Game of Thrones: A Dance of Ice and Fire

(A/N: Sorry for the late chapter, but this is a long chapter and I spent the majority of the day writing, revising, back and forth constantly and finally decided to just submit it.

It's about 8k words, not including this note. This chapter is also the ending of the prologue. I will be taking a small break for a couple of days after this chapter release, hope you enjoy it.)

(PS: Idk what else to call those elites just below the NightKing who can control their own undead, other than Lieutenants, it was hard to describe, white walkers, whites? idk. They sound close and similar, so lieutenants will be called this.)

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The lieutenant's icy blade slashed through the air, anticipating where the Yoriichi would land. Yoriichi, mid-acceleration and about to be struck, suddenly twisted sideways. The large icy blade shimmered an unnatural chill, just missing his skin by inches.

Yoriichi landed lightly on the icy terrain, his backfoot slid across the snow to find a holding. The storm's howling wind swirled around them as if enclosing the pair in a secluded arena. In his hands, the wooden sword began to brittle from the cold as frost started to cling to it.

The lieutenant froze momentarily, more surprised that his strike against the boy had missed, its glowing blue eyes locked onto Yoriichi, only meters to its side. There was an eerie stillness as the creature adjusted its position, its movements stiff yet fluid shifted seamlessly into another deadly attacking stance. Yoriichi steadied himself, sword at the ready, preparing to counter.

In an instant, the lieutenant blurred, The gap between them vanished in a heartbeat as it swung in a lethal arc. Its icy blade itself tearing through the wind with unnatural speed to its weight. Yoriichi ducked low, the blade slicing just a few hair strands above him. He gasped, his breath visible in the cold air, each exhale quick as he scrambled to regain his footing.

The lieutenant swung fast, each slash intending to kill, Yoriich forced to dodge in quick successions finally noticed a flaw in one of the attacking strikes, with his teeth grit and visible veins on his arm, he countered with a swift and precise slash aimed at its neck intending to break it with one blow, 

The wooden sword struck with a loud slap, but an almost imperceivable blue aura blinked around the lieutenant's form. The blade rebounded back violently, as the force uncontrollably ripped from Yoriichi's grasp and sent it spiralling into the snow.

The impact jolted up his arms, and a low numbed feeling coursed through his muscles as the unexpected force left him momentarily stunned. Realizing this fatal misfortune, Yoriichi instinctively stepped back, his feet crunching against the snow putting some distance between each other.

The lieutenant's glowing blue eyes flared, with cruel amusement as it stepped forward, each deliberate movement exuded a mocking confidence. Yoriichi felt this tone was familiar, it was as if a predator toyed with its prey. Savouring it before killing. A chill ran down his spine, unsure if it was himself or the weather playing tricks.

Yoriichi's mind raced, being empty-handed he searched for a solution. His sight darted across the battlefield, eventually catching an iron gleam reflecting the torchlight around, an iron sword impaled into a dead Free Folk. This was closer to his current position than the wooden sword he was familiar with. But at this moment Yoriichi only wanted something else, more desperate for a different outcome, his thoughts leaving only one sentence, 'Maybe this one will work...'

Without hesitation, he sprang towards the weapon, his fingers closed around the hilt of the sword and pulled it out effortlessly, but warning signs constantly impacted his brain to turn around. During this quick dash, he had turned his back slightly to the enemy and felt an unprecedented fear of the unknown.

His worries proved justified. As he turned, what greeted him wasn't the relief of distance between him and the creature he fought, instead the lieutenant was already closing the gap with its terrifying speed. Its glowing eyes locked onto him, and its blade arced downward in a single motion, aiming to cleave him in two.

Instincts overruled his fear. Yoriichi swung upward with the iron sword, the movement fueled by sheer strength rather than strategy. He braced for the clash, expecting the jarring impact to reverberate through his arms once again, but the anticipated collision never came.

Instead, the sound that rang out wasn't a metallic clang but the ear-piercing crack of shattering. The iron sword splintered into fragments upon contact, its brittle remains scattered on the frozen ground like shards of glass. Yoriichi staggered back, his arms still raised defensively, briefly stunned by what just occurred.

The lieutenant, witnessing the sword's destruction, a cruel smirk plastered on his face, but wasted no time. Pressing forward with an unrelenting assault, its blade a whirlwind of icy strikes. Each swing carries a deadly force, leaving no room for error.

Yoriichi snapped back from his thoughts, His body constantly dodging this relentless flurry of attacks, but his small body started to strain. Every strike he avoided felt closer than the last, starting to impact his strong mind with a beating word; 'Defeat.'

His movements grew heavier with each step, his breaths ragged and uneven. The Transparent World, his usual guide in combat, to efficiently deal with anyone up till now no longer worked here, leaving him to rely solely on his own reflexes.

Then it happened. Yoriichi misstepped, a tiny slip, but enough to disrupt the rhythm of his pattern. Narrowly avoided the deadly swing of the lieutenant's blade, but he couldn't anticipate the follow-up. A sudden kick struck him square in the chest, lifting him off the ground and sending him hurtling across the snow.

Pain erupted through his body as he landed, the impact jarring every bone and muscle. His chest burned with an intensity that made each breath a struggle, and his vision started to blur as he gasped for air. For a terrifying moment, he thought his ribs had shattered under the force, but some deep instinct reassured him otherwise. His strength, his unnatural, inherited power had saved him, cushioning the blow that would have killed anyone else.

As Yoriichi struggled to rise, chaos consumed the battlefield. The undead surged in tireless waves, their chilling moans blending with the anguished cries of Free Folk falling one by one. Their weapons barely slowed the horde, and the camp, once a beacon of hope, teetered on the edge of destruction.

Fear etched itself into the faces of the fighters still standing, their movements frantic and desperate. Yoriichi's chest tightened as the weight of the moment bore down on him. His strength, his skill, and his dream all seemed insignificant against this endless tide of death.

A piercing scream cut through the storm, snapping his attention to Free Folk hurling torches The flames consumed all those undead hit, reducing them to ashes with a final, haunting screech.

'Fire.' The realization sparked something within him. His crumbling resolve steadied as the image of flames burned into his mind. Sounds of heavy crunching came to him, any disorientation he still had disappeared.

The lieutenant was closing in again, each step deliberate, its glowing blue eyes never leaving Yoriichi. The eerie, playful grin on its face sent chills down his spine. Yoriichi couldn't understand it. One moment, it was a methodical slow-paced walk, the next, a whirlwind of attacks to kill. This unpredictable, almost mocking behaviour brought a creepy aura shrouding the lieutenant.

Yoriichi's hands trembled, his breath visible in the frigid air. Fear gnawed at him, but he forced himself to stand. He steadied his breathing, letting the memories take root. 'Fire,' the memory of the burning undead was vivid in his mind, its screech as flames consumed it etched into his thoughts. 'They fear the light, the warmth,' he realized.

His mother's words echoed faintly, pulling him from the edge of despair: "You were born to carry the sun within you, Yoriichi, to bring its light and hope when all seems lost." But how could he do that now? He had no torch, no fire to wield. All he had was his body, his breath, and his spirit. 'Is that enough?'

His gaze landed on the wooden sword lying cracked in the snow just feet away. It was damaged, but it was his. A flicker of resolve lit inside him. It wasn't much, but it was all he had. He threw himself toward the sword, desperation propelling him forward. The lieutenant seemed to recognize his intent, its icy blade flashing as it lunged to intercept. The attack wasn't calculated like last time, the lieutenant had now grown bored and wanted to end this once and for all.

Yoriichi reached the sword first, his fingers wrapping around the hilt as the lieutenant's blade swung down. Rolling away just in time, the frigid air hummed from the missed strike. His hands trembled as he rose, gripping the weapon tightly. Closing his eyes, he drew a deep, deliberate breath, his chest expanding as he calmed the storm within him.

The chaos around him faded. The storm's howl dulled, the screams and moans of the battlefield growing distant. At this moment, it was only him, his breath, and the wooden sword. He moved slowly, his body flowing in deliberate, practiced steps. Each movement was familiar, like the dances he performed with his family around the fire during celebrations, joyful memories of warmth, light, and love. Those memories fueled him now.

A heat stirred deep within, unfamiliar yet powerful, spreading from his core. His breath deepened, steady and deliberate, and as it did, the sword in his hands began to glow. It wasn't fire that lit the blade, but a radiant brilliance, like a small fragment of sunlight piercing through the darkness. The light pushed back the encroaching cold, melting the frost that clung to the air around him, even where the grass had begun to poke out.

The lieutenant had caught up after the initial miss and was now mid-swung, the icy blade aiming for the back of Yoriichi's head. Yoriichi felt the cold edge closing in, but this time, he didn't dodge. He turned with deliberate grace, meeting the attack head-on. His glowing blade clashed with the ice, sending a shockwave of light through the storm. Shattering any undead running towards the Free Folk near him, The force of the collision itself pushed the lieutenant back, its icy form sliding across the snow.

For the first time, the mocking grin fell from its face. Its glowing blue eyes widened. It stumbled slightly, its movements hesitant now, as though it was trying to understand what had just happened.

Yoriichi gripped his sword tighter, the light flickering but holding strong. He took another steady breath, his stance firm. This was his moment. The cold no longer felt insurmountable, and the weight of despair lifted, if only for a fleeting moment.

The icy face of the lieutenant was now replaced with a contorted face of anger and...fear. Moving up quickly, Its attacks became erratic, the swings were wild and unfocused, and the situation seemed to turn instantly as Yoriichi pressed his advantage, his strikes faster and more precise.

Yet at this moment, his body screamed in protest, his lungs burning as if they carried a fire he couldn't contain. The light around him flickered, unstable and untamed, a reflection of his own uncertainty. He realized with a sinking clarity that this power wasn't just his it was something more, something born of the land's magic intertwining with his desperate breaths and thoughts. The searing heat in his chest disoriented him, the strain began to overwhelm his body. This wasn't sustainable, not unless he trained properly. 

His movements staggered a bit from the overdraft and uncomfortably ducked another swing only to counter, his sword clashing against the ice blade. The wooden blade started to snap and splint from each collision. Just when their swords were about to clash once again.

From the corner of his eye, Yoriichi saw a brief flash. A dark arrowhead whistled past his cheek with perfect accuracy and struck the unsuspecting lieutenant's shoulder. The arrow cracked the lieutenant's icy armour. As it staggered slightly, its cold gaze snapped to the direction of the attack.

Yoriichi put himself into a position where could see where the attack came from. He saw Ygritte, her bow raised and another arrow already notched. Her face was pale and her eyes full of fright, her breath misting in the freezing air. "Run!" she shouted, her voice hoarse and trembling, tears started to run down her cheek. "Yoriichi, run!"

But before Yoriichi could move. The lieutenant shrieked, an unearthly sound that sent chills through the air. Behind it, the undead surged forward, their gnarled forms breaking into a run toward Ygritte.

Yoriichi's heart clenched, leaving the creature he was fighting with as he rushed forward to Ygritte's position, his legs burning with every step. The lieutenant, strangely, had turned away from him entirely, its icy eyes focused elsewhere, Yoriichi had no other time to think, his focus now only on the striking red hair.

'I won't make it.' The thought stabbed through his mind like a dagger. Undead, far too close to Ygritte, began turning towards her, their lifeless eyes glowing blue with cruel intent. Yoriichi's breath caught as his view became obscured by the sea of bodies converging around her. His heart stopped for a moment at the thought of what was to come,

Then, piercing through the chaos, the shrill cry of a bird echoed, followed by the haunting howls of wolves followed from that location.

Grisha emerged from the swirling snow, his hawk, Redwing, diving with lethal precision. Its talons raked through brittle skulls, scattering fragments of bone as it swooped past. At his feet, a pack of wolves lunged and snapped, their teeth finding anything to lock their jaws into, tearing the undead apart before they could close in.

Ygritte, her bow trembling in her hands, loosed an arrow into the chest of an advancing undead. Though it staggered momentarily, the creature pushed forward, relentlessly. Grisha appeared beside her, using a dagger to slice into the undead, stopping it forever, his wolves formed a protective circle around them. Their snarls and lunges bought fleeting moments of safety, their loyalty unwavering.

Yoriichi was able to arrive in time thanks to the wolves, his wooden sword slashing through an advancing undead from behind. The once brilliant glow of his technique was dim. His lungs burned with each laboured breath, the searing pain nearly paralyzing him. He took a moment to catch his breath inside this small circle, but the undead never stopped their advance.

"We can't hold this spot," Grisha said, his voice tight. "We need to retreat now!"

Yoriichi, his gaze flickering between the approaching undead and his companions, hesitated. "But if we leave, they'll overrun us," he said, pointing to the undead starting to surround, his voice rasping with exhaustion.

"We don't have a choice!" Grisha shot back, his dagger slashing another undead as his hawk dove, its talons crushing brittle skulls. His wolves growled, creating a barrier of fur and fangs between the undead and their small group.

Yoriichi finally nodded, as Grisha didn't call off the wolves, a little confused Yoriichi asked; "Grisha?"

He didn't respond to Yoriichi, his expression shifted to one of quiet sorrow. He knelt briefly, his hand brushing the fur of the lead wolf overlooking his pack of about thirty. "Hey boy, it's time to stay behind," he whispered, his voice trembling, small flickers of white glow in his eyes. "You... you... must hold them as long as you can."

The leader's sharp eyes fixed on him for a moment, then nudged his head forward licking Grisha's face with surprising gentleness. The gesture broke something in him, his composure cracking. "You're my family too, but his dream... is for all of us," he murmured, pressing his forehead to the wolf. "I'll never forget you, I will take care of your pups."

With a final whimper, the wolf leader turned, snarling loudly as the other wolves around howled and charged into the horde with ferocious determination. Ygritte watched in stunned silence, her eyes welling with tears. Grisha rose, his jaw clenched and throat sore, and without looking back, grabbed Yoriichi's arm. "We move now."

Yoriichi hesitated, his heart-wrenching as he glanced back at the wolves tearing into the undead. The sounds of snarls and snapping bones mixed with whimpers and cries faded quickly beneath the storm. He knew they had no time to mourn...

Around them, the undead pressed closer, but the group was only ten meters away from the front line, Grisha, Ygritte, and Yoriichi fought hard to get back here, Yet even in retreat, Yoriichi's focus faltered as his eyes caught something that made his blood run cold.

He stopped mid-step, halting the small group despite their urgent cries to keep moving. His gaze fixed on a figure emerging from the blizzard the lieutenant... Its once-shattered armour was slowly reforming, frost and shards pulling back together as though nothing had happened. Yoriichi's breath itched. It wasn't advancing toward him this time. Its icy gaze, full of deadly intent, was locked on someone else. His father, Odin.

Its presence cut through the chaos, its glowing eyes fixed on its target. The distance between them was closing fast. Yoriichi's heart plummeted as he realized how close it was, close enough to strike Odin down in an instant.

"No!" Yoriichi screamed, his voice cracking with unwillingness. The storm swallowed his cry, but it didn't stop him. His father stood at the center of the battlefield, his massive axe cleaving through the horde, cuts and scratches all over him, he was a bloody man, but Odin still fought with unmatched ferocity, unaware of the death creeping toward him.

Yoriichi's chest heaved as rage and fear surged within him. His stout father, one who was unyielding and indomitable, the anchor of their people, the pillar holding them together, and most importantly his dad. The thought of losing him, of watching him fall, ignited something deep inside.

His breaths came in deep, deliberate bursts. A searing heat built within him, pushing past his exhaustion and the fire burning in his lungs. His wooden sword, almost broken and fragile, glowed a brilliance once more, so bright you could see the inner veins of the wood and carvings specifically done with meticulous care. The amount of power flowing into this sword seemed as if it would explode at any moment, but it never did.

Yoriichi planted his feet, his once trembling body now excluded a serious calm, as he took a stance. His breathing intensified, every exhale carrying a flicker of heat that radiated from his core. The flames in his chest roared, bright and uncontainable, despite the toll it took on his weary body. His eyes started to strain, but his focus remained unbroken.

With a cry that tore through the storm and seemed to still the battlefield for a fleeting moment, Yoriichi hurled the sword with all his might. The weapon streaked through the air leaving a burst behind to show its power, as a blazing comet appeared in the blizzard's darkness.

The lieutenant, mid-swing, never had a chance. Faster than it could react, the wooden blade pierced its icy sword, shattering the frozen weapon into countless shards. The unrelenting streak continued forward, as the radiant sword buried into the undead commander's chest, heat flowing into his icy veins, as spidering cracks appeared across its body.

The lieutenant froze, its glowing eyes widening in shock. A deafening low roar ripped from its throat as its form glowed from within and exploded into fragments, scattering across the snow like broken glass. The sword splintered and cracked entirely stabbing straight into the ground.

For a moment, the battlefield stopped. The nearby undead faltered, and finally collapsed where they stood, their bodies crumbling into brittle heaps. The Free Folk, their spirits battered but not broken, let out a ragged cheer. Weapons were raised as cries of defiance rang out, cutting through the storm.

For the first time, hope flickered amidst the carnage. Yet Yoriichi only felt a new sense of dread wash over him, the storm only got colder. Others slowly started to get this feeling too as they looked far into the distance once more. A tense eerily quiet settled, broken only by laboured breaths and the faint crackle of the flames licking at the edges of the camp.

"Maybe we're overthinking it... we-we won right...?" a Free Folk man spoke quickly, anxiety and fear had taken him.

No one responded to him, just silently clutching their weapons harder, with no time to mourn their fallen compatriots the cold darkness in front of them with low obscurity unsettled all their hearts.

Odin stood at the front line, his axe resting against his shoulder as his sharp eyes scanned the horizon. He wasn't fooled. This wasn't over, not by a long shot.

Yoriichi, Ygritte, and Grisha reached where Odin was, their faces pale, their breaths heavy. Yoriichi stumbled, his legs barely supporting him, the aftermath of his technique weighing heavily on his small frame. His chest burned with every breath, he just stared at his father.

Odin turned to them, his expression unreadable for a moment before softening as he looked at his youngest son. "You've done more than enough, son, and thank you for saving me," he said gruffly, though his voice carried a strange warmth. His eyes lingered on Yoriichi, a silent pride shining through the lines of exhaustion on his face.

Yoriichi opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat as a sound broke the tense quiet, a deep, guttural roar that seemed to vibrate the very air. From the storm emerged five figures, each more imposing than the last. The Free Folk fell silent, their fleeting hope finally extinguished as they watched the second wave emerge.

The five lieutenants moved with a cold deliberation. The first rode an undead steed, its icy halberd glinted in the dim firelight. Beside it, another loomed atop an undead polar bear, with an enormous icy bow in its hands. The remaining three advanced on foot, their weapons more distinctive than the last, a spiked mace, a jagged curved blade, and an ominous staff. Behind them, an unending tide of glowing blue eyes stretched into the darkness, the storm swirling as if heralding their arrival.

Odin's expression hardened. He turned back to his sons, taking a deep breath his voice calm yet resolute. "So this is where it ends," he said, his words cutting through the despair that hung heavy in the air, he looked to his left at his second son. "Tormund, take Yoriichi." his gaze turned to the two kids following his youngest, "Grisha, Ygritte go with him too..." Seeing no movement from them his voice raised higher "Get out of here!"

Tormund stiffened, his grip tightening on his weapon. "We can hold with you, Father. We-"

"You can't." Odin cut him off, his tone final. "This isn't a fight we win. Not here. Not Now, Not Today." He looked at Tormund, his gaze softening slightly. "Your fight is out there." he looked south. "Protect him. Protect what's left of us."

Yoriichi hearing this shook his head furiously, stumbling forward, he couldn't understand. "No!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "I'm not leaving you! I can fight! Let me fight!"

Odin knelt before him, his massive hands resting on Yoriichi's trembling shoulders. "Listen to me Yori." his voice low but firm. "I see it in you, the strength to lead, the strength to protect. But not here... You're not ready yet. You've got so much ahead of you." His gaze was unwavering, though a faint sadness glimmered in his eyes. "You have to live, Yoriichi Giantsbane. That's what your mother and I want."

Tears streamed down Yoriichi's face, his breaths coming in uneven gasps. "But I don't want to leave you! I don't want to lose you!"

"You're not losing me," Odin said, a faint, sad smile breaking through his stern expression. "I'll always be with you. But right now, you have to go."

Kormunn stepped forward from the right of Odin, his sword still stained with the remnants of the earlier battle. "I'll stay," he said simply, his voice steady. "You'll need someone at your side."

Odin glanced at his eldest son, a mixture of pride and sorrow crossing his face. He nodded once, clasping Kormunn's shoulder. "I won't stop you," he said. "But Tormund…" His voice grew firm again as he looked back at his middle son. "You take your brother and get out of here. No arguments."

Tormund hesitated, his jaw clenching. He looked at Yoriichi, who was sobbing openly now, and then back at his father. Finally, with a deep, shuddering breath, he nodded. "I'll keep him safe," he said, his voice breaking.

Odin's lips curved into a small smile. "Good man." "Find your mother... and tell her-" his voice choked, his eyes wet, "Tell her, to take good care of you and that I finally know why she always looked south." His gaze rested on Yoriichi and his striking mark on his forehead. He then straightened, his gaze sweeping over his sons, Grisha, and Ygritte. "Go. I'll be right behind you."

Tormund grabbed Yoriichi, who struggled weakly in his grip, his cries muffled by the sound of the storm. "No... No!" Yoriichi shouted, his voice broken. "We can't leave him!"

"We have to," Tormund said, his own voice cracking. "I'm sorry, little brother."

Odin turned back toward the advancing undead, his axe glinting in the faint firelight. He grabbed a flask off his pouch poured mead into his mouth, and spit it onto his axe, moving it to a torch a FreeFolk carried beside him as it lit up. "Fire up your weapons men! The fear it!" with a low shout the Free Folk holding this last bastion all lit their weapons on fire with mead from the celebration.

A high shriek sounded as the second wave began its charge, the lieutenants waited in the back as the tide passed them. Odin and Kormunn stood their ground, their weapons ready. As Tormund carried Yoriichi away, the last thing Yoriichi saw was his father, his broad frame a defiant wall against the oncoming storm.

Odin glanced back one final time, with a heartful smile and mouthed. "I love you." then he turned, with a burst of boisterous laughter ringing out as he faced the horde.

"Is that all you've got, you icy bastards?" he bellowed, his voice filled with both challenge and resignation. "Come on! I've got more fight in me than you'll ever see!"

Tears blurred Yoriichi's vision as the storm swallowed his father's figure. At that moment, something inside him broke. The resolve to lead, to protect, would come later. For now, all he felt was the unbearable pain of loss.

Tormund carried Yoriichi with two of the shadows of Grisha and Ygritte through the camp and found Frida moving towards the camp's edge, her double axes glinting in the dim light as she came towards her sons. Her face softened at the sight of Yoriichi, his small figure trembling, his tears freezing against his cheeks.

"Mom!" Yoriichi cried out, his voice raw with desperation. "Dad said take care of us! He also said he understood why you kept looking south!"

Frida stepped forward, her strong hands gently cupping his tear-streaked face. Her eyes, shimmering with a mix of love, sorrow, and resolve, met his. "Yoriichi," she began softly, her voice steady despite the chaos around them, "I know what your father said. But he doesn't understand me as well as he thinks." She let out a weak, nostalgic chuckle. A flicker of something crossed her face at Yoriichi's words, but she didn't elaborate, as if the meaning of it belonged only to her and Odin, a moment she wouldn't share. Instead, she focused on her son. "He's the one who needs me now, not the other way around. And I'm not leaving him."

"But Mom" Yoriichi's voice cracked as he clung to her hands, his tears falling freely. "You have to! If you stay, you'll die! Please, we can still all escape together. We're stronger when we're together!"

Frida shook her head slowly, brushing a strand of snow-dusted hair from his face. "Yoriichi, love can make you do selfish things. And this…" Her voice trembled for a moment before she steadied it. "This is my selfish choice. I won't leave your father to fight alone, not after everything we've been through together." Her grip on him tightened briefly, her fingers warm against his cold skin. "I love you, my son. But I love him too. And love… it's not just about surviving. It's about standing by the ones who mean the most, even when it breaks your heart."

Yoriichi's sobs grew louder, his shoulders trembling as he tried to process her words. "It's not fair," he whispered. "I need you. We all need you."

"You'll have each other," Frida replied gently, her voice full of conviction. "And I'll be with you in spirit, always. But right now, I need to be with him. Your father and I… we're a team. We always have been. And I won't abandon him, not now."

Tormund stepped forward, his broad shoulders trembling as he tried to hold himself together. "Mom…" he began, his voice cracking. "Please, you can't do this. Yoriichi needs you, we need you."

Frida turned to her second son, her hand brushing against his cheek, her tears falling freely now. "Tormund," she said, her voice breaking, "you've always been so strong. You've been my rock. But now you have to be strong for him." She nodded toward Yoriichi, who was sobbing openly beside her. "Leave me, Take him and Protect him."

"I can't!" Tormund's voice cracked, his fists clenching at his sides. "You're asking too much! I can't leave you here!"

Her expression softened, but her words were firm. "I know it's unfair. I know it hurts. But if you don't, he won't survive. Please, Tormund. You have to go."

Yoriichi dropped to his knees in the snow, clutching at her hands as though holding on could somehow keep her there. "I don't care about the tribe or the war or anything!" he cried. "I just want us to stay together. I want us to own a farmland together beyond the wall and dance around all the time like I promised! Please... Mom... Please don't leave me!"

Frida knelt down, pulling him into her arms. For a moment, her warmth shielded him from the biting cold, a fleeting reprieve from the storm both outside and within. "I want that too," she whispered, her voice heavy with grief. "More than anything. But sometimes, we don't get what we want, Yoriichi. Sometimes, we have to do what's right, even when it breaks us."

Her gaze flickered briefly toward the battlefield, where Odin stood, already bracing against the unrelenting tide. She thought of Kormunn, her eldest, who had gone ahead to fight by his father's side. She will join them soon.

Tormund knelt beside them, his tears falling freely. "Mom…" he choked out. "Let us fight with you. Let us stay."

Frida's hand shot out, slapping Tormund across the face. The sound echoed in the frozen air, cutting through the howling wind. "Tormund!!!...You have to fight a different battle," she said, her voice trembling with anger and heartbreak. "Your fight now is to protect your brother. To keep him alive. That's what I need from you now. Please, this is a mother's last wish."

Tormund stared at her, stunned, his cheek stinging. Slowly, he nodded, his shoulders slumping as he accepted her words. "I understand," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Frida turned back to Yoriichi, her hands framing his face as her tears spilled over. "You're so much like your father," she said, her voice softening. "You have his fire, his determination. But you have a light all your own, Yoriichi. That light can guide people. It can give them hope. But only if you live."

"I'm not strong enough, I couldn't do anything..." Yoriichi whispered, his voice trembling. "I need you. I can't do this without you…"

"Yes, you can," she said, her tone firm but loving. "You're stronger than you know. And you won't be alone. Tormund will be there. Ygritte. Grisha. They'll all stand with you." She pressed a hand to his chest, her touch warm despite the cold. "And I'll always be here, Yoriichi. Always."

Ygritte, standing a few paces away, had been listening quietly. Her green eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her expression a mixture of sadness and tenderness. She stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on Yoriichi's shoulder. "Yoriichi," she said softly, her voice trembling, "she's right. It hurts, but… it's her choice. And… it's beautiful, in its own way." Her voice cracked slightly as she continued. "To love someone that much… to stand by them no matter what…" She gave him a faint, tearful smile. "She's doing this for both of you. It's her way of fighting for you, too."

Yoriichi's chest heaved with uneven breaths as he turned his tear-streaked face toward Ygritte. Her presence was calming, but the pain in his heart felt unbearable. Frida leaned forward, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead. "Live, my son," she whispered. "Live, love, and protect. That's all I'll ever ask of you."

As Tormund approached to pull Yoriichi away, Frida stood tall, her axes gleaming in the dim light. She turned back toward the battlefield, where Odin waited, Kormunn likely already at his side. Her steps were steady, her resolve unshakable, even as tears streamed down her face. "Goodbye, my loves," she murmured.

Yoriichi struggled against Tormund's grip, his cries echoing in the storm. Ygritte held onto his hand, her own tears falling silently as they retreated into the swirling snow. Frida's figure disappeared into the chaos, her heart filled with both sorrow and love as she returned to fight beside her family.

From behind her, a group of spearwives emerged, their faces streaked with tears but filled with fiery determination. Brusha stepped forward, her voice strong. "The children are safe. Now we fight."

Frida turned to them, her tears mingling with a sad smile. "Then let's make them proud."

Together, they charged into the chaos, a wall of ferocity and love, rushing to meet up with their respective families or duties to the tribe on the front line.

Tormund carried Yoriichi through the burning camp and snow, his movements driven by sheer determination. Each step was heavy, but he pressed on, his brother's small frame trembling in his arms. The boy's tear-streaked face buried against his chest, Yoriichi barely stirred, the weight of loss keeping him silent.

Grisha and Ygritte emerged from the swirling snow behind them, their expressions grim, their steps hurried. Neither spoke as they pushed forward, the urgency of escape keeping them focused. Grisha's usual smirk was gone, replaced by a quiet sorrow that darkened his eyes.

The storm began to ease as they neared the outskirts of the southern camp. Small clusters of Free Folk huddled together, their faces pale and gaunt. Mothers held their children close, shielding them from the cold, while spearwives and wounded men stood watch, their weapons trembling in their hands.

Tormund knelt carefully, setting Yoriichi down on the snow-covered ground. His hands lingered on his brother's shoulders for a moment before he straightened, his breath visible in the icy air. Yoriichi didn't move, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon, lost in his thoughts.

Grisha's hawk, Redwing, circled above before landing on his shoulder, letting out a sharp, mournful cry. His fingers brushed the hawk's feathers absently, his gaze distant. "We can't stay here," Grisha said, his voice cold but quiet. "We're sitting targets if we stop. We need to move south."

Before anyone could respond, a voice rose from the survivors. "This is all your fault!"

A spearwife stormed forward, her face twisted with grief and anger. She pointed at Yoriichi, her voice trembling with rage. "You brought us together! If we'd stayed apart, maybe this wouldn't have happened!"

Yoriichi flinched, her accusation slicing through the silence. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words wouldn't come.

Ygritte's voice cut through the air like a blade. "Shut your mouth, you daft fool!" She stormed forward, her green eyes blazing as she glared at the spearwife. "Blame anyone, blame yourself for not getting here earlier. We stayed here waiting for you and the other tribes to come, and you show up late and think you've got the right to point fingers? Yori killed a White Walker Lieutenant while you lot were nowhere to be found!" Her voice cracked with anger, but her stance remained firm. "You've no right to speak his name, not after what he did for us Free Folk."

The spearwife faltered, her lips parting as if to protest, but Ygritte cut her off. "Don't even start. He wanted us to leave before the dead got here, but we waited for you. Two weeks? You could have arrived anytime sooner, but chose the final day. He gave us a chance to survive, and you want to spit on it? You should be thanking him, not pointing fingers."

The silence that followed was thick, the weight of Ygritte's words pressing down on everyone. The spearwife stepped back, her anger crumbling into shame, as tears welled in her eyes. She turned away without another word.

Grisha exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly, though his expression remained grim. Redwing spread her wings, her sharp gaze still fixed on the retreating spearwife. "We don't have time for this. Either we move, or we die."

Tormund stepped forward, his voice booming over the quiet. "Listen up for those who may still have second thoughts! My brother Yoriichi Giantsbane didn't just save us, no he brought us together for something real. He gave us a dream, a chance to unite when all we've ever known is fighting each other. But no one could've expected those ghouls to come now. None of us were ready, and that's not on him."

He scanned the group, his gaze hard and unyielding. "Follow him, or don't. But if you think you can lead better, step up and prove it. Otherwise, shut your mouths and get moving. We've got a long way to go."

The survivors exchanged hesitant glances before nodding slowly, their despair giving way to reluctant resolve. Yoriichi, no longer hollow, raised his head. His voice was soft, hoarse from grief but steady. "We go south. Together."

The group began to stir, their movements slow but purposeful. Yoriichi led the way, his steps small but resolute. Ygritte and Grisha flanked him, their presence steadying. Redwing took to the skies again, her sharp cries echoing above them. Tormund brought up the rear, his watchful eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of danger.

As they marched, Yoriichi's thoughts turned to his parents. The memory of their sacrifice pressed heavily on his heart. Yet, even as the pain lingered, his resolve began to solidify.

When they were far enough from the camp, Yoriichi stopped and turned to look back. The faint glow of flames was gone, swallowed by the storm. Only darkness remained.

"We need to bring everyone together," Yoriichi said, his voice low but firm. "If we don't, we'll never survive what's coming."

The survivors paused, their breaths visible in the cold air. They nodded slowly, their exhaustion mingling with a faint glimmer of hope.

Yoriichi clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. "I'll protect all of you," he vowed, his voice growing stronger. "And I'll destroy them... all of them... every last one of them."

*********************

Through the battlefield's frozen stillness, the Night King strode with deliberate purpose. The snow crunched beneath his boots as his glowing blue eyes swept across the carnage. Flames flickered weakly in the distance, their light swallowed by the storm. The morning had come, its sunful arrival blocked by thick gray clouds, leaving the land as cold and lifeless as before.

He stopped abruptly before a splintered wooden sword, its battered form half-buried in the snow. Despite its appearance, the weapon seemed to emanate a faint warmth, an almost imperceptible pulse of something unnatural...something that did not belong in the frozen grip of his dominion.

The Night King crouched, his long, glacial fingers reaching for the weapon.

The moment his fingertips brushed the wood, a sharp hiss filled the air. A wisp of heat seared his flesh, and thin tendrils of smoke rose where his icy touch met the remnants of the sun's warmth. His hand recoiled instantly, and a small burn marred his frostbitten fingers. It was faint, a mere blemish, but in the eternity of his existence, it was an anomaly he could not ignore.

His glowing eyes narrowed, their cold fire flickering with something almost human, a spark of anger, or unease. The burn remained, a stark reminder that he had encountered something beyond his comprehension, something that defied his rule over death and cold. He stared at the wooden sword, his expression a frozen mask of contempt and growing fury. With a slow motion, he picked it up again, ignoring the faint pain that lingered on his skin, and held it.

He tilted his head, as though weighing its significance, before flinging it aside with a force that cracked the air. The sword clattered against the frozen ground, its faint warmth extinguished as it disappeared into the snowdrifts.

His icy palm then hovered over the shattered fragments of his fallen lieutenant. Slowly, the Night King knelt and placed his hand on the icy remains.

As his fingers made contact, his eyes rolled back, and fragmented memories surged into his mind like shards of shattered glass. Flashes of the battle came in bursts; the searing heat of a blazing blade cutting through frost, the defiant cries of the living, and, finally, the last vision his lieutenant had seen.

A boy.

Young, slight of frame, with a striking red mark etched across his face. His eyes burned with determination, his wooden sword ignited with a radiance that defied the cold. The boy's expression lingered in the lieutenant's final moments...a mixture of defiance and fear.

The Night King's grip on the fragments tightened, frost spreading across their surface, cracks forming as his unyielding strength crushed them further. He rose slowly, his breath visible in the freezing air, the memories playing over and over in his mind. The burn on his fingers seemed to throb, a small but damning reminder that this boy...this anomaly...was unlike anything he had faced before.

He turned his gaze southward, his glowing blue eyes narrowing as they pierced the endless horizon. A flicker of something unfamiliar stirred within him, a sensation he could not name but could not ignore. Was it anger? Hatred? Or something colder...

He straightened, his attention shifting to the shadowed horizon, where his army of death loomed in silent formation. Lieutenants stood among the ranks, each with their own distinctive weapons and mounts of choice, their icy armour reflected the dim light. Their unblinking blue eyes mirrored his own, yet none dared move without his command.

Amid this eerie stillness, a groan broke the quiet. The Night King's gaze fell upon two figures. Odin knelt in the snow, his body impaled by jagged spears of ice and steel. Blood oozed from his wounds, staining the pristine snow around him. Yet he still breathed, his chest rising and falling with shallow, laboured motion, holding the body of a man similar to him in his arms.

Frida stood beside him, or rather, what remained of her. Her body was covered in deep cuts and bruises, her once-vibrant eyes dull with exhaustion and pain. Her movements were stiff, her battered body barely able to hold its ground. And yet, despite it all, she remained defiant, her broken axes clutched in trembling hands as she shielded her husband and dead son.

One of the Night King's lieutenants moved forward, its jagged blade raised as if to end the pitiful game. But the Night King raised a hand, stopping it in its tracks. The Night King's expression betrayed no mercy, no pity. Only a cold, calculating curiosity as he stepped closer.

Frida's eyes locked onto him, her grip tightening on her shattered weapons. With a burst of remaining strength, she lunged, her strike wild and desperate. The Night King sidestepped her effortlessly, his icy hand lashing out and sending her into the snow.

She struggled to rise, her lips trembling as they formed a name. "Odin…"

The Night King crouched before her fallen husband, tilting his head as if studying him. Slowly, he extended a frostbitten finger, brushing it against Odin's bloodied chin and tilting his face upward. Odin's breath hitched, his clouded eyes widening in terror. The Night King pressed his thumb against the man's forehead.

The frost spread instantly, curling across Odin's skin like creeping vines. His body convulsed, his screams tearing through the silence as the ice consumed him. Memories flashed in his mind. 'Frida's laughter, Yoriichi's small hands gripping his, the voices of his sons calling him "Father."' Each image flickered and faded, replaced by the unrelenting cold.

The last vestiges of humanity vanished from Odin's eyes as they snapped open, glowing blue. Slowly, mechanically, he rose to his feet, dropping the once-held body to the ground. His new form towering and imposing. The frost solidified around his hands, shaping an icy great-axe that glimmered with an otherworldly sheen.

Frida crawled forward, her voice cracking as she whimpered his name. "Odin… please…"

For a fleeting moment, the Night King stepped back, letting the scene unfold. Odin turned, his glowing eyes meeting Frida's. There was no recognition, no warmth, only the empty void of death. He raised his axe.

In her final moments,

Her mind drifted to the first night they had met beyond the Wall. The memory came as vividly as if she were living it again, bittersweet against the icy grip of death.

'The night had been calm, the stars scattered across the sky like a thousand tiny fires. Odin had approached her with the blunt confidence that had always defined him, his axe slung casually over his shoulder.

"You're different from the others," he had said, his deep voice rumbling with certainty.

Frida had raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Bold words for a man who doesn't even know me."

"I don't need to know you to know what I want," he replied with a smirk. "And I want you."

She had scoffed, though her cheeks had burned with a blush she couldn't hide. "Why?"

"Because you're stronger than the rest of them," he had said simply. "And because I want children who'll grow up knowing what strength really means."

The sheer audacity of his statement had stunned her into silence. But there had been no malice in his words, only a raw sincerity that had melted her skepticism. She had laughed then, shaking her head at his bluntness.

"And what makes you think I'd even agree to that?" she had teased.

"Because I'd do everything for you," he had said without hesitation. "Follow you anywhere. Fight for you. Protect you. That's what a man does for the woman he wants."

The memory shifted to a quieter moment, years later. They had sat together under the moonlit sky, her head resting against his shoulder. The world had felt so vast then, yet his presence had made her feel anchored. He had caught her staring southward, her gaze distant.

"Why do you keep looking that way?" he had asked, his voice soft.

"I don't know," she had replied, her heart heavy with an unnameable ache. "It's as if something's pulling me."

He had chuckled, the warmth of his laugh wrapping around her. "Maybe you miss your home."

"Maybe so," she had murmured, leaning into him. He had wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close.'

In her fading consciousness, she clung to that memory, letting it fill her with a fleeting warmth. She could almost feel his touch on her back, hear his voice teasing her about the south. For a moment, it was as if they were there again, untouched by the horrors of the world.

But the present returned with brutal clarity as Odin's icy form loomed over her. She reached out weakly, her fingers trembling as she whispered his name. "Odin…"

For a fraction of a second, something flickered in Odin's frozen, glowing blue eyes a faint, fragile echo of the man he had once been. As if from some distant, unreachable part of himself, a single tear welled up. It shimmered against the cold, its warmth an anomaly in the icy stillness that now consumed him.

The tear traced a slow path down his cheek, trembling as if it carried all the memories he could no longer grasp 'the laughter of his children, the warmth of Frida's embrace, the firelit nights filled with hope and love.' But as it reached the edge of his face, it froze solid, a crystalline shard of what he once was.

Odin raised his icy axe, His movements were deliberate, and unyielding, yet somewhere deep within, something resisted, a flicker of defiance that was snuffed out as quickly as it had come.

Frida closed her eyes, her lips curving into a faint, saddening smile. She didn't see the axe descending. In her heart, she didn't feel its cold finality. Instead, she was back under the moonlit sky, Odin's warm hand resting gently on her back, his voice steady and filled with love...

The blade fell, severing not just her life but the last fragile tether to Odin's humanity.

The frozen tear remained on his cheek, catching the dim light, a silent testament to what had been lost. The Night King's gaze lingered on Odin for a moment before turning toward the south. In the far distance, the Wall loomed, its faint magical pulse a defiance he could not yet overcome.

He tried to step forward, his will pressing against the unseen force holding him back. The magic surged, stopping him in place. For now, he could go no further. But he could feel it weakening, year by year, the barrier shrinking like a candle's flame.

The frozen tear caught the faint moonlight one last time before Odin turned, his form now fully consumed by the ranks of the undead. The Night King remained still, watching the horizon with patient, unyielding intent.

His time would come. Soon.