Silver Stag

They're Here

[King's Landing]

As the sun set over King's Landing, the sky turned a sickly shade of purple, signaling the arrival of the army of the dead. Jon Snow, Daemon Targaryen, Aelinor Baratheon, and a small group of Westerosi soldiers stood atop the walls of the Red Keep, gazing out at the endles sea of undead that stretched towards the horizon.

"Well, this is it," Jon said grimly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Are you ready?"

Daemon nodded, his eyes fixed on the approaching horde. "I was born ready."

Aelinor took a deep breath, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. "Let us show these monsters what true courage looks like."

With a fierce cry, the Westerosi soldiers retreated, falling back towards the city in a carefully choreographed route. The wights followed, their slow, lumbering strides eating up the distance between them. But as they reached the abandoned houses on the outskirts of the city, the soldiers disappeared inside, barricading themselves within.

From within the darkness of the houses, the sound of armored boots echoed, and the rattle of weapons being readied. The wights, confident in their victory, surged forward, crashing through doors and windows in search of their prey. But as they poured into the homes, they found only empty rooms and the occasional scream of terror.

Meanwhile, Daenerys Targaryen waited patiently on the back of Drogon, her husband, brother and sister-by-law's dragons - Rhaegal, Loki, and Freya - poised and ready for battle. She knew that the key to success lay in timing, and she could feel the moment drawing near when her forces would strike.

As the last of the wights entered the houses, the doorways burst open, and the Westerosi soldiers emerged from their hiding places, armed and angry. With a fierce cry, they charged forward, driving the wights back towards the center of the city.

At the heart of the chaos, Jon, Daemon, and Aelinor fought with all their might, their blades flashing in the flickering torchlight. They were surrounded by the undead, but they held their ground, fighting with a ferocity that belied their fear.

And then, just as the tide seemed to turn in favor of the living, the dragons roared into action. Rhaegal breathed fire down upon the wights, incinerating them in droves, while Loki and Freya swooped and circled, striking from unexpected angles.

Theon Greyjoy was a man consumed by his own demons. He had once been the proud and powerful heir of the Iron Islands, but after his failed rebellion against the royal family and Starks, he found himself stripped of everything he held dear. His family, his title, his home - all taken from him in the blink of an eye.

But Theon's greatest loss was not material possessions or social status; it was the loss of his own sense of self-worth. He felt like a shadow of his former self, a mere specter haunting the lands of Westeros. And so, he turned to the only thing that brought him any semblance of purpose: killing wights.

Theon scoured the city, searching for any sign of the undead. He would venture into the darkest alleys and most abandoned corners of the capital, armed with nothing but a rusty sword and a fierce determination. He fought bravely, but foolishly, throwing caution to the wind as he charged headfirst into every battle.

Each time he defeated a wight, Theon felt a fleeting moment of satisfaction, a brief reprieve from the crushing weight of his own despair. But it nevr lasted long enough. As soon as the adrenaline wore off, he was left with the same hollow feeling inside him, the same overwhelming desire for oblivion.

And so, Theon continued his reckless campaign against the dead, hoping against hope that one of them might finally put an end to his misery. He knew it was a futile wish, but he could not help but cling to it, like a drowning man grasping at straws.