The winds screamed across the battlements of White Harbor, their howling drowned only by the shrieks of the dead. Snow battered the stone ramparts in blinding waves. Paxter Redwyne stood there, sword drawn, cloak torn and fluttering violently behind him. His breath steamed in the frozen air, chest rising and falling as he braced himself for the next charge.
Wights by the dozens hurled themselves at the gates, crawling over the walls like spiders made of rot and ice. The city's defenders—Manderly men, Reach levies, and Dorne's hardened vanguard—struggled to hold the line. They fought with fire and dragonglass, with fear in their hearts and steel in their hands.
Behind them, Lord Wyman Manderly stood atop the inner parapet, barking orders with the fury of a drowning man grasping at air. "Hold the line! Protect the port! No one yields!"
Paxter pivoted, slashing down a snarling corpse that had climbed too high. Another sprang at him, and he knocked it away with the pommel of his sword. "We're thinning," he muttered, to no one in particular. His men were down to torches, axes, and desperation.
Then it happened.
The wights froze mid-charge. Not just one—but all of them.
Their eyes dulled. Their limbs shuddered. And then, one by one, they collapsed—crumbling into ash, into shards of ice, into nothing.
The storm halted.
The sky, moments ago a churning cauldron of blizzard and shadow, cleared.
The clouds parted.
A single shaft of sunlight broke through, striking the sea and casting a golden sheen across the bloodied docks.
Silence.
For a long moment, no one moved. Then a Manderly archer lowered his bow. A Dornish woman let her spear fall from numb fingers. A Reach soldier sat down on the stones and began to cry.
Paxter staggered forward, falling to one knee. Snow clung to his armor, sweat cooled on his brow.
"They won," he said aloud, eyes searching the distant horizon to the north. "They did. We won!"
A roar of relief rose from the walls and streets. What few bells remained were rung. Civilians emerged from hiding places, blinking at the sudden stillness. Children wept and clung to their mothers. Soldiers dropped their weapons and embraced.
Lord Manderly descended the tower steps and gripped Paxter's shoulder. "Get every able-bodied man. Wagons. Horses. Food and water. We ride for Winterfell."
Paxter nodded, forcing himself to rise. "Send word to Oldtown and Sunspear. Let them know the living prevailed. And have the healers meet us on the road."
Within the hour, carts were loaded, and riders mounted. The convoy formed like an artery of hope through a city that had brushed the brink of death.
The road ahead would be difficult. The land between White Harbor and Winterfell was frozen and scorched. But the battle was over.
And now, the living must rebuild.
As the celebration settled into weary silence, Paxter wasted no time. He pulled off his torn gloves and stepped into the command tent pitched near the docks, calling for scribes and stewards. Maps were unfurled across a long wooden table—routes to Winterfell, estimates of supply, numbers of able-bodied men and draft animals.
"Load every cart we can spare," Paxter ordered. "Flour, dried meat, dragonglass, bandages—anything that moves goes north."
Dozens of wagons were assembled: heavy freight carts from the Reach, sleek Dornish sand-wagons drawn by hardy mules, and Manderly-built sleighs reinforced with steel runners. Blacksmiths refitted broken axles, carpenters braced wagon wheels, and healers distributed medicinal packs to the riders.
Lord Manderly joined Paxter outside, bundled in a great bearskin cloak. "My household guard is ready," he said. "And my son will command the second vanguard."
"Good," Paxter replied. "We ride as soon as the lead team is hitched."
Just then, another rider galloped through the falling snow, his banner trailing a golden spear—Prince Martell. He dismounted with purpose. "I have thirty riders. My men have seen enough of the coast. We go north with you."
The three lords clasped hands beneath the pale sky.
Then, as if blessed by the gods themselves, the first true miracle revealed itself.
The blizzard—once an unrelenting wall of death—vanished. The wind softened, the clouds broke apart, and gentle snow began to fall like feathers. The light of the early dawn cast gold and silver across the devastated city.
And then came the sound—low at first, but unmistakable.
Crack.
The White Knife River, long frozen by unnatural cold, groaned as ice split and shimmered. Water flowed again. Fish leapt. The current stirred as if exhaling after a long sleep.
Lord Manderly looked up from his caravan preparations and smiled faintly. "By the old gods, the north is saved," he whispered.
By midmorning, the great caravan rolled out of White Harbor, its columns stretching back across the stone bridge. Paxter rode at the front beside Lord Manderly and Prince Martell. Together, they led a convoy of hope through a land reborn by fire, blood, and frost.