[Winterfell]

Samwell Tarly brought a different kind of energy. His arrival with Gilly and Little Sam was a relief to many. Sam's knowledge of the White Walkers and his time at the Citadel made him invaluable. But it was his warmth that stood out. He greeted old friends with a smile, his laughter echoing through the stone corridors. Gilly, though shy, found comfort in the company of Sansa and Arya, who welcomed her with open arms. Little Sam's giggles brought a rare lightness to the castle, a reminder of life amidst the growing dread.

Bran's return was the most anticipated, but also the most unsettling. His siblings—Robb, Sansa, and Arya—had waited years to see him again. Yet the boy who came back was not the brother they remembered. His eyes were distant, his words measured. He spoke of things he couldn't possibly know, of events that had happened far beyond the walls of Winterfell. Robb tried to joke with him, to bring back the brother he once knew, but Bran's responses were cold, almost clinical. They had waited so long for this moment, but the Bran they remembered was gone. In his place was someone—or something—else. Sansa watched him carefully, her sharp mind piecing together the changes. Arya, ever perceptive, saw the weight in his gaze. She didn't ask questions. She just stood by him, silent but present.

Meera Reed's arrival brought its own kind of sorrow. She had been Bran's protector, his guide through the darkest of times. But now, her role was over. She sought out her father, Howland Reed, who had come to Winterfell to pledge his support to the Starks. When she told him of Jojen's death, her voice broke. Howland's face hardened, but he pulled her into an embrace, his grief silent but deep. Meera stayed close to him after that, her strength tempered by the loss of her brother. She didn't speak much, but her presence was a quiet reminder of the sacrifices made to bring Bran home.

Sarella Sand's arrival at Winterfell had been anything but smooth. The guards had eyed her with suspicion, her Dornish features and sharp tongue marking her as an outsider. She had no banners, no retinue, just a dusty cloak and a sharp tongue. When she finally mentioned Queen Alysanne, the name carried enough weight to grant her entry, though the guards still muttered among themselves. Sarella didn't care. She had come for answers, and she wasn't leaving until she got them.

Now, standing in the dimly lit hall, she faced Samwell Tarly, his face a mix of curiosity and unease. "The horn," she said, cutting straight to the point. "Do you know what it does?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Gilly and Little Sam, who sat quietly by the hearth. "It's broken," he admitted. "Jon found it at the Fist of the First Men. He thought it was just an old relic. Gave it to me as a curiosity." He paused, scratching his head. "I didn't think it was anything special."

Sarella's brow furrowed. "Euron Greyjoy stole it. Why would he want a broken horn?" Her voice carried an edge of frustration. She had traveled far, risking much, only to find herself chasing shadows.

Before Sam could respond, Bran Stark's voice cut through the room, calm and distant. "It's the Horn of Winter. The Horn of Joramun." His words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Sarella turned sharply, her eyes narrowing as she took in the young Stark, seated in his chair, his expression unreadable.

"The Horn of Winter?" Sam repeated, his voice rising slightly. "The one from the legends? The one that can bring down the Wall?" He looked at Bran, then at Sarella, his mind racing. "But it's broken. It can't work."

Bran's gaze remained steady. "Euron doesn't know that. Or he doesn't care. He's a man who thrives on chaos. If he thinks it has power, he'll try to use it." His tone was matter-of-fact, but the weight of his words sent a chill through the room.

Sarella crossed her arms, her frustration giving way to a sharper focus. "Then we need to stop him.
Sarella stepped closer, her gaze narrowing. "Euron doesn't care about broken things," she said. "He's not the kind of man to waste his time on trinkets. If he took it, he believes it can be fixed. Or worse, he already knows how. The Wall is all that stands between us and the dead."

Sam nodded slowly, his mind still grappling with the revelation. "But how? Euron's not exactly the type to sit down for a chat. And if he's already got the horn..." He trailed off, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

Bran's expression didn't change. "We'll need to act quickly. And carefully. Euron's not the only threat. The dead are coming. The Wall won't hold forever." His words were a stark reminder of the larger battle looming over them all. Bran's expression remained unreadable, his pale eyes fixed on some unseen horizon. "Euron has a dragonhorn," he said quietly. "He claims it can bind dragons to his will. But he doesn't understand the true power of what he holds. The Horn of Winter is older, darker. It was forged for a purpose far greater than controlling beasts." His words sent a chill through Sarella. She had spent years studying the mysteries of the world, but this was something else entirely. This was ancient magic, the kind that could reshape the world.

Meera Reed stood silently beside Bran, her hands clenched into fists. She had seen the horrors beyond the Wall. She had watched her brother die. And now, she was back in Winterfell, surrounded by strangers and whispers of war.

Sarella's jaw tightened. She had come to Winterfell seeking answers, but now she found herself thrust into a fight she hadn't anticipated. "Then we don't have time to waste," she said, her voice firm. "If Euron's playing with fire, we need to put it out before it burns us all."

Sam glanced at Gilly, who gave him a small, reassuring nod. He turned back to Sarella. "I'll help. Whatever I can do. But I'm not a fighter. I'm just... a man with books."

Sarella's lips twitched in a faint smile. "Books can be weapons too. If you know how to use them." She looked at Bran. "And you. You've seen things. You know things. We'll need that."

Bran's gaze drifted, as if he were looking through them rather than at them. "I'll do what I can. But the past is not always a clear guide to the future." His words were cryptic, but there was a quiet resolve in his tone.

The room fell silent, the weight of their task settling over them. Outside, the wind howled, a reminder of the cold and the darkness that pressed against the walls of Winterfell. Sarella took a deep breath, her mind already racing ahead. "We'll start tomorrow," she said. "We'll figure this out. We have to."

Sam nodded, though his expression was still troubled. Gilly reached over and squeezed his hand, her touch grounding him. Bran remained silent, his thoughts already far away. Sarella turned and walked to the window, staring out at the snow-covered courtyard. The stakes were higher than she had imagined. But she had come too far to turn back now.

[The Wall - Eastwatch By The Sea]

And somewhere, far to the north, the Wall stood silent and ancient, its fate hanging in the balance.

Tormund stood atop the Wall, the icy wind biting at his face. The raven's message from Jon Snow was short but urgent.

No sightings yet, Tormund thought, crumpling the parchment in his hand. But he knew better than to relax.

The Night King didn't announce his moves. He just came. And when he did, it would be too late for anyone caught in his path.

The wildlings in the Gift were a problem. They had settled there after Jon let them through the Wall, but now they were sitting ducks. Tormund had seen what the dead could do. He'd fought them. He'd lost friends to them. He'd watched friends rise again, their eyes glowing blue, their faces twisted into something unrecognizable. He wouldn't let that happen to his people. Not again.

He thought of the families huddled in their makeshift shelters, the children who had already seen too much. They didn't deserve this. None of them did.

If the Wall fell, the Gift would be a graveyard. He clenched his fists. Evacuating them wasn't just smart—it was necessary. But convincing them to leave their homes? That was another battle entirely.

He turned to Edd, who was leaning against the parapet, staring into the distance. "We need to move them faster," Tormund said, his voice low. "Every day we wait is a day we might not have."

Edd nodded, his face grim. "Aye. But where do we send them? The lords south of the Wall won't take kindly to wildlings pouring into their lands."

Tormund grunted. "They'll take kindly to dead men even less." He paused, his mind racing. "We'll send them to Winterfell. Jon'll make room. He's got the stubbornness of a mule and the heart of a fool. He'll do it."

Edd raised an eyebrow. "And if he can't?"

Tormund's jaw tightened. "Then we'll find another way. But we can't leave them here. Not with what's coming."

The wind picked up, howling through the cracks in the Wall. Tormund shivered, though not from the cold. He'd faced death more times than he could count. But this was different. This wasn't a fight he could win with an axe and a roar. This was a fight against something he couldn't see, couldn't predict. And that scared him more than he cared to admit.

Edd frowned. "They won't like it. They've barely settled in. You think they'll just pack up and leave because we say so?"

Tormund grunted. "They'll like it even less when they're dead. I'll talk to them. They'll listen to me." He wasn't so sure, but he had to try. The wildlings respected strength, and Tormund had plenty of that. But respect didn't always mean obedience.

Later, in the makeshift camp, Tormund gathered the leaders. They sat around a fire, their faces hard and skeptical. He didn't waste time. "The dead are coming," he said. "And when they do, this place won't hold. You need to move south. Now."

One of the men, a grizzled hunter named Harrok, spat into the fire. "We've been running all our lives. First from the crows, then from the dead. Now you want us to run again? To where? The kneelers' lands? They'll kill us before the dead do."

Tormund leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't know what it's like to lose everything? But this isn't about pride. It's about survival. If you stay here, you die. If you move, you live. It's that simple."

The fire crackled, and for a moment, no one spoke. Then a woman stood. "And what about you?" she asked. "You'll stay here, fighting while we run?"

Tormund met her gaze. "Someone has to hold the line. But you don't. Not this time."

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. Slowly, the leaders began to nod. They didn't like it, but they understood. Tormund felt a flicker of relief. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

As he walked back to the Wall, he thought about Jon. He wondered if his friend was feeling the same weight, the same dread. The Night King wasn't just a threat to the wildlings or the North. He was a threat to everything. And Tormund knew, deep down, that no matter how many people they saved, the real fight was still coming.

The Wall loomed ahead, cold and unyielding. Tormund climbed the steps, his breath fogging in the air. He looked north, into the darkness. Somewhere out there, the dead were waiting. And when they came, he'd be ready. But for now, he had work to do. Lives to save. A world to protect.

The reply to Jon was short. Tormund dictated it, and Edd wrote it down. No sightings. Wildlings moving south. Stay ready. Tormund didn't say more. He didn't need to. Jon would understand.

Tormund watched it go, his jaw tight. He didn't like waiting. He didn't like not knowing. But he'd done what he could. Now it was up to Jon

Edd clapped him on the shoulder. "We'll hold the Wall as long as we can." Tormund nodded. But he knew the truth. The Wall wasn't just stone and ice. It was a line. And when it fell, everything would change. He just hoped they were ready.