Pain. Not physical, but a deeper, soul-tearing agony lanced through Drogon's ancient consciousness. Below him, upon his own back, the presence he knew better than the sun in the sky, the fire in his blood – his rider, his mother – had gone *cold*. The warmth of her life, the fierce spark of her spirit, had been extinguished, replaced by the same terrifying emptiness radiating from the figure in the Godswood and the thousands of frozen statues that now littered the battlefield.
He saw her, Daenerys Targaryen, perfectly still, her eyes vacant blue gems reflecting the oppressive grey sky. A sound ripped from Drogon's throat, a shriek that cracked the unnatural silence, a blend of primordial grief and boundless fury. It was the cry of a god mourning its fallen world.
Instinct took over. He beat his colossal wings, rising higher, distancing himself from the source of the violation. Then, banking sharply, he dove. Fire, black as night and hotter than any forge, erupted from his jaws, bathing a section of the courtyard in molten destruction. Wights, already still, simply blackened and crumbled, their icy forms no match for dragonflame. But the wave of fire washed harmlessly over the transformed figures of the living – Jon, Brienne, Jaime, countless others. They stood impassive amidst the inferno, untouched, their stillness absolute. The fire could destroy the dead, but it could not break the curse that held the living.
He unleashed another torrent, then another, his rage a physical force, shaking the very foundations of the ancient castle. It was futile. The cold remained. The stillness held. His fire, which had melted armies and turned castles to slag, was useless against this magic, this utter negation of will.
Despair, cold and heavy as stone, settled in his chest. He looked down again at the still figure on his back. His mother was gone, stolen by the ice. This place, Winterfell, was no longer a battlefield, but a tomb, a monument to the Night King's victory. Staying meant joining her in that silent servitude.
With another roar, this one laced with the agony of abandonment, Drogon beat his wings with desperate power. He climbed, leaving the cursed castle behind, soaring above the smoke and the silence. He flew south, away from the encroaching ice, away from the frozen heart of his world. He did not know where he was going, only that he must escape the stillness. He was the last dragon, a free creature in a world rapidly falling silent, a flying inferno of grief against the encroaching, endless winter.
***
Below, in the heart of the frozen chaos, the Night King stood motionless for a long moment, surveying the fruits of his stolen power. Winterfell was his. Its defenders, its heroes, its queen, its king – all silent, all awaiting his command. The cacophony of life had been replaced by the perfect, ordered silence of his dominion. A faint, almost imperceptible tightening around his eyes might have been satisfaction. The first, most crucial step was complete. Now, the rest of Westeros awaited its transformation.
He turned, his White Walker commanders falling into step behind him, their movements synchronized, silent. The newly transformed army, thousands strong, stirred as one, their icy blue eyes fixing on their master. The march south would begin soon.
***
Not all succumbed to the stillness. Hidden in the smoky chaos near the stables, Sandor Clegane, The Hound, watched the wave of cold wash over the courtyard. He saw men he'd fought beside moments ago freeze mid-stride, their faces going blank. He saw the light die in their eyes. He wasn't a man given to panic, but a different kind of dread, cold and absolute, gripped him. This wasn't a battle lost; this was the end of everything.
He ducked deeper into the shadows as the Night King emerged from the Godswood, the sheer *wrongness* of the scene – the silent army, the frozen heroes – confirming his bleak assessment. He scanned the area, his eyes landing on a small figure pressed against the stable wall, dagger drawn, eyes wide with a terror that hadn't yet frozen over: Arya Stark.
She was watching the transformation, her face pale, her knuckles white on the hilt of her Valyrian steel dagger. He saw the flicker of indecision, the warrior's instinct warring with the overwhelming horror.
Clegane moved fast, grabbing her arm, his grip like iron. Arya reacted instantly, spinning, dagger flashing towards him, but he batted it aside easily.
"No," he snarled, his voice a harsh rasp in the near silence. "Not this time, girl. Look around you. *Look!*"
Her eyes followed his gesture, taking in the frozen tableau, the blue-eyed stillness of fighters who moments ago were allies. The fight drained out of her, replaced by a dawning, sickening understanding.
"It's over," Clegane growled, his scarred face grim. "They lost. We lost. Everyone bloody lost. Staying here means... *that*." He jerked his head towards a nearby soldier, frozen with a look of vacant horror.
Arya stared, her breath catching. She saw Jon, frozen. Sansa, still on the battlements. The faces of people she knew, loved, fought beside, now empty shells.
"We run," Clegane stated, not asking. He pulled her harder. "Now. While whatever that *thing* is, is busy admiring his work."
Arya hesitated for only a heartbeat, the training, the survival instinct kicking in. She nodded, the motion sharp, sudden. She knew shadows. She knew how to disappear.
Clegane released her arm but stayed close. "Your tricks," he muttered. "Get us out of this frozen hell."
Without another word, Arya Stark melted into the deepest shadows clinging to the stable walls, The Hound following her grimly, his heavy footsteps surprisingly quiet. They moved like ghosts through the periphery of the silent, cursed castle, two sparks of defiance fleeing the encroaching ice. Behind them, Winterfell stood as a monument to the dead and the damned, the first great conquest of the Night King's final war. Ahead lay only darkness, uncertainty, and the chilling whisper of the spreading winter.