45-Falling Darkness, Dwindling Hope

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on the Harry Potter and A Song of Ice and Fire universes. All recognisable characters, plots, and settings are the exclusive property of Joanne K. Rowling and George R.R. Martin, respectively. I make no claim to ownership.

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Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Void Uzumaki. I also want to thank my beta-reader Bub3loka, for helping me bounce ideas around.

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If you're feeling generous and want to support me, you can find me on P*T*E*N under the same name for up to read ahead of discord(including my other two works).

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Baelor Hightower, Pyke

"I expected the Ironmen to give more fight than this," Alan Buwler's voice rumbled as he fiddled with the handle of his axe as they landed at the docks of Lordsport. The town looked deserted; the small square was devoid of people, and the narrow streets were all empty.

Baelor couldn't blame the man. He had lost a brother, and his thirst for vengeance burned almost as brightly as his. After a short scuffle with three Ironborn ships near Fair Isle, they had not seen a single Ironman. It was as if they had all disappeared into the sea.

"They are cunning and cowardly," Baelor murmured as his gaze swept through the desolate surroundings. The scouts were carefully crossing the narrow streets. The people no doubt hid within the houses. But the question was whether an ambush waiting for them in this small town. "Alan, bring me a few locals. Let's see if they know anything."

"It will be done, Lord Hightower," the Buwler knight bowed, took two dozen men-at-arms with him, and methodically began to break into house after house, looking for people.

Baelor turned to his second in command, Tommen Costayne.

"They might try to ambush our fleet from behind while we're anchored here; make sure the captains are ready for surprises."

His Lord of the Three Towers nodded and hurriedly ran back towards the ships.

A few minutes later, Alan Buwler left the smithy, and this time, his men were dragging one of the locals with them. The man was stout, with a balding head and a dark beard, and dressed in a rough brown linen tunic.

"Mercy, m'lord," the islander went on his knees and begged as soon as the men-at-arms released him.

"Answer my questions, and you will be spared," Baelor promised. "What's your name?"

"Name's Jard, m'lord. I'm a smith."

"Where is everyone?"

"Most escaped to the hills out of fear more than a sennight ago," Jard said shakily.

"Fucking cravens," Alan swore quietly before speaking up. "And what of the Iron Fleet?"

"The Iron Fleet is gone, m'lords," he mumbled with terror.

"What do you mean gone?!"

"T-T-the dragon. The captains had gathered for the Moot, but a dragon swooped down from the sky and burned them all, ships and men. Only a few fishermen nearby managed to survive and s-spread the word," he began trembling in fear.

"So all the captains and lords of the Iron Isles are now dead, and their fleet is gone? The Dragon Queen has given us a splendid gift," Baelor said and began laughing in delight.

"The Keeps probably still have some garrisons and Castellans," Alan cautioned.

"It matters not. There will only be a handful of young suckling babes who cannot lead. Find all the smiths, masons, shipwrights, and other craftsmen you can in this town and ship them and their families back to the Reach. Now nothing will stop me when I pull down every single castle on the Iron Isles stone by stone. Every man who surrenders will be spared, and those who don't will be put to the sword. Every tree on these islands will be chopped down, and all their fields burned. When I am done here, there will be nothing left but empty, barren rocks."

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Willas Tyrell, Highgarden

Garlan's brown beard was gone, replaced by a cleanshaven face that made him look incredibly young.

One of the servants entered the solar after his brother and handed two small letters to his grandmother.

"Glad to see you safe and home, Garlan," Willas greeted warmly, "But what happened to your beard?"

"Leonette likes it this way," he said with a small smile as he sat on one of the tapered chairs, and his cheeks reddened slightly.

"We have a bigger problem than Garlan's beard," Olenna Tyrell muttered from her seat next to the burning hearth after she scanned the first letter. "Apparently, Cersei Lannister managed to kill herself."

"How?" Garlan asked curiously.

"She drank too much wine and fell from the balcony straight into the Sunset Sea," his grandmother read the letter out loud and snorted. "Her brother was apparently there with her. Probably gave her a helping hand and everything."

"You don't seem happy at all, grandmother," Willas observed. "Isn't this supposed to be good news?"

"No, incompetent enemies like Cersei are easy to deal with, albeit a bit unpredictable. She singlehandedly harmed her sons' cause far more than anyone else. She supposedly fell from the balcony into the Sunset Sea. I think that even the Kingslayer probably had enough of her foolishness and killed his lover and sister. Without her, there's a chance that someone capable will take the reins of House Lannister, which would be fine if they were our allies, but they are not," Olenna explained heavily and opened the second letter.

Her face paled more and more with every passing second as her eyes darted across the parchment.

"What has happened now, grandmother?" Garlan inquired cautiously, and he rubbed his bare chin.

"Aegon and Daenerys are dead," she responded quietly.

"But how?" Garlan's surprised voice broke the silence. "I saw the dragons myself when I went to swear fealty. They might not have been nearly as large as Balerion, but they were terrible beasts nonetheless. Aegon's army had thousands of unsullied and many more knights and men-at-arms. The King and Queen had a tight guard at all times!"

"Apparently, we have been underestimating the Northern Wolf. Or is it a Dragonwolf now? Not only does Jon Stark have a dragon of his own, but he is a dangerous sorcerer," Olenna exhaled slowly and rubbed her brow tiredly.

"Isn't magic supposed to be dead?" Garlan scoffed.

"Don't scoff at me, boy. Dragons are magic enough on their own. But the Northern King was said to control fire better than his own dragon. He crashed into the Targaryen encampment, slew Aegon and Daenerys, and burned their army to cinders."

"Still sounds like a madman's tale," Willas said cautiously. "How reliable is your source?"

"The world has gone mad long ago," she bit out, and carefully reread the scroll. "And it comes from the maester's acolyte at the Golden Tooth. Ceran has no reason to lie to me, I did provide him with patronage in the Citadel."

"Maybe he has had a few cups of wine too many," Garlan suggested. "If Stark had a dragon to rival Daenerys and Aegon, wouldn't it be found out long ago? It's not something that can be kept hidden. And it's far more likely that the dragon burned everything, not the Northern King."

"Why would Jon Stark even attack them? Sure, there was plenty of bloodshed in the previous generation, but to attack them unprovoked?" Willas wondered out loud.

"Ah, but he was provoked. Apparently, Daenerys flew to Winterfell and threatened him in his own home when demanding fealty," she said with an amused cackle as she threw the parchment into the crackling hearth.

"But how could he hide, let alone hatch a dragon?" Willas wondered out loud.

"Plenty of seeds with dragonblood in the crownlands," Olenna replied with a shrug. "Eddard Stark probably fucked a pretty whore with a sliver of Valyrian blood during the Rebellion. All men are the same, after all. The Quiet Wolf became famous for his honour, yet he sired a bastard and nobody batted an eye."

"What of the eggs, then? They are not exactly common, and nobody but Daenerys has hatched any before."

"Or maybe he stole Daenerys' third dragon and used it to slay the Targaryens," his brother suggested thoughtfully.

"Not impossible, but if it was so easy to tame a dragon, the Red Sowing would have had a different result, and the Blacks would have decisively won the dance," his grandmother thoughtfully countered. "Bah, there's no point in dwelling on small details like this."

"Well, it doesn't matter if he's a sorcerer or not or how he got his dragon, I suppose. Being a Dragonlord capable of slaughtering two dragonriders and a whole army means nothing can stop him in Westeros," Willas concluded grimly.

"Will I have to go North and swear fealty to Jon Stark now?" Garlan asked with a tinge of amusement.

"We must wait for him to call on House Tyrell first," his grandmother explained patiently before falling into thought. Her eyes lit up, and she laughed with glee. "Oh, he's far more cunning than I expected."

"How so?" Willas curiously asked and poured himself and Garlan a glass of Arbor Gold.

"I thought his brains were addled, but… Jon Stark did marry Shireen Baratheon, remember? Or at least a girl that is claimed to be her."

"With a dragon, he now has the rightful claim to the Seven Kingdoms in his lap," Willas realised as he was slowly twirling his cup of wine. "Garlan, it would be best if you go to Winterfell as an envoy. Assess the situation carefully. If Jon Stark has a dragon and is married to Shireen Baratheon, you should swear fealty in my name if need be."

"I've never been to the North before; it should be an interesting experience, especially in winter," his brother agreed with a wide smile and emptied his cup in one go.

"It's a perfect moment to get you a bride as well," Olenna said with a grunt as she turned to him, making Willas almost choke on his wine. She, however, smirked and continued relentlessly. "Sansa Stark will make a good lady of Highgarden. The little bird is not too smart, but not very stupid either, and very soft. We'll even be the ones to pay a king's ransom with the dowry. The girl's marriage prospects are poor after marrying a dwarf and a bastard, and you are the best she can get. There's no reason for Jon Stark to refuse. His sister becomes the Lady of Highgarden, and he gets ten times her weight in gold. A pity we couldn't get her before the old Lion married her off to the Imp."

The Second Battle for the 'Dawn'

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Just as Shireen Stark was about to crash, unseen under layers and layers of clothing, a certain golden pendant in the shape of a howling direwolf, inscribed with a small yet intricate runic script, began to glow softly.

Greatjon Umber had just gathered most of the men and was marching them to the southern side of the camp. His heart froze as he watched a small figure fall as the purple drake crashed towards the southern hills.

His side began to painfully pulse again, waking him from his stupor. The Queen couldn't be dead. She would not be dead! The wights were closer to the location where she had fallen than the northern army. A logical man would propose that they dig themselves in, meet the enemy in formation, and abandon the Queen, as she would probably be dead from the fall.

Greatjon knew all this... and promptly ignored it. He owed too much to House Stark, and without a dragonrider they were doomed either way.

"Go, GO!" The Lord of Last Hearth bellowed with the full strength of his lungs and raised his greatsword in the air, ignoring the piercing pain from his side. "PROTECT YOUR QUEEN!"

He gritted his teeth and began to jog, and the northern army furiously followed after him. He would not risk sprinting ahead only to be too out of breath to fight when they were about to battle. However, it seemed that the giants had no such qualms as they rushed ahead.

Much to Shireen Stark's surprise and relief, nothing hurt at all. She even stood up in wonder and patted her body. There was no pain, and the frigid wind no longer bit into her skin. Just as she tried to look around for Stormstrider, two silhouettes rushed out of the Bay. The Northern Queen found herself face to face with what could only be two White Walkers that were moving towards her with inhuman speed, ahead of the army of corpses. They were made of blueish ice, clad in dark armour, and with frigid, glowing eyes that promised death.

A small curse left her mouth, as she knew she stood no chance of outrunning them. She had no weapon or training to match either of them.

No, that was not true, was it?

She still had the dagger that Jon had gifted her.

Shireen unsheathed it shakily, but the bronze blade looked small and laughable compared to the crystalline longswords in the hands of her approaching foes. Not that she had managed to learn anything beyond how to stab someone with it, but she doubted that this enemy would stay still for her to strike.

Just as Walkers were about to reach her, a white blur crashed into one of them, sending it tumbling on the snow-covered rocks. The other did not pause for a second and pierced her mercilessly with his icy sword before she could even react.

To her surprise, once again, there was no pain, and her foe's face was stunned in surprise as his blade was blocked by a soft reddish glow. He placed his whole strength again, but to no avail. Beneath her clothes, the pendant dimmed, and even cracks appeared on it.

At that moment, Shireen realised that she did have a weapon in her hands and shakily stabbed the White Walker's unprotected face.

The Walker's eye widened in disbelief before a quick, loud cracking sound followed, and he shattered into pieces. A few hundred wights that were assaulting the northern wall fell lifelessly, much to the defenders' relief. But it did not matter, as more and more continued pouring out of the Gorge.

Meanwhile, Ghost attempted to bite through an unprotected part of his icy foe, but his teeth only sank half an inch into the living ice without breaking it. The walker twisted to strike the direwolf, but Ghost leapt over to the side and looked warily at his opponent, who quickly stood up. Before the White Walker could react, the direwolf lunged with lightning speed, bit the base of his icy sword, ripped it out of his hand, and disappeared into the snowy landscape.

The icy being looked at Shireen, who stood dazed amongst the remains of his comrade. And at the army of humans and giants that was quickly approaching the Northern Queen. After a short moment of hesitation, the Walker retreated into the frozen Bay, where the wights had just arrived.

Meanwhile, to the south, Stormstrider slowly and sluggishly crawled out of a particularly large heap of snow. The snow had cushioned the crash greatly, but the drake was not unharmed. Aside from the gaping wound in the left wing and the bleeding neck, a lot of scales on the left side were either smashed or outright missing, making him grow in pain.

That, however, seemed to attract the attention of a trio of Walkers who split off from the main army and, with a sizeable amount of wights, headed slowly in the direction of the dragon.

The giants were the first to arrive at Shireen's location, but they were only seconds ahead of the wights. The Queen finally got out of her stupor, only to find herself being picked up by one of the giants while the others attacked the wights with large wooden clubs. Just as he was turning around and about to run back to the camp, the ominous whistling sound was fast approaching again, and an icy spear pierced his neck cleanly, killing him instantly.

Shireen fell down and barely managed to roll to the side as the giant smashed into the snow-covered rocks. The others were quickly being swarmed by the endless amount of wights and half a dozen walkers who cut through the giants effortlessly. The Queen stood up and turned to run towards the approaching army of Northerners, but the giant that had just fallen opened his eyes, shining ominous blue, and caught her leg.

The enormous wight attempted to pull her back in, but at that moment, something white crashed into the outstretched limb and, with a sickly sounding crunch, broke it, together with its deadly grasp on her leg. The direwolf turned around to disappear into the snowy wilderness again, but a few wights latched onto his furs and slowed him down. Soon, he was swarmed by corpses, but their claws and teeth could not pierce his white fur. Furious, Ghost still managed to drag away all those that had latched onto him while his powerful jaws easily crushed through the bones of all that obstructed him.

Shireen, now free, quickly ran north towards the army that was now in sight but didn't move more than fifteen yards before her foot slid on the frozen slush, making her fall face-first to the ground. She quickly gathered herself up and stood up, only to wince in pain and fall down again as soon as she placed her weight on the right foot.

The handless giant wight was set aflame by a fire arrow, but Five Walkers that had just slain all the remaining giants rushed towards the fallen Queen once again. The vanguard of the Northern forces saw their queen in danger and madly dashed forward, quickly covering the distance to the Queen. The closest Walker was the one that reached Shireen first and immediately struck heavily with his icy blade, only to be stopped by a soft reddish glow. He stopped in surprise for a moment before smashing his sword again.

Beneath the layers of clothing, Shireen Stark's pendant heated up and broke, and the pieces embedded into her skin and knocking her out on the spot from pain. The Walker was about to raise his hand for a third strike when a furious Hugo Wull crashed into him and directly stabbed the icy demon with his dragonglass dagger.

"FOR THE QUEEN!"

At the western wall, a few dozen wights fell lifelessly.

The other Walkers caught up at that moment, and two crystalline swords pierced the old Wull's torso before he could move. The clan chieftain, however, madly grabbed their cold hands and held onto them with the final vestiges of his strength. His limbs quickly began to turn blue from the cold, but he did not let go even as his heart stopped beating, no matter how his foes tried to free themselves. A moment later, Rogar Wull, his son, stabbed a black-tipped spear into one of the restrained Walkers while a nameless greybeard stabbed a dagger in the eye of another before throwing himself at the next foe.

Greatjon, face pale in pain and anger, arrived and picked up one of the fallen icy swords. It was so cold that he felt his hand beginning to immediately stiffen even through his leather gloves, but he paid it no heed as he furiously shoved it into the neck of a Walker, who was cutting through men like they were butter. To his relief, the icy foe cracked into shards the moment the crystalline sword struck his unprotected neck.

In a scant few seconds, a hundred men had died to take down eight Walkers, the wights finally caught up, and everything became a chaotic slog on amidst the stony shore. The Queen, unconscious and considered dead after being struck twice by a White Walker, was nearly indistinguishable in the mess of twice slain bodies and charred bones. Thus, the few who sought to retrieve her remains had little luck amidst the battle.

Less than a handful of heartbeats after someone died, he quickly rose up with ominous blue eyes.

The Northern and Western walls provided a solid defensive advantage. They were well stocked and were now used to dealing with endless hordes of corpses, so they easily faced the waves of wights.

Meanwhile, Stormstrider was angrily spewing streaks of fire at the approaching wights, melting a lot of the surrounding snow in the process. Dozens of corpses were burning down every second, but more and more continued coming relentlessly. He attempted to fly up, but his body was immediately beset with crippling pain, only making him more furious.

From the east, something resembling a small snowstorm was quickly approaching the location of the fallen drake, leaving the purple dragon stranded on the storm from one side and a trio of quickly approaching icy beings on the other. Stormstrider saw them, and an angry torrent of purplish flame was sent their way. But as soon as the fire fizzled out, the White Walkers came forward sprinting, completely unharmed by the dragonfire.

The dragon tried to crawl away in fear, but he was too slow compared to his icy foes.

At that moment, dragonglass arrows began to rain down upon the Walkers. They tried to deflect some of them with their swords, but there were too many projectiles, and they were quickly killed, causing thousands of wights to fall down somewhere to the north.

An enormous hulking boar, nearly nine feet tall and just as wide, with a burly man in furs on top, was rushing furiously forward, splitting open a path for a river of shaggy unicorn riders armed with torches and dragonglass tipped spears and bows.

"CROWL!"

"MAGNAR!"

"STANE!"

The gigantic boar ploughed through the dead effortlessly, trampling all in his path, while the Skagosi followed in his stead and crushed all that remained. Stormstrider, feeling drained, slumped on the snow with relief as his surroundings were quickly cleared of foes.

Two minutes later, they turned towards the savage slog between the northern army and the wights. Men were dying quickly and in droves, and the Northerners were losing ground because the enemy was quickly surrounding them, and there were no reinforcements.

The Hulking boar smashed into the sea of corpses, and for a few moments, it looked like it could make all the difference. But three blue-eyed giants got in the way and managed to stop it. Its coarse fur was impenetrable, but it mattered little. Before Borroq the Skinchanger could do anything, he was pulled down and killed, and his companion had its eyes clawed out and slain. The Skagosi and their unicorn steeds were now also stuck, surrounded by a sea of enemies. They desperately swung their torches and black-tipped spears but were getting overwhelmed.

The dead spilt inside the camp, and the walls soon came under attack from both sides.

New waves of wights began approaching Stormstrider, and he continued belching fire at them, but his flames slowly began to wane. Maybe, if he was fully rested and devoid of wounds, he could continue for hours, but even breathing fire sent jolts of pain through his wounded side.

Ghost effortlessly crunched through bones with every bite, but for every wight slain, three new took its place, and he was slowly being surrounded. While his fur was far tougher than normal, he did feel pain, and his eyes were not invulnerable, so he was having great trouble protecting them and could not escape.

At that moment, the Night King, followed by two dozen White Walkers, stepped down on the shore and looked at the fighting in front. The Wall had been weakening for decades and had grown drastically weaker in the last two moons, allowing him to cross the Bay. Now, he was finally south. The Night King looked at the struggling drake to the south for a moment, but his gaze was drawn to a single point to the North, where he could feel something ancient and powerful. The place where the Dragon Queen was just waking up beneath.

Seemingly in no hurry, he calmly walked forward, followed faithfully by his retinue. The wights immediately stepped aside to make way for him and the Walkers behind him.

As soon as he reached the fighting, he lifted his hand, and all the torches were snuffed out, and the snow began to fall harder. The defenders began to fall even quicker before rising once more, blood cold and eyes blue. The air got even more frigid, and one could taste the despair in the end.

With much effort, Shireen managed to push aside a half-burned corpse and a few charred bones off her and warily looked around. Her body felt cold, and her limbs heavy. There was nowhere to run. Not that she could even walk with her sprained ankle. Men were desperately fighting and dying in every direction.

A few arrows fell on the Walkers, but only one got struck, shattering on the spot. There was scarcely enough dragonglass for three arrowheads per archer, and many marksmen had already spent theirs. Anyone who attempted to get close to the White Walkers or the Night King got ruthlessly slain with a single swing of their crystalline blades. The archers only attracted the attention of the Walkers, who headed their way. The Northerners were brave but could scarcely put up a fight anymore and were already tired from running all the way here. They couldn't form a proper line and were surrounded on every side. Even before their torches were extinguished, the battle was lost.

Parts of the defenders of the Western Wall were starting to get overwhelmed.

Stormstrider was quickly being surrounded by wights from every side, and his flames were quickly becoming weaker and slower.

Rogar Wull's lungs felt as if they were on fire. He barely avoided a swing from one of the icy fuckers. And another one. Every breath he took felt like molten silver was pouring down his throat. He knew that the North had lost.

But so what? If he was going to die, he was going to take as many enemies down to hell with him as he could! The others around him seemed to have the same idea, as the White Walkers were being swarmed in one desperate push. Two greybeards jumped his opponent from the side and got impaled through the guts, but it bought Rogar just enough time to bury his dagger into the face of the icy bastard. He gnashed his teeth angrily at the sight of his broken dagger. This was his last dragonglass weapon.

There were just too many of the icy foes. As he looked around, the White Walkers were slaughtering the Northerners with ease, and the wights were nearly unstoppable, with no fire to defeat them. He saw the Great Walrus getting torn open with an icy blade and Soren Shieldbreaker losing his hand while trying to fight two Walkers at the same time.

The Night King's face twisted into an unnaturally cruel smile as he saw Shireen Stark struggling to get up with his own eyes. It was barely the tiniest of slivers, but divine blood flowed through her veins. He cleaved a pesky human that was in the way in two with a flick of his wrist before approaching the Northern Queen. The look of fear and despair in her eyes made everything perfect.

Just as he was three steps away, he twisted his body, avoiding an icy sword that would have stuck his neck. Greatjon roared defiantly and swung the stolen crystalline sword again, but before he could even blink, an icy blade was buried in his guts. He groaned in pain, but as a last act of defiance, he headbutted the Night King…but the Cold One didn't even blink.

The Lord of Last Hearth fell on the ground, dead. A few moments later, his eyes turned blue and stirred again.

Shireen tried to crawl away, but it was futile as her limbs were cold and stiff.

In the distance, a whistling sound was fast approaching.

Two heartbeats later, he was standing in front of her with his twisted, blood-curdling smile and lifted his sword in the air.

The Northern Queen trembled but still stared death in the eyes defiantly. It was like the whole world paused for a short moment. As the sword slowly descended, Shireen wondered if Jon would miss her...

*TING!*