The sun barely reached over the horizon as Jon Snow stood on the walls of Winterfell, looking out at the broken land before him. The snow had begun to melt, but the scars of battle remained. The wind carried with it the scent of death and smoke, a reminder of the price they had paid for survival.
Winterfell had endured, but just barely. The once-mighty castle had lost much of its splendor, with walls crumbled and towers collapsed. Yet, despite the destruction, the survivors of the great battle moved through the ruins, rebuilding, patching what they could, and tending to the wounded. Winterfell was still standing, and that was enough for now.
Daenerys approached Jon quietly, her silver hair catching the pale light of the early morning. She, too, had changed since the battle. Her usual fiery determination seemed tempered by grief and exhaustion. They hadn't spoken much since the Night King's fall, both of them too consumed by their own thoughts.
She stopped beside him, her gaze falling on the same distant horizon. "It doesn't feel like a victory, does it?" she said, her voice soft but laced with an undercurrent of sorrow.
Jon shook his head. "No. Too many dead. Too much lost."
Daenerys sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. "Jorah, Missandei… they fought so hard for me. And now they're gone."
Jon placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "They died for a cause they believed in. We're still here because of them."
For a moment, they stood in silence, the weight of their losses heavy between them. But both knew there was no time to dwell on grief. The dead were gone, but the living still needed them.
"Winterfell won't last long without more help," Daenerys said, finally breaking the silence. "We need to move south, gather what remains of our forces, and march on King's Landing."
Jon nodded, though he felt the familiar conflict brewing inside him. The war against the Night King had been clear—a fight for survival against an unstoppable enemy. But this war for the Iron Throne? It felt more complicated, more personal.
"We can't afford to wait," she continued, her voice growing more determined. "Cersei won't hesitate. She'll strike at us the moment we show weakness."
Before Jon could respond, they were interrupted by Whitebeard, his massive figure casting a long shadow as he approached the pair. His face was set in a grim smile, his bisento slung casually over his shoulder.
"Well, you two look like you're about to march straight into another battle," Whitebeard said, his booming voice breaking the tension. "And here I thought we were done with all the fun."
Jon offered a faint smile. "It's not over yet. Cersei still sits on the Iron Throne."
Whitebeard's grin widened. "Ah, the queen in the south. I've heard stories about her. Sounds like she's got a lot of fight in her. Should be interesting."
Daenerys turned to face him, her expression fierce. "She's ruthless. She'll stop at nothing to keep her throne. But we'll stop her."
Whitebeard laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to shake the very ground beneath them. "Good! I was worried this would get boring now that the dead are gone."
Jon wasn't sure whether to be reassured or concerned by the old pirate's enthusiasm for battle. He had seen Whitebeard in action, and there was no doubt the man was a force of nature. But Jon couldn't shake the feeling that the fight against Cersei would require more than brute strength.
"Gather everyone," Jon said, shifting his focus to the task at hand. "We need to plan our next move."
---
The Great Hall of Winterfell was a shadow of its former self. The long tables were scattered, many of them broken or charred from the fires of the battle. But it was the only place large enough to hold the survivors.
Jon stood at the head of the hall, Daenerys at his side. Arya, Sansa, Tyrion, Davos, and the remaining lords of the North and Dothraki gathered around them. Grey Worm stood to the side, his face as unreadable as ever, though his posture was tense, his hand never straying far from his weapon.
Tyrion was the first to speak. "Our armies are depleted, and Winterfell is in no shape to withstand another siege. Cersei will know we're vulnerable, and she'll move against us soon."
Arya leaned forward, her eyes cold and calculating. "We should strike first. Catch her off guard before she can gather her strength."
Sansa shook her head. "That's too risky. We don't know the state of her forces. For all we know, she's stronger than ever."
Tension rippled through the group, each voice offering a different perspective, a different strategy. But there was no clear path forward. They were too few, too scattered, and too uncertain.
"We need allies," Jon said, his voice cutting through the rising chatter. "If we march south with what we have now, we'll be marching to our deaths. We need to gather more forces, rally those who still stand against Cersei."
Daenerys nodded in agreement. "The Ironborn, the remaining forces loyal to House Martell… anyone who opposes Cersei needs to know that we're still fighting."
Tyrion cleared his throat, his eyes sharp. "We might also want to consider… unconventional alliances."
Jon's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Tyrion hesitated before speaking. "The Golden Company."
The room fell silent. The Golden Company was Cersei's hired army—fierce, well-trained mercenaries who were known for their loyalty to whoever paid them the most. Suggesting an alliance with them was nothing short of treasonous to some.
"Are you suggesting we… buy their loyalty?" Sansa asked, her tone skeptical.
Tyrion shrugged. "They're mercenaries. Their loyalty lies with gold, not blood. If we can offer them more than Cersei, they might be persuaded to turn."
The suggestion was met with mixed reactions. Jon remained silent, deep in thought. It was a dangerous gamble, but Tyrion wasn't wrong. They needed more soldiers, and the Golden Company was a powerful force.
"Let's not rule anything out," Jon finally said, his voice calm but firm. "We'll consider all our options. But first, we need to rally our own allies."
Daenerys placed a hand on Jon's arm. "We'll need to leave soon. The longer we stay here, the more vulnerable we become."
Jon nodded, his mind already turning to the march south. The war for the living was over, but the war for Westeros had only just begun.
As the meeting ended and the group began to disperse, Jon's thoughts lingered on the weight of the decisions before him. He had fought and bled for the North, for his family, for the people. But now he faced an entirely different enemy—a queen who played by different rules. And he knew, deep down, that the fight for the Iron Throne would be the hardest battle of all.