A/N: Eir

[King's Landing]

As chaos raged on outside, Queen of the North, Morgana Baratheon, remained unconscious in the healer tent, following a one-on-one confrontation with the Night King.

The only indicators of life; the rise and fall of her chest.

The healer, a tall and sturdy man with a long grey beard and wise eyes, sat cross-legged next to her. His hands, rough and calloused from years of tending the sick and wounded, gently caressed her forehead. He whispered softly to her, his words carrying the weight of a thousand prayers.

The air inside the tent seemed to hum with an almost imperceptible energy. It was as if the very fabric of reality was stretched thin, ready to tear apart at any moment. The healer, sensing this change, glanced up warily. His eyes widened in recognition as he saw an ethereal figure standing at the entrance of the tent. It was Eir, the previous warrior maiden.

"My lady," the healer murmured, bowing his head in reverence.

Eir slowly glided towards the unconscious form of Morgana, her gown rustling softly against the canvas walls of the tent. Her face was pale, but her eyes shone with a fierce determination. She placed a gently hand on Morgana's shoulder, her touch as light as a feather.

"My queen," she whispered, her voice as warm as the summer breeze. "It is time for you to awaken."

As if in response to Eir's words, Morgana's eyelids fluttered open. She looked around, confused and disoriented. The healer and Eir exchanged sympathetic glances.

"Do not fear, my lady," Eir said softly, her voice steady and reassuring. "I am here to help you understand what is happening."

Morgana felt a wave of relief wash over her. She looked up at Eir, then down at her own hands, still trembling slightly from the encounter with the Night King. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"My name is Eir," the ethereal figure replied, her voice taking on a more commanding tone. "I was the warrior maiden who came before you. It is time for you to accept your destiny, Morgana. You must become the next warrior maiden, for only then can you fulfill your purpose."

Morgana felt a chill run down her spine as she took in these words. She looked into Eir's ancient eyes and saw the truth written there. Slowly, she nodded her head in understanding. "I will do whatever it takes," she said, her voice strong and steady. "I will protect the Seven Kingdoms, and I will help defeat the Night King."

Eir smiled, her face crinkling with warmth. "Very well, my lady. Then it is time for you to accept the full extent of your powers." With a graceful motion, she placed a hand on Morgana's chest, just above her heart. A surge of energy coursed through her body, making her limbs tingle and her senses heighten.

As the energy subsided, Morgana felt different; stronger, more confident, more in tune with the world around her. She sat up, her back straight and her head held high. She looked Eir in the eye and smiled. "Thank you," she said, her voice steady and firm. "I am ready."

Eir nodded, her expression solemn. "Remember, my lady, your powers come with great responsibility. You must use them wisely and only for the greater good. The fate of the Seven Kingdoms rests upon your shoulders."

Morgana took a deep breath, feeling the weight of Eir's words. She looked around the tent, taking in the chaos that raged on outside. The sounds of battle, the cries of the wounded, and the shouts of command filled the air. She knew that she had to face this new reality head on.

"The time has come for me to rest," Eir continued. "I bid you good luck, Morgana Baratheon, the new warrior maiden."

With those words, the ethereal figure began to shimmer, slowly disappearing from view, only for the shining orb of light left behind to travel towards Morgana.

The orb floated towards Morgana, its light bathing her face in a warm glow. She reached out a trembling hand, and as her fingers brushed against the orb, it seemed to pulse with energy. A wave of knowledge and understanding washed over her, and she felt as though she had been given a new sense, one that allowed her to see beyond the surface of the world and into its very heart.

With this newfound power, she stood up, steadying herself against the bedpost. The healer, sensing that she was strong enough, stepped aside, giving her space. Morgana took a deep breath, feeling the weight of her new identity settle into her bones. She was no longer just Morgana Baratheon, daughter of Robert and Cersei. She was now the warrior maiden, the protector of the Seven Kingdoms.

With a determined stride, she made her way out of the tent, emerging into the chaos of the battlefield. Soldiers and knights were fighting for their lives against the relentless onslaught of the undead horde. The air was thick with the smell of blood and death, and the ground was slick with mud and gore. Morgana scanned the battlefield, searching for someone who could use her help.

Her gaze fell upon a group of men-at-arms, struggling against a particularly determined wave of the undead. With a growl, she charged forward, her sword swinging through the air with deadly precision. She moved with a grace and power that belied her slight form, cutting down wights with ease. Her presence on the battlefield was like a beacon of hope, inspiring those around her to fight harder and push back against the Night King's forces.

As she fought, she felt connected to everything around her, as if she could sense the battlefield itself, its ebb and flow, its weaknesses and strengths. With a cry of rage, she leapt into the midst of the fighting, her sword a blur of steel as it cut through the undead horde. Bodies piled up around her, but still they came, relentless and hungry for death.

Despite the endless horde, she found her thoughts drifting to Jon. She couldn't see him anywhere. Where was he?

The battle raged on, and with each passing moment, Morgana grew more and more weary. Her sword arm ached from the constant fighting, and her lungs burned from the effort of breathing in the foul air. But still she fought, driven by a determination that was as fierce as it was unyielding.

During a brief respite, she spotted a familiar head of auburn curls, on the head of a man wearing armour with a direwolf sigil.

Her husband, King of the North, Robb Stark.

Morgana fought her way through the throng of soldiers and wights, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and determination. She spotted him, his back to her as he fought valiantly against a group of wights, his sword singing through the air with each powerful stroke. She cried out his name, but the sound was lost in the din of battle.

With a final surge of strength, she burst through the last of the undead between them, her sword raised high as she shouted his name once more. Robb glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widening in recognition as he saw her. A smile of relief and love spread across his face, and he redoubled his efforts, driving his sword deeper into the bodies of the wights with renewed vigor.

Morgana moved to stand at his side, their shoulders brushing as they fought together. They made a formidable team, their movements in perfect sync, their swords singing a deadly duet that cut a bloody swath through the undead horde. Around them, the tide of the battle seemed to shift, as the men-at-arms and knights they fought alongside grew bolder, inspired by the sight of their leader's wife standing side-by-side with him, fighting alongside him against the seemingly endless onslaught.

As they fought, Morgana found herself glancing over at Robb, unable to tear her eyes away from him. He was the love of her life, her soulmate, and seeing him here, in the midst of this nightmare, filled her with a fierce protectiveness that threatened to overwhelm her. She longed to tell him how much she loved him, to beg him to survive this war, to promise him that they would find a way to be together, no matter what the cost.

But the battle raged on, and there was no time for such sentiments. They fought side-by-side, their bodies moving in perfect harmony, their swords a blur of steel and blood. Around them, the tide of the battle began to turn, as the men-at-arms and knights they fought alongside grew more confident in their abilities, inspired by the sight of their fearless leader and his formidable warrior maiden wife.

The undead horde, sensing their advantage slipping away, began to press harder, throwing everything they had at the duo. Morgana and Robb fought with a determination that was unyielding, their focus honed to a razor-sharp edge. They moved as one, anticipating each other's moves, their swords singing a deadly song that cut down the wights like wheat before the scythe.

Around them, the battlefield was a nightmarish landscape of chaos and death. Bodies littered the ground, and the air was thick with the stench of decay and the cries of the wounded and dying. The sky, once a deep and beautiful blue, was now darkened by clouds of ash and smoke, casting a pall of despair over the entire world.

Just when it seemed they were near victory, something strange happened.

The wights were no longer attacking them. Instead, they seemed to be retreating. But, why?

Morgana and Robb exchanged a confused glance as they watched the undead horde slowly withdraw from the battlefield, their once-ferocious attacks giving way to a strange, almost hesitant retreat. They shared a brief moment of confusion before their eyes met once more, and understanding dawned upon them both.

Above them, they saw the undead dragon, Viserion, reatreating, with a figure on his back, likely the Night King.

But, it made no sense. The Night King wanted as much death and destruction as possible; to put an end to humanity.

Why would he retreat now, when they might have been on the verge of victory?

As they watched the undead dragon and its master retreat, Morgana and Robb exchanged another confused glance. They could feel the tension in the air, the knowledge that something was not quite right. The soldiers and knights around them sensed it too, and the battlefield fell silent as all eyes turned skyward, watching the undead dragon and its master fly away.

Whatever his reason, it hardly mattered. They were being given a reprieve. A chance to collect themselves and come back stronger.

Which they would. For their lives and the fate of Westeros and the entire known world, and beyond, depended on it.