Chapter 118: Battle of Winterfell 3

Snow and blue mist swirled violently across the frozen fields outside Winterfell. Midnight cloaked the world, pierced only by the hiss of fire trenches burning in concentric circles around the ancient stronghold. Each flame flickered against the wall of darkness pressing ever forward, casting long shadows over the ramparts. Above, the dragons wheeled like phantoms—Drogon and Rhaegal spitting gouts of fire—but even their infernos struggled against the cold.

Hiding in the wine cellar, Tyrion Lannister peered through a narrow slit in the door, his breath misting on the glass. Behind him, Varys organized panicked civilians, ushering them down the spiral stairs to safety.

"I should be out there," Tyrion said, more to himself than anyone else. "Doing something."

Varys placed a hand on his shoulder. "Words are our weapons, even now. You saved many lives tonight, my friend."

At the western flank, Brienne of Tarth, Jaime Lannister, and Podrick Payne stood atop a low wall, defending the breach. The sound of steel rang out with each impact. Brienne shouted over the chaos, issuing commands and holding formation as the wights surged again. Podrick felled a white walker with a dragonglass-tipped spear, but not before it slashed his side. Jaime caught him and pulled him back.

"Stay with us!" Jaime roared.

Then came the breach.

The undead had learned. Wights hurled themselves into the fire, piling atop one another until the flames choked and dimmed. Others ran over the burning corpses, shrieking in silence, their skin sloughing from the heat. In moments, the trench line collapsed.

Wights poured into the outer courtyard, scaling the walls like insects.

On the south side, Sandor Clegane—the Hound—stood paralyzed. Flames licked at a cart nearby. The crackle, the heat, the memories—he couldn't move.

A boy screamed. A young soldier, no older than ten, trapped beneath debris.

The Hound stared, frozen.

Then Arya appeared.

She darted between charging undead, dragging the boy from beneath the wreckage. She shouted back at the Hound. "Move!"

Something in her voice cut through the fire in his mind. With a guttural growl, Clegane sprang into motion, cleaving through the wights surrounding them. Together, they carried the boy behind the walls.

From the rear lines, Gendry rallied the castle's blacksmiths and armory hands. Each carried torches and hastily fashioned dragonglass pikes. "To the trench! With me!" he roared.

They stormed the collapsing outer defense, flanking the wights just as they began to circle northward. The blacksmiths bought precious time—slowing the advance, saving lives.

Above, Daenerys maneuvered Drogon in wide sweeps over the advancing horde. She saw a glint in the mist below.

A massive figure—a frost giant with a mammoth's skull for a helm—raised an ice spear.

It hurled the projectile skyward.

The spear tore through the night and clipped Drogon's wing. The beast shrieked and spiraled, flames bursting in panic. Daenerys held tight, muscles straining against the saddle's harness.

The dragon steadied just above the keep, smoke trailing from his wing. She pulled him higher, seeking safety in altitude.

And then it came.

A deafening crack echoed from the east gate.

An undead siege mammoth, covered in bone armor and chained with the limbs of the dead, barreled toward the castle.

It slammed into the gates.

Once. Twice.

On the third, the oak doors split.

With a thunderous groan, Winterfell's outer gates collapsed.

The dead poured in—rushing like a tide.

Screams erupted within the walls. Children. Elders. Fighters. They fell alike.

Above it all, Jon and Daenerys exchanged a look from opposite towers.

The castle was no longer safe.

The final battle had begun.

Within the crumbling walls, chaos reigned. Northern archers fired desperately from the ramparts, their quivers nearly empty. Each arrow was a prayer—some answered, most not. The groans of the dying were soon joined by the clash of steel against bone as the fight turned from defense to survival.

Inside the Great Hall, maesters and volunteers converted feasting tables into barricades. Children huddled beneath benches. Mothers held infants tightly, whispering lullabies meant more for themselves than their babes. A knight of House Glover stood watch at the door, his sword arm trembling not from fear, but from fatigue.

In the kitchen yards, Davos Seaworth directed retreating soldiers to fallback points. He helped an archer with a missing hand onto a wagon already full of wounded. "You'll hold again," Davos told him. "Just not tonight."

Somewhere near the second courtyard, Lyanna Mormont rallied the last of her house's men. They planted a banner beside the well, their ancestral bear crest flapping in the wind. Lyanna stood atop the rubble, barking orders as calmly as any general. "We fall here. We rise nowhere."

Back along the inner gate, Samwell Tarly and Eddison Tollett fought back-to-back. Sam's hands shook, his blade slick with ichor. "I hate this," he muttered. Edd grunted. "Then stab faster."

Overhead, a second wave of shrieking creatures broke through the clouds. Smaller than dragons—wyverns twisted by undeath. Rhaegal turned mid-air to intercept, and Jon leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with resolve. Below, the keep groaned again, and the earth beneath their feet felt suddenly fragile.

Winterfell was falling—stone by stone, soul by soul.