The wind had finally stopped its relentless howling. The snow that once blanketed the ground began to melt, revealing the devastation beneath. Bodies of the fallen—men, women, and wights alike—littered the battlefield. The once proud walls of Winterfell stood in ruin, barely clinging to the stones that had shielded generations. But the Night King was defeated, and with his death, so too was his army of the dead.
Jon stood over the shattered remains of the Night King, Longclaw still gripped tightly in his hand. His breath came in ragged bursts, each exhale forming small clouds in the cold air. He glanced around, searching for any signs of life amid the wreckage. His heart was pounding, but the familiar rush of battle had given way to a creeping sense of dread.
Drogon landed nearby, his massive wings stirring the remaining snow into swirling eddies. Daenerys slid down from his back, her face pale but resolute. "It's over," she whispered, her eyes scanning the battlefield. "We won."
Jon nodded but said nothing. His gaze fell upon the body of a familiar figure lying motionless near the broken gates of Winterfell—Ser Jorah Mormont. Daenerys followed his line of sight, and when she saw him, her composure crumbled. She rushed to Jorah's side, dropping to her knees and cradling his lifeless form.
Tears welled up in Daenerys's eyes as she looked down at the man who had served her faithfully for so long. "You were always there for me," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Until the very end."
Jon turned away, giving her the space she needed to mourn. He had lost too many friends in this war, and the weight of that loss pressed heavily on him. As he surveyed the battlefield, his mind drifted to those they had saved and those who had perished. There would be no true victory in this, not when so much had been lost.
A loud, rumbling laugh broke through the stillness, drawing Jon's attention. Whitebeard stood near the center of the battlefield, his bisento resting over his shoulder. Despite the carnage around him, he seemed almost unfazed, like a mountain that had weathered countless storms.
"Ha!" Whitebeard barked, grinning broadly. "Now that was a fight worth having! If only my sons could have been here to see it."
Jon approached him, weariness in his steps. "We couldn't have done it without you," he said, his voice heavy with gratitude.
Whitebeard shrugged, though his grin softened slightly. "Maybe. But you fought well, Jon Snow. You and your dragon queen." He cast a glance toward Daenerys, who was still kneeling by Jorah's side. "I've fought many battles in my time, but none quite like this."
Jon gave a nod of understanding. "Neither have I."
Before they could exchange further words, the gates of Winterfell creaked open, and a group of survivors slowly emerged. Among them were Arya and Sansa, both battle-worn but alive. Arya's face was smeared with blood and grime, her usual confidence tempered by the horrors of the fight. Sansa, though clearly shaken, held her head high as she approached her brother.
"Jon," Sansa said, her voice cracking as she threw her arms around him. Jon hugged her tightly, relieved beyond words to see her standing before him. Arya hung back, giving her sister a moment before approaching.
"We did it," Arya said, her eyes sharp but tinged with exhaustion. "The Night King's dead."
Jon stepped back from Sansa and turned to his younger sister. "You played a part in that, I'm sure."
Arya shrugged nonchalantly, though a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "Maybe."
The reunion was bittersweet, a mixture of relief and sorrow hanging in the air. The cost of their victory was still being tallied, but for now, they allowed themselves this brief respite.
As the survivors began tending to the wounded and collecting the dead, Jon's thoughts returned to the future. The Night King had been the greatest threat they had ever faced, but the war for the Iron Throne was far from over. Cersei still held King's Landing, and with the combined forces of Daenerys and Whitebeard, they might stand a chance against her armies. But Jon knew that the true challenge would be uniting the survivors after all they had been through.
Whitebeard clapped Jon on the back, jolting him from his thoughts. "So, what's next for you and your queen?"
Jon looked to Daenerys, who was standing now, her grief momentarily set aside. "We still have to deal with Cersei," Jon said, his voice resolute. "The Iron Throne isn't safe as long as she holds it."
Whitebeard grunted. "And you think this Cersei will be as easy to deal with as the Night King?"
"No," Jon replied grimly. "She'll be harder in many ways. But we don't have a choice. We can't let her rule."
Whitebeard's grin returned, fierce and challenging. "Then it sounds like I'll be sticking around for a bit longer. I'm not one to pass up a good fight, and it sounds like this Cersei has one coming her way."
Daenerys approached them, her eyes red but her voice steady. "Cersei will fall," she said, her tone filled with iron determination. "She has to."
Jon and Whitebeard exchanged a glance. The fight for the living was over, but the war for the future of Westeros was just beginning.
As the sun finally broke through the clouds, casting a pale light over the battlefield, Jon couldn't help but wonder what kind of world they would be left with when it was all over. Would the peace they fought for ever truly come, or were they destined for endless war?
With Winterfell standing as a symbol of their resilience, they prepared for what lay ahead.