The sound of crunching snow filled the cold night air as Jon and his group moved as quickly as they could across the frozen wasteland. The captured wight was bound and dragged behind them, still writhing, its hollow eyes fixed on the living with an eerie, lifeless hunger. The men exchanged uneasy glances as they carried their prize, but no one spoke. The fear that the Night King's army was not far behind weighed heavily on them all.
Jon's heart raced, not just from the exertion but from the knowledge that the White Walkers would not take the loss of one of their own lightly. They would be coming. He could feel it in the air, a growing tension, a sense of impending doom that seemed to close in with every step.
"We need to move faster," Jon muttered under his breath, quickening his pace despite the exhaustion that tugged at his limbs.
Tormund grunted beside him. "Aye, but the bloody thing is slowing us down." He gestured at the wight, its jerky movements making it difficult to drag.
"We'll make it," Jon said, though he wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Tormund or himself. He cast a glance back at the others—Beric, Thoros, Gendry, and the few others who remained. They were all battle-hardened men, but Jon could see the fatigue weighing on them. The cold was unrelenting, the snow deep and treacherous.
"We're not far from Eastwatch," Beric said, his voice rough from the cold and the strain of battle. His flaming sword flickered weakly in the dim light. "If we can just keep ahead of them…"
Thoros of Myr, his flask half-empty, wiped the frost from his beard and shot a glance at the horizon. "Let's hope your Lord of Light is still watching over us, Beric. We'll need more than fire to outrun the dead."
Jon tightened his grip on Longclaw, the familiar weight of the sword grounding him in the moment. Every instinct in him screamed danger. The feeling that something was coming, something terrible, gnawed at him. It was the same sensation he'd had the first time he'd seen the Night King, standing atop that icy hill during the massacre at Hardhome.
A faint rumble echoed across the tundra, barely audible over the howling wind. Jon froze, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes darted to Tormund and Beric, who had also heard it.
"Do you hear that?" Gendry asked, his voice tight with fear.
Jon nodded slowly. "They're coming."
Without another word, the group picked up the pace, but the ground beneath their feet was treacherous. The ice beneath the snow was slick, and the path was uneven. Every step was a struggle, and the freezing air bit into their lungs like knives.
Suddenly, a distant, chilling howl broke through the night. It was unlike any sound Jon had ever heard—an unnatural, echoing wail that seemed to reverberate through the very ice beneath them. It was the sound of death, of something ancient and terrible.
The group stopped in their tracks, their eyes scanning the horizon.
Then they saw it.
Far in the distance, a line of figures began to emerge from the white haze. At first, they were only faint shapes, but as they moved closer, Jon's blood ran cold. Hundreds of wights, marching in eerie unison, their decayed bodies moving relentlessly forward. And at the center of them, riding on a skeletal horse, was the Night King.
His blue eyes pierced the darkness like twin fires, locking onto Jon from across the frozen expanse. The Night King raised his hand, and the wights surged forward.
"Run!" Jon shouted, his voice breaking through the sudden, overwhelming fear that gripped them all.
The group broke into a desperate sprint, the captured wight trailing behind them, still thrashing in its bonds. The ground shook beneath their feet as the army of the dead closed in, their guttural moans growing louder, their bony hands reaching out for the living.
Jon's heart pounded in his chest as he ran, the freezing wind cutting across his face. His legs burned with the effort, but he didn't slow. Eastwatch was their only hope. If they could reach the Wall, they might be able to hold off the dead long enough to get the wight to safety.
But the dead were gaining ground.
"We're not going to make it!" Gendry gasped, his voice full of panic as he struggled to keep up.
"Keep running!" Jon barked, refusing to give in to the fear that threatened to overwhelm him. They couldn't afford to stop—not now.
Suddenly, a thunderous crack echoed across the landscape, and the ice beneath them split with a deafening roar. Jon skidded to a halt just in time, the ground beneath him fracturing into a massive chasm that stretched across their path. The wights on the other side of the fissure kept coming, but those closest to the crack stumbled and fell, disappearing into the black void below.
"We're trapped!" Thoros shouted, turning to face the advancing dead.
Jon cursed under his breath, his mind racing. They couldn't go forward, and the dead were closing in from behind. The only thing standing between them and certain death was the widening chasm, but it wouldn't hold the wights back for long.
Tormund looked at Jon, his expression grim. "What now, Snow?"
Jon scanned the landscape, his mind working furiously. "We make our stand here," he said, raising Longclaw. "If we fall back any further, we're dead."
The others nodded, forming a loose circle around the captured wight. Beric's sword burst into flame once more, casting an eerie orange glow over the group. Thoros followed suit, his flaming sword crackling as it met the cold air.
The wights reached the edge of the chasm, and for a brief moment, it looked as though the army of the dead had been stopped. But then the Night King appeared at the front of the horde, his icy gaze fixed on Jon. Without a word, he raised his hand once more.
A section of the ice bridge that had formed at the edge of the fissure began to shift, creating a narrow passage for the wights to cross. One by one, the dead began to shuffle across, their bony hands grasping at the air as they advanced toward the living.
"Steady!" Jon called out, his voice strong despite the fear gnawing at him. "Hold the line!"
The first of the wights reached them, and the battle erupted with a fury unlike anything Jon had ever experienced. Longclaw sliced through decaying flesh and bone, the Valyrian steel glowing faintly in the dim light. Tormund's ax swung in wide arcs, cutting down wight after wight with brutal efficiency. Gendry's hammer smashed through skulls and ribcages, each blow sending fragments of the dead flying.
But the wights kept coming.
Jon felt the weight of each swing, his muscles screaming in protest as the dead pressed in from all sides. He fought with everything he had, but it was like trying to hold back the tide. For every wight they cut down, two more seemed to take its place.
"Fall back!" Jon shouted, his voice hoarse from the cold and the strain of battle. "We can't hold them here!"
The group began to retreat, their backs toward the chasm as they fought to keep the wights at bay. Jon's gaze flicked toward the Night King, who stood motionless at the edge of the battlefield, watching with those cold, unfeeling eyes.
A sudden roar split the air, and Jon's heart skipped a beat as a massive shape descended from the sky. A dragon—no, two dragons—soared above them, their wings beating against the icy wind. Jon's eyes widened in disbelief as he saw Daenerys, astride Drogon, leading her dragons into battle.
With a deafening roar, Drogon unleashed a torrent of flame, sweeping across the battlefield and incinerating dozens of wights in an instant. The dead screamed as they were consumed by fire, their bodies crumbling to ash.
Daenerys landed Drogon beside Jon, her eyes fierce with determination. "Get on!" she shouted, extending her hand to Jon.
Jon hesitated for only a moment before grasping her hand and pulling himself up onto Drogon's back. The others quickly followed, scrambling onto the dragon as the dead swarmed below.
"Go!" Jon shouted, and with a mighty flap of his wings, Drogon rose into the sky, carrying them away from the army of the dead.
As they soared high above the battlefield, Jon looked down at the Night King, who stood unmoved, his gaze following them as they escaped. A shiver ran down Jon's spine as their eyes met, and he knew that this battle was far from over.
But for now, they had survived. And they had the proof they needed.