Davos is sending out ravens. To the Twins, to Riverrun, even to King's Landing. The people must know of the approaching doom.
Do not give in to despair, Ser Davos.
The Lord of Light spared you. He still has plans for you.
I swore that I would execute you if I ever saw you again.
And here I am.
He looks up into her eyes. She is entirely calm. Not defiant. Not praying that he'll change his mind. Calm. The calm of someone who has accepted her fate.
They go out on the Plaza. Melisandre kneels, and Davos unsheathes his sword.
Any last words?
For what's it worth, I truly am sorry for your losses. For Shireen. For Matthos. And for Stannis. I pray that when the Lord of Light is done with you, He will grant you peace.
The blade descends, and another life ends within the walls of Winterfell. Davos is shaking, fighting back tears.
He drops the crimsoned sword by the body of the red priestess and makes his way into the relative warmth of the castle walls. The snow keeps on falling, quickly covering Melisandre.
Soon enough, there's not a spot of red left in the Plaza.
Tyrion, Sansa & c:o have been granted asylum at Riverrun.
EDMURE TULLY is cowardly, but even he has his limits. And these days it's not as though the Lannisters have the man-power to enforce their rule over the Riverlands.
So the 2'000 men who surrendered to Ser Jaime have returned, and found enough weaponry to again resemble a fighting force.
TYRION is sitting in the Riverrun Great Hall, drowning his sorrows in wine. A lot of wine. Too much wine.
I haven't seen you this drunk since our wedding night. And I've only barely seen you sober.
It becomes easier once you get into the flow of it all. Soon enough the wine goes down as easy as water. Easier, in fact. Allow me to demonstrate.
Sansa removes the wine flagon(s) from his reach and sit down beside him. They are joined by MISSANDEI, VARYS and SAMWELL.
So what do we do now? What's the plan?
The plan? The plan hasn't changed. Everything has changed but the plan. Kill the Night King. Use Bran Stark has bait, and kill him.
Bran is dead.
There isn't the tiniest trace of doubt in her voice. She knows. They all know. They all had the same dream, or dreams similar enough to make no difference.
My point exactly. Bran is dead. The plan is dead. All is lost. So if you'll excuse me, I have organs to kill.
Tyrion reclaims the flagons and fills another glass to the brim. The others look at him. Then they begin pouring for themselves.
Refugees are pouring into King's Landing. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Too many to fit within the city walls, so many that encampments are made along the walls.
They have all dreamt the dreams. They have all heard the rumors. And the fastest riders among them have seen the truth for themselves.
Death is descending from the North. It's in no rush. It's as though the Night King is savouring the taste of Westeros' collapse, inch by excruciating inch.
The remaining Lannister forces and the Golden Company continue their preparations. Some 30'000 men strong in all, with battle elephants, and scorpion crossbows, and catapults.
And the Iron Fleet, led by EURON GREYJOY. Not to mention a certain green substance, which the alchemists of the city have been continuously producing for months.
Cersei looks down at the city. Her city. She is not going to give it up without a fight. It doesn't matter if the invaders have pulses or not. She will burn them all.
Euron ascends from his private quarters aboard the Silence. Another beautiful day filled with potential for mayhem. And as it happens, today mayhem is awaiting him.
Top o' the mornin' to you, sweet uncle.
Euron can barely believe his eyes. His niece is standing right there, on deck, bold as brass, grinning at him. He doesn't know whether to be proud or not.
Dearest niece. What a relief to have you returned safe and sound. I lost I don't know how many nights of sleep in your absence. Come here and let me embrace you.
I'm afraid you may have caught sick, sweet uncle, and I'd hate to catch your whatever disease it is you're carrying.
Well then, niece dearest, if you are not here to give your uncle a hug, then why are you here?
Kill you. Commandeer the Iron Fleet. Reclaim the Salt Throne. Possibly but not necessarily in that order.
Oh? And how do you intend to do all of that?
She snaps her fingers. From behind Euron one of the Iron Islanders step forth and shoves a spear through his gut.
I'm afraid your disease must have cost you your wits. And your senses. Specifically your eye sight. Otherwise you would have noticed me and mine infiltrating your fleet. Sorry, my fleet.
The best part is we've barely had to kill anyone. Seems like your disease also cost you the loyalty of our fellow Ironborn. Seems like allowing me to escape was the last straw.
She strides forth. Euron, wounded but alive and raging, launches at her with a dagger from his belt.
With a brutal and elegant little technique she cuts off his hands, and then grabs him by the throat, dragging him to the stern.
The Iron Islands have been sick for too long. They need a cure. A good, strong leader. Such as myself.
I thank you for teaching me many important lessons about the realities of this world, sweet uncle. Sweet dreams.
She ties his feet to a heavy chest and kicks it off-board. He swiftly follows it, and disappears into the depths of the Blackwater. She doesn't avert her gaze.
You see that, little Theon? Now we are free, you and I.
What is dead may never die.
From the battlement of King's Landing Cersei observes as the Iron Fleet abandons her. She breaks the wine glass in her hands and screams out in anger.
The Trident is covered by ice. The air is filled with snow. And the Army of the Dead have reached The Twins.
The Night King sits on the small throne on which Walder Frey once sat. The Great Hall of the Twins is filled with White Walkers, everyone that He hasn't left as provincial commanders.
Besides Himself there are eighty-eight in the Hall. The battle for Winterfell was costlier than anticipated. No matter.
The White Walkers may have waned in numbers, but the number of wights have increased.
Even with the majority of the Westerosi swiftly fleeing south there are now 250'000 undead warriors approaching King's Landing.
The old Gods are dethroned, and all's right with the world.
Daenerys is re-dressing Jon's arm wound. It's not healing the way it should. Whatever ice-like substance the White Walker weaponry is made of, it sure knows how to pack a punch.
Jon doesn't entirely mind. Pain gives him focus.
We can't allow this to be the end. We can't allow their sacrifices to mean nothing. And we can't allow my subjects to be enslaved by that... evil.
What can we do? If we go out into that blizzard there is no guarantee that we can make it far enough south to escape True Winter before it's too late.
And even if we would catch up with the Undead, what can we do? We don't have the numbers. And with Rhaegal gone...
...I'm sorry, Dany. I just... I just don't see it. I don't see the hope.
At Riverrun, the maester and his assistants are tending to Tyrion, who has gone sick with drinking. Sansa is waiting outside, with Varys joining her. What is there to say?
Lady Stark? I have done all that I can, but I'm afraid it has not been enough. A man of his stature, and so much poison... You may want to stay by his side tonight.
The maester departs.
Sansa, Varys, Missandei, TORMUND, Sam and GILLY are sitting by Tyrion's bed, waiting for the inevitable. Waiting for him to draw his final breath.
Where he's lying, Tyrion appears to be in pain. Cold sweat keeps flowing from his brow. Every now and then Sansa wipes it off, only for more to appear.
His breathing becomes more and more laborious. Until eventually, it stops altogether.
Silence fills the room.
Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, Hand of the Queen, Saviour of King's Landing, Drinker, Knower, Reader, Writer, Philosopher, Friend, is de...
Tyrion bolts from his bed, his eyes as clear as a frozen lake.
I have a plan!