Rhaegal descended through the blizzard-choked skies, his wings beating back snow and ash. The flames of Winterfell cast orange streaks across the dark clouds. Below, the shattered towers of the ancient keep flickered like dying candles. With a roar, the dragon swept low over the ramparts and banked sharply toward the Godswood.
Jon gripped the saddle tightly. Across his back was strapped the branch—now carved into the hilt of a dagger, wrapped in leather and cloth. He could feel it pulsing, faint and warm like a heartbeat.
Rhaegal touched down atop the ramparts overlooking the Godswood. The stone groaned beneath his claws. Jon dismounted with a grimace and landed on shaky feet, the cold biting instantly through his soaked cloak.
He sprinted across the bloodied ramparts, peering into the heart of the grove.
Below, the final stand had begun.
Bran sat still beneath the weirwood, untouched by chaos. The heart tree's red leaves fluttered as if stirred by an unseen force. At the center of the snowy grove, Arya Stark danced through death.
She moved like wind, like shadow. Her twin blades flashed against the cold blue steel of the Night King's sword. He matched her, blow for blow, moving with eerie grace. Each strike was precise. She ducked a swing, rolled, and jabbed—but the Night King caught her by the wrist and threw her into the snow.
She groaned, dazed.
The Night King advanced.
Then Jon burst into the grove.
"Get away from her!"
The Night King turned, just in time to meet Jon's charge. Ice met fire as their weapons clashed. The carved branch burned faintly as Jon struck again and again. But the Night King was tireless. His sword hissed with frost, cutting into Jon's cloak, driving him back.
With one mighty blow, the Night King sent Jon sprawling.
At the grove's edge, Theon Greyjoy fought like a man possessed. He held the line against half a dozen white walkers, slashing and parrying with every ounce of strength. He shouted orders to wounded guards behind him.
"For the Queen! For the living!"
One white walker lunged. Theon caught its blade with his own—but another stabbed low. Arya cried out, blood darkening the snow. Still he stood, spear flashing, holding them back from Bran.
Inside the grove, Arya stirred, crawling toward her blade.
The Night King raised his sword over Jon.
Then Arya screamed.
Jon rolled to the side, snatching the carved dagger from its cloth sheath.
The Night King turned—too late.
Jon lunged.
The blade struck.
Blue flame erupted from the Night King's chest. His scream pierced the night, raw and human. His flesh cracked. Shattered.
And he was gone.
The white walkers froze.
Then shattered into ice.
Around the grove, the undead collapsed like puppets cut from their strings.
Silence returned.
Arya fell to her knees beside Jon.
Bran opened his eyes.
The war was over.
But its echoes did not fade quickly.
Jon slumped to his knees beside Arya, breath ragged, hand still clutching the smoldering hilt of the branch-dagger. The grove was eerily silent now, save for the low rustle of the weirwood's red leaves—no longer trembling with fear, but with release. Snow drifted down gently, like ashes from a great pyre, falling on the bodies of the slain and the fallen.
Paxter groaned from the grove's edge, pressing a trembling hand to the wound at his side. A nearby guard who had survived the white walkers' collapse rushed to his side, applying pressure with a strip of torn cloak.
"Still standing," Arya murmured, teeth gritted. "Barely."
Jon forced himself to his feet, turning first to Arya. "Are you all right?"
She nodded faintly, blood running down her temple. "I've had worse."
His gaze then moved to Bran, who had remained unmoved during the entire ordeal. But now, slowly, Bran's pale eyes returned to normal. He blinked once, as if waking from a deep sleep.
"It's done," Bran said.
Jon nodded. He sheathed the branch-dagger and turned toward the Godswood gate.
"We have to tell them. They need to know it's over."
Arya rose behind him, flanked by the few surviving men-at-arms. The grove, once soaked in blood and fear, now stood serene—a place reborn through sacrifice.
As they stepped through the shattered gates, the sight beyond took Jon's breath away.
The courtyard was littered with fallen undead. Motionless. The flames had died down. Snow swirled gently over broken stones and frozen corpses.
The silence was surreal.
Then a sound—soft at first, then growing—cheers. Shouts of disbelief and relief.
"They're gone!"
"The dead are gone!"
Jon looked to the skies. Rhaegal still circled, letting out a victorious roar that echoed across the ruined walls of Winterfell.
Aura rushed hugged Jon, "You did it."
"No," Jon said. "We all did."
In the distance, Daenerys dismounted from Drogon near the battlements. Her eyes searched for Jon. When she spotted him, a tear ran down her cheek. She said nothing, only raised her hand—half in salute, half in thanks.
Jon raised his in return.
Beneath the weirwood, Bran stared into the middle distance, lips parted in a whisper no one could hear. Whatever he saw, it was beyond the veil of time.
Whatever came next, it would be shaped by those who had lived through this night.
But tonight, in the frozen stillness of Winterfell, they had done the impossible.
They had survived.