Not with a howl or a scream, but with a whoosh of displaced air, as if Winterfell itself had exhaled. Jon’s hand flew to Longclaw’s hilt. A figure now stood before the weirwood, facing away from him. Lean, clad in black and orange that seemed garish against the snow. Spiky, sun-lightened hair defied the northern cold.

Jon stared at the fist for a moment, then awkwardly bumped it with his own.

Then he walked out to meet the army of the dead. What happened next would be told by campfires for a generation.

The Others came not as a trickle but as a tide. A hundred thousand dead marched on the Gift, led by White Walkers on dead horses, their swords of ice glittering in the blue-black dark. The Night’s Watch broke. The wildlings broke. Even the dragons Daenerys had finally brought north—Viserion and Rhaegar, for Drogon had been lost at sea—faltered, their flames guttering against the cold sorcery of the Night King.

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