting in the cold air. After climbing a small, isolated hill, they reached a vantage point where the full scope of their enemies came into view. Below, spread across the endless snowy expanse of the lowest part of the Lands of Always Winter, the Army of the Dead stood, a mass of lifeless, frozen bodies, waiting.
The sight was both sobering and dreadful. A sea of death stretched before them, the endless rows of wights making the land appear dark and unforgiving. The occasional figure of a White Walker glided above the sea of dead, commanding with cold, silent authority. There were so many of them that the horizon seemed to warp under the weight of their numbers. The very air felt heavy with the promise of death.
Tormund took a long, appraising look at the army below, his face grim. "Shit. We're barking mad," he muttered, his voice tinged with apprehension.
Rick let out a soft laugh, though it held little humor. "Yes, that's why you're here. That's why we're here. Only mad people like us have the balls to be this close to certain death," he said, his gaze fixed on the enemy below. "At least you'll earn the title Tormund the Others' Bane when we're done with them."
Tormund let out a short laugh, his bravado returning. "Tsk. Not as cool as Winter, but I guess I'll take it," he replied, a wry smile pulling at his lips.
Rick glanced at him. "If I find the cunt who started calling me that..."
Ygritte cut him off with a knowing look, her voice dry. "Yeah, yeah, you'll do bad things to him," she teased. "Now, how do we do this?"
Rick took a moment, his sharp eyes scanning the enemy forces and the landscape. His mind worked through the tactics, weighing their options. His fingers instinctively twitched at his side, the weight of his weapon familiar and comforting.
"You can shoot from here, right?" Rick asked, turning to the redhead woman.
Ygritte gave a sharp nod, her eyes narrowing as she calculated the distance. "Of course I can! Who do you take me for? It's only four hundred yards," she answered, a hint of offense in her tone.
Rick turned to the three black brothers who stood with them. They were seasoned warriors, but their skill with a bow was unknown to him.
"How about you?" Rick asked, looking at them.
One of the men, a tall and quiet figure with a scar running down his cheek, cleared his throat before speaking. "Two hundred yards," he said, his voice steady but confident.
Rick's eyes flicked from one man to the next, disappointed. It wasn't enough. They'd need more distance if they hoped to make a dent in the army below. His mind worked quickly, formulating the next steps.
"Alright. You four stay here," Rick ordered, his tone firm and deliberate as he gestured toward Ygritte and the three Black Brothers. The weight of the mission hung heavy in the air, and everyone felt it. "Ygritte, when we engage the White Walkers, focus on picking off those that are distracted by the chaos. You have the high ground, and that's a huge advantage. Any of the dead that try to approach the hill, take them down without hesitation. But if they start to overwhelm you, fall back. Get to a higher vantage point and keep shooting. Don't get caught in close combat if you can avoid it."
Ygritte met Rick's gaze, her face set with the steely determination that had become so familiar. Her bow was slung over her shoulder, an extension of her body, and she nodded sharply. "Got it," she replied quietly, her voice unwavering.
Rick turned his attention to the rest of the group, his eyes scanning each face. "The rest of us are going up the hill. We'll have to engage the White Walkers head-on, and it's not going to be easy. We'll pair up—two against each of them. They're faster and stronger than we are, so don't underestimate them. Stick together, work as a team. If one of us falters, the other needs to make sure the job gets done. There's no room for error."
His gaze lingered on Tormund, Maege, and Benjen, each of them seasoned warriors, but even they had never faced an enemy like this. "Keep your wits sharp. They may not feel pain like we do, but they can be outsmarted. And remember—no matter what, we're in this together. We go in as one, and we come out as one."
Ygritte's face softened for a moment, the gravity of the situation settling on her like a heavy cloak, but she nodded again, her expression resolute. "When you're down the hill, I'll send the signal. We'll know what to do then."
The group exchanged a brief, silent glance, each of them steeling themselves for what was to come. It was clear—there was no turning back.
Mance stood atop one of the jagged cliffs overlooking the Skirling Pass, the wind tugging at his heavy cloak as if trying to drag him down into the white abyss below. He'd been up there for three days now, watching, waiting. His warriors—men and women hardened by cold, hunger, and war—were spread out in the narrow crevices and hollows around the pass, all waiting for the same thing: the signal.
The wait was maddening. Bitter cold gnawed at the bones, and nerves frayed with every passing hour. But Mance was no stranger to patience. He hadn't spent two decades uniting the scattered, quarrelsome clans of the Free Folk into a single people just to falter now. No, patience was a blade he knew how to wield.
"Mance!" a voice called behind him—one of the chieftains. He turned just as the man pointed skyward.
A single flaming arrow cut through the still air, streaking across the cloudless blue sky like a promise written in fire.
"There it is," Mance muttered, then raised his voice. "Sound the horn! Everyone, to your positions!"
A deep, bone-rattling horn echoed through the pass.
"Dragonbone archers! Eyes on the ice spiders and mammoths! Bring those bastards down first! Everyone else, prepare to loose your volleys when I give the word! Giants—get those tree trunks ready. If you see a mammoth, bury it under a bloody forest!"
On the opposite side of the pass, higher up the mountain where the Northern cavalry was camped, Eddard Stark stood in silence. His men were already formed up, grim-faced and ready. Horses pawed at the snow. Steel and leather creaked under the tension of held breath.
Today was the day.
"You think we'll win, Ned?" asked Rickard Karstark, standing beside him. His eyes were fixed on the snowy plain below, where the endless host of the dead writhed like shadows in the light.
Eddard didn't look at him. "Aye. The plan is sound. The men are prepared—"
"Means nothing if your nephew doesn't do his part," Rickard interrupted.
"He will," Ned said with quiet certainty.
Rickard gave him a side glance. "You trust him that much?"
"I do. I've only known him a year, maybe a bit more, but that was enough to see what kind of man he is."
"And what kind is that?"
"A man of his word. A man who doesn't break, no matter what the world throws at him. Strong. Steady. And stubborn as the bloody Wall. If he says he'll kill the Night King, he'll do it—even if it's the last thing he does."
Rickard huffed, a half-grin tugging at his lips. "Guess the Stark blood runs strong in his veins."
That made Ned chuckle softly. But the moment passed quickly.
A horn blasted through the air.
Ned's eyes sharpened. "It begins. Get the men moving. Down the mountain, line formation."
"Aye," Rickard said, turning to bark the order.
Down in the pass, everything was in motion. The shield troops stood ready near the narrow walls, fully armored and packed in tight. They made room as the smaller cavalry unit, led by Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, moved to the front.
Mormont turned in his saddle, voice booming over the clatter of hooves and shifting steel. "Alright, men! You know your duty! Hold fast, fight hard! No hesitation, no fear! It's us or them—and I say let it be them!"
He spurred his horse forward, eyes sweeping the ranks. What he saw was not fear—no trembling, no faltering. Only resolve. These men had lived, trained, and bled together for more than a year. It didn't matter if they'd once been strangers from opposite ends of the Wall. Opposite Sides. Here and now, they were one.
"The best for the job," he murmured to himself. Then louder: "Forward!"
Rick and his group moved as stealthily as they could manage, every footstep calculated, every breath quiet. The horn had sounded once already—the battle had begun. The assault was underway. Now, crouched just shy of the final stretch, they waited. They were as close as they dared to get without alerting the enemy, hiding among the jagged rocks and snowy ridges that offered them meager cover. All that remained was Mance's signal—confirmation that the bait had worked, that the dead were pouring into the pass and the trap was sealed.
He could feel it. The ground trembled beneath his boots, the steady, pulsing rhythm of a hundred thousand corpses marching as one. The dead made no noise, no war cry, no thunderous chant—just the oppressive silence of a living tide. But the earth knew. It shivered beneath their weight.
It was exhilarating.
He had fought before. He'd seen skirmishes, clashed blades with wildlings, wights, and worse. But this—this wasn't a battle. This was war, war in its rawest, most terrifying scale. He could feel the storm of it rising around him.
The second horn blast shattered the tension.
Rick turned to his group. "Now," he said quietly, but with force. "We move. We reach the Night King."
Below, in the pass, the cavalry had already galloped through the lines. The shieldmen, now free to act, braced themselves.
"Alright, men! In position!" shouted Robb Stark, Eddard's eldest son. He stood tall behind the wall of shields, clad in a wolf-crested helm and hardened leather. It had been a year since his father told him of the coming war, and Robb had wanted to ride north that very night. Ned had been proud, of course—but refused. At six-and-ten, Robb was still a boy in his eyes. War could wait.
Catelyn Stark, unsurprisingly, had been completely against it.
But Robb hadn't listened. Not really. He'd slipped away, cloaking himself in the anonymity of House Glover's levies. Once at the Wall, he joined the defense forces at the pass. You joined—and you didn't leave. Not unless you were dead. That suited him fine. By the time Eddard found him in the shield troop, Robb had already earned respect and command. He'd proven himself as a capable leader, and even the northern lords who had once doubted him now saw him clearly for what he was—his father's heir in blood and in spirit.
Now, he stood at the front, commanding three hundred warriors. Their job: draw the dead, thin their numbers, and hold the line for as long as possible.
They were bait.
And bait rarely survived.
But Robb Stark had sworn that he would. He and his shield-brothers would live. He believed it with every beat of his heart.
The Dead came like a wave of darkness crashing into their shields with unnatural strength. The impact was so immense it should have pushed the line back—but they held. Months of drills and preparation paid off.
"SPEAR!" Robb shouted.
A dozen spear tips shot forward through the narrow openings in the shield wall, striking with precision. Each one found its mark—wights dropped like sacks of ice.
"SPEAR!" he roared again.
Another volley. More dead collapsed.
They were ready to hold, for as long as it took.
High on the cliff, the archers had a clear view of the battlefield—and they were having a field day. Arrow after arrow arced through the sky, felling ice spiders and mammoths alike. One White Walker, mounted on a spider, was skewered clean off his beast by a well-placed shot. As he exploded into nothingness, several dozen wights collapsed with him, limp and lifeless, their strings cut.
The Free Folk and Northern archers manning the ballistae and rapid-fire bows weren't just effective—they were laughing. Fighting, yes—but laughing, reveling in it. They had trained with these weapons for months, and now they were watching entire squads of undead crumble beneath their barrage. The dragon-sinew bowstrings held strong—where ordinary ones would have snapped already.
Quivers were emptied and refilled in rhythm, as fast as they could fire. No hesitation, no panic. Just deadly, focused efficiency.
"Alright, keep it up!" Mance shouted from behind. "Crossbows aimed at the mouth of the pass! Let's give the shield wall some breathing room!"
And still, the arrows flew.
More than breaking—it was being pierced. The army of the dead was torn open like a rotten fruit. The cavalry didn't stop, didn't even slow. They carved through the dead with relentless momentum, their warhorses transformed into living battering rams. Gleaming Valyrian steel pikes jutted from the armored chests of their destriers, forged to a killing point, each as dark and beautiful as star-forged shadow. Every stride crushed bones, impaled rotting flesh, and sent wights flailing backward in ragged pieces.
The riders did not swing down wildly—they drove forward with singular purpose. Their swords remained half-raised, not from hesitation, but by design. They let the ancient metal do its work. Valyrian steel, humming in the cold, bit through corpses like they were paper soaked in oil. They were not fighting men—they were cutting through plague and nightmare with the only cure left in the world.
Behind the heavy cavalry came the second wave—swift riders with bows and crossbows, their arrows and bolts likewise tipped in Valyrian steel. Every projectile that struck did not just kill—it ended. Wights shattered like brittle clay beneath the wrath of dragon-forged metal. Some fell mid-lunge, their limbs going limp before they hit the snow. Others crumbled as if unmade, strings cut from whatever dark will held them aloft.
Then came the footsoldiers—shield-brothers and spear-sisters armored and armed in shining, smoky steel. Swords, axes, glaives, and spears, every piece a relic now turned weapon of war. Their line crashed in behind the cavalry wedge, plugging the gap with grit and flame-eyed fury. Their chants rose above the howling wind.
The wights had never known resistance like this. They faltered—not from fear, for they could feel none—but from sheer dismemberment. The steel of the old world, the magic of the dragons, was something no dark power could protect them from.
In the center of it all, the charge tore the battlefield asunder. The host of the dead, once a single suffocating tide, now lay split wide open—a canyon of churning snow and shattered corpses left in the riders' wake.
Ned Stark rode at the heart of it. Valyrian steel longsword in hand, snow streaked with crimson on his cloak, his face set in stone. Around him, Northern lords and brave Free Folk plunged their blades into the enemy, their every strike more like execution than battle. To his left, a great bear of a man hewed through two wights with a single sweep of a blackened greatsword. To his right, a spearwife loosed a dozen javelins from horseback, each one sinking deep into skulls and hearts—killing wights faster than they could climb the slope.
Across the white valley, Mormont's riders burst through the opposite flank, descending like dark angels with burning eyes. Their charge hit the dead like a hammer's second blow, and the entire field shook.
The trap had worked. The bait held. The dead were being ripped apart from both sides, surrounded by living men wielding the one thing they couldn't withstand.
Valyrian steel—and purpose.
Ned raised his blade, catching the sun.
"FOR THE LIVING!" he cried, and his voice rolled across the field like a stormfront.
They answered. Thousands of voices in unison, a roar like thunder from a world that refused to die quietly.
And somewhere in the chaos—Rick was moving.
Toward the back of the dead army.
Toward the Night King.
Toward the end.
Or the beginning.
A phalanx of wights barred the ascent to the hilltop, a grotesque wall of flesh and bone, snarling and moaning with unholy hunger. They were too many to count, and even more to kill cleanly—a tide meant to drown Rick and his small infiltration band. But Rick didn't flinch. He stepped forward, eyes locked on the crest of the hill where the Night King stood waiting, cold and unblinking. With a breath, he drew Ashbringer.
The sword ignited, bursting into light and flame, a pyre in the shape of a blade. As Rick charged, fire trailed behind him in burning arcs. One sweeping horizontal strike lit the snow aflame, its blaze catching a dozen wights in its sweep. They didn't just burn—they vaporized, turning to ash before they could scream. The sword sang as it passed through them, not cleaving flesh but unraveling the dark magic that held them together. Bone shattered midair. Skin seared off in flashes of orange light. The snow boiled underfoot. The flame roared higher with every kill, feeding off their destruction.
The hill trembled.
In moments, the path was cleared, black ash swirling in the air where once a deathless host had stood. Rick kept moving. He didn't look back.
At the top, six White Walkers surrounded the Night King like frozen statues come to life, their eyes glowing like sapphires in moonlight.
Behind Rick, his allies surged up the path.
Maege Mormont and Tormund Giantsbane crashed into the first pair like a winter storm. Maege's morningstar whirled like a planet in orbit, its Valyrian steel head shattering ice with every blow. Her fury was raw, ancient. Tormund's great axe, wielded in both hands, swung in vicious arcs that sundered the air and cracked frozen armor. But the Walkers were faster and stronger than men, and every blow was met with ruthless counters. Tormund bled from a long gash in his side, Maege stumbled once from a shoulder bash that cracked her ribs—but they fought on. Every hit was earned, every step forward a miracle.
Sigorn of Thenn fought with unrelenting aggression, his twin Valyrian steel axes spinning in his hands like storms of death. Yet even his berserker fury was not enough to overwhelm the precision and speed of his opponent. Benjen Stark fought beside him, moving with cold calm, his longsword a blur of parries and lunges. Sigorn took risks, and Benjen covered them, but both were bruised, cut, pushed to the edge. They ducked under sweeping ice spears, barely blocking blows that dented the stone beneath them when missed.
High on a ridge, Ygritte loosed arrows with grim precision. Each shaft was tipped with Valyrian steel, each one aimed for weak spots. She saved lives—crippling a Walker before it could deliver a killing blow to Maege, dropping a wight lunging for Sigorn's back. But even she could see it: they were not winning. They were surviving.
Val and Freyja danced their deadly duet. Freyja, primal and swift, struck with claw and fang, but the Walkers were quick, matching her with icy elegance. Val's spear found gaps in armor, but the enemy never gave her two openings in a row. They were pressed, slowly pushed back. Blood slicked Val's brow. Freyja snarled, bleeding from one leg but not slowing. They worked together in silent, deadly rhythm, surviving by inches.
They weren't winning. They were holding. Giving Rick his chance.
He climbed alone.
At the summit, the wind howled like a living thing. The Night King stood at the edge of the world, his massive form cloaked in darkness. In one hand he held an enormous ice greatsword, its jagged edge shimmering like frozen starlight.
Rick raised Ashbringer. The flame leapt taller.
They stood still, two titans in silence, and then they collided.
The clash shook the sky. Ice met fire, steel met magic. The Night King's sword struck with enough force to split mountains, and Rick blocked with both hands, Ashbringer flaring to keep the frost at bay. Sparks flew. Fire hissed against ice. Their blades blurred, slashing and parrying, neither yielding. Rick ducked a swing that would've split him in two and countered with a rising strike, fire licking up the Night King's arm, scorching his armor.
The Night King responded with a cold wave of magic, frost crawling across the ground. Rick leapt over it, spinning midair to deliver a downward blow that cracked the icy greatsword but didn't break it.
Their swords met again, and again, and again.
It was a dance of titans, and the fate of the world balanced on the edge of flame and frost.
The shield line had done its job perfectly, halting the dead and drawing them deeper into the Pass. Now, it was time to push. On the hillsides, archers shifted their targets, now focusing their volleys into the thickest press of wights. Below, the soldiers raised their shields overhead, forming a protective shell, and began to advance.
They walked forward—over the mountains of dead bodies.
The ground beneath their boots was soaked in blood and gore, slick with half-frozen rot. But the living didn't falter. They stepped with discipline, blades and shields ready, each line feeding strength into the next.
At the mouth of the Pass, the remaining wights had turned their focus toward the cavalry, who had been forced to dismount. Now the riders fought on foot, encircled and pressed from every direction. They had formed tight circles, small islands of resistance—backs to each other, weapons flashing, holding out as long as they could.
Robb Stark barked orders through the chaos, voice raw. "Break formation to move faster! Reform before contact!"
His men obeyed. The square of shields broke apart into fluid lines, weaving through corpses and rubble, then reformed just before slamming into the enemy.
The unbreakable formation, bristling with spears and Valyrian steel, drove into the wights like a knife through old bark. They reached the embattled cavalry and joined the fight, giving the surrounded warriors a moment's breath.
"Father!" Robb shouted, shielding Ned Stark with his own and driving a spear through a wight's skull. "We need to fall back a bit and gather for another push. We need cohesion!"
"Bit late for that, Robb! We can't communicate across the field!"
Still, both men glanced toward the top of the hill.
Through the smoke and shadow, they saw it: flashes of red flame against the night. Ashbringer lit the sky, cutting arcs of fire against a storm of frost.
They hoped Rick would end this soon.
They had managed to kill half the White Walkers. Ygritte got one with a perfect shot through the eye, the steel-tipped arrow bursting out the back of its skull in a pulse of blue mist. Maege shattered another with a roar and a brutal overhead strike that smashed through ice and bone. Sigorn, driven by fury and bloodlust, cleaved a third in two with a double-strike from both axes, roaring loud enough to shake the stones beneath him.
Benjen joined Freyja and Val just in time. With a sweeping cut, he deflected a killing blow meant for Val, giving Freyja the moment she needed to pounce. Her jaws locked onto the Walker's arm while Val's spear impaled its chest. The ice cracked. Benjen finished it with a downward strike that split its head.
Sigorn regrouped with Maege and Tormund. The three of them stood over the shattered remains of their kills, bloodied and breathing heavily. Around them, the final three White Walkers closed in. Their eyes glowed brighter, and the air itself turned colder. But the living didn't back down.
Above them, the clash intensified.
The battle became brutal and primal. Rick ducked a killing blow and rolled under the Night King's next strike, coming up behind him. Ashbringer flashed, striking across the Night King's back. Ice cracked and sizzled, but the Night King twisted with terrifying speed and slammed a frost-covered fist into Rick's jaw, sending him sprawling. Rick barely had time to roll away from the greatsword that split the stone behind him.
They fought like monsters, beyond mortal limits, trading blows that could crush bone and tear steel. Ashbringer left trails of fire in its wake. Rick's armor steamed where frost struck it. The Night King's greatsword sang through the air, forcing Rick into tighter and tighter defenses until one vicious strike sent Ashbringer flying from his hands.
Rick stumbled, catching himself on one knee. The Night King advanced, raising his sword—
—but Rick reached behind him and pulled a knife from his belt. He lunged. The Night King knocked it aside and drove his blade forward.
The ice sword plunged into Rick's chest and the knife fell onto the snow.
Pain exploded through him. Blood spilled from his mouth, but he didn't fall. He stared into the Night King's face. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the Night King's sword arm with both hands and pulled himself further onto the blade, inch by inch.
Tormund saw it. Without hesitation, he scooped up Ashbringer which had landed a few feet away from him and hurled it through the chaos.
Rick caught it in his dominant hand. He raised it for the killing blow.
But the Night King caught his wrist with uncanny speed. The monster smirked, a cruel glint in his pale eyes, and squeezed. Bones cracked. Rick's fingers opened. Ashbringer began to fall.
Before it touched the ground, Rick's body moved. His foot came up and struck the hilt mid-fall, sending the flaming sword upward in a spinning flash.
It struck true.
Ashbringer drove through the Night King's stomach from below, erupting from his back in a burst of blinding flame. The Night King staggered.
Rick gave him a victorious smirk—the same one the Night King had shown moments earlier.
Then the Night King shattered—into a million pieces of ice.
Only his head remained, inert and powerless, resting in the snow.
Back into the mass of the armies clashing, the air was filled with the thunder of steel and screams, fire and frost. Ned, with Robb by his side, swung his sword downward to slay a reanimated shadowcat. The sword never connected. Not because he missed, but because the foul dead beast collapsed mid-lunge, its bright blue eyes going dull as it fell inert into the snow.
Then the others began to fall.
Wights crumpled where they stood, limbs locking, eyes losing their glow. They collapsed like marionettes with cut strings. A deathly silence rippled across the battlefield as the dead fell, one after another, like a wave crashing and receding all at once. The only ones left standing were the living.
Confusion swept through the ranks of men and Free Folk alike. Warriors paused mid-swing, eyes wide, hearts pounding with disbelief. And then, realization dawned like the first ray of sunrise after a long night.
Rick had killed the Night King.
They had won.
A roar burst across the field—not one of war, but of triumph. The booming voice of Greatjon Umber rose above all others, his laughter echoing across the icy plain like a hymn of victory. "HA! Did you see that?! Gods be good, he did it! We won!"
"Aye," came Rickard Karstark's voice, thick with awe and pride, a few feet from Ned. "He truly is a Stark!"
That drew a rare smile to Ned's lips, fleeting and filled with bittersweet pride. But then his breath caught. His heart twisted.
Rick
He turned toward the hill. Through the swirling snow, he could still see the faint glow of flame where Ashbringer had struck. Eyes wide, fear gripping him, Ned broke into a run, Robb at his side.
High on a distant rise, beyond the battlefield, Mance Rayder stood among his lieutenants, his furs whipping in the wind. Around him, the Free Folk stared in disbelief as the dead that had harried them for hours simply crumbled into nothing.
Mance did not speak at first. He only watched, dark eyes fixed on the hill where the flames still flickered. Then he gave a slow nod, almost reverent.
"He did it," he murmured, voice hushed. "Winter came for the Night King."
Cheers erupted behind him as the Free Folk raised their weapons and howled their victory to the sky. Warriors embraced. Some wept. Others raised their bloodied fists and screamed their joy into the wind.
But Mance Rayder, King-Beyond-the-Wall, just stared.
And smiled.
At the top of the Wall, Castle Black loomed like a shadow against the stark sky. The wind howled with the chill of the North, and snowflakes danced in the air. Alexstrasza, her sharp gaze fixed on the distant horizon, could feel the weight of the battle pulling at her spirit. The sounds of war were distant but unmistakable, a rumbling wave of chaos that echoed through the very ground beneath her feet. Her mind was a tangle of thoughts, emotions, and memories. Rick, whom she had come to see as more than just a mate, was down there. She knew the outcome of this fight could mean the end of the long struggle against the darkness. Yet, the thought of the dangers he faced made her heart ache. Every part of her—her sharp instincts, her ancient wisdom—told her that he was a pivotal piece in this battle; it was more than the gods of Valyria simply telling her, she felt it in her bones, but the unknowns weighed heavily on her. The Night King, a being whose very name struck fear into her heart, would be no easy foe. Alexstrasza's fear was not of death, but of failing him—of not being there when he needed her most.
Beside her stood Melisandre, her dark eyes lost in thought, her gaze tracing the red glow of the fire across the battlefield. She had long seen glimpses of Rick in the flames—his face, his hands wielding fire against the cold, against the dead. Her belief in her god's plan had never wavered, and yet there was an unsettling feeling gnawing at her. Rick was the key, but she could feel that something was off—something beyond her understanding. The flames had shown her victory, but what would the cost be? Melisandre's faith in her god was unshakable, but it was tempered by the growing realization that she did not know everything. The burning uncertainty in her chest could not be quieted by faith alone. Rick's destiny, whatever it may be, was too great to be bound by her limited understanding. But in this moment, all she could do was wait and hope her vision had not led her astray.
Lastly, Maester Aemon stood silently, his frail hands gripping the cold stone of the Wall. His blind eyes, though clouded with age, seemed to pierce through the darkness, as though he could sense the battle raging beyond the horizon. He had lived a long life, seen much, and endured even more. In his heart, he had always feared this moment, the return of the Others, the final clash between life and death. The deathless army was something spoken of in whispered legends—now it was real. Rick, the boy who had come to him with such uncertainty, wondering if he shouldn't have been born, had risen to become something more. Aemon's heart swelled with pride but also with sorrow. He had seen his family's almost destruction, the slow fall of the Targaryen line, and now, he felt an unfamiliar hope. But how fragile was that hope? He was too old for this fight, too blind to be of much help, but his mind was sharp, still able to understand the significance of what was unfolding. He could feel the weight of the future in the air, the stillness of the world before a storm. Whatever happened down there, Rick had already changed the course of destiny. He only hoped it would be enough.
Alexstrasza's heart froze as the weight of the moment hit her all at once. The magic, the oppressive, suffocating darkness that had blanketed the world, had disappeared as if it had never existed. It was gone, and with it, the Great Other's reach had vanished. For a fleeting moment, she thought she might collapse under the sheer magnitude of it—relief, joy, and dread all tangled in her chest. Melisandre, the fire priestess, stood beside her, her expression blank, but the flicker in her eyes revealed she, too, felt it.
Then, with a triumphant smirk, Alexstrasza's lips curled. A savage, toothy smile filled her face. The light of the sun seemed to shine brighter in her presence.
"He did it!" she roared, her voice booming like thunder across the frozen landscape, breaking the stillness of the moment. "He did it!"
Without hesitation, she grabbed Melisandre by the arm and pulled Maester Aemon close, her wings bursting from her back as she shifted. The change was swift, powerful. In an instant, the Mother of Dragons was no longer the woman standing beside the Wall. She was a magnificent creature of legend, her immense form cutting through the cold air like a blade. She spread her wings, the wind howling as she rose, her scales gleaming with the light of the dawn that Rick had brought.
In less than a minute, she was soaring above the battlefield, her roar reverberating across the land. As she passed over the Skirling Pass, her sharp eyes searched the chaos below. Rick's group was just cresting the hill ahead, a dark shadow against the rising sun. They were so close, so near to victory, but even from this distance, she felt it. The sorrow, the grief, the finality of something great being lost.
Landing with a thunderous crash near the crest of the hill, she shifted back into her human form. Her feet touched the ground with a soft thud, but she didn't pause. Something was wrong. Deep inside, she felt it. A gnawing emptiness, a hollow ache, and the air around her turned heavier.
She started running. There was no time to think, no time to breathe. She could only move. Melisandre and Maester Aemon followed, though the old maester's pace was slow, his hands gripping the fire priestess' arm. They knew this was something beyond them now.
As she neared the group, her heart twisted. She heard Freyja's howl, the cry of a beast in mourning, a sound that tore through the very fabric of the air. Her blood ran cold as the agony in that howl reached deep into her soul. She did not need to be told what had happened. The silence in the air told her all she needed to know.
When she finally reached them, her breath caught in her throat. The scene before her was everything she feared and more.
Rick—her warrior, her heart—was kneeling in the snow, his body bloodied, his face pale. His eyes were closed, a shadow of death clinging to him. The blood on his lips was barely warm, a reminder of how close he had come to victory... and how much it had cost. There was so much blood, so much loss. He had defeated the Night King, yes, but it had taken all he had. His very life.
Val was kneeling beside him, her face a mask of sorrow. Her hands were gently holding him, her expression stoic, but the tears streaming down her face told the true depth of the pain she felt. Rick had been her mate. Her partner. The one who had fought with her, beside her, through all the trials. And now, she was left with nothing but silence and the remains of a battle won, but a soul lost.
Alexstrasza's heart shattered. She had witnessed great things in her life, seen the rise and fall of kingdoms, the birth and death of legends, but this—this moment—was like no other.
Without thinking, she let out a guttural roar, a cry of pure grief that echoed across the battlefield. The sound was primal, a creature mourning the loss of its heart. A dragon grieving for its own.
Tears blurred her vision as she fell to her knees beside Rick. She didn't say anything—there were no words that could make this better, no magic powerful enough to undo what had been done.
Her hand reached out, trembling, brushing against his blood-soaked cheek. The warmth was already fading. His heart, the heart of the world, had stopped beating.
She could feel the weight of it all. The world had changed forever, but at such a high cost. Rick had saved them all. He had defeated the Night King, brought the dawn to a world on the edge of darkness—but he had paid the price.
And now, with him gone, the dawn was no longer certain. The light he had fought for seemed dim and far away.
Freyja, standing close by, howled again—a sound full of rage, heartbreak, and loss. And Alexstrasza, in her sorrow, could only bow her head.
Rick had died as a hero.
But in that moment, in the aftermath of the battle, Alexstrasza understood the true cost of saving the world: a world that would never be the same, and a soul that would never be forgotten.
Melisandre stood silently, watching the fire's steady dance, her mind awash with confusion. The flames had shown her a vision of victory, one she believed would bring Rick through to the other side, alive. But now, standing before his body, the realization hit her like a tidal wave. The prince had died. Her prince had died. The one she had searched for, the one she believed could fulfill the prophecy, was gone. The flames had shown her victory, but they had not shown her this.
What had been the point of her journey? What had been the purpose of her devotion, of following him across the world? Rick had fallen, and she was left standing in the midst of this overwhelming grief and confusion, no clearer than when she first set out. She had hoped to serve him, but she now questioned if her purpose had ever been clear at all.
As she stood there, lost in thought, the fire on the pyre crackled and sparked. Something shifted, and she gasped sharply, feeling a sudden surge of power—R'hllor's power, unmistakable in its magnitude. She closed her eyes as the vision flooded her mind, a clear revelation from the god she had served for so long.
Her breath caught in her throat. R'hllor can bring him back.
Her voice broke the silence with a startling clarity, as though her faith had been renewed with this divine revelation. "R'hllor can bring the prince back," she said, her words echoing across the gathered crowd. The northern lords, the Free Folk, even the grieving families present, turned to her in stunned disbelief.
"He just showed me, through the flames," she continued, her voice unwavering. "He can bring him back."
Alexstrasza stepped forward, her eyes wide with hope, the smallest flicker of disbelief and wonder dancing across her face. "How?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper, as though afraid to believe what she was hearing.
"A life for a life," Melisandre answered, her gaze never leaving the pyre, where Rick's body lay still, surrounded by flames that now seemed to pulse with a life of their own. She turned slowly, locking eyes with Maester Aemon, whose stoic expression softened as he felt her gaze.
The old man's face—marked by years of wisdom and sacrifice—shifted. A smile began to form, slow and full of an unspoken understanding. "Would mine suffice?" he asked, his voice steady despite the gravity of the moment.
Melisandre paused. Her heart tightened, but she answered simply, "Life is life, Maester. From the first breath to the last."
Maester Aemon nodded, his eyes twinkling with a gentle resolve. "Good. I've already one foot in the grave. I'd like to use the bit of life I have left for something good."
Without another word, Aemon began to walk toward the pyre. Melisandre moved to support him, her own sorrow tempered by the knowledge that he would soon be with R'hllor, rewarded for his noble sacrifice.
"You've finally found your purpose," Aemon remarked with a bittersweet chuckle, his voice laced with the dry humor that had never left him.
"It seems like I did," Melisandre responded, her voice soft but resolute.
"How do we go about this?" the ancient man asked, his gaze meeting hers, expectant and calm.
"Fire and blood, my friend," she replied, the words heavy with meaning and power.
Maester Aemon smirked faintly at the words, the traditional phrase of House Targaryen filling him with a strange peace. "It will sting at first, then it will be as if you're falling asleep. You won't feel the flames," Melisandre assured him, knowing that R'hllor had shown her how it would unfold.
"Perfect," Aemon whispered, accepting his fate without fear.
He lay beside Rick on the pyre, the flames wrapping around him but not touching. Melisandre motioned for a knife and dagger. Val, ever the strong and unwavering, stepped forward with the blade in hand, her eyes reflecting the pain of what was about to unfold.
"Goodbye, my friend," Melisandre whispered, the sorrow in her heart overwhelming her words. "Be warmed by R'hllor's presence."
"Tell him," Aemon's voice trembled slightly, but it was clear and full of love. "Tell him that I'm glad he's been born."
"I will," Melisandre promised, her voice breaking.
With a swift and practiced motion, she slit Aemon's throat, the blood flowing down in a crimson stream, soaking the wood beneath him. The blood of a Targaryen—royal and magical—seeped into the pyre. She stepped back and extended her hands over the two bodies, closing her eyes as she felt R'hllor's power coursing through her, a heat like nothing else.
The flames erupted, roaring with an intensity that was almost unbearable. Yet, the fire did not scorch her; instead, it seemed to caress her, as if she were one with it. She prayed. She prayed with all the strength of her soul, calling on her god to fulfill the promise, to bring Rick back.
Time seemed to stretch and bend as she knelt there, her heart aching with every passing second. And then, the flames began to shift, focusing on Rick, leaving Maester Aemon's body and the wood beneath him nothing but ash.
The fire burned hotter, the heat unbearable, but still, Melisandre stood, unwavering. The flames grew brighter, until a blinding light filled the air, forcing the crowd to shield their eyes from the searing glow. When the light finally faded, there was a hushed silence.
For a moment, no one moved. The crowd stood frozen, unsure of what had just occurred. Had the sorcery failed? Was it a cruel illusion?
Then, with a shuddering breath, Rick's chest arched. He drew a deep, painful breath— a man waking from the dead. A choking, ragged cough tore from his throat, and slowly, his breath settled.
Val was the first to move, rushing to his side, her face a mix of disbelief and overwhelming joy. She knelt beside him, her hands shaking as she reached out to support him. Her heart raced as she realized what had just happened. Rick was alive.
The crowd around them gasped, and a murmur rippled through the gathered people. Had it truly worked? Was their hero back? Would they need to plunge Valyrian steel into his chest to ensure he wasn't a wight, a shadow of the man they had lost?
But Val didn't care. She helped Rick to his feet, her voice barely above a whisper. "Rick?" she asked, her eyes searching his face, full of wonder and fear.
Rick coughed again, his eyes flickering open as he took in his surroundings, blinking against the pain. Slowly, his breath steadied, and the warmth of life returned to his body. The weight of his past struggle seemed to fade, but there was a confusion in his gaze, as though he wasn't entirely sure where he was or what had happened.
"I'm… alive?" Rick gasped, still disbelieving.
Val's smile broke through, her tears flowing freely. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, you are."
And in that moment, Rick realized that despite the unimaginable cost, despite the pain and loss, he had been given another chance. The world had been saved, and now, he had a new purpose. To live. To love. To honor those who had sacrificed everything for the victory.
The dawn had come.