The cold night descended over Winterfell like a shroud, the silence only broken by the occasional howl of the wind. The looming battle with the dead cast a shadow over everyone's mind. Whitebeard sat alone in his chambers, the low crackle of the fire barely warming the room. He wasn't afraid of the cold, nor was he particularly bothered by the eerie stillness outside. It was the kind of silence that came before war, something he had experienced more times than he could count.
As he sipped from a tankard of wine — weak compared to the ale of his world — memories of Marineford drifted back to him. That fateful battle, the death of Ace, his own demise... He clenched his fist, feeling the power of the Gura Gura no Mi surging through him. This power had shaken the very seas of his world, and here in Westeros, it would tear the skies and ground apart if needed. But none of it had saved Ace. None of it had brought back the sons he had lost.
He sighed, his mind wandering to the moment he had woken in this strange land. In his prime body, full of vigor and strength, he had arrived as a titan among mortals. Westeros had been a land of scheming nobles, treacherous plots, and wars of ambition. But here, he found no joy in conquest. He was tired of being a weapon.
A knock at the door broke his thoughts. Without looking, he spoke. "Come in."
Robb Stark entered, his face tense with the burdens of leadership. He respected Whitebeard, but the young wolf often felt dwarfed by the man's sheer presence. "We've just received word from our scouts. The Night King's army is less than two days away."
Whitebeard nodded, unsurprised. "I expected as much."
Robb stepped closer, standing before the seated pirate. "I've seen you in battle. The way you fight, the power you wield... If we're going to win this, we need you at the front. You'll be our greatest weapon."
Whitebeard looked at the young lord. "You're putting a lot of faith in an old man."
Robb smirked slightly, shaking his head. "Old? You look younger and stronger than any man in this castle."
Whitebeard chuckled. "You've got spirit, boy. But power alone doesn't win wars. It's the heart of the people fighting that makes the difference."
Robb's smile faded. "I've lost too many already. My brothers, my father… I can't afford to lose Winterfell."
Whitebeard stood, towering over the Stark lord. He placed a heavy hand on Robb's shoulder, a gesture of solidarity. "Then you won't. I'll make sure of it."
---
Elsewhere in the castle, Jon Snow and Daenerys walked side by side through the dimly lit halls. Their alliance had grown stronger, but the weight of what was coming pressed down on both of them. Daenerys was still uneasy about Whitebeard. His power was unlike anything she had seen, even greater than her dragons in some ways. She couldn't afford to have a wild card like him on the loose.
"Do you trust him?" Daenerys asked, breaking the silence.
Jon's brow furrowed. "Whitebeard's not like anyone I've ever known, but he's not our enemy. He's a man who values loyalty above all else. As long as we're honest with him, he'll fight with us."
Daenerys glanced at Jon. "And after the Night King is defeated? What then? He could destroy entire cities with a single strike."
Jon stopped, turning to face her. "We'll cross that bridge when we get there. Right now, we need him. Without Whitebeard, without you and your dragons, we don't stand a chance."
Daenerys considered his words, but her mind was still plagued with doubts. She had built her identity on being the most powerful force in Westeros — the Mother of Dragons. But now, there was someone in their midst whose power could potentially rival her own. It was unsettling.
"I hope you're right, Jon," she said softly. "Because if he ever turns against us…"
Jon didn't respond. The truth was, he had no idea what would happen if Whitebeard ever saw them as enemies. He wasn't sure anyone could stop him.
---
The night passed slowly, but when dawn broke, the castle was alive with activity. Armies from all over the North had gathered. The Unsullied stood at attention, the Dothraki restless with anticipation, and the bannermen of the North sharpened their swords and checked their armor. The walls of Winterfell were lined with archers, and the outer perimeter had been fortified with spikes and trenches.
Whitebeard stood near the front, his massive bisento gleaming in the morning light. His presence alone inspired confidence in the men who were about to face death itself. He gazed out across the snowy plains, sensing the distant rumble of the undead army moving closer.
Jon Snow and Daenerys stood atop the battlements, surveying the preparations. Tyrion joined them, his eyes flickering nervously as he considered the battle ahead.
"We've done all we can," Jon said grimly. "Now we wait."
Daenerys's dragons flew overhead, their roars cutting through the air as they circled, ready for the fight. She gripped the railing, her mind racing. Whitebeard was down there, standing shoulder to shoulder with the men. A man who could level mountains was about to face an enemy who knew no fear, no pain. It would be a battle unlike any Westeros had ever seen.
As the sun climbed higher into the sky, a chilling wind swept across the plains. Then, on the horizon, they saw it — the first dark shapes of the dead, moving like a shadow across the land. The Night King's army had arrived.
Whitebeard cracked his neck, the anticipation of battle stirring something primal within him. He grinned, the thrill of the fight rising in his chest. He raised his bisento and slammed it into the ground, sending shockwaves through the earth. "Let's give them a welcome they won't forget."
The battle for Winterfell was about to begin.