Chapter Text
Snow fell from the sky like ash. The earth trembled under the thunder of thousands of feet—not of the living, not of the dead, but of those who had left only death behind and came to carry it further.
Jon rode through the darkness on the back of Coldflaim—his blue dragon. The dragon’s silver-blue scales gleamed as he dove with a roar, unleashing a torrent of searing fire that burned through everything in its path. Behind them was Visenya, scorching those left standing. And there were many.
“Fire!” Jon shouted. “On the flanks! Hold the line!”
Below, between the walls of Winterfell and the ranks of men, they fought shoulder to shoulder—Dothraki with arakhs, Unsullied with spears, Northmen with axes, and even wildlings with slings and crude swords. An army of fragments, yet it held together. Thousands fought with a single goal—to survive, to make sure the world survived.
And then—a shadow fell over them all. The wind lifted the snow, and black wings blotted out the sky.
Winter—the largest of Jon’s three dragons, the one he had never yielded to anyone—had obeyed her. Daenerys sat high upon his back, her face as cold as death itself, her eyes burning like an unrelenting sun.
“Hold the line!” her voice thundered. “Do not yield!”
With a roar, Winter plunged toward the army of the dead. His fire joined Coldflaim’s, and together they carved a blazing wall between the living and the dead.
The Night King’s host pressed forward—an endless mass of bone, ice, and shadow. But the Dothraki, who had lost so many in the first waves, now became a storm—mounting their horses, arakhs aflame, tearing through the enemy’s ranks. The Unsullied held the center, unbreakable and silent, like the very stones of the North.
From the east the wildlings struck. Tormund led them—roaring, raising his axe, and hurling himself into the thick of it. Even amidst dragons and sorcery, he was a storm of his own.
The Night King stepped onto the field. His gait was slow, yet each movement a verdict. He raised his arms, and hundreds of corpses lurched upright once more.
Then he drew an ice spear. Jon noticed it only when it was nearly upon them. But Coldflaim twisted in time so that it only grazed the scales of his wing.
The balance broke. Jon lost his hold and began to fall.
“No!” he shouted.
And he fell. Until he didn’t.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. It’s all right.”
“Dany… thank you.”
She had caught him, pressed him between herself and Winter so she could control the flight and keep him from slipping away.
Another ice spear flew. This time Winter reacted in time.
Visenya soared up beside them. And Jon understood he had to change dragons.
“Dany, let me go.”
“What? No! You’ll fall—” she gasped, not noticing what he had just called her.
“I’ll be fine. I’ll jump to Visenya. We’ve done this before.”
She hesitated, but at last, she let him go.
He fell. Until he didn’t. He caught hold of Visenya.
The battle raged on—until, all at once, every corpse collapsed, lifeless puppets.
———
She had flown too low. Monsters swarmed over Winter, and she had to dismount.
She drew a sword and fought, until she saw Lord Stark battling the Night King. It was a hellish duel. The Night King had never fought anyone before, only raised the dead with his sorcery. But he deemed Ned Stark worthy of his blade. Dany could only watch—and then the Lord of Winterfell struck down the Lord of Death.
Thousands of wights fell lifeless, and the White Walkers dissolved into air.
A smile spread across her face. They had won.
———
Winterfell still stood. Bloodied, torn, but alive.
Jon landed in the square before the castle. He saw Winter’s empty back and panic struck—until he spotted her. Soot-stained, exhausted, yet triumph burning in her eyes.
Before her stood his father, with men all around shouting that the King in the North had slain death itself.
And above them, snow drifted gently—not the snow that carried death, but the snow that lingered when death had been driven back.
Daenerys stood in the ruined courtyard of Winterfell. Her hands trembled with exhaustion, her breath came hard, her knees nearly gave way. Fires still smoldered in corners, and snow fell softly from the sky, quiet and peaceful, like in a forgotten world.
Jon approached slowly. Cuts scarred his cheeks, his hair was singed, but in his eyes there was only joy and pride in their victory.
She gazed at his face, as though searching for something beyond words.
They stood in silence for a few seconds. Silent like those who had seen the end of the world—and lived through it together.
“How’s Winter?” she asked, lifting her gaze skyward.
“Alive. All three of them—hurt a little, but alive,” Jon answered. “As are we.”
Their eyes met again. This time differently. Not as allies in war. Not as strategists. But as two bound by something deeper than steel—by death shared, and survival shared.
“Come inside,” Jon said. “We’ve earned rest.”
⸻
Inside Winterfell, in the Stark hall, torches burned, their flames flickering like the hearts of those who remained. Silence lay over the castle—not heavy, but sacred. People sat, lay, or slept on the floor, huddled together as they could. Healers dressed wounds, children carried water. The Unsullied guarded the gates, Northerners already repaired the walls.
⸻
That same night, while the burning remains of the dead still smoldered on the northern field, Jon stood on the walls.
He watched the dragons circling the sky. They were free. Even though he now felt the bond with each of them—with Coldflaim’s chill, with Visenya’s strength, with Winter’s depth.
“What now?” she asked quietly.
Jon looked toward the horizon, where no threat loomed anymore, yet countless shadows remained.
“The North is wounded. But it lives. And so do we.”
“My brother has taken the throne. Robert is gone,” Daenerys said.
They stood in silence.
“Will you go to the Capital?”
She took his hand. Held it tight. And didn’t let go.
“No. I will stay here. With you.”
Snow kept falling.
But from below, from the heart of the castle, light broke through. Not from fire. From a new dawn.