Her

She watched him fall like a raven that had gotten lost in a morning fog and struck a tower wall. She felt her nostrils flare and it was suddenly very hot inside her furs. A result of her dragon's blood. Her heart constricts her breathing, and Daenerys Targaryen must grip tighter onto Drogon so she doesn't follow him down. Part of her wants to let go, throw herself in the air after him and swim through the clouds and the snow so she might catch up to him. Maybe she's a true dragon after all. Maybe she can fly. But it's only a small part that feels that way. The sentimental part. The rest of her? She can't lose sight of the enemy, and she knows Jon Snow has survived far worse than a fall.

Drogon's wings block out the sun, what blurred smudges are left of it. The whole world has gone gray. Viserion took off toward the horizon as Jon Snow began his descent. Although she gave them chase, she did not feel strongly about her position with the upper hand.

"Dracarys!" her voice wavered. It was only half a scream but Drogon was angry. He didn't need coaxing. He spit flame after flame and the fire burned so hot it was nearly blue. It shimmered across the sky like silks being whipped in the wind. The Night King flew in a wide, even arc, slithering in a serpentine pattern. Viserion answered Drogon's flames, turning his head and shooting backward without bothering to aim.

Suddenly, Viserion's colorless snout pointed heavenward. The bloodless wings surrounded the Night King. The King of the Dead levitated higher, born aloft on the breeze like he weighed less than snow. Daenerys sat straighter. She held her breath. An infant chuckle escaped her lips. The soulless cold of winter was flying away.

And then then the breath was choked from her, cut off like someone had blocked the flue of her throat. How stupid, stupid could she be! Viserion took a sharp turn downward, nosediving toward the ground. The Night wasn't retreating from her. He was attacking the battlefield.

Him

It was amazing how quickly he lost consciousness. He let go of Rhaegal and it happened almost immediately. Everything went back and thank Gods, because he fell for ages. His cloak clung to him, sucked in by the incredible drop in pressure, and it almost felt like he was a baby being swaddled if it hadn't been for the plummet. The incredible, endless plummet.

Jon Snow regained consciousness as the blood-soaked ground smacked him in the face. A rush of color out of darkness, and then blinding pain radiating from his gut. A brief inability to move. When he could move again, he curled in on himself, slowly, and pulled dirt from his mouth. Cracking open one of his eyes, he scanned the vicinity and found where his sword had fallen, just at the edge of his arm's reach.

Maybe being king had finally changed him. The confusion he felt was made from a lot of things, but he didn't have enough time to admit he expected his men to be running for him. Nobody saw him. They'd seen him flying but nobody had seen him fall. They certainly hadn't seen him land. Thunder came galloping toward him, and he rolled out of the way of a frantic, riderless horse just in time. He tried to stand, one hand clutching the pain in his stomach and the other dragging his sword through the grass, but he tripped and toppled after two steps.

Time seemed to stand still, and he recognized everyone and no one. He knew there was noise, that it was deafening, but he heard none of it. He rose to his knees, cleared his throat, wiped the sweat from his brow. A streak of mud and blood painted his face. Suddenly, a hand grabbed him from behind and pulled him to his feet.

"Your Grace, we're moving toward the gates." It was Brienne of Tarth, battle-stained but still imposing in her full suit of armor. Jon Snow nodded at her once, and she nodded back. In the tumult, he quickly lost sight of her, and it was only a few moments more before he had to raise his sword to block a blow.

The Wardeness

She'd waited for this moment for years. She'd begun to think it wasn't meant to happen, that perhaps she'd always be standing behind the person on whose words everyone relied, but here she was. Two separate Hands and a woman from so far away she could hardly imagine it – they were all looking at Sansa Stark to tell them what they should do next.

Reaching up around her head, she pulled her wet hood down and smoothed it out. She shook out her snow-covered hair and cleared her throat. Sansa Stark knew then that Missandei had grown accustomed to taking orders immediately, that she had taken too long for her taste. The quiet, curly-haired woman began gathering her things, strapping a cloak around her shoulders and picking up things from side tables and shoving them into a large shoulder bag.

"Sers," she began, turning to Lord Tyrion and Ser Davos. "the battle, its…we're…"

"We need the upper hand and we don't have it." Davos Seaworth stated gruffly, placing his gloved hands behind his back. The words were stuck inside her, each one of them rushing to escape her mouth and catching each other up in the process. Her hands wrung themselves painfully, chapped skin cracking around the knuckles.

"The Godswood is on fire," she tried again, "which is awful but it also gives us a barrier. Fire fights them, so we need to get behind the fire-''

"A mass evacuation would only draw their attention. And we're vulnerable out in the open."

"We aren't vulnerable if we're protected while Queen Daenerys kills off every single one of our enemies."

Tyrion Lannister chuckled. "Dragon fire might kill every one of the undead but they will not kill the Night King."

"That might be true, but we have to think of our people. We can't huddle together for warmth and wait for the Night King to be killed. We'll all die waiting."

"So how does the Dragon Queen suggest we all sneak out of here?"

"She doesn't," Sansa said awkwardly, clearing her throat and pulling down anxious saliva. "I do. The women and children will escape through the crypts."

"That way," broke in Missandei, "they're underground if anything breaks out in the castle."

Sansa nodded her head. She watched as the Hands exchanged glances, attempting diplomatic communication without allowing her any access to their thoughts. Still, she was being kept at arm's length. Still, she hadn't proved herself.

"I agree that we need to get the women and children to safely." Ser Davos spoke, breaking the silence. "Our King would want the same."

"There are hundreds of civilians in this castle, Lady Sansa." Lord Tyrion finally interjected. His voice sounded slurred and wet, and he drained his cup before he continued. "How do you propose we organize this exodus?"

She had always favored the Lannister man. He'd treated her kindly while they'd been married, and he'd always struck her as being more human than his twin siblings. It was panic and wine speaking to her so condescendingly.

"I propose, Lord Tyrion, that the Hands raise the alarm."

Him

He should be used to it by now. His reputation, his kingship, was determined almost entirely by the mettle he'd shown in countless battles. Even that isn't true. How ever many battles he'd fought in, it wasn't countless, but even one battle is more than any one man should have to live through.

But he wasn't used to any of it. His shoulder blades were in spasm every time he lifted his blade. An ankle rolled or a foot dragged with every other step he took. Sweat and snow and blood were perpetually clouding his vision, a cocktail of moisture curtaining his face. Step, swing, block, hit. The muscles of his body were tired, yes, but they were certainly well-trained.

There were piles of bodies all around him, like cairns or monuments to a lost civilization, and those men still upright and fighting looked like there were covered in mud. Jon Snow assumed he looked the same, and he knew it was not mud they were covered in, at least not entirely. The cold of the snow and the heat of living bodies were comingling and creating a thick cloud which hovered and dancing between the fighting. It made him feel like he was dead already.

It wasn't easy to recognize the soldiers fighting alongside him. He knew who was alive and who was not, yes, and he recognized soiled sigils and stained banners, but other than Brienne of Tarth pulling him to his feet, he hadn't a clue which men he was amongst. Not that it much mattered, but a familiar face might have given him more of the strength he felt he'd leaked in recovering from his fall. A wight, in tatters, lunged at him; they were quick-moving but clumsy on their feet. Jon Snow drove his sword into its chest, ignoring the pinch of pain between his shoulders, and covered his eyes as it turned into ash around the Valyrian steel.

Once the dust clears, he finally does spot someone he knows well: the true inheritant of Longclaw, Jorah Mormont, locked in battle with one of the Walkers. They were still far off, with dozens of other pairs locked in combat between, but Jon could still discern the look of exhaustion and struggle on Jorah's face. The man had grown old in his time in service to the Queen, older still during the illness Sam Tarly had treated. Jon began running in their direction. His one thought was of Mormont's unwavering loyalty to Daenerys Targaryen, of the strength he'd provided to his wife in the years before they'd found each other. The qualities they'd need in an advisor if they ever made it to King's Landing.

He ran faster now, and almost in tandem he could tell Mormont was moving slower, was reacting almost as an echo to the onslaught he was fighting against. The son of his Lord Commander was bowed, swinging wildly with a sword that was not the one he was meant to have. Jon Snow called to him, but his voice floated into an unheard void. He yelled louder now, hurling his voice back and straining his already bruised throat.

Mormont stumbled backward. The fresh space between him and his attacker gave him the time he needed to whip his head in search of the voice calling out to him. Jon was so close now. Jorah stood upright as Jon Snow tripped – a rock, probably – and landed hard, on his knees, to the ground. His Queen's former hand began jogging to catch the fallen King. The King watched, helpless and stricken, as the Walker reared up behind Jorah Mormont. An icy sword was driven into Mormont's back, and he crumpled insubstantially, without so much as another step.

The Wardeness

The younger version of herself – the one who still believed in Old Nan's fairy tales and happy endings – had always thought there was no sight quite so striking, quite so guaranteed to catch your breath in your throat, than a knight standing tall and proud in a full suit of armor. The gleam, the forcefully erect posture, the whisper of danger. It was enough to force the blood in her cheeks to bloom as red as her hair.

The two men standing awkwardly before her did not resemble any of her dead girlish fantasies. Ser Davos was squeezed into a strange, outdated suit of armor. He wasn't an overly tall man, or wide, but he'd actually arrived at Winterfell without a single piece of armor, not even a chest plate. She'd hoped he was joking when he admitted to it. The only complete set they'd been able to scrounge up looked like it had survived Robert's Rebellion before being forgotten about entirely. No inch of it gleamed. Tyrion Lannister was wearing one of Bran's old sets, and it was big on him.

Samwell Tarly arrived. Sansa had sent for him directly. "My Lady. Is there word from Jon?" He was out of breath, his slouched shoulders radiating anxiety.

"No, there isn't. And I can't waste anymore time in here waiting. We need to evacuate the women and children. If they stay in here, they're trapped."

"Yes, my Lady." He said nothing else for a moment or two. He took notice of the two supremely unimpressive Hands; they each squeaked as they shifted their weight from side to side. "Is there a plan? Am I meant to be doing something right now?"

"We will lead the women and children through the tombs," Tyrion Lannister stated matter-of-factly, as though it wasn't potentially dooming humanity. "putting distance between those who can't fight and those who will. The fire in the Godswood will serve as a barrier. At least," he stopped and directed a pointed look at Sansa, "temporarily."

"Lady Sansa," Ser Davos began, stepping closer to her. "I've apologized for this to your brother once before. I'm no fighter."

"Men follow you. That's all you have to do."

Tyrion and Ser Davos would go directly to the armory. From there, they would begin arming the men, who would stay behind and defend the castle, with as many of Gendry's swords as there were available. Samwell Tarly would join Missandei and herself as they alerted everyone else to the evacuation plans. The Hands would join the evacuation. They were too important to lose in battle, and neither was an especially skilled warrior. They would fight only as a last resort.

"Fire, my Lady." Missandei had lit and was no distributing lanterns to each of the group. In the absence of the King and the Queen, protecting the North had been left up to them. Sansa held hers aloft, only momentarily losing herself in the fire's dance.

"The crypts?" She asked. It was still so new for her, to be heard and listened to like this. She wasn't Jon. She had no rallying cry. Moving around the uneven circle, she met four other pairs of eyes. Once she'd counted each nod of acquiescence, she nodded too, as if to spur herself onward.

Skirts and cloaks fluttered in determined waves. Armor creaked purposefully, although a bit warily. The line walked out of Lord and Lady's chambers, one after the other, with three bodies turning left down the corridor and two turning right.

Her

It was a maternal guilt. Even in the hottest heat of battle, Daenerys Targaryen refrained from digging her heels into her children. The points of her boots. She thought of them like the dulled spear-tips of daggers, and her womb hurt at the thought of them stuck menacingly between her baby's ribs. And now she was digging so deeply into Drogon's side, she thought it possible he might be punctured.

Rhaegal had flown off after Jon fell, releasing only one agonized yell into the sky. She hadn't seen him since, although she knew he wouldn't have flown far without his rider, without his mother. How fast could Viserion fly now that he was dead? The speed, it was like a force, and even if Drogon managed to catch up, what would they do once they did? He was too powerful, her dead one, too focused on his rider's purpose.

The battle needed to retreat. If only her plan wasn't so momentous, if only it could happen more quickly. Fire could do it, but she that would destroy the element of surprise. She had to trust Sansa to carry it out, but it would still take time. Hundreds of bodies, even running, need time, and from where she flew, she could hardly estimate the number left who were able to run. The snow-covered hills which, for centuries, had slowly risen to greet Winterfell, had sprouted roving mountains. Dried, crusted blood. Flakes of sweat-soaked dirt. The mountains slowly came to life as felled and fallen men caught on to the spell of the Night King.

There he was, ahead of her and swooping low but otherwise taking no action. The Dragon Queen directed her steed to fly wide, wide enough to avoid her enemy but close enough to not lose side of him. She was being mocked. She was certain of it. It made her furious, but she was also terribly, terribly frightened. The baby still growing insider her forced an acidic bile of fear into her throat. This could all go so wrong. Everything could be lost.

And then, as she was scanning the field for any kind of sign to point her in a strategic direction, her eyes finally found him. Her heart quickened where it had been slowed. Jon Snow had survived his fall. His face was obscured but she knew it was him by the set of his dark furs and by the savagery with which is swung his sword. Most of the soldiers around him, crowded closer than they normally would around a King, fought defensively. They swung their swords with an animalistic instinct to survive. Her King fought like someone trying to win.

Something skeletal, tattered and rotten, lunged at the King of the North, attempting to skewer him on the edge of a broken spear. As he fell to his knees with a practiced motion, a screech and a shot of flame raced to the left of Daenerys. Her shoulders jumped to her ears and Drogon barrel-rolled to their right. She held on tight and listened for his response. A green tail whipped close by and she knew Rhaegal had returned.

She felt stronger now, emboldened, and she could tell that Rhaegal had even managed to surprise the Night King. Viserion reeled. A volley of dragon calls stuck in your spine. Even her love allowed her to admit that. There wasn't much surprise, then, when screams from the soldiers rose up to meet her. As Viserion shot back at Rhaegal, at Drogon, the men began to retreat toward the castle. It was sloppy and panicked. There was no way for her to tell if those inside were prepared for this onslaught, but it had begun. The machine was churning and neither the Queen, nor the Kings, could do anything to stop it now.

The Courtyard

These were the ones who wouldn't make it. Tyrion Lannister knew it. Ser Davos Seaworth knew it. The smith, who'd been forging swords in a near-unbroken fever of productivity ever since they'd arrived at Winterfell, knew it. He knew it more than the Hands – he'd been North of the Wall. The three men – Tyrion, Davos, and Gendry – stood in a loose formation inside the forge, handing out swords and attempting to maintain order. Within the courtyard, it was eerily quiet, and the silence reflected itself on the faces of the men crowded in front of them. These were no warriors. The warriors were already on the battlefield, perhaps already dead. There was no one left inside to the defend the castle but the weak, the feeble and old or the green and terrified. They were the last defense, the last resort, and they knew it.

"The world will be cleansed with fire," said the Red Woman. Her voice was loud and clear, but she was not shouting. "Azor Ahai is among us! The Lord of Light-''

The sound of her was choked off by the yanking of her chains. Sandor Clegane yanked twice for good measure. "Shut your fucking mouth." He and Arya Stark had been standing guard inside the forge, rotating in shifts, ever since they'd brought Melisandre there in shackles. It was Clegane's turn now, and he'd been slowly twisting and untwisting the links of her chain around his wrists. Part of him wished he were on the battle field, his blood boiling and the muscles in his arms straining as he hacked through as many of those dead fuckers as he could before they got him. But the Hound knew himself to be a coward, and so the deepest, shame-ridden part of him was thankful for the Red Maniac.

Arya Stark wasn't far from the scene. She was further within the foundry, the biting wind pulling the snow in with it. Fat flakes were landing in her dark, pulled-back hair. It was too cold for them to melt. Needle was holstered on her left hip, the Valyrian dagger she'd used to cut open Littlefinger's throat on the right. It had been a struggle, but eventually Gendry had found her a small enough breastplate, and she couldn't help wondering who it had previously belonged to. She hoped it was Jon's and not her father's, or Robb's.

Once she'd clasped herself within iron, she rolled back her narrow shoulders and heaved a sigh of resignation. The snow beneath her feet was packing tightly. When she turned to face the small group of assembled men, she was amazed at how slightly the snow crunched against her movements. Gendry was handing one of his beautiful swords to a boy no older than Rickon would have been, and when the boy's hand dropped under the weight of it, a glint of light flashed across the smith's black eyes.

In her memories, her life had always been blanketed by snow, even in moments she knew had been colored by deceptive sunshine. She saw snow falling on the Sept of Baelor, snow dancing over Braavosi canals. She'd forgotten how little her own life weighed. For years she'd been so consumed with the idea of taking, violently wrenching back from the world what had been taken from her. There had been no future to consider, only a past to reconcile; it was only now, staring at men she admired and cared for, and looking up through the vortex of wind and snow at the ancient bricks of her beloved Winterfell, that she remembered what it felt like to want to keep living.

The son of Robert Baratheon who, since he'd been drawn into this campaign had been satisfied with accepting whatever role he could contribute to the war effort, felt the daughter of Eddard Stark sidle up to him, reach into the clattering barrel, and begin handing out swords to the old men and boys. Tyrion Lannister turned to look. So did Ser Davos, but nobody said anything. All of Winterfell, inside and out, were thinking the same thing.

When the heavy wooden gate burst off it's hinges, there was one last moment of silence within the castle grounds, each man and woman and child meeting the closest pairs of eyes for confirmation that this was it, this was the moment they'd all been fearing. Northmen came tumbling in, screaming. Dothraki riders were barely holding onto their mounts. Wights – in various degrees of decomposition – were chasing them, biting and stabbing and knocking to the ground. The calamity caused a wave of hysteria and hovering over it all was a growing halo of firelight.

Sandor Clegane clambered to his feet, dragging the Red Woman behind him. "Arm yourselves! Arm yourselves!" He staggered into the courtyard and unsheathed his sword with one hand while shouldering the chain with the other. Tyrion and Ser Davos were rushing to hand out as many swords to as many scared and shivering civilians as they could.

"Clegane!" shouted the Hand of the Queen. "We've got to evacuate the women and children!"

"Then what are you still doing here?" The Hound nodded at Arya Stark, who looked at Gendry Waters, who still grabbed for his Warhammer despite the surplus of swords. Although neither were fighters, the Hands watched them go reluctantly, each privately wishing they were stronger men. They were smart men however, so they only indulged their inadequacies briefly before running back into the castle to find Samwell Tarly.

Him

Their shadows passed overhead. One, two, and then a third. The fighting never ceased, but it paused just a bit, every man and woman still living craning their necks skyward to observe Drogon finally gain the upper hand on a spooked Viserion, to watch as Rhaegal returned from seemingly thin air and side swipe the Night King. As quickly as the moment began, it ended, and abruptly so as the fighting reconvened. So perhaps it was only because of his great relief at seeing Rhaegal alive and well and fighting, but Jon Snow continued to fight with his eyes toward the heavens. It was due to this lingering that he noticed a dark shape falling through the sky.

There wasn't time to consider the falling shape, because flames erupted dangerously close overhead. He ducked and swung defensively as a wight lumbered blindly in his direction. Standing tall, he looked up again and saw his Queen, hunched down low on Drogon's back and wearing an unfamiliar mask of fear on her pale face. I should still be up there with her. His eyes shifted to scan the other dragons. They were dancing, thrashing together now, green and blue intertwined like vines. And they were both riderless.

More fire. Snow fell ferociously in a halo of light. The screaming grew louder, more urgent. All around Jon Snow, soldiers began to run. Horses took off wildly. The horde was clamoring in the direction of the castle walls. A human wave which smelled of fear and cold sweat, and the King was caught up in its current. The living were retreating, operating like a hive mind and desperately trying to regain the safety of Winterfell. Animal instinct had taken over; there was no longer clearheaded thought, only survival, so no one stopped to consider that they all might be running into a pyre.

Engrossed in this mass confusion, Jon Snow collided with the Kingslayer and his mercenary, the one Tyrion Lannister called Ser Bronn, the one who'd been awarded all that land and all those titles. Jon hadn't had a high opinion of the man before but watching as he held back to fight alongside the one-armed knight, he was able to recognize them both with a dose of respect. His eyes connected with Ser Jaime's; they nodded toward each other, a slight dip of the chin. A large handprint of blood was smeared across the Kingslayer's rugged, once-handsome features.

Back to back, the King in the North fought alongside the man most famous for sticking a knife in the back of a king. They were frequently assisted by a man who grew up knowing it was necessary to steal to survive, who knew for certain there could be no such thing as a king or a castle without brothels and sewage in the offing.

It was an effective system, but it became difficult to distinguish who, or what, he was swinging his sword at once they'd settled into a rhythm. Jon Snow was then caught unaware when the Night King finally caught up to him.

Icy hands clenched his shoulders. He could feel their cold even through his furs. Those claws pulled him, ripped him out of his rhythm, and the blunt force with which the Night King's skull collided with his broke Jon's nose immediately.

Blood as red as wine came pouring out of Jon Snow's face; he choked on it and fell backwards. Jaime Lannister and Bronn stumbled as a result. It was as though the Night King was a hunter with only one target in mind. No other kill would satisfy him. Jon crawled frantically on his hands and knees. This was no time for pride. The blood continued to dribble down his chin and into his furs. When he looked back, the Night King's sword was raised in attack, and Jon rolled out of the way just in time. The Night King aimed a kick at his stomach, where it landed with precision. Once more he raised his sword, but Jon's breath had yet to regenerate and he was writhing in agony. There were stars before his eyes, and he didn't have the consciousness to roll out of the way.

When his vision cleared, he saw Jaime Lannister volley a sword stroke at the Night King, the swing counterbalanced by the heavy, dead gold of the other arm. Metal clashed once more as Jon staggered to his feet. One hand on his knee, he pushed himself up and called out, "Ser Jaime!"

The Kingslayer turned toward the voice of Rhaegar Targaryen's son just in time to miss the Night King's sword slicing through the air, aimed right for his throat.

Her

It couldn't be helped. When Drogon aimed a shot of fire at Viserion strong enough to knock the smaller dragon off its course and sent the Night King careening downward through the air, Daenerys Targaryen let out a yelp. Her voice carried on a wing of glee that almost felt unfamiliar to her. It joined in melody with the confused shriek of the undead Viserion.

She dug her heels into Drogon and bid him and Rhaegal to continue their chase. Red, blue, red, blue. Back and forth they shot volleys of flame. It was like her angry prayer – dracarys, dracarys, dracarys. Her tongue lost the ability to speak all other words, and the intention behind this one word came from somewhere pooled within her. Her baby would be born commanding dragons.

Viserion screamed again. Rhaegal and Drogon shot at him simultaneously, causing sparks to fan and rain outward. Bits of flame flew so far, they landed in her hair and on her fur collar. Her scalp and clavicle stung as the sparks burned quickly out. The shot had sent Viserion reeling wildly, thrashing like a caught fish and shooting fire back without aim. In their fighting flight, she hadn't realized how close they'd gotten to the mossy stone of Winterfell's walls.

Those fighting on the ground were cast into the darkness of dragons' shadows. And then a crash resounded across the blood-splattered fields and it felt and sounded like the breaking of the world. Viserion's confused and embattled body dove headlong into the burned tower; she pulled back on Drogon so that he flapped his wide black wings like brakes, and Rhaegal swerved and took off in flight to circle the castle. Mortar and broken stone splayed everywhere.

"Viserion!" Daenerys felt her throat stretch beyond the limits of its musculature as she called out for her smallest child. It felt and looked like he crashed forever. Below her, the fighting stopped. All of it. Those living and those dead, struck dumb and motionless by the unimaginable. The blowing of the wind and the snow rang out like a siren. Ice mingled with it, stinging Daenerys' lips and ears.

When the fighting recommenced, it was a roar of panic. Men and horses (and a handful of brave women) had already been leading the battle inside Winterfell's walls, but the destruction of the tower was the breaking of the damn, and now the men poured in through the shattered wall like rushing water.

Her gloved fists clenched. Wells of tears were drowning her eyes. She thought her heart had had time to scab over from the first loss of him, but watching her baby fly and fall so helpless, no matter how little of him was still left inside his physical body, hurt much the same way as it had the first time. Drogon called out and she bid him fly in and hover above the courtyard as close as she dared allow him. "Viserion!" she shouted again.

The prone, blueish body rolled slightly, disrupting the cairn of rubble that had fallen and settled around it. Its neck shifted and stretched. Even as high as she sat, there was no mistaking clear blue of Viserion's undead eyes as the lids opened once more.

Him

He took a hilt to the gut, but it wasn't from the Night King. It hurt like Seven Hells, but he wasn't dead, so he knew someone else had struck him down. He bent over double, the air rushing out of him. Looking up through the wet curls of his hair, he saw the mercenary – Bronn - rear back a gloved fist into the air.

"Stay down, for fuck's sake" Jon Snow heard him whisper through his clenched teeth, right before he punched him in the jaw. With his left hand, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater grabbed him by the collar of his cloak and punched him again.

The world was a daze. The King coughed. He rolled helplessly in the mud, pulling his legs into his chest like an infant. The center of his face throbbed. Surely, his nose was shattered. Although he couldn't think straight, he knew he should have been dead. Cold, clammy claws of death had gripped him around his shoulders. Jon Snow had been right where The Night King had wanted him. Why hadn't he been killed?

Time passed. How much? Did it matter? Feet ran by, kicking dust and snow and rocks at him. He opened his eyes and looked up into the sky. Where were the dragons? There weren't any shadows overhead, but the sky was tinted red and he knew that, although he couldn't see them, they must still be somewhere close. She must still be somewhere close. She must still be alive. She had to be.

Trying to focus on a solitary cloud in the sky, one that looked fat and inflated with precipitation, Jon was able to concentrate and gather his strength. He was able to sit up. When he started to pick himself up, he was startled by a pair of blue eyes, lifelessly staring at him from ground level. The Kingslayer's head lay upright, and ten feet away his body was sprawled, ignominiously and indistinguishable from the dozens of other bodies nearby. How long would it take for them to stand back up? Without his head, would Jaime Lannister, a skilled warrior and member of the Kingsguard, at least be allowed the dignity of only one death? A kingslayer no more, he'd given his life to save his.

Getting his bearings, Jon Snow looked around and realized he must have lost consciousness before. The battlefields were barren. Bodies of men, women, and horses dotted the terrain with the bloat and steam of expiration. Drogon was low in the sky, whipping his wings but otherwise hovering in place. Turning now, he was shocked by what he saw: The Burned Tower had been demolished. In its destruction, the gate and part of Winterfell's northern walls had crumbled. The battle wasn't gone – it had simply moved inside.

Picking his sword up from where he found it (and so, so thankful it hadn't been picked up by someone desperately in need of it), he took off toward the castle. Limping at first, he gained speed and purpose the closer he got. Dust showered down on him as he climbed through the gap in the wall. He scanned the courtyard and immediately clung back tight to the wall.

Viserion's long body was tilted on its side, stretched from snout to tail. He couldn't tell if he was moving; the dragon must have crashed through the tower. His wife must have caused that.

What appeared at first to be frightened men cowering along the edges of the courtyard became, as Jon Snow snuck along the circumference, reanimated soldiers. Northmen, Knights of the Vale, Dothraki, Unsullied – in death, they all looked the same. They stumbled. They fell. They crawled up to piles of bodies more freshly killed than they were and took bites out of limp, gray flesh.

Wights mingled with them, sturdier on foot and more skilled at pillaging. They almost seemed human by comparison. It was they who were engaged in combat with soldiers in the yard. There weren't many left. More had led the fighting upward, to the halls and battlements.

The hero in him wanted to stay and fight, but the hero in him was finally beginning to learn. If Jon Snow stayed in here, he'd heroically die. He needed to find the Night King or get to his dragon. Anything less than that was suicide. Out of the corner of his eye, the King in the North saw a line of people, still very much alive, draw the door of the Crypts closed. There was an extra pull for good measure. If he ran, he might be spotted, but if he stayed it would happen just the same.

Feeling confused, foolish, and very much unaware of which way the tide of this battle was turning, Jon Snow ducked his head, raised his sword aloft, and took off for the Crypts of Winterfell.

Her

A dragon does not move like it should when it is grounded. They're rather gangly things, with just that one thumbed knuckle at the tip of each wing with which to prop themselves up. Once they've managed to prop themselves up, they don't seem to know what to do with their lower halves, tails whipping idly and uncontrollably like a cat's.

Whatever austerity Daenerys Targaryen assumed a recently deceased dragon might have gained in its travels to and from the afterlife, Viserion did not have it. Rhaegal had flown up and around the castle once, twice in the time it had taken his brother to shake off the rubble and look up at his mother. And he did, look up at his mother. She knew it. His neck turned and she was captivated by the filmy bluishness of his eyes, by the life she sensed in them.

He looked once before violently shaking the rubble off and attempting to stand. There were men and wights fighting on all sides of him, but they had maintained a wide diameter ever since the tower had toppled. As broken stones and dust were sent skyward away from the dragon's body, those men still living shouted, yelled, and ran from the fighting and toward cover. Wights stalked behind them, if they realized anything, but many of them were knocked down or broken apart by the flying rubble.

Once he'd risen to his full height, Viserion didn't look at her again. His eyes remained level, staring straight ahead. Drogon lowered himself close to the courtyard of his own accord; Rhaegal spiraled upward, screaming with the full force of his voice. The air was charged. Daenerys felt it like a current running through her limbs. Some scent or vapor was emanating from her children. It was recognition.

Drogon opened his jaws and realized a ferocious breath of fire. Rhaegal responded to him, flew closer. They repeated their call and response once more, and Viserion finally began to turn his head to find the source of the sound. He opened his rotting snout and released a confused and mewling sound, not unlike that of a small child, and Daenerys felt overcome by a choking sob. Within her, her child began to kick a vigorous dance.

"Dracarys?" she questioned weakly. Did he hear her? And if he did, did he know whose voice it was? Drogon and Rhaegal both responded, yawning half-hearted blossoms of flame into the snowy atmosphere. A puff of smoke snorted through Viserion's nostrils.

"Dracarys!" she commanded, louder this time. Although he didn't look at her, Viserion spat out blue flame in response. Wights caught in the stream of it were quickly extinguished and struck down. There wasn't any time for the Mother of Dragon's to consider the cause of this unbelievable return of fortune. She commanded them again. This time, she meant it.

Him

The walls around him had been robbed of light. Once the door to the Crypts had slammed shut behind him, he'd lost grip on his bearings. All Jon Snow knew was that his head was foggy from the blows he'd taken, he was certain that blood was dripping from some part of his body, and there was a sword hanging from his hand like a drowning man's rock. The rustlings of human movement traveled to his ears from somewhere in the blackened distance, and they mingled with the whisperings of the dead.

Something lunged at him. It came from his right, slightly behind him. It altered the shade of darkness just enough, just early enough, for him to react and flatten himself against the sharp earthen walls. Ducking low and scurrying, he took off and got far enough away to have to turn and defend himself the next time the darkness shifted. Somehow, it was easier to be brave when he couldn't see his predator, and when Jon he turned his aim was steady. He swung his sword with muscle and purpose. When it collided with solidity, the reverberations travelled all the way up his arm and landed in his jaw.

Two swollen, ethereal orbs shined at him. It was the Night King, but he'd already known that. This was the end of the road he'd been walking before he was even born. Decided, acted upon, and withheld from him. He'd been killed more times than any man should be able to count, and it was so he could, one day, face down and extinguish the blue in those eyes.

They continued their fumblesome game through the tunnel. Jon Snow lived in the dark. He could have – should have – been killed, commotionless and without complaint; the Night King had the advantage, and yet he chose to chase. It was merciless, a predatory instinct to torment his prey before killing it.

His cloak snagged on the stone arm of one of his long-dead ancestors, folded and frozen in time; the rip of material was unnaturally loud in the dark. The jarring snap sent him running quicker now, toward were the light should be. He saw in his periphery the judging eyes of Starks who had died before him. The muscles of his heart constricted in struggle. Breathing labored, spirit ready to give out.

Just burn my body when he's through with it.

His left boot caught, and it sent him sprawling. The Night King hovered over him, and he'd never felt so helpless. Wildly, his hands grappled in the dust and the dirt, frantically looking for where his sword might have fallen. He saw it, illuminated by a wavering sliver of torchlight. He crawled toward it, heavy footfalls following his every move. When his body shifted and lengthened to reach for the sword, he is yanked back viciously; the Night King had stepped on his cloak, but not before Jon's fingers wrapped around a familiar hilt.

On his knees and unable to stand, Jon felt icy fingers slither and encircle his throat. As one hand remained, the other moved on, dug broken fingernails into his hair (his mother's hair) and wrenched back a fistful of it. Black eyes – black as night, black as dragonglass – rolled inside Jon's skull. His thoughts were reduced to animal fear. In their patternless orbit, they locked on to another set of eyes. Eddard Stark, less tall than in life, the round kindness of his face made angular by stone, watched him from the shadows.

Eddard Stark watched the Night King remove his hand from Jon Snow's throat. He watched the Night King replace it with a sword and then raise it high.

The man who raised Jon Snow of Winterfell watched him on his knees, and that was the last stabilizing fact the King of the Living needed to focus, to grab his sword with both hands, to throw his weight and swing. He blocked a blow. A rind of light seemed to be wrapped around the Night King and growing outward. He blocked another, managed to stand on one knee. The air around him choked him, so when he jabbed his sword in front of him it wasn't an offense but a physiological reaction.

The force of the strike knocked him flat backward. The light had become blinding, the air suddenly scalding. It was like all the heat in the world had returned at once, and it came back in a roar.

Her

It had been so long. Everything had been so different. The world had become different, and in that time, she'd forgotten how magnificent it felt to watch her children burn her enemies. And now the flames took on a spectrum of color, from coldest blue to hottest red. It brewed together with the wet and delicate snow, which had continued to fall regardless the turmoil it blanketed, and puffs of steam seemed to materialize from the combustion. She was caught in a cloud of it, hovering and shifting above Winterfell. The ends of her hair were alight, the silver threads of it crumbling and falling like dust on her shoulders. Screams sung together in a chorus and swam upward to her ears.

Daenerys Targaryen could see soldiers – Northmen, Knights of the Vale, Dorthraki, Unsullied – battling wights along the boundaries of Winterfell's walls. Small shards of dragonglass glinted in their hands. Evacuees cowered beyond the Godswood, the flames of which were slowly dwindling. Once it died, they'd be left out in the open. Categories like "soldier" or "civilian" wouldn't distinguish anyone. They'd all be left to be chased down on the open moors. They'd all rise again to chase down others.

Innocents would be burned. It couldn't be helped. The dragons could not control where their fire traveled. Her dragons were intelligent creatures, but once they were given the command they didn't think about where the fire might roll. As a queen, all she could do was pray to the Gods those caught in the pyre knew when and where to run. Because it had become a pyre by now. The ancient stronghold, the bricks and beliefs of which had formed her King into the man she'd married, was diminishing under the weight of fire.

Something in the air changed. She was circling the castle walls, riding lower now to better survey the scene. Some alteration of atmospheric pressure was pinching between her shoulder blades. Squinting her eyes, she could see it now; the men still living were dropping their swords, their bows. It was a wave of anti-movement. Paralysis was spreading across the threadbare remnants of battle, and the wights were collapsing in clattering piles. The Night King's brood, most of whom were still clearing out the castle's courtyard, began to lose form, the contours of their earthly shape blurring, and one by one they erupted.

She struggled to keep up, couldn't make sense of what she was seeing. They were there, living nightmares, and then they were not. Her head whipped from disappearing body to disappearing body, like a cat following a light, and it was then that her head ran ahead of her mind. Her chin tilted up violently and her violet eyes searched for Viserion. They caught him, held his decaying body with her gaze as though she could hold it in her hand, and watched him as he died a second time. It started at the tips of him, his wings, his tail, and his snout, and then moved inward toward his heart. Like he was erased from existence.

What new attack was this? How much more precarious could their situation become? As her chest cavity filled with panicky acid, Daenerys Targaryen dug in her heels and urged Drogon to land. Rhaegal began mournfully lowing across the sky. There wasn't a sound otherwise, no swords locked in combat, no children wailing in fear. It was as though the world had stopped spinning in its orbit and been thrown into reverse.

Drogon's long legs landed bent and soft on the muddy, torn-up field; simultaneously, the door to the crypt tunnels flew open. It slammed loudly against the wall behind it and Jon Snow fell out. The Queen held her stomach, protruding with child, and slid roughly from her dragon's back. The King scrambled back up on his hands and knees, flung himself a few more steps, and fell again. She ran to him, breathless, suspended between one revelation and the next. What is this world? What more can there be?

His shoulders smoldered in the snow, melting the snow surrounding him and creating a crown of dying grass beneath his body. Daenerys Targaryen fell on her knees at his side, pulling his torso into her lap and burying her cold face into his hot wet hair. It was then she knew it was over.

The Old Gods and the New

When the flames sprung forth from magic, engulfing walls which had stood for ages, unfurling like a tongue through the resting place of the dead, it was a cleansing. It was making the world ready to be remade in a new image. Only that which is reborn in fire can rid the world of treacherous cold.

Half or less of those at Winterfell when the battle broke remained breathing enough to watch the battle die. The hillocks of dead were made from the decomposing soil of those who'd traveled great distances to defend the world; the ones who'd survived it were left to pray at the altar they'd made.

The two sisters survived, the red-haired one with the spine made of steel and the smaller one, with the cunning face and the thin sword made of blood. The new world would be one which didn't drown them in sorrow. In time, the walls of Winterfell would be rebuilt, the lesser castles and smaller towns of the North once again thriving with children, and the red-haired one would oversee it all. And the cunning one? She would travel the seven kingdoms, make friends throughout them all – a few enemies – and more than once staying in the Stormlands longer than anywhere else.

The blacksmith survived. He supplied a ramshackle army with enough swords to outfight the dead. His arms had felt inflated, stuffed with straw, after so many swinging blows to the anvil. When it was required of him, however, his muscles accessed their last reserve of strength to swing his hammer in battle. How could he have known that the new king would raise him up, make a lord out of a bastard? How could he have known how much his people would love their new lord, the first Stag to ever know what it meant to be hungry.

The loyal adviser, with the honeyed skin and corkscrew hair, finally allowed the tears to fall; she'd been holding them in for so long. She didn't know then that her soldier was crushed beneath a toppled rampart. She didn't know she would find him just in time; he would lose an arm but keep his life.

The two soldiers who stood taller than the rest, the man and the woman, had learned there were good people in the world. They would find purpose on the Kingsguard together, old hatreds left in the World Before.

One Hand frantically moved throughout the huddled masses of frightened survivors, his agile mind taking careful note of which underaged Lords and widowed Ladies were among them. The other Hand, the one who had lived through so much defeat, had folded to the ground, his head low in grateful, victorious benediction.

Of course, the Three-Eyed Raven knew all of this. He knew what the years would bring. He had known the Fire Priestess would walk into the burning Godswood once she saw the dragon die again, had known the Living would defeat the Dead. Only he could see how easy the next journey would be.

A False Queen dead by her own hand, tricked by the Red-Haired sister's raven and heartbroken at the abandonment of the brother. That had not been a true prophecy – that had been a thorn strategically placed by a vengeful witch in a spoiled girl's side.

Gold Soldiers from across the Great Salt Sea would be there, within the walls of a filthy city. Although they traveled far, they would fail to defend the city. A bloodless exchange of power would ensue. Those who fight for gold find it easier to lay down the sword.

All eyes would be toward the sky as the King and Queen flew overhead. All eyes would be toward the castle when the princess was born. She would be named for no one. She would be loved. The New World would be a kinder one because of this King and Queen. The poorest in the Seven Kingdoms would live lives less cold, and the richest would feel more fire. There would be so much less suffering in the world, and the summers would be bright and crisp, the winters mild.

It was such a burden to be alone in knowledge, but that was part of the deal that had been made. That burden had weighed heavily on the last Raven, too. The Gods knew, but we could only communicate in signs that humans had forgotten how to read. So we sat back and watched, and mourned when it was necessary.

We watched now as the fired continued to burn. It was keeping the survivors warm through the night. We watched the snow continue to fall. We watch the Queen cradle the King in her lap. He breathed still, but it was hard for him to move. He had been unburned by the fire in the tunnel, but the smoke had blackened his lungs. Rolling slightly, he reached his gloved hands up and felt the uneven ends of her singed silver hair. She cradled him beneath his arms and helped pull him to his feet. Dragons continued to fly overhead, calling into the sky. Wordless eyes, irises swollen with awe followed them as they walked slowly.

He leaned into her, bruised and sore but living, and placed one hand protectively on her stomach. The old Hand stands when they finally reach him, and he embraces them because he remembers these two are scared humans just as much as they are rulers. The little Hand has his hands clasped behind his back when he calmly joins them, and like so many occasions earlier in his life, he cannot help smiling when he knows that he shouldn't. There is no way for him to know how this game of thrones will play out, but at that moment he has a good feeling.