Arya. Get Bran out of here.
The trenches are down. The south wall is down. Our cavalry is dead. Half our fighters have gone mad with fear.
The battle is not over yet!
It doesn't matter. Get Brain out of here, NOW!
Arya looks into her brothers eyes. Sees that he is serious. She nods. Moves to leave. Stops herself. Returns and hugs him. He rustles her hair, managing a quick proud smile of his own.
Arya departs. She doesn't ask The Hound or BERIC DONDARRION to follow her. She doesn't need to. She goes, they follow.
So let me get this straight. I survived the Fist of the First Men, Craster's Keep - twice -, Castle Black, and Eastwatch, just to be torn to shreds at Winterfell?
Fuck my life!
That's the spirit.
ARCHERS! PIKEMEN! ON THE READY! PREPARE YOURSELVES!
On the south side, Brienne's perimeter is joined by Jorah and the three-hundred-or-so Dothraki whose eyes remain not-blue. Behind him, the flames of the seventh and last trench suddenly die out.
Meanwhile Daenerys continues her hunt. She doesn't look angry or frightened or even stressed. There's a strange calm about her.
She's flying her first child, accompanied by her second, hunting down the tortured remains of her third. This is exactly where she belongs.
Up in the air, bringing fire and justice upon those who deserve it.
The hunt is bringing her to the same ravine she flew through with Jon not one week previously. The ravine is filled with twists and turns, but Viserion cannot escape her.
They are close, almost close enough for Drogon's fires to reach the Night King. Daenerys prepares to utter her fiery command.
That's when the first spears drop.
Rhaegal howls in pain, and Daenerys looks back at her wounded child. She then looks up. The top of this part of the ravine is flanked by White Walkers, each armed with ice-spears.
She has flown straight into a trap.
She shouts out a demand in Valyrian and Drogon and the injured Rhaegal fly up while simultaneously burning the White Walkers ahead. The ice-spears keep coming.
They are perhaps three kilometers away from the ravine when Viserion swoops down on them like a giant hawk.
Viserion cuts down Rhaegal mid-air, who crashes into the snowy forests below with another pained howl.
Drogon obeys, bathing Viserion and the Night King in flames. Viserion keeps flying, now charging back towards Winterfell.
The Night King again seems to smirk as He flies away. Have these mortals learned nothing? Fire can't hurt a...
Fire can't hurt a dragon. But fire is the perfect method for bringing down wights. This new, undead Viserion can stand his own ice-blue flames, but Drogon's fire were effective.
The Night King's mount is still burning. And dropping.
Three kilometers south of Winterfell Viserion has dropped far enough to crash into the trees, being torn into ashen pieces strewn throughout the woods. The Night King won't die from the fall.
But He certainly isn't pleased.
Drogon's landing isn't pretty, crushing three growing pines on the way. But he lands, and Daenerys glides off his back and rushes towards the convulsing bloodied mess in front of them.
Rhaegal is lying in a huge pool of his own blood, his screeching is feeble, almost pathetic.
With zero regard for her own safety she runs up to him and throws herself at his head. She holds on to him, stares straight into his crazed eyes and whispers in High Valyrian.
And Rhaegal stops convulsing. Stops almost entirely, his body relaxing, his gaze focused on his mother, who is now dropping her voice to a comforting whisper.
Drogon approaches slowly, making noises that wouldn't sound out of place from a grieving dog.
Drogon muzzles his sibling, and Daenerys lullabies her child, and Rhaegal dies surrounded by the warmth of his family.
For the first time in a long while, Daenerys breaks down in tears. There is no one here to see her do it. No one to judge her. No one to shame her. Just her and her children.
Above her head, the full-moon is joined by northern lights.
Northern lights illuminate the battle of Winterfell.
* The undead are by the walls. For now they are being repelled by flaming arrows and obsidian-tipped pikes and the determination of the Warden of the North.
* The undead have pushed through the gate, but not through the perimeter.
The Unsullied are being cut down by the hundreds, but remain at their posts, pushing back the undead with their spears (and swords and axes,
because the unsullied are trained in many types of fighting, as has been established).
Northmen and Valemen are being cut down by the hundreds as well, but they continue fighting, still led by Brienne and c:o.
Brienne's ferocity is something to behold, bringing doom upon the undead in a way that almost makes you pity them.
* Arya, the Hound and Beric are making good progress.
* In the Godswood, BRAN STARK is contemplating the meaning of life while THEON GREYJOY, ALYS KARSTARK and LYANNA MOTHERF*CKING MORMONT and their fighting men and women brace themselves.
Outside the walls, the White Walkers bring out their final ice-spears. This time they cut their own hands with them, not unlike how Beric does with his sword to set it ablaze.
But from where Jon is standing, he can't see any difference.
The White Walkers stride forth to the ever-growing hill of shot-down undead. Jon orders his archers to fire their last obsidian-tipped arrows at the White Walkers.
Some arrows hit their mark, and some White Walkers are brought down. The rest plunge their ice-spears into the hill of undead bodies, which instantly freezes solid.
The cold is so intense that the wall shudders, parts of it even breaking. The wall is exposed, and now the undead army has a newly-made staircase to climb.
Jon Snow unsheathes Longclaw.
It's the ice-spiders that first cut through the perimeter. Them and the remaining giant.
They go through the Northmen (clearly the weakest part of the perimeter, what with the Unsullied refusing to budge an inch) and continue into Winterfell proper.
Brienne's resolve doesn't waver. She keeps fighting, bringing death upon as many undead as she can. She is fierce. She is strong. And she is mortal.
She screams out in pain as the receives the sword-blow from the ice-spidermounted White Walker. She goes down, Oathkeeper out of reach.
The White Walker prepares to finish her off, only to have Widow's Wail shoved through its back.
The White Walker goes down, and Jaime stabs the ice-spider through its head before kneeling down to aid Brienne.
He helps her up and gives her Oathkeeper. Behind them the undead continue their charge. The two of them can't flee. They must keep on fighting.
Fighting the undead is bad enough, but the White Walkers are powerful opponents, and Brienne is at a disadvantage.
Even so she manages to cut down two of them before Oathkeeper is stuck in the ribs of a third. With its dying breath it kicks her down to the ground and collapses on top of her.
Behind it, the next White Walker lunges at her.
...She doesn't see him move until it's too late.
His blood splatters over her face, forcing her to close her eyes and wipe her brow. When she looks up again, she is staring into the dying eyes of Jaime Lannister, impaled on an ice-lance.
Brienne screams in grief and anger. Forcing herself upright she catches Widow's Wail just as Jaime drops it and cuts the White Walker's head clean off with it.
Jaime falls to the ground, choking on blood. Brienne kneels by his side.
Behind her another two White Walkers prepare to launch themselves at her when they are suddenly ambushed by Podrick and Gendry.
Jaime looks up at Brienne. He is trying to speak.
Trying to come up with a final smart-alecky remark, perhaps? Or maybe he's trying to apologize? Or perhaps even trying to put into words the feelings that he has harboured for so long?
But his tongue and lungs fail him. So instead he just gives Brienne a final smirk. No. Not a smirk this time. A smile. The first genuine smile she sees upon his face, and the last...
Ser Brienne! We must pull back!
The undead have caught up with Arya.
This suits her just fine.
With her new spear she is bringing doom upon them in a manner perhaps different from Brienne in style, but not in ferocity or efficiency.
Wights, White Walkers, ice-spiders, it makes no difference. Arya cuts them down all the same.
The Hound and Beric are fighting side-by-side back-to-back. Neither looks particularly pleased, but are too busy not dying to voice their displeasure. They make a surprisingly good team.
A wight charges headfirst towards Bran Stark. A flaming arrow strikes it through a perfectly blue eye and brings it down. Theon lowers his bow and stares in the direction from which it came.
There is movement over there. This wight was just the first of many, many more to come.
Northerners: keep calm! Our ancestors won the North, our ancestors kept the North, and so shall we. The North shall prevail!
(to Bran, quieter) Doesn't seem as though I need to tell you to keep calm, lord Stark.
I think it's been established by now that I don't care about anything ever.
Good thing you're not a leader, then.
Lyanna unsheathes her weapon - a gladius-like sword covered in small obsidian spikes - and prepares herself. Wights are now entering the Godswood. Wights. Ice-spiders. And a f*cking giant.