The sun broke gently over the horizon, casting a soft gold across the ruins of Winterfell. The snow had slowed to a silent drift, and the smoke that once blackened the sky had thinned, revealing pale blue above. The silence felt sacred, like the world itself had paused to mourn and remember.
Paxter Redwyne, cloaked in heavy fur and riding at the head of the great caravan, approached the gates of the ancient castle. Behind him stretched a column of wagons: supplies, food, medicine, and tents. Lord Manderly rode on his left, Prince Martell on his right. Together, they had brought what remained of White Harbor's hope and relief.
But what they saw turned their stomachs.
Winterfell was broken. Its walls cracked, towers shattered, courtyards flooded with frozen blood and slush. Burned corpses lay in charred snowbanks. Men and women with bandaged limbs limped among the wreckage. There were no songs, no calls of welcome—only the hollow silence of exhaustion and mourning. The scent of ash and soot clung to the air, mingling with the coppery sting of dried blood. Even the snow seemed heavier here, as if it too carried the weight of the battle fought.
From Paxter's vantage on the ramparts, the scale of loss became all too clear. Hundreds—no, thousands—had perished. The snow-covered field was littered with shattered weapons, ruined armor, and limbs frozen mid-crawl. Dothraki blood riders and Unsullied soldiers, many of them wounded and wrapped in bloodied bandages, moved quietly among the dead. They worked without complaint, dragging bodies toward the pyres with reverence, not haste. There were no orders shouted, no mourning wails—only the solemn rhythm of sacrifice and honor. Paxter closed his eyes briefly. This was no victory. It was survival, paid in blood.
As the sun reached its zenith, preparations for the funeral began. The sky turned grey again—not with storm but with sorrow. Outside Winterfell's gates, hundreds gathered beside the pyres, the wood stacked with grim purpose. It was not just the bodies that would burn, but the grief, the anguish, and the burden of those who had survived.
Jon Snow, Daenerys Targaryen, Sansa Stark, Arya, Tyrion, Jaime, Brienne, Samwell Tarly, and others stood in solemn rows. Each held a torch. In silence, they stepped forward and touched flame to wood.
Jorah Mormont.
Theon Greyjoy.
Lyanna Mormont.
Beric Dondarrion.
Dolorous Edd.
Thousands more unnamed.
Grey Worm stood with the Unsullied, their heads bowed. As the flames rose, he whispered a low chant in Valyrian—a funeral rite from a land long behind them, words soft but resonant, carrying across the still air.
Daenerys lingered at Jorah's pyre. "You were my shield, my friend," she whispered. "And I never said goodbye."
She placed her hand over her heart, turned, and walked away. Her steps were measured, but her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
Above, the dragons cried, their haunting wails echoing across the hills like dirges from the sky. Their grief pierced through even the most hardened warriors.
No words were spoken. The fire spoke for them all.
As twilight fell, a new purpose stirred within the battered walls. Night brought a different kind of fire—not of destruction, but of resilience. The Great Hall had been scrubbed clean, its shattered beams repaired with haste. Candles flickered along every wall. Meat roasted over hearths, bread and cheese passed hand to hand. Horns of ale and flasks of Arbor red made the rounds.
Laughter returned slowly, like birds after a storm. It began as a whisper—one smile, one soft chuckle—and then spread, blooming like spring in a land frozen too long.
Daenerys stood at the head table, flanked by Jon and Tyrion. The room fell quiet as she rose. She looked not just like a queen, but a survivor.
"There are many heroes in this hall," she said. "But one among us has fought long in silence, born of shadow, and proved himself true."
She looked to Gendry, who stood uncertainly, unsure whether to accept such praise in the presence of so many noble-born.
"You are no longer Gendry Rivers. You are Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End."
Gasps echoed. Then cheers erupted like thunder.
Gendry dropped to one knee. "I will serve the realm. And you, Your Grace. With honor."
That night, celebration and mourning shared the same hall. Later, outside the Great Hall, Arya found Gendry beneath a snow-draped archway. They said nothing at first. He took her hand. She pressed her forehead to his chest, letting silence speak for her.
"I thought I lost you," he whispered.
"You didn't," she replied.
He knelt, fumbling for something in his coat. "Marry me. When this is done."
Arya was still. Then she frowned. "I love you, but, I was planning to travel. I need time to think."
Back in the hall, the music grew louder.
Just before the music swelled, Daenerys rose once more. The feast quieted.
She turned her gaze to a tall, broad-shouldered man in armor bearing the falcon sigil of House Arryn.
"Lord Yohn Royce, acting Lord of the Vale," she said, her voice ringing through the Great Hall. "Will the Vale stand with me as the North, the South, and the East have?"
Yohn Royce stood slowly, then knelt. "The Vale stands with House Targaryen. The Eyrie bows to its Queen."
A murmur passed through the room—one of approval, of unity.
Daenerys nodded, satisfied. Her eyes slid to her left, where Tyrion Lannister stood stiffly with goblet in hand. "Then all that remains... is my Warden of the West."
Tyrion blinked, caught mid-sip. The room turned to him.
He set the goblet down, cleared his throat, and gave a rueful smile. "Then allow me to bend the knee before I'm pushed."
He knelt formally, though with an unmistakable glint of self-deprecation.
"I, Tyrion Lannister of Casterly Rock, swear fealty to Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men."
Daenerys raised her cup. "Then rise, my Hand—and Warden of the West."
Applause followed, echoing across the high rafters, sealing a unity not seen since before Robert's Rebellion. Davos laughed with Sam. Sansa danced once—just once—with Jon. Podrick sang, softly and beautifully. Even Brienne smiled, lifting a cup to toast the living.
The camera panned metaphorically across the room—laughter, wine, flames, stories.
And yet beneath it all, like a drumbeat under song, tension remained.
Because peace—true peace—never lasted long in Westeros.