The Light that Brings the Dawn

The Long Night

The Red Woman lent her fiery benediction upon the Dothraki horde. This act ignited a flickering ember of hope in the beleaguered hearts of those who watched. It kindled a fragile belief the Lord of Light would lend his aid in the fight bolstering their courage.

"There is no need to execute me, Ser Davos," Melisandre declared with a somber finality, her voice echoing softly as she approached the stoic fortress. "If we are to fail I should be dead before dawn." Her words, though somber and foreboding, carried an equal measure of mirth. "Many of the living will join the dead this night."

Sir Davos, his expression etched with unspoken emotions of anger, held his steely gaze upon her. With a curt nod, he stepped aside, granting her passage into Winterfell's inner bailey.

Ascending the frost-kissed stairs, Melisandre's piercing blue eyes swept across the parapet, locking with another pair, round and unblinking, in a silent communion amidst the chaos. Below, the Dothraki criers unleashed their ferocious war songs, their blades alight with wild, dancing flames that cut through the sheer curtain of night. The night air was rent with the deafening noise of battle, as a volley of flaming fireballs arced gracefully through the sky, only to crash against an unseen, impenetrable barrier in the distance.

A tense stillness enveloped the remaining army as they witnessed the dwindling cries of the Dothraki, their valiant war songs gradually subdued by the guttural growls of the undead. One by one, the lights of their swords were snuffed out, until the battlefield was swallowed by an oppressive, stygian darkness as the final light went out in the black of night.

In the wake of this grim spectacle, a hush descended upon the onlookers, each soul bracing for the inexorable tide of horror that was to come.

Arya and Sansa stood side by side, their faces etched with terror, as the army of the dead surged forward like a relentless tide crashing upon the shore. Fear gnawed at their hearts, the grim certainty that the battle would be brutal and bereft of hope casting a shadow over their spirits.

As despair threatened to engulf them, a sudden, searing blaze of fire streaked across the battlefield. The onlookers gazed in stunned awe as the undead horde was engulfed in a furious inferno. A second, equally fierce torrent of flame rained down upon the mass, eliciting silent prayers of gratitude to the gods for the dragons' timely intervention as the clash of steel sang in the glow of the dragons' flame light.
The dragons, mighty and fearsome, maneuvered with an agility that belied their size. Their wingtips barely brushed the battlements, a dance of precision and power, as they wove a devastating tapestry of fire upon the wretched horde below.

Arya's eyes followed the soaring dance of the dragons, her piercing gaze catching the ominous swell of a black cloud gathering ominously behind them. She turned briskly to Sansa, her voice sharp with urgency.

"Get down to the Crypt," Arya commanded, her words brooking no argument.

Sansa's eyes flickered past her sister, a fleeting expression of horror giving way to a resolute defiance.

"I'm not abandoning my people," Sansa declared, her voice steady despite the chaos that reigned around them.

Arya, unyielding, drew an obsidian blade from her side, its dark sheen a stark contrast to the fiery tumult around them. "Take this and go," she insisted, her tone leaving her sister no room for further protest as she reiterated her command with firm resolve.

Sansa's hand trembled slightly as she reached out, accepting the raw, obsidian blade from Arya. "I don't know how to use it," she admitted, her voice tinged with a hint of shame.

Arya offered a slight nod, her own eyes betraying a rare glimmer of tears and fear at their peripheries. "Stick them with the pointy end," she said, her voice striving to sound as bright and confident as she could muster under the dire circumstances.