Hers Is The Fury

Battle Of Winterfell

[Winterfell]

The sky was dark and foreboding as the armies of the living and the dead faced off outside the walls of Winterfell. The trenches had been dug and lined with wooden stakes, waiting to be ignited. Melisandre, the Red Priestess, stood on the battlements, her eyes glowing with a fierce, otherworldly light as she prepared to light the trenches with her magic.

Half of the Dothraki horde waited patiently, their horses snorting and pawing the ground, eager for the battle to begin. They knew their role was to flank the undead, using their speed and ferocity to cause as much damage as possible. A portion of the archers, armed with flaming arrows, stood ready to provide support from a distance.

The Night King, perched atop his undead dragon, Viserion, gazed out over the battlefield with a cold, emotionless expression. He could sense the power of the trenches, the magic that would soon ignite them, and he knew that this would be a battle to end all battles.

As the first wave of undead approached, the Dothraki charged forward, their cries of war echoing through the night air. The flames from the trenches illuminated the horrors that marched against them, but the Dothraki were undeterred. They rode into the fray, their arakhs flashing in the light of the flames as they hacked and slashed at the undead.

The undead, however, were relentless and unyielding, driven forward by a dark and malevolent force. They fought with a ferocity that belied their decaying flesh, and the Dothraki found themselves struggling to keep up with the relentless onslaught.

But the archers were ready, and their flaming arrows rained down upon the undead, causing chaos and destruction wherever they struck. The undead screamed and burned, their ranks thinning as the arrows found their mark.

As the battle raged on, it seemed that the tide was turning in favour of the living. The undead were beginning to falter, their lines breaking as the Dothraki and the archers continued to press their advantage. But then, a figure emerged from the darkness, a figure that sent a shiver down the spine of every living being on the battlefield.

The Night King.

He raised his hand, and Viserion breathed a stream of icy fire that incinerated the first rank of the living, their screams mingling with the roar of the flames.

The Night King began to sense a weakness in the living's defenses. He could see the fear in their eyes, the doubt that gnawed at their hearts. And he knew that if he could just break through their lines, he could turn the tide of the battle in his favour.

But the living would not go down without a fight. They fought with every ounce of strength they had, their swords and spears flashing in the light of the burning trenches. And as the battle reached its climax, the Night King realized that this would be a battle that would decide the fate of all the living. There could be no surrender, no retreat. The living would fight to the last man and woman, and the undead would fight to the last one of them.

Jon and Daenerys were on standby with their dragons Rhaegal and Drogon, waiting for the signal to join the fray.

As the battle raged on, Morgana, the woman with a dragon's heart, stood tall among the archers. She summoned her power of the earth and sky, feeling the energy of the living and the dead alike. With a shout, she threw a rock as hard as iron at the Night King's undead dragon, striking it in the eye. The beast howled in pain, and Viserion veered off course, crashing into the trenches and igniting the stakes. The flames engulfed the dragon, and the Night King was forced to turn his attention to saving his steed.

Meanwhile, Jon and Daenerys signaled their dragons, Rhaegal and Drogon, to attack. The two great beasts descended upon the battlefield, breathing fire upon the undead and scattering them like leaves in a storm.