Visenya...
High above the dark clouds, the winds were calm, but the temperature was so cold that even Rhaegal did not seem to like it. There was barely any light, other than the stars shining in the distance, but even their shine could not illuminate the darkness below them.
The roaring of dragons was echoing in the silent upper sky plane as Visenya held on to Rhaegal while in combat with the undead Viserion.
The green dragon and she seemed to almost sync their thoughts, and somehow, their teamwork allowed them to dodge even the riskiest of attacks.
More than once did the neon blue flames come too close, and more than once did Rhaegal unleash his green-veined bright orange flames on his deceased brother.
However, he was getting tired, and Visenya could sense that. His flying was becoming slower, and it was not always easy for him to breathe fire as often as he should, to keep Viserion away.
Suddenly, from below them, Viserion appeared as he flew straight up.
His jaws were wide open, and Rhaegal barely managed to move to the side, saving himself from that lethal blow.
His back legs spread forward in retaliation, trying to counter the next claw attack of the undead dragon. In the end, the two of them exchanged mutual hits before flying in different directions, with Viserion taking a U-turn and eventually being after them once again.
While hits had been landed on the undead dragon, things were not looking that good for Visenya and her dragon either. Unlike Viserion, the green scaly beast was losing blood and power... rather fast.
Viserion had only lost pieces of dead flesh from successful attacks coming from Rhaegal, but there were no signs that the white dragon was getting tired or affected, despite bearing significant wounds.
Visenya cursed mentally, catching glimpses of the wounds existing on her dragon as they descended back into the clouds. She knew she had to act soon enough, for Rhaegal would not be able to survive much longer.
"Just a little longer... please," she spoke to the dragon in High Valyrian, feeling guilty for the injuries it was suffering while trying to protect and help her defeat the ice dragon.
As they flew through the clouds, they tried their best to stay on the move, hoping that their random patterns would allow them some head start and some distance from the dragon that was after them.
Her family sword, Dragon-Heart, felt heavy as it rested against her waist, and Visenya gathered the courage to move one hand from the scales of Rhaegal to the leather-bound handle.
It had always offered her a sense of comfort and security, something she felt she needed now more than ever. She was becoming more and more certain of what she had to do then, but firstly, she needed the perfect plan and opportunity to do so.
Daenerys...
Drogon kept flying closely above the battlefield, offering as much assistance as possible. However, often his flames were directed by his rear legs to ensure no undead ones would remain on him.
His bright orange flames with tints of black illuminated the battlefield, some soldiers cheering when Daenerys and her Dragon passed above them and helped take down the new undead ones.
When the dead had started to rise and the odds had turned against them, the Mother of Dragons knew her presence was needed more than ever. She could feel Drogon's pain, somehow, but the animal was as stubborn as she was and kept going, despite the open wounds that left droplets of blood behind them.
This routine continued, but eventually, Daenerys started to notice that Drogon was flying too low. Before she could command him to go higher, the mighty dark beast had to land to rest its body temporarily, since a lot of its energy had already been wasted to fight Viserion and the terrible blizzard.
"Drogon. We need to fly," Daenerys said, growing worried for her son but also for the place he had chosen to land.
The undead that were not that far away from her seemed to take notice and once again made her their primary target. They came by the hundreds, and the black beast burnt them all with fire, but they were too many.
Drogon burnt dozens, but hundreds more were coming their way, trying to climb and harm the dragon with their ice weapons.
"Fly, Drogon!" Daenerys shouted in High Valyrian, fear visible in her violet eyes as more and more undead started to climb on her dragon.
One of the undead managed to grab her leg and tried to pull her down, but the Targaryen acted on instinct. She pulled out the dagger that Visenya had given her, and with one clean strike, she hit the skull of the skeleton.
The thing quickly got destroyed by the weapon, and Daenerys dared to try her luck with a few others, managing to kill anything that the short blade could pierce. Yet, her attempts were not making much of a difference.
Eventually, realizing that he could no longer fight them with fire, Drogon gathered most of his strength and tried to fly. However, the weight of all of the undead ones was weighing him down, roars of pain and anger being heard as ice weapons managed to find his already open wounds and strike there.
His instincts started to kick in, and he tried his best to do sharp flaps and moves, hoping to get rid of as many of the undead as possible.
Such moves did not help Daenerys, who was using only one hand to hold on to his scales and the other trying to destroy the creatures threatening them.
During one sharp nose drop, she lost her grip, and before she knew it, she was falling.
Thankfully for her, the distance from the ground was not that far and thus not lethal. Yet, as she landed on her feet, she felt her left ankle twist and a sharp burning sensation coming from her new injury.
She almost collapsed but managed to somehow hold herself, though she could not put any weight on it. She bit her bottom lip to contain any sounds and gripped the handle of the dagger with all her might as she found herself in the middle of the battlefield.
Undead soldiers took notice of her and started to march her way, being rather quick, quicker than she could be with an injured ankle.
Daenerys stood there terrified, her body shaking as she brought the dagger up, unsure how she could fight against all of them. She tried to think of Drogon, somehow to summon him back, but she had trouble concentrating, let alone connecting with him.
Thankfully for her, someone had been keeping an eye on her and rushed to help her.
"Your Grace!" Ser Barristan shouted, using his dragonglass sword to slice down one undead after the other.
He was tired and dirty, but was moving as if he was far younger than he truly was. He left a path of destroyed undead skeletons in his way as he made his way towards her, carving his way through them like he did during the last Blackfyre Rebellion.
"Ser Barristan!" Daenerys managed to call out for him, a sense of hope spreading within her chest and helping her fight her fear.
In just a few moments, the older knight had moved to stand as an obstacle between her and the skeletons.
"Stay behind me, Your Grace," he said, his sword taking down one enemy after the other, while using his body and his free hand as a barrier, taking any hits meant for the Targaryen girl.
Jaime...
The bright flames of Drogon illuminated the battlefield around him.
Before, there were corpses all around him, but those very same corpses were now against him. Of course, new dead bodies quickly started to fall.
If it were not for the dragon flames, Jaime doubted they would truly stand a chance. From time to time, he would look up and around him, hoping to see his good-mother, but there had been no sign of her ever since that huge fireball.
He sliced down another enemy, another familiar face that he had fought side by side with for years. He eliminated another threat, some even wearing Lannister armour and others the armour of his former opponents.
Each attack made his hands feel heavier, his breathing become shorter, and his armour asphyxiate him like it never did before. All around him, men perished in this hellish battle, far more horrifying than any other before.
Even when he had fought at Pyke against the Greyjoys, he had not seen such a massacre. If he were his old knightly self, perhaps he would not care, but he had changed, and now things were different.
More than once, Brienne had helped him, always staying close and refusing to leave him on his own or even move too far away. In this blizzard, it was hard to truly see who was an enemy or who was a friend, but he knew that at least he could recognise her.
A cry of pain coming from her made him turn his head sharply, seeing an ice sword having found an exposed spot on her left arm, impaling through muscle and skin.
"Brienne!" Jaime shouted as an undead Free Folk smashed into him, almost throwing him to the ground.
He could hear those screeching sounds and see those haunting blue eyes that he would never be able to forget, as the undead skeleton managed to leave a nasty scratch on his neck. Knowing that Brienne needed him, he managed to kick the undead away and then stab him through the chest in one quick blow.
Wasting no time, he started to look around as he realized that he had lost sight of her, when he had fought so hard all this time not to do so.
"Brienne!" he shouted again, although with all the noise around him, he doubted he could be heard.
His heart started to beat faster, adrenaline and fear being pumped through his veins while his emerald eyes looked around him with worry.
The wind hit against his skin, the wound by his neck was stinging, but none of it mattered other than the fact that he could not see Brienne.
Please don't, he thought as he moved, trying not to think of the worst-case scenario that she had been taken down by the undead creatures, for he knew he would never be able to forgive himself.
Trystan, Loras, Tywin, Kevan & Oberyn...
The fight in the courtyard was not going well either, with the majority of soldiers having perished under the latest attacks. Bodies were scattered across the snowy ground, painting it a deep red.
Bodies could be seen on the wooden bridges and even inside the castle, no one being able to escape the wrath and mercilessness of the undead skeletons.
Trystan let out a groan of pain as he struggled to keep two undead Riverlands soldiers away. Dark Sister worked with him, the Valyrian steel not once bending under the pressure or the hits of the frozen swords.
With a war cry, he managed to take down the first soldier but received a deep wound on his arm, his armour there having long been broken by the frozen weapons and claw attacks of the undead soldiers from before.
He felt the weapon cutting through cloth and skin, deep enough to draw a decent amount of blood while causing a sharp pain to travel all over his body. He tried to use his other hand and end his attacker when someone else did it for him.
Loras had somehow managed to reach him and stabbed the soldier from the back, ending him for good.
He was panting heavily now, his hair sticking to his skin through a mixture of his own blood, sweat, and dirt. A massive gash was by his side, having found the place where his breastplate ended and having done quite the damage.
This was not a wound he had before, but it was one he had gotten just now, a sacrifice he made in order to find the opening and save Trystan.
He did not care about it, and thanks to the adrenaline caused by the battle, he could not process the blood he was slowly losing or how deep the wound was.
He offered his numb hand, helping Trystan to stabilize himself and also making him hiss as the wound was fresh.
"Sword up, green boy," he told him, somehow still in the mood to use that silly nickname.
"Always," Trystan said, managing to remain on his feet, but not once did he leave his guard down.
They stood side by side, slowly trying to retreat and ignore the aching wounds coming from their tired bodies. They both felt the need to just take a break, a few seconds to breathe, but they knew they could not, because if they did, they would surely die.
Their fathers were not in any better situation either.
Lord Mace had long been taken down by the rising undead soldiers, a bitter twist of irony, for the skeletons that took his life bore the sigil of his house.
This left Kevan and Tywin to be among the few ones left from the original group. They both kept fighting, but it was becoming significantly harder to continue.
Tywin was slow, a fresh wound on the outside of his left thigh made him unable to move as fast as he should, leaving him an open target.
Thankfully for him, his brother refused to leave him on his own and did his best to help him and take down the enemies together.
Yet even in that chaos and endless killing, Kevan could feel the wounds on his body slowly threatening to take him down. Like at the Battle of the Ninepenny Kings, he continued fighting and was ready to die by honouring his house... and protecting his brother.
Bran, Jon, Theon & Leaf...
The once sacred grounds of the Godswood were now a bleeding battlefield as good men perished under frozen weapons. The undead came in waves, taking down any resistance they met in their way.
Explosions took place everywhere as the Children of the Forest did their best to fight the wave of undead soldiers that were trying to kill them and reach Bran. Their ammunition was getting low and fast, forcing some brave ones to grab their weapons made of dragonglass and try to attack.
The battle was uneven, and they knew they stood little to no chance, but they still gave it all, doing their best to earn time or make even the smallest of difference in this battle. The only one who stayed behind was Leaf, who had chosen to guard Bran.
She did so with half a heart, for more than once did she feel the need to rush forward and help her friends and siblings. Instead, she remained rooted next to Bran and watched as one by one her own kind was slowly perishing under the frozen weapons of the undead.
The long ice blade of the Night King clashed against the Valyrian Steel and dragonglass swords of Jon and Theon. Yet, even those two together did not seem to be a match for the supernatural blue-skinned creature.
He countered each of their attacks with ease, his strength more than once throwing them back to the ground. Each time, though, the two of them stood up and continued fighting, not letting the Night King approach any closer.
An attack made Jon stumble back and hold his shoulder, feeling the warm sensation of freshly drawn blood through his leather gloves. The blade of ice was as sharp as his Valyrian steel and had successfully cut through layers of fur, clothing, and even skin.
His body carried wounds from that dangerous blade, and the Night King did not seem to truly have any injuries on him. Whether their attacks were not good enough or that frozen armour of his held some resistance, it was becoming obvious that they were receiving more hits than they could deliver.
He panted faintly, the injury having taken place on his dominant sword hand, but he refused to stand back or go down that easily.
"Jon!" Theon shouted as he moved to attack the Night King from the side, hoping to earn time for the bastard Stark to recover and join him.
However, the time spent being tortured by Ramsay had weakened the Greyjoy heir. His own good sword fighting skills had become dull, and yet he continued fighting. He was, unfortunately, no match for the Night King, especially alone.
In a twist of events, the Night King managed to plunge his ice sword right through Theon's chest, the tip of the weapon coming out from the other side coated in crimson red.
"No!" Jon shouted as he pushed himself to rush forward.
Despite his new injury, he fought through the pain and started to attack his opponent with ferocious hits. He did not care if it was dangerous or if he was blocking all of them. What he cared for was to keep him away from Theon's body.