The Night King can see the rabble from the Red Keep. He turns to his White Walker commanders, and without a single word leaving His lips they know what to do.
Leaving Him with sixteen of them as a new divine Kingsguard, the rest move down through the wight hordes. The wights themselves have ceased their onslaught on the King's Landing inhabitants.
Instead they too move towards what was recently the main gates of King's Landing. The city is slowly emptying, the forces of the dead preparing to receive the charge of the defenders.
The Final Battle is at hand.
Hear me, Northerners. Hear me, Southerners. Riverlands soldiers and Dornish warriors. Wildlings and Unsullied. Brothers! Sisters!
Do not give in to despair. Do not give up hope. Today is not the day when Westeros falls. Today is not the day when winter triumphs over summer.
This is not the night that will swallow all life, but the dawn that will grant us all life.
Stand with me! Fight with me! Fight for everything and everyone you've ever held dear! Move forwards, and FIGHT!!!
The cheering of the Defenders is deafening.
And they charge!
Mounted or on foot, it makes no difference. They all charge.
The plains tremble with the pounding of their feet and the pounding of the onslaught of the undead. White Walkers charge, mounted on undead horses or the last few ice-spiders.
The Defenders' Charge come closer and closer, weapons drawn, preparing for the impact. But suddenly they give way, splitting right in the middle. As to give way for something.
Drogon's howl brings death to all other sounds as he thunders down through the lines of the Defenders.
Drogon bares his teeth, opens up, and spews forth flame.
The front lines of the Army of the Dead are engulfed in fire. Drogon plows forth above their heads, fire-bombing them relentlessly. Mounted on him are Daenerys, come to liberate Westeros.
And behind her sits Tyrion Lannister, who has never been more terrified or more jubilant in his entire life.
On the plains below, the Defenders clash with the Dead.
The Final Battle for Westeros begins.
In the great labyrinths beneath the Red Keep,
a group of Lannister soldiers - among whom we recognize the relatively pleasant young men Arya encountered in the Riverlands last season - are being pushed back by wights.
Apparently, there are still enough wights to spare from the battle on the plains.
From the sides of the labyrinth, the enormous skulls of dragons long-since dead look down on the slaughter to come.
One of the Lannister soldiers fall to the ground, and looks up at the closest wight which launches on him, only to suddenly be impaled on a familiar obsidian-tipped spear.
The Lannisters turn around, facing Arya Stark, Jon Snow, Ser Brienne of Tarth and the Hound, all armed to the teeth. The wights launch, and the four cut them down.
After the battle of Winterfell, a handful of wights are nothing to them.
At the end of the labyrinth is a slip. It's not large, but it should be enough for you lot. Get out of here while you can.
The soldiers stare at her, recognizing her as...
They don't need to be told a third time. They give thankful nods to the crew, and then flee.
Are you sure you can find your way to the Throne Room?
Quite sure. Come on.
The four make their way through the labyrinth.
The third phase of Tyrion's master plan begins.
The battle at the plains continue. There is not a single human out there who isn't giving it his or her all. They may be outnumbered, but they are determined.
Ghost, Nymeria and the other canines are proving quite useful. They may not be able to kill wights, but they can quite easily tear them to useless shreds.
And Sansa still sits atop Ghost, obsidian blade in hand. She is no weathered warrior, but she had no intentions of being the only Stark not fighting today.
Podrick and GENDRY got each other's backs, cutting down wights left and right. Tormund and his wildlings give thanks for the years living in threat of White Walker punishment.
Grey Worm and his Unsullied cut down line after line of wights. Meera avenges her brother and her friends. The Dothraki do their Dothraki thing.
And Jorah beheads wight after wight, and even the occasional mounted White Walker.
And Daenerys, Tyrion and Drogon continue bringing fiery death from above, systematically burning line after line of wights.
Every now and then the flames die and Drogon gives off rumbling noises. Perhaps he too is being pushed to his limits.
But every time Daenerys and Tyrion fret that he has no more flames to give, he incinerates another thousand wights.
He is avenging his siblings and defending his mother, and will continue doing so until he hasn't got so much as a single spark left in him.
The Night King watches the onslaught from the Red Keep.
The fools. What can they hope to achieve? They are outnumbered ten to one, and His fighters won't stay down even if they go down. What is the purpose of this?
He stirs. Something is wrong.
He dodges an obsidian-tipped spear, which instead impales the White Walker standing behind Him. He turns, and sees four humans charging towards Him.
He draws His ice-sword. The other White Walkers draw theirs. And then the demons and the humans clash.
Out on the plains, thousands of Defenders fight thousands of Dead.
In the Throne Room, four Defenders fight seventeen Demons.
It is a glorious battle.
Jon brings destruction with Longclaw, using every technique at his disposal to bring back the White Walkers.
Arya cuts down a White Walker at the knees and cuts its throat with her Valyrian steel dagger before gliding across the floor and retrieving her obsidian spear.
Brienne dual-wields Oathkeeper and Widow's Wail, keeping off four White Walkers simultaneously.
The Hound beheads a White Walker and pushes another against the wall. He bombards it with blow after blow, hacking off limb and bone. He then slings away its disintegrating body.
It falls by someone's feet. The Hound locks eyes with The Mountain.
You've got to be kidding me.
The Mountain lungs forth, and Cleganebowl begins.
The streets of King's Landing are lined with wights queuing to get out on the plains and tear Defenders apart. Suddenly it begins pouring. Not rain. Oil.
LIGHT THE FUCKERS UP!!!
The oil is ignited, and down on the streets hundreds of wights are now burning, while Lannister soldiers look down from the rooftops.
They pour oil over the dead, throw down spears and lances, fire arrows, drops rocks - everything they've got.
There aren't many Lannister soldiers still defending the city, a few hundred at most. But these are still fighting. They have seen the battle on the plains, and it has given them hope.
Even if they can't defeat the dead, they can still ensure that as many people as possible can be evacuated from the docks. And they can take as many wights with them as they can.
On the plains outside the city the battle carries on. And in the air, Daenerys and Tyrion have first-row seats to it all.
I have always dreamt of one day flying a dragon.
I HAVE ALWAYS DREAMT OF FLYING A DRAGON!
AND IS IT EVERYTHING YOU DREAMT IT WOULD BE?
BEATS THE GREATEST LAY OF MY LIFE BY A LANDSLIDE.
EVER THE POET!
Drogon incinerates another thousand wights.
In the Throne Room, the frenzied fighting continues.
Jon, Arya, Brienne and the Hound are all giving it everything they've got. But is it enough?
The Hound chops off the Mountain's right hand. He dodges a blow from the Mountain's left and then chops that one off as well, before burying his axe in his brother's breastplate.
How d'you like me now you son of a bitch?!
The Mountain replies by headbutting his brother.
The Night King watches the fighting. This isn't possible. His men aren't men. They are White Walkers, created by Him in His own image.
They can't be defeated by some pretty-boy, a girl, a giant woman, and the half-burned husk of a man. This can't be.
The Night King turns His gaze out through the main gates. Even from here He can see the battle at the plains. The dragon is still incinerating His army.
By now, half of it has disappeared in the flames.
He scowls. He howls. And He remembers.
He is not a wight. He is not a White Walker. He is the Night King. He is Winter, with many more weapons at His disposal.
Without giving His guard so much as a final look He turns and exits the Throne Room, heading to the staircase that will lead him to the very top of the highest tower of the Red Keep.
Go after him! We'll hold them off!
Jon gives her a look. Sees the seriousness in his eyes. Nods, and then heads off after the Night King. Two of the White Walkers pursue him, the rest stay to finish off the three other humans.
Drogon swoops past, incinerating yet another line of wights. He is getting close to the city walls now. Very close.
There aren't many White Walkers left among the ranks of the Army of the Dead. But those that are left have now gathered by the remains of the main gates. They have received their orders.
There is still a chance for them to win.
They head up to the battlements, where the scorpion crossbows await. There are ten of them still functioning, but only nine remaining bolts. It will have to do.
Nine White Walkers stand by their respective scorpion, and prepare themselves.