INTRO

6.1 INT: JAIME’S CHAMBERS – NIGHT

BRIENNE’s body is laid out on the bed. At first glance, one could almost believe she is merely sleeping peacefully. JAIME and PODRICK stand at the bedside,

JAIME [SOFTLY]

It’s time, Podrick.

PODRICK reluctantly nods. JAIME turns to the door and addresses the guards that since his arrival have shadowed his every moment, save for those dreadful few that mattered most.

JAIME

See that her body is burned immediately. The others too: the woman next door, the guard in the hall, and the Night’s Watchman in the room opposite.

ERIC

We’re your guards, Kingslayer, not your servants.

PODRICK [COMMANDING]

Do what he says. Do it quickly.

The guards recognise that PODRICK will accept no argument and obediently enter the room as JAIME and PODRICK exit. The body of the guard cut down by the fleeing BRONN lies where it fell in the corridor, that of TORMUND’s failed assassin visible through an open door. As JAIME and PODRICK pause at the last room on the left: SAM kneels over ED’s body, trying in vain to hold back tears.

PODRICK [CONT’D]

Sam. It’s time.

SAM nods, turns back to ED.

SAM

We shall never see his like again. Your watch is ended, brother.

SAM takes a last look at his friend, then rises to his feet. He follows after JAIME and PODRICK, a trail of bloody footprints charting his course across the naked stone.

6.2 EXT: WINTERFELL’S YARD – NIGHT

Passing the crypts on their way across the yard, the HOUND holds out a hand and halts GENDRY.

HOUND

For fuck’s sake!

GENDRY follows the HOUND’s eyeline to the still-open entrance to the crypts, the pile of stones left untouched by its side.

HOUND [CONT’D]

Oi, horsefucker!

The HOUND grabs the arm of a Dothraki captain hurrying past. The captain doesn’t even break his stride as he shrugs off the HOUND and continues on his way.

GENDRY

I’m pretty sure they have names, you know.

HOUND

You can’t tell one from another: they all look the fucking same!

GENDRY

I bet they don’t say the same about you.

The HOUND spots TORU leading his mount across the yard.

HOUND

I thought you were told to seal that crypt up?

TORU

Govak! Anha vos marrat.

Fucker! I’m no mason.]

Exasperated, the HOUND beckons to GENDRY.

HOUND

Come on, let’s get that hammer of yours warmed up.

The HOUND finds a heavy mallet beside the stack of stones and he and GENDRY smash the columns supporting the crossbeam of the crypt’s entrance. The entrance collapses, the pile of rubble sealing off the crypt.

HOUND

If you want a job doing right…

Proud of their work, the HOUND and GENDRY follow after the crowd hurrying to their positions. On their way they pass a CAPTAIN in the Stark guard as he corrals the last of his archers up the steps to the battlements.

STARK CAPTAIN

To the wall! Hurry! To the wall!

6.3 EXT: WINTERFELL’S YARD – NIGHT

TYRION strides from the castle and weaves his way across the busy yard, passing beneath the looming frames of two enormous trebuchets. He climbs the battlements and walks along the line of archers and their well-stocked quivers. MISSANDEI is waiting for him; she takes up her signal torches, her shaking hands causing her to drop one of the sticks to clatter on the stone floor. TYRION retrieves it for her and holds her hands steady in his own. He attempts a reassuring smile, but his pained grimace betrays his own fear barely held in check.

6.4 EXT: BENEATH THE NORTHERN WALLS OF WINTERFELL – NIGHT

JAIME takes his position at the head of the eastern body of Northmen and Freefolk, PODRICK sheepishly assuming BRIENNE’s position at the head of the western. SAM falls in behind him and beside DAVOS. TORMUND arrives to take command of the Freefolk, the torn strip of bedsheet wrapped around his head already soaked through with blood. GENDRY and the HOUND have found BERIC and formed up alongside. The Lightning Lord runs a hand over his sword: a trail of flames follows after his fingers, the steel transformed into a blade of pure fire.

6.5 EXT: WINTERFELL BATTLEMENTS – NIGHT

TYRION looks out over the army of the living. The Unsullied stand in meticulous rank directly below TYRION’s position, occupying the centre of the host. At their front, GREY WORM dons his helmet.

To their left: half the Northern army’s total number, the Freefolk beside them. The other half is arranged to the Unsullied’s right, BERIC in the midst casting about anxiously for GENDRY and the HOUND.

Arranged on the far left and far right flank: the two halves of the Dothraki cavalry, the left led by JORAH, the right by QHONO.

Three-hundred yards out from the frontline, six shield walls made of stone and manned by three archers apiece. Two-hundred yards further: a trench of wooden stakes, ten yards across and lined with oil-soaked logs. After two-hundred yards of flat, open ground, a second trenchline, and beyond this a line of wooden Chevaux-de-Frise, the wood whittled into sharp points and treated with pitch. Finally, the field of fire itself: open ground as wide as Winterfell and some four-hundred yards deep. At its centre, a stone wall as tall as two men and five-feet thick shaped into a wide “V”, an opening perhaps ten-feet wide at its point. Beyond the field of fire lies nothing but snow-covered ground, the ancient forest cleared all the way to the foot of the hill range that lines the horizon.

It is into this darkness that all eyes peer for their first glimpse of the undead army soon upon them.  

A stillness settles over the scene, every soul among the ranks of the living straining their senses to discern their enemy amid the darkness of the distant horizon.

TYRION

Let’s see what we’re up against. Zone three, heavy shot.

MISSANDEI nods at TYRION’s instruction and lights her two torches. She waves them in predetermined signal at the men below charged with command of the trebuchets. The trebuchets are loosed. The payload arcs over the walls, over the ranks of the living, over the obstacle-strewn field, lines of brilliant light trailing their progress through the pitch-black sky like a pair of flaming comets.

The boulders slam into the ground and roll on, snapping and scattering tree trunks as though they were skittles. By the light of the burning forest, the army of the living get their first look at the NIGHT KING’s host: one-hundred-thousand wights, packed shoulder to shoulder along the horizon, row after row back into the darkness. The ranks of the vast undead horde stand still and silent as statues, seemingly studying the scene below, yet those that still have eyes in their sockets stare as unseeing as do the hollow skulls of fleshless bone that reflect the flames like burnished steel. There is no forethought here, no calculation, no trepidation nor fear: this is death itself made legion, ready to swallow whole anything that stands before it.

6.6 EXT: BENEATH THE NORTHERN WALLS OF WINTERFELL – NIGHT

Within the Northern ranks, farmers and shepherds and craftsmen pressed into service shake with fear at the sudden immediacy of violent and voracious death. Young boys lose control of their bladders; old men feel their legs turn to suet; up and down the line, men and women alike add the contents of their stomachs to the ground’s squelching slurry. At the head of the eastern flank, a terrified NORTHERN SOLDIER breaks formation and retreats towards the sanctuary of Winterfell. JAIME pursues him through the lines, seizing him by the neck and dragging him back into place.

NORTHERN SOLDIER [SOBBING]

No, please, let me go! I can’t do this! I’m just a stone mason! I’m not a soldier!

JAIME

Everyone’s a soldier tonight, son!

JAIME retrieves the boy’s sword from the mud and thrusts it into his hand.

JAIME [CONT’D]

First rule of soldiering: you’ve got a better chance with this than without!

JAIME glares at the audience around him.

JAIME [CONT’D]

The next man that tries to run won’t live long enough to fight the dead: I’ll cut them down myself!

6.7 EXT: WHITE WALKER FRONT LINES – NIGHT

From beneath the canopy of burning trees, a line of twelve White Walkers emerges, each sitting astride the corpse of a mighty, muscled warhorse. The Walker at the centre of the line raises his arm, pointing his sword of ice at the sky. Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his blade to point at Winterfell and the army of the living. The army of the undead charges forward.

6.8 EXT: WINTERFELL BATTLEMENTS – NIGHT

TYRION

Zone two, scatter shot. Hold on my mark.

MISSANDEI signals to the men below.

6.9 EXT: BATTLEFIELD – NIGHT

The front lines of the undead arrive at the two walls of stone and mindlessly charge on, following the angle of the stone towards the opening at the point where the two walls would meet.

6.10 EXT: BENEATH THE NORTHERN WALLS OF WINTERFELL – NIGHT

SAM watches from the ranks as the rear guard of the undead unwittingly follow their forward lines into the corral. SAM’s eyes grow wide with excitement and hope. The most determined of the wights make it through the opening in the two walls, but the narrow space quickly becomes a bottle neck. In a matter of seconds, the compacted press of bodies has plugged the opening entirely and the undead begin to pile up like driftwood hurled against a dam wall by an unrelenting current. SAM turns his broad grin towards DAVOS at his side. 

SAM

It’s working!

6.11 EXT: WINTERFELL BATTLEMENTS – NIGHT

TYRION

Fire!

MISSANDEI waves her torches. All eyes look to the heavens as thousands of rocks whizz through the air. The bombardment of stone bullets fizz through the enemy’s densely-packed ranks, stripping skin and cracking skulls and shattering and separating limbs.

TYRION [CONT’D]

Fire at will!

MISSANDEI delivers the message to the men below.

TYRION [CONT’D]

Signal the forward archers! Get those trenches burning!

MISSANDEI turns to face the field of battle and performs her routine.

6.12 EXT: BATTLEFIELD – NIGHT

Another storm of burning rock rains down on the field of fire, followed quickly by another and then another, the men in Winterfell’s yard loading and loosing the trebuchets with synchronic efficiency. The undead scrabble over the growing mountain of dismembered bodies, using the elevation to climb free of the catchment zone. The pile begins to teeter and then topples forward over the walls, wights spilling free in every direction. The stone barriers finally collapse beneath the strain of so many bodies and the irregular trickle of wights becomes a veritable tsunami.

6.13 EXT: WINTERFELL – DAY

BRAN stands beside the weirwood tree, but rather than the walls of Winterfell’s Godswood there is nothing around him but the vast open fields and rocky hills of nature in its most unspoiled state. This is the North as it was eight-thousand years ago.

BRAN walks cautiously towards the only feature on the otherwise virginal landscape: the wooden frame of a modest, single-room cottage. Close by, a young man chops wood from a felled tree, his shirtless torso bronzed by the summer sun overhead. The man shows no awareness of BRAN’s presence, even when he stands close enough to smell the sweat of the man’s exertions. BRAN studies this, confirming a suspicion he was already nurturing.    

BRAN

Brandon Stark. The first one: Bran The Builder.

BRAN’s namesake looks up, as though hearing a voice on the wind. BRAN follows his eyeline. Far away to the north, beyond the range of hills and the sparse scattering of modest young saplings about their base, a wall of thick black stormclouds screens the horizon. BRANDON THE BUILDER furrows his brow at the tempest, so incongruous with the weather this side of the hills. He returns to his labours.

STARK CAPTAIN [O.S.]

To the wall! Hurry! To the wall!

BRANDON THE BUILDER’s head shoots up once more as the calls from the future reach his ears. This time, he looks BRAN directly in the face. Taken aback, BRAN meets his stare, but the realisation gradually dawns that BRANDON THE BUILDER is not looking at him, but at something over his shoulder. BRAN turns: the NIGHT KING shoots out an icy blue hand and clamps it tightly around BRAN’s throat.

6.14 EXT: WINTERFELL GODSWOOD – NIGHT

SANSA

Bran? Bran, can you hear me?

BRAN convulses among the roots of the weirwood tree. SANSA kneels by his side, holding her brother’s head in her lap protectively. THEON grabs BRAN’s hand before his thrashing causes it to separate from the weirwood, and pins it firmly to the tree. BRAN’s convulsions stop and he lies still. SANSA breathes a sigh of relief.

THEON

Sansa, look!

THEON holds back the collar of BRAN’s furs to better expose the black bruise in the shape of a hand’s grip that has inexplicably appeared around BRAN’s throat.

6.15 EXT: ARMY OF THE LIVING FORWARD FLANKS

Heeding MISSANDEI’s signal, the archers placed at their shield walls ignite small troughs of fire in the ground before them, dip the tips of their arrows, and begin adding their own volleys to those coming from the trebuchets. On each flank, QHONO and JORAH receive their own signal and bark a command.

QHONO

Ad-jin, gay-zo!

[Now, brothers!]

JORAH

G-way! Ad-jin.

[Now! Go!]

Three riders on either flank, each bearing a flaming torch, charge their mounts forward. Passing the line of archers and their stone bunkers, the two groups turn in to face each other on either side of the first trenchline. As they ride along the trench towards the opposing flank, the Dothraki trail their torches along the oil-soaked logs. The oil ignites and two lines of flame race towards one another behind the Dothraki torches, creating an unbroken wall of fire separating the two armies. Not since primitive man first conjured a spark with sticks has a fire met with such a rapturous welcome.

S.E: fire, cheering.

WILDLING SOLDIER [O.S.]

Burn them! Burn them all!

6.16 INT: THRONE ROOM OF THE RED KEEP – DAY

BRAN stands by the weirwood once more, only now the surrounding countryside has been replaced by the interior of the Red Keep’s throne room. The Mad King sits upon the Iron Throne, his long white hair hanging loose and wild about his gaunt features, the soiled fabric of his robes hanging loose from his angular frame. Standing before the throne: Chief Pyromancer, WISDOM ROSSART. Past fifty, portly and proud, ROSSART genuflects before his king. Beside ROSSART, a face BRAN recognises instantly despite preceding the form with which he is more familiar by almost twenty years.

JAIME

Your Grace, listen to reason. My father’s men are already within the city walls. They will be at your door any minute now. Surrender, and prevent any more needles bloodshed, I beg you!

Barely out of his teens, beautiful and golden in the full bloom of swaggering youth, JAIME’s fresh and wrinkle-free face is at this moment stretched and strained in desperate earnestness as he tries to reach his unravelling king.

BRAN

Jaime Lannister.

BRAN realises his mistake as soon as the words have escaped his lips: AERYS cocks his head, holds up a finger for silence.

AERYS

Did you hear that?!

ROSSART

Your Grace, the stores of wildfire you bade me hide throughout the city will soon be beyond our grasp. What would you have me do?

AERYS flinches in pain as he cuts his hand on one of the Iron Throne’s many blades. The Mad King sucks at his wound.

S.E: sounds of battle.

The sounds of battle fill the throne room and AERYS looks to the rafters as though expecting to see the ceiling split open and the heavens fall down upon his head.

JAIME

Your Grace?

The echo of snarling wights tells Bran that these are not the sounds of the sack of King’s Landing, but those of the Battle of Winterfell, twenty-five years hence.

S.E: fire, cheering.

AERYS is forced to cover his ears with his hands and cringe into the corner of his throne like a beaten cur. BRAN, recognising the effect the noise is having on the Mad King, hopelessly pleads with the empty air around him.

BRAN

Stop! Please! You have to stop!

S.E: end of battle noises.

The Mad King tentatively lowers his hands and sits forward. AERYS unfurls a long, skeletal finger and aims it at JAIME.

AERYS

You! Bring me your traitorous father’s head! I command you, in the name of your king!

JAIME’s jaw tightens and his right hand moves to rest on the hilt of his sword.

AERYS [CONT’D]

And you…

AERYS turns his finger to ROSSART.

WILDLING SOLDIER [O.S.]

Burn them! Burn them all!

AERYS

Burn them! Burn them all! Burn King’s Landing to the ground! Let the usurper be king of naught but ashes!

Before JAIME can protest, the Mad King shows his back to the room and stalks into the shadows on the far side of the Iron Throne. BRAN hurries after him: maybe he can still salvage this!

BRAN

Wait! Come back!

The NIGHT KING steps from the shadows into the light. BRAN sprints down the long approach to the Iron Throne towards the tall twin doors at its end. BRAN hurls himself headlong into the darkness beyond.

6.17 EXT: WINTERFELL’S YARD – DAY

BRAN looks about, confused but relieved to find himself no longer in the Red Keep, but instead within the familiar surroundings of Winterfell’s yard. With a shiver of realisation, he notices that each exhalation is hanging in the air as a visible cloud of white.

The NIGHT KING strides towards him through Winterfell’s gates. BRAN whips his head around, desperately searching the yard for safety or sign of rescue. Finding none, his gaze turns unconsciously in a familiar direction: BRAN begins to climb the Broken Tower,

S.E: Bran climbing.

Coming level with a familiar window, BRAN ignores the hollow feeling of dread in his stomach and pulls himself above the sill. The NIGHT KING is already there, waiting.

S.E: the Night King shoves Bran, Bran plummets downward and hits the ground with a sickening crunch.

6.18 EXT: WINTERFELL GODSWOOD – NIGHT

BRAN’s body jerks clean off the ground.

THEON

Bran!

A trickle of blood escapes BRAN’s ear and spatters on the dulled silver of the weirwood’s roots.

6.19 EXT: BATTLEFIELD – NGHT

The sky is on fire as another storm of flaming boulders and burning arrows arc their way across the sky, but the NIGHT KING’s army is on the move and the bombardment overshoots its mark. The undead horde sprints wildly towards Winterfell, eating up the open ground in the time between two heartbeats. The first wave reaches the line of Chevaux-de-Frise and immediately impale themselves upon its sharp wooden stakes. This first wave is quickly followed by a second, and a third, until all the tines are covered beneath pinioned wights. The next to arrive barely break their stride as they charge up and over the line of bodies blanketing the Chevaux-de-Frise, careering on towards Winterfell until finally coming to a sudden halt before the trench of fire. The forces of the living watch on, currents of hope crackling through their ranks.

6.20 EXT: WHITE WALKER REAR LINES – NIGHT

Far back in the darkness, the White Walkers stretched along the treeline look to the skies in unison. A sudden canopy of impenetrable black stormclouds slide beneath the stars.

6.21 EXT: WINTERFELL BATTLEMENTS – NIGHT

TYRION

Cavalry! Deploy!

6.22 EXT: BATTLEFIELD – NGHT

S.E: thunder, heavy rain.

The words have barely passed TYRION’s lips when the heavens open and the clouds empty. He watches on with the rest of the living as the wall of fire holding the NIGHT KING’s army at bay is immediately extinguished. The undead cross the sodden trench and resume their charge.

6.23 EXT: WINTERFELL BATTLEMENTS – NIGHT

MISSANDEI

The torches!

MISSANDEI stares aghast as the flames fizzle away in the rain.

TYRION [CALM BUT ASSERTIVE]

Don’t panic! We planned for this!

MISSANDEI nods and tosses the useless torches aside, picking up two makeshift signal flags made of wooden poles bearing squares of thick white cloth.

TYRION [CONT’D]

If only trenches filled with flags were so effective a substitute.

6.24 EXT: ARMY OF THE LIVING FORWARD FLANKS – NIGHT

Receiving MISSANDEI’s signal, QHONO and JORAH unsheathe their weapons and turn their horses about to address the men.

JORAH

Ma anna! Nadz-a-hat!

[With me! To victory!]

QHONO

Az-ee-lat! Atta-sat!

[Defeat! Destroy!]

The cavalry gallops forward in two streams, tens-of-thousands of Dothraki screamers whooping furiously and brandishing their arakhs. They give battle from both sides, the left and right flank turning their mounts towards one another and trapping the undead between their two lines. As soon as they’ve crossed the width of the battlefield, the Dothraki rein their horses about and charge again, creating a constantly-moving ring of pounding hooves and scything steel around the body of wights. For one brief, glorious moment it looks as though the Dothraki are going to rout the NIGHT KING’s host.

But only for a moment.

The relentless, pounding rain has quickly turned the ground to sludge, every pass of the cavalry compounding the quagmire. First one horse slips and tosses its rider, then a second, and a third. Now it’s the turn of the living to pile on top of one another, every horse that falls becoming an unavoidable obstacle in the path of those following behind.

JORAH yanks violently back on his reins but to no avail: his horse collides with the living wall before it, propelling JORAH up and over and into the amorphous mass of human and equine bodies writhing in the mud. The wights swarm upon the fallen.

6.25 EXT: BENEATH THE NORTHERN WALLS OF WINTERFELL – NIGHT

The ranks of the living watch with transfixed horror as the imperious Dothraki, famed the world over as fearsome and expert warriors, are swallowed up by the great churning sea of undead. JAIME searches the battlements for a glimpse of his brother.

JAIME [TO HIMSELF]

Come on, Tyrion.

6.26 EXT: WINTERFELL BATTLEMENTS – NIGHT

As though hearing his brother’s demand, TYRION gives the order.

TYRION

All forces, prepare to engage!

MISSANDEI frantically relays the order to the signalmen below.

6.27 EXT: BENEATH THE NORTHERN WALLS OF WINTERFELL – NIGHT

TORMUND

Ready!

GREY WORM [IN VALYRIAN]

Ubrie!

PODRICK

Ready!

JAIME

Ready!

6.28 EXT: WINTERFELL BATTLEMENTS – NIGHT

TYRION

Charge!

6.29 EXT: BENEATH THE NORTHERN WALLS OF WINTERFELL – NIGHT

JAIME

Charge!

GREY WORM [IN VALYRIAN]

Idakogon!

TORMUND

Charge!

PODRICK

Charge!

The undead turn their attention to face the combined ranks of the living rushing forward to meet them. The two sides collide in a great explosion of metal and steel and bone and flesh. Screams of agony and screams of fury echo around the field. The brown liquid earth churns beneath their feet, sucking the living and dead alike down into its suppurating filth.  

SAM clutches his sword in both hands, risking the occasional slash at a passing wight but otherwise maintaining a defensive posture. PODRICK cuts down wights left and right, bringing to bear the countless hours of training he spent under BRIENNE’s tutelage. Knocked off balance, he manages to kick an oncoming wight backwards and away. The wight skewers itself on SAM’s upraised blade. PODRICK nods his thanks.

The HOUND and BERIC fight together, the HOUND’s great broadsword and BERIC’s flaming steel slicing and hacking through the undead army.

HOUND

Where’s your fucking god now, Dondarrion?!

BERIC

He’s right here, Clegane! It’s his strength that drives my blade! I can feel his light filling my body!

HOUND

You’re full of something alright!

From beneath the mountain of mutilated men and horses, JORAH manages to thrust a hand up and out into the air.

JORAH

Help me! Someone, help me!

QHONO clambers up the pile of bodies and takes JORAH’s wrist in both hands. Leaning back with all his weight, the Dothraki commander heaves JORAH free. QHONO thrusts the nearest sword into his hand and with the briefest of nods the knight and the horselord rejoin the fray.

GREY WORM spins like a top, dealing death in all directions at the head of the Unsullied lance. While the Northmen give unfocused battle, and the Freefolk fight with greater ill-discipline still, the Unsullied move as one, maintaining meticulous shape as they dispatch wights with expert skill. The practice of entire lifetimes is realised in ruthless detail, the world’s greatest soldier’s running through their lethal repertoire with clinical grace.

6.30 EXT: WINTERFELL BATTLEMENTS – NIGHT

TYRION forces himself to look away from the thick of battle and take in the whole field. He sees the line of White Walkers watching impassively from the safety of the distant treeline.

TYRION

Now, Missandei! Give the signal!

MISSANDEI turns to face out over the battlements and performs a manic flourish with her flags.

6.31 EXT: WHITE WALKER REAR LINES – NIGHT

Far across the battlefield, where the forest meets the foothills on the northwesternmost fringes, the slightest rustle of leaves floats away unnoticed, disguised beneath the cacophony of battle. Agile as a cat, ARYA drops from cover. Her chosen Unsullied, BLUE RAT, BLUE FLEA, YELLOW BEETLE, and GREEN CRICKET, slide down from their own branches and form up behind her. Silently, ARYA dashes between the trees, flitting from shadow to shadow, following the hill-line and eating up the distance between her and the nearest White Walker. Standing beside its warhorse, monitoring the fighting below, the first the Walker knows of ARYA’s presence is the Valyrian steel dagger she shanks into its back.

S.E: White Walker explodes.

6.32 EXT: BATTLEFIELD – NIGHT

In the midst of battle, thousands of wights suddenly crumple to the ground like puppets with severed strings.

6.33 EXT: WHITE WALKER REAR LINES – NIGHT

The White Walkers snap their heads around at the sound of their brother’s disintegration. Three remain horsed at a slight remove while the others dismount and descend upon the small band of assassins. The Unsullied draw and throw their dragonglass-tipped short-spears. Five are dodged but the sixth finds its home.

S.E: White Walker explodes.

6.34 EXT: BATTLEFIELD – NIGHT

A second division of wights collapses, their bodies stomped into the slime by the eager charge of the living looking to press their sudden advantage.

6.35 EXT: WHITE WALKER REAR LINES – NIGHT

ARYA draws a second blade from her belt and pirouettes through the enemy, stabbing and slicing with her daggers as she goes. Two more White Walkers explode on the end of her blade.

6.36 EXT: BATTLEFIELD – NIGHT

S.E: cheering.

The ranks of the living allow themselves the relief of a mighty cheer at the sight of so many wights scythed down like stalks of wheat. Atop the battlements, TYRION and MISSANDEI exchange broad triumphant grins.

6.37 EXT: WHITE WALKERS REAR LINES – NIGHT

ARYA continues to duck and weave, but fewer of her attacks are finding their mark. BLUE RAT and BLUE FLEA fall in quick succession; ARYA lunges a fraction too late and a blade of ice slices through her arm. Her scream of pain is cut short by the butt of an icy spear cracking into the back of her skull. YELLOW BEETLE and GREEN CRICKET dive forward and manage to delay the White Walkers for the instant it takes ARYA to scrabble clear. YELLOW BEETLE yanks ARYA back to her feet.

YELLOW BEETLE

Run!

No sooner has YELLOW BEETLE spoken than a sword of ice explodes through his breastplate. She tries to run but the White Walkers are already on her. GREEN CRICKET interposes himself and fights off one, then two, then a third, but the fourth buries its axe between his shoulder and neck and cleaves the Unsullied in two.

6.38 EXT: WINTERFELL BATTLEMENTS – NIGHT

TYRION’s knuckles are white as he grips the stone parapet. He squints into the darkness on the far side of the battlefield, desperately trying to discern ARYA’s escape by the failing light of the burning forest. He loses sight of her in the scrum of blue-white bodies.

TYRION [TO HIMSELF]

Come on! Get her out of there!

6.39 EXT: WHITE WALKER REAR LINES – NIGHT

ARYA raises her fingers to her lips and whistles. On cue, a Dothraki screamer emerges from the trees on both the left and right flank and speeds towards ARYA. The rider on the left leans over and holds out his hand as he passes but ARYA is forced to duck a swinging sword and the rider misses her hand. As the Dothraki wheels about for a second pass, a mounted Walker pulls a spear of ice from his saddle and hurls it through the horselord’s torso. The second rider is almost within range of rescue, but a single swing from a Walker’s blade removes his head from his body, the horse galloping away with its decapitated rider still in the saddle. All alone in enemy territory, ARYA is in full flight mode now. She evades death a dozen times as she ducks and dives through the icy gauntlet to stay a sliver ahead of the Walkers’ weapons.

6.40 EXT: WINTERFELL BATTLEMENTS – NIGHT

TYRION, seeing the danger ARYA is in, turns and screams at MISSANDEI.

TYRION

Get another Dothraki rider up there now!

MISSANDEI waves her flags, but to no avail.

MISSANDEI

There’s nobody left to see the signal!

TYRION sees for himself that the Dothraki signalmen are gone. He scans the field, but every man still drawing breath is already consumed in the thick of battle and in no position to notice instruction from the battlements.

MISSANDEI [CONT’D]

Should I signal for the –

TYRION [INTERRUPTING]

No! It’s too early to play our last card just yet.

TYRION watches the horizon with impotent frustration.

TYRION [CONT’D]

Get out of there, Arya!

6.41 EXT: BATTLEFIELD – NIGHT

GENDRY buries his axe in the skull of a wight and takes a precious second to recover his bearings. He looks to the horizon and sees ARYA fighting for her life. Pausing only to retrieve his axe, he takes off across the battlefield towards the White Walker’s rear lines.

HOUND

What the fuck are you doing?!

GENDRY

We have to help her!

The Hound follows Gendry’s pointing finger.

HOUND

You’ll never reach her in time!

Much to the HOUND’s disgust, BERIC is already racing after GENDRY to join him on his rescue mission.

HOUND [CONT’D]

Dondarrion! Argh, fuck it!

The HOUND turns and lumbers his way through the crowd.

JAIME

Get back here and fight, Clegane! That’s an order!

HOUND

Fuck your orders!

The HOUND barges JAIME from his path in pursuit of GENDRY and BERIC.

6.42 EXT: WHITE WALKER REAR LINES – NIGHT

ARYA retreats to the treeline. Outnumbered eight to one, she feels the seconds of her life pouring like sand through her fingers, the same fingers she flexes then tightens around the hilts of her dual daggers. Like a pack of dogs that knows they have their quarry cornered, the Walkers stalk towards ARYA, slowly drawing the net closed around her.

S:E: wolf howls.

ARYA follows the gaze of the White Walkers, turning to face the dark depths of the forest at her back. The confusion on her face dissolves into pure, unqualified joy.

A snarling direwolf explodes from the shadows, taking down two White Walkers at once. The first Walker’s skull cracks between the direwolf’s mighty jaws, the fleeing second seized by the leg and tossed into the air like a ragdoll. A second direwolf lunges from the forest and snatches it from sky. The cloud of ice that blooms from the direwolf’s jaw joins its twinkling particles to those of the first Walker, the combined remains slowly settling on an otherworldly stand-off: the six remaining Walkers face down the pack of direwolves that slink from the trees to back their gargantuan alpha. ARYA’s eyes are bright as stars.

ARYA

Nymeria.

At the sound of ARYA’s voice, Nymeria leaves the White Walkers to her pack and bolts to ARYA’s side. ARYA gratefully wraps her arms around her direwolf, grabbing two fistfuls of thick fur. Nymeria half-carries and half-drags ARYA away while her pack meets blue-white blades with snapping teeth and slashing claws.

GENDRY, BERIC, and the HOUND watch with slack jaws as ARYA streaks past atop her direwolf. Without a word, they turn on their heels and follow, back the way they came.

6.43 EXT: WINTERFELL’S YARD – NIGHT

ERIC and ARON, JAIME’s erstwhile guards, stagger across the yard beneath the weight of their twin burdens: ERIK carries TORMUND’s would-be assassin, ARON the Stark guard cut down by BRONN. They drop the bodies on the ground unceremoniously.

ERIC

Go get a barrel of oil from the shed.

ARON

Why can’t you get it?

ERIC

If you’d rather carry down the big woman then I’m happy to switch places with you?

ARON still looks uncertain.

ERIC [CONT’D]

You’re not scared, are you? It’s what’s on the other side of that wall you’ve got to be scared of, not a fucking tool shed. Go.

ARON reluctantly heads off in the direction of the shed.

6.44 EXT: BENEATH THE NORTHERN WALLS OF WINTERFELL – NIGHT

Nymeria delivers ARYA to the shadows beneath Winterfell’s walls. ARYA releases her grip and buries her head in the direwolf’s fur.

ARYA

Thank you, girl.

NYMERIA licks at ARYA’s tendered palm. In the blink of an eye, NYMERIA is gone, melted into the shadows as expertly as her old friend. ARYA turns and throws herself into battle where the fighting is thickest.

6.45 EXT: BATTLEFIELD – NIGHT

Their numerical disadvantage further diminished by the dispatch of two more White Walkers and their attendant thralls, the army of the living begin to feel the tide of battle turning in their favour. The end seems to be in sight now, Northmen finally able to spot Northmen as the dense thicket of undead bodies continues to thin.

Looking around and finding himself a dozen paces from the nearest danger, SAM grins and catches DAVOS’ eye across a heap of dispatched wights.

SAM

We might actually win this!

6.46 EXT: WHITE WALKER REAR LINES – NIGHT

At the tree-line, the White Walkers put the last of Nymeria’s pack to the sword. Stepping an imperious foot on the bisected cadaver of a direwolf, the southernmost among their number raises a horn of bone to his lips.

S.E: horn blaring.

As the sound of the horn dies away, another sound rises in its place.

S.E: distant rumbling, growing louder.

6.47 EXT: BATTLEFIELD – NIGHT

DAVOS glares at SAM accusingly, his face saying more than words ever could.

6.48 EXT: WINTERFELL BATTLEMENTS – NIGHT

Without averting his eyes, TYRION instructs MISSANDEI.

TYRION

Zone three, heavy shot.

MISSANDEI signals, the trebuchets are repositioned, loaded, and loosed.

6.49 EXT: WHITE WALKER REAR LINES – NIGHT

The boulders crash into the ground not ten yards from the closest White Walker. The Walker looks at the flaming rocks with disdain. By the light of their fires, TYRION sees the shadows of the forest begin to dance, the trees begin to shake, the ground itself vibrate. TYRION recoils as a dozen giants break from the treeline. Close on their heels, thirty-thousand wights charge towards Winterfell, parting around the White Walkers like a raging river around rocks.

The undead reinforcements crash into the army of the living. The giants plough their way through the press of bodies, making a dozen widows with one swipe of their arm, ending entire bloodlines with a single kick. Those fortunate few able to dive away from the giants’ path of destruction barely have time to appreciate their escape before flocks of wights descend like ravenous vultures.

TORMUND fights with a wildling’s unrefined ferocity, but in his frenzy he neglects his blindside a moment too long and a pack of wights take him off his feet. TORMUND looks to be lost, but deliverance arrives in the unexpected form of LYANNA MORMONT, her lightweight blade and diminutive stature allowing her to slink away from the undead’s ungainly lunges. LYANNA’s personal guard forms a protective semi-circle around her as she offers her hand to TORMUND. Rising to his feet, TORMUND nods his thanks.

TORMUND

Look out!

LYANNA has only a second to turn and take in her onrushing end: swinging a thick tree trunk like a bat, the giant sweeps LYANNA and her guard up and away into the distant darkness.  

TORMUND roars with rage and charges the giant. It swings its primitive cudgel but TORMUND is too quick, diving between the giant’s legs and hacking with his axe at their heel. The giant drops to one knee. In the same movement TORMUND rolls forward, turns, and two-hand tosses his axe. It spins through the air and lodges itself in the giant’s skull.

Across the chaos of the battlefield, JAIME nods in appreciation at TORMUND’s conquest. TORMUND grins madly, then raises his gaze over JAIME’s head. JAIME turns to find a giant of his own approaching. He takes his stance, determined that he will not be outdone by an unschooled wildling. His bravado falters somewhat when a second giant steps up to join the first.

6.50 EXT: WINTERFELL BATTLEMENTS – NIGHT

TYRION spots JAIME amid the sea of bodies, trapped between a pair of giants. He grabs the nearest archer.

TYRION

Bring down those giants!

The dozen archers either side of TYRION take aim and loose their arrows.

6.51 EXT: BATTLEFIELD – NIGHT

Every one hits home, arrows seeming to sprout from the giants like a porcupine’s quills, but neither wight so much as flinches. JAIME turns and runs, and the giants give chase.

6.52 EXT: WINTERFELL BATTLEMENTS – NIGHT

TYRION tilts his head back to take in the wooden platform mounted atop the Broken Tower and shouts across the twenty-foot distance to the Stark soldier posted there.

TYRION

Now! Now!

The soldier, watching the battle wild-eyed with fear, doesn’t notice TYRION’s frantic calls. TYRION grabs the nearest archer once more and points to the soldier. The archer fires an arrow inches past the soldier’s head. His attention successfully captured, the soldier sees the wildly gesticulating TYRION and quickly infers his meaning. The soldier takes a knee behind the scorpion and trains it on the first of the two giants, tracking it across the field as it closes ground on JAIME.

6.53 EXT: BATTLEFIELD – NIGHT

Another volley of arrows is loosed, and this time an archer finds his mark in the giant’s neck. Roaring in fury, the giant abandons its pursuit and turns to scan the battlements for the arrow’s source. Settling on the soldier behind the scorpion, the giant snatches up a spear from the ground, gauges its weight, and lets fly.  

6.54 EXT: WINTERFELL BATTLEMENTS – NIGHT

The spear lifts the soldier clear off his feet and away into the night sky over Winterfell. Reading the situation immediately, TYRION runs as fast as his legs will carry him along the battlements and across the wooden bridge to the Broken Tower. Scaling the ladder, he reaches the platform and takes command of the scorpion.

6.55 EXT: BATTLEFIELD – NIGHT

JAIME’s escape is halted before an impenetrable wall of warring bodies. He turns and faces his pursuer. The giant lunges forward and tries to crush JAIME beneath its boot. JAIME leaps out of the way, then rolls away again in the same instant to avoid a second stomp. As he gets to his feet, a scrum of living and undead barges into his back and knocks him into the mud. The giant looms over him. It raises its boot, the shadow swallowing JAIME whole.

6.56 EXT: WINTERFELL BATTLEMENTS – NIGHT

TYRION carefully lines up his shot…

S.E: scorpion fires, impales the giant through the skull, and the giant topples dead to the ground.

The kickback of the scorpion ejects TYRION backwards off the platform. He plummets through the air and lands heavily on the stack of lumber piled high against the Broken Tower.

6.57 EXT: BATTLEFIELD – NIGHT

JAIME rolls his eyes in exasperation: barely has he made it to his feet when the second giant arrives on the scene.

JORAH

Kingslayer!

JAIME turns to find JORAH charging his recovered mount straight towards him. Pulling from the ground an abandoned flagpole still bearing its Stark standard, JORAH gallops beyond JAIME, tossing him the flagpole as he passes. Levelling the pole like a jouster’s lance, JAIME buries it in the onrushing giant’s thigh.

QHONO directs his stallion straight at the giant and with the grace of a true Dothraki screamer leaps up and balances atop the horse’s back. At the last possible second before collision, QHONO swings his twin arakhs in a stereo side slice and removes the giant’s head from its body.

The HOUND makes the most of his brutish strength, barging wights this way and that and lopping off any clawing hand that presumes to snatch at his person.

BERIC

Clegane!

The HOUND follows BERIC’s voice but finds instead an undead giant standing between them, its attention focused on the suddenly outmatched HOUND.

ARYA

Sandor!

The HOUND whips his head round.

ARYA [CONT’D]

Get down!

The HOUND does as he’s bid, dropping one knee into the muck. ARYA runs up his back and launches herself. She sails through the air, burying her blades into the giant’s eyeballs. ARYA hangs on for dear life as the giant falls backwards like a felled tree. Retrieving her daggers, she looks back at the HOUND with an expectant eyebrow raised. The HOUND grunts and turns away, but discovers GENDRY observing him with a smirk. 

HOUND

Not a fucking word!

6.58 EXT: FORREST NEAR WINTERFELL – DAY

BRAN stands beside the weirwood, surrounded on all sides by a thick copse of trees. At his feet, he discovers a pool of blood, the tendrils of steam that rise into the crisp autumn air telling him it’s only recently spilled. He follows the trail through the foliage, stepping clear of the trees and onto a dirt path. He sees the carcass of the dead stag, and immediately understands where - and when he – is. He looks down the path expectantly, and feels his heart skip a beat as a party of familiar faces come riding around the bend: THEON GREYJOY, JORY and RODRIK CASSEL, JON SNOW, ROBB STARK, and the seven-year-old incarnation of BRAN himself. Bringing up the rear EDDARD STARK sits high in his saddle.

NED dismounts and passes within inches of son. BRAN reaches out a shaking hand, the tips of his fingers grazing the silver fur of NED’s cloak.

BRAN

Father…

BRAN watches as a familiar scene begins to play out.

6.59 EXT: WINTERFELL BATTLEMENTS – NIGHT

MISSANDEI peers down into the yard at TYRION gingerly climbing down the stack of lumber.

MISSANDEI

Tyrion! Are you alright?

TYRION [WINDED]

…card…

MISSANDEI

I can’t hear you!

TYRION

…play…our last…card!

MISSANDEI nods and waves the pre-arranged signal. At either end of the Winterfell’s northern battlements, mounted on the corner crenelations, signalmen repeat her instructions with their own flags.

6.60 EXT: BENEATH THE EASTERN AND WESTERN WALLS OF WINTERFELL – NIGHT

Beneath the eastern and western walls, set back away from the battlefield, Tyrion’s final gambit stirs into action.

6.61 EXT: BENEATH THE NORTHERN WALLS OF WINTERFELL – NIGHT

Thousands of mounted knights charge from cover on either side of Winterfell, shields and spears at the ready. They pass beyond the body of battle and arc about before turning their mounts inward, creating a semi-circle around the undead’s rear. Recognising their cue, the right and left bodies of the army of the living disengage as best they can and drop back towards Winterfell. The Unsullied fan out and swap their sword and spears for the long rectangular shields they carry on their backs. The NIGHT KING’s host is trapped once more, a wall of Unsullied shields before them and the Knights of the Vale behind.

GREY WORM [IN VALYRIAN]

Dovaogedys! Udekuragon!

[Unsullied! Form up!]

The Unsullied step forward in perfect synchronicity. On all sides, spears and swords thrust out from between protective shields and cut and slash and stab at the undead.

6.62 EXT: BATTLEFIELD – NIGHT

The archers along Winterfell’s battlements have never had an easier target: they dispatch a fusillade of arrows down upon the corralled wights, then nock again and loose another, and another, and another. It soon seems as though arrows outnumber raindrops in the sky above the battlefield.  

GREY WORM [IN VALYRIAN]

Udekuragon!

[Step!]

The Unsullied take another step forward and push the undead onto the spears of the Knight of the Vale, who return the favour and spur their mounts closer to pack the wights even tighter within their pen.

6.63 EXT: WHITE WALKER REAR LINES – NIGHT

TYRION is not the only general with resources in reserve. Watching from their safe remove, the surviving White Walkers step forward and in a single uniform motion raise their arms, palms uplifted.

First to rise are the direwolves, Nymeria’s pack springing to life and loping down the field towards Winterfell. Then it’s the turn of the Dothraki. The ground itself seems to writhe and wriggle to life as the Dothraki dead disentangle themselves from their horses and clamber to their feet, the horses themselves rising on broken legs and shattered spines to stand beside their riders.  

The living watch in frozen fear as the mutilated corpses of their fallen friends begin to reanimate, their eyes the piercing blue of their icy lords and masters.

Overhead, the rains suddenly stop, as though the heavens themselves are refusing any part in the slaughter about to unfold. In the sudden stillness, nothing stirs but the plumes of ragged breath among the living, and the anticipatory clacking of teeth among the undead.

The Northerners and Freefolk, living and undead, pitch headlong into furious battle.

6.64 EXT: WINTERFELL – NIGHT

Inside Winterfell, ARON approaches the storage shed, oblivious to events unfolding just beyond the castle’s walls.

S.E: door opens, a wight bursts from within and pounces.

ARON

*Screams*

6.65 EXT: WINTERFELL’S YARD – NIGHT

Listening to the clamour of battle from his comfortable seat in the yard, ERIC doesn’t hear his friend’s scream. Nor does he hear the footsteps approaching from behind. The reanimated corpses of ARON and MAESTER WOLKAN pounce.

6.66 EXT: BATTLEFIELD – NIGHT

Tactics and strategy count for nothing now: both sides have exhausted their options, everything stripped away but the violent red chaos of mortal battle: kill or be killed, survive or die.

The Unsullied shield-wall falters then collapses as one Unsullied after another is forced to turn their attention to the carnage at their backs. The combined weight of an undead Dothraki charge first buckles then breaks the Knights of the Vale’s lines. The direwolves do their part, dragging horses to the ground and biting and clawing at every living body within reach. Robin Arryn’s finest find their advantage quickly reversed, crushed between the Dothraki undead and host of wights so recently destined for the points of their spears.

6.67 INT: WINTERFELL’S CRYPTS – NIGHT

In the pitch black of Winterfell’s crypts, a candle flickers to life. DANA raises the anaemic flame. BRONN sits against the opposite wall, his legs crossed in front of him, as relaxed as any man could be under the circumstances.

DANA

I’m worried about Dara.

BRONN

I thought you were Dara?

DANA

I’m Dana.

BRONN couldn’t possibly care any less.

DANA [CONT’D]

Do you think she made it out alright?

BRONN

I think Dara’s probably dead.

DANA

I want to go find her.

BRONN

You’re going nowhere. We’re going to sit back and bide our time until it’s as quiet up there as it is down here.

BRONN chews idly at his fingernails.

BRONN [CONT’D; MUTTERING TO HIMSELF]

I should be halfway to King’s Landing by now. Bloody amateurs.

DANA [ANGRY]

If you wanted professional killers you could have sailed to Bravos and hired yourself a couple Faceless Men –

BRONN [INTERRUPTING; PLACATING]

Alright, alright. Keep your voice down.

DANA [TAKING OVER BRONN]

- but you wanted your killing done cheap, so you picked up a couple cut-throats in Flea Bottom for a handful of silvers.

BRONN [FIRMER]

Keep. Your. Voice. Down.

DANA

Who do you think’s going to hear? It sounds like the seven hells have opened up there, and there’s nobody down here to –

S.E: falling stone.

DANA [CONT’D]

What was that?

BRONN [DISMISSIVE]

Probably just a rat.

S.E: stone scraping on stone.

They both spring to their feet and take an instinctive step backwards.

DANA

That’s a big rat.

BRONN

Here, give me that candle.

BRONN takes the candle from DANA and starts to creep one slow, careful step at a time deeper into the crypt.

S.E: clink of metal on stone.

BRONN draws his sword.

S.E: loud crash of falling stone.

DANA

I’m getting out of here!

DANA flees from the noise, running blindly in the dark towards the crypt’s entrance. She turns one corner, then another, finding only a deeper darkness where she expected to find the entrance. She pats the walls furiously with her palms, fumbling blindly to gather her bearings. Realisation dawns like a date with the gallows.

DANA [CONT’D]

We’re trapped. They’ve sealed us in!

BRONN isn’t listening. He inches his way deeper down the tunnel. Straining to see beyond the short circle of light cast by the candle, he brandishes his sword at the blackness beyond. The flame sputters and wave. BRONN freezes: a figure has taken shape at the very limit of the candlelight. BRONN raises his sword slowly, expecting at any minute to see the figure stir and lunge towards him.

Gradually, the candle edges away the shadows that shrouded the mysterious figure: the statue of a long-dead Stark sits atop a squat stone tomb. BRONN breathes a sigh relief. He’s about to retrace his steps when something curious catches his attention: the face of the tomb is broken open, the stone spilled across the tunnel floor beneath the statue.

S.E: a screeching wight lunges from the darkness.

BRONN doesn’t even have time to scream.

6.68 EXT: WOODS NEAR WINTERFELL – DAY

BRAN stands at the side of the trail, a passive bystander watching his own past play out. The five direwolf pups bound for each of the five Stark children wrapped in bundles on RODRIK’s and JORY’s lap, the party readies itself to move off. BRAN looks past the dead mother-wolf to the reeds of the streambank beyond.

BRAN

Jon!

Only a few paces behind the others, JON stops in his tracks and tilts his head, listening to a voice on the wind. JON returns and searches among the reeds. He raises Ghost by the scruff of the neck, the tiny white puppy mewling pitifully. BRAN smiles to himself.

S.E: rusting bushes.

Alerted by the rustling foliage at his back, BRAN turns just in time to watch the NIGHT KING plunge a sword of ice into his stomach. BRAN looks down at the crystal-white blade skewering his middle and watches with curiously-detached fascination as the NIGHT KING retracts his sword. BRAN clutches his stomach, but can’t stem the flood of claret gushing through his fingers.

6.69 EXT: WINTERFELL GODSWOOD – NIGHT

SANSA and THEON stand over BRAN, listening to the war playing out just beyond the Godswood’s northern wall. Without looking at him, SANSA reaches out and takes THEON’s hand where it hangs at his side. THEON turns to face her.

THEON

Get behind me.

THEON draws and nocks his bow. SANSA follows his aim. MAESTER WOLKAN and ARON have found their way to the Godswood. Spotting SANSA and THEON, the two wights break into a run, quickly eating up the distance between them. THEON buries two arrows into WOLKAN but still he comes. SANSA rushes to BRAN, covers her brother protectively with her body. THEON places his third arrow right between ARON’s eyes and the guard crumples to the ground. With WOLKAN almost upon him, THEON swaps his bow for his sword but loses his grip as WOLKAN tackles him to the ground.

SANSA scrabbles in the undergrowth in search of THEON’s lost sword, her hand finally finding the cool steel of its hilt. She takes a sure two-handed grip and plunges the sword into WOLKAN’s back. THEON snaps off one of the arrows he fired into WOLKAN’s chest and rams it through the Maester’s eye and into his brain. A look of horror crosses SANSA’s face as she sees three more wights enter the Godswood, ERIC and DARA trailing behind the guard cut down by BRONN during his escape. DARA’s head hangs grotesquely from the neck broken by TORMUND; the guard still bears BRONN’s dagger in his belly.

SANSA

Bran! Bran! Wake up! We need to get out of here!

SANSA grabs THEON’s arm and pulls him towards BRAN and the weirwood.

SANSA [CONT’D]

The pond! Theon, get him to the pond!

THEON understands immediately: he scoops BRAN up in his arms, faltering under the weight, and staggers towards the frozen waters. 

6.70 EXT: WOODS NEAR WINTERFELL – NIGHT

BRAN drops to his knees as the NIGHT KING grips his sword in both hands and raises it up, ready to deliver the killing blow. BRAN closes his eyes, accepting the end. The NIGHT KING brings his sword down…

6.71 EXT: WINTERFELL GODSWOOD – NIGHT

THEON half-runs, half-falls down the bank of the pond. THEON and BRAN plunge beneath the ink-black water. BRAN’s eyes fly open and he explodes to the surface, gasping for air.

SANSA

Bran!

SANSA wades into the pond and takes over from THEON supporting BRAN’s head above the water. THEON unsheathes his dirk and hands it to SANSA.

THEON

Here! Keep him safe.

THEON hauls himself out of the pond and towards the oncoming wights.

SANSA

Theon, stop!

THEON snatches up his bow but his hands are frozen into clumsy gnarled claws and he drops his first arrow. The second he somehow manages to knock and loose, shooting directly through the guard’s forehead. THEON’s next arrow is dodged, and the next after that finds ERIC’s throat but does nothing to halt his advance. Finding his quiver empty, THEON tosses the bow aside. He puts one steadying foot on WOLKAN’s back, yanks his sword free, and charges to meet the two remaining wights.

6.72 EXT: BATTLEFIELD – NIGHT

Somewhere amid the madness of the battlefield, SAM finds himself cut-off and alone. He searches desperately for safe harbour, but finds nothing but dead and dying soldiers and an inexhaustible supply of blood-crazed wights.

S.E: growling.

SAM slowly turns. Fifty feet away, an undead direwolf bares its teeth and crouches low to the ground in the predator’s stance. SAM flees, running pell-mell across the battlefield, wheeling into wights and bouncing off bodies in his mindless panic to escape the pursuing direwolf. Turning his head to check its progress, he trips over a half-buried body and splats face-first into the mud. Half-crazed with fear, he tries to regain his feet but every time fails to find sure footing. The direwolf is so close now that SAM can hear its dangling entrails slapping off the slurry as it runs. It’s then that SAM’s flailing hand finds the spear still gripped by the dead man that tripped him. SAM wrenches the spear fee and rolls onto his back, stabbing the spear towards his hunter. SAM curses his own stupidity: he’s holding the spear the wrong way round, the blade harmlessly by his side and the blunt end of the wooden shaft pointed at the onrushing direwolf. Before he can spin the weapon around, the direwolf bounds up a pile of bodies and pounces.

SAM opens his eyes to discover the direwolf impaled on the end of the spear, six feet above his head. Hot wet globs of drool splatter on SAM’s face. The direwolf begins to slowly slide down the shaft towards SAM. He tries to roll away to safety, but the direwolf’s weight has driven the spear-point through SAM’s leathers and into the ground, pinioning SAM in place. His eyes fall on the knife tucked into his belt, completely forgotten in his terror. The direwolf’s forepaws are now close enough to rake their claws across SAM’s scalp. He stabs at the direwolf’s skull in a frenzied flurry. Over and over and over again he rams the knife into the direwolf’s face, long after the wight has ceased to struggle. The wight slides the rest of the way and its entire weight settles on top of SAM. Blinded by the blood pooling over his eyes, he begins to panic, claustrophobia absurdly overtaking the hundred other fears crowding SAM’s mind.

Suddenly, SAM feels the spear jerk free of the ground and the weight on his chest slump to the side. He feels a pair of hands take him by the wrist and haul him to his feet. SAM wipes the blood from his face with both sleeves. Blinking experimentally, he finds himself looking into GREY WORM’s calm and composed countenance. SAM does his best to babble whatever expression of gratitude he can muster.

SAM

Thank you! Thank you! I di –

With a lightning-quick swipe of his dagger GREY WORM opens SAM’s throat. SAM’s eyes open wide; he tries to speak; bubbles of blood froth at his lips in place of words. SAM drops to his knees and slumps forward back into the filth, the light in his eyes extinguished. GREY WORM wipes SAM’s blood from his face and dashes away to rejoin the fray.

6.73 EXT: WINTERFELL BATTLEMENTS – NIGHT

MISSANDEI stands frozen in place atop the battlements, a silent spectator to GREY WORM’s handiwork. She drops her flags and recoils away from the ledge, then races unsteadily down the steps towards the yard as Tyrion makes his laboured ascent.

TYRION

Missandei?

MISSANDEI

I’m sorry, I can’t!

TYRION

What are you doing?! Come back!

TYRION continues up the steps, covering his ribs protectively with one arm. He reaches the battlements and takes in the scenes below.

The Knights of the Vale, his last, best trick, have been wiped out by the undead Dothraki, zombified, and returned to the fray to fight beside their killers. The Northern army looks a quarter the size it was before TYRION’s ignominious exit, and the only Freefolk he can find fight for the NIGHT KING now. He watches the same sequence play out all across the field of battle: time and again, a soldier in the army of the living is cut down only to rise again and turn on his brothers. Every man lost is a man gained for the enemy. TYRION tries to quiet the pounding drums in his head, as the surety of defeat resolves itself in his mind.

TYRION [CONT’D]

This isn’t a fight we can win.

He picks up the flags dropped by MISSANDEI and waves them frantically.

TYRION

Sound the retreat! Get everybody back behind the walls!

S.E: horn blasts.

The northern gates of Winterfell groan slowly open.

6.74 EXT: BATTLEFIELD – NIGHT

JAIME

Everybody get inside! Move!

GREY WORM [IN VALYRIAN]

Dovaogedys! Amisagon pa obuljarion

[Unsullied! Screen the retreat!]

Those Unsullied still alive to hear the horn fight clear and extricate themselves from the chaos, falling back to Winterfell’s gates, where they turn and form up to create a new, defensive shield-wall. The retreat is panicked and piece-meal, the Unsullied barrier porous and unstable. The first survivors through the gates don’t waste another second before mounting the battlements and arming themselves anew from the barrels positioned at regular intervals beneath the crenelations. Just as the Unsullied line looks ready to buckle, the weight of the undead front lines suddenly slackens as a bombardment of rock and stone rains down from above. Skulls explode in clouds of dust, limbs splinter and snap, and the flood of fleeing survivors ebbs to a stream.

6.75 EXT: WINTERFELL GODSWOOD – NIGHT

THEON clashes swords with ERIC, parrying the guard’s swing and slashing open his stomach with a swing of his own. ERIC’s innards spill to the ground but the wight barely seems to notice, clamping a frigid hand around THEON’s throat. DANA lunges at THEON with her knife and stabs half-a-dozen holes in the small of his back. THEON drops to his knees, but still ERIC maintains his grip. THEON’s eyes bulge; his face turns an angry shade of purple; his arms fall limp at his side. The hilt of his sword slips through his fingers as the strength departs his body.

With a sudden surge of adrenaline, THEON snatches up the falling sword and pistons back to his feet, channelling the upward momentum into a great arcing swing that cuts ERIC’s arm clean through at the elbow. THEON spins about blindly with his blade and severs DANA’s twisted neck. Before her head has even hit the ground, THEON pivots on the balls of his heels and thrusts his sword up through the bottom of ERIC’s jaw and out the top of his skull. THEON collapses to the ground, the pools of melted snow and rainwater already turning red with blood.

6.76 EXT: WINTERFELL’S YARD– NIGHT

JAIME stands at the gates, waving stragglers inside the castle walls.

JAIME

Get inside! Hurry! Get inside!

He finally turns to follow, then freezes.

JAIME

Brienne.

Across the chaos of the yard, BRIENNE stares at him with lifeless blue eyes. JAIME’s shoulders slump and his sword drops to his side as all the fight drains out of his body. Only the support of a wooden stanchion keeps him on his feet.

JAIME [CONT’D]

Not you, Brienne.

BRIENNE charges across the yard. JAIME just has time to raise one arm in defence before he’s bundled off his feet. BRIENNE lands on top of him, her upraised knee driving all the wind from JAIME’s lungs. She bites at the air only inches from JAIME’s face, the forearm that holds her at bay already beginning to weaken and waver. BRIENNE is so close, JAIME can feel her hot breath prickling his cheek, smell the stench of death from the black void behind her gnashing teeth.

6.77 EXT: BENEATH THE NORTHERN WALLS OF WINTERFELL – NIGHT

The undead have rallied and quickly recovered the few feet of ground lost to the Unsullied. Still the rocks rain down from the battlements, but for every wight that falls two more appear to fill the breech. The Unsullied line is pushed by inches ever backwards, GREY WORM at their centre trying and failing to find any kind of traction in the morass of mud and rain and blood at their feet. Seeing the last of the retreat make it through the gates, GREY WORM gives one last push against the wall of wights.

GREY WORM [IN VALYRIAN]

Iemny! Tolvys Iemny!

Inside! Everyone, inside!]

The Unsullied surrender the line and hurriedly retreat through the gates, those at the rear devoured by the undead surge only seconds from salvation behind Winterfell’s walls.

6.78 EXT: WINTERFELL GODSWOOD – NIGHT

The reanimated ED staggers unnoticed into the Godswood. Not more than fifty feet away, SANSA kneels over the insensible BRAN at the edge of the frozen pond. So preoccupied is SANSA with removing her furs and wrapping them about her soaked and shivering brother she fails to register ED’s rapid approach, no more than ED registers the white shadow trailing him across the Godswood.

6.79 EXT: WINTERFELL’S YARD – NIGHT

DAVOS and the HOUND lead a rabble of soldiers pushing closed the twin wooden gates, the weight of the undead advance pitched against them.

HOUND

Push, you fuckers!

Straining every sinew to win even an inch of ground, the living desperately throw bodies against the gates, the human ballast ten men deep now. Those that slip in the mud are lost beneath the scrum and trampled underfoot, those at the front crushed into unconsciousness against the wood. Finally, the two doors meet in their frame; and GENDRY and BERIC rush forward with the heavy wooden crossbeam and pass it up and over the crowd of until it reaches the front and drops into place across the gate.

6.80 EXT: WINTERFELL GODSWOOD – NIGHT

ED lunges for SANSA. SANSA turns and instinctively throws herself across BRAN, but the anticipated attack never comes. She opens her eyes to discover ED pinned to the ground beneath Ghost’s fore-paws. The direwolf opens wide its jaws and closes them around ED’s head. Ghost bites down and crushes the wight’s skull.

6.81 EXT: WINTERFELL’S YARD – NIGHT

JAIME reaches up his free arm and jams his golden hand into BRIENNE’s mouth: she bites down and a shower of broken teeth fall into JAIME’s face, blood dripping from BRIENNE’s lacerated gums like slaver from a rabid beast. JAIME screams with the effort of pushing against his golden hand to keep BRIENNE at bay.

The point of a sword sprouts from BRIENNE’s skull. For the second time that night, she collapses lifeless into JAIME’s arms. He looks past her shoulder and sees PODRICK standing over them, sword in hand, and tears in his eyes.

6.82 EXT: WINTERFELL GODSWOOD – NIGHT

Cradled in SANSA’s arms, BRAN opens his eyes and looks up at his sister.

BRAN

Sansa?

SANSA

I’m here, Bran! You’re OK. We’re going to be OK.

BRAN’s eyelids begin to droop.

SANSA [CONT’D]

Bran? Bran?! No! Bran!

BRAN’s eyes close and his head drops limp to his chest. SANSA looks up from her brother, sees THEON labouring to drag himself through the Godswood towards them.

THEON [WEAKLY]

Is he alive? Is Bran alive?

She looks into his desperate, imploring eyes and smiles weakly.

SANSA

He’s alive. You saved him, Theon.

THEON [TO HIMSELF]

I saved him.

THEON collapses, the last of his lifeblood seeping into the frozen ground beneath his motionless body, his features set in a sad, triumphant smile.

6.83 EXT: WINTERFELL BATTLEMENTS – NIGHT

Every available body hurries to join those already manning the battlements, ARYA, BERIC, DAVOS, the HOUND, TORMUND, and GENDRY among them. The undead scrabble atop one another to surmount the walls, the pile of bodies growing and their distance to the crenelations diminishing with every passing second. The defenders hack and slash and stab and rain down rocks and arrows, anything to keep the undead at bay. Those wights at the top of the pile begin to pull defenders over, tossing them down into the writhing mass below.

ARYA draws her dagger and dances with an elegance that belies the pandemonium of the moment, stabbing and slashing incisively as she goes. Earning herself a half-second of space, she sucks air greedily into her burning lungs. The world seems to slow down as she takes in the carnage all around her: the undead outnumber the living on the battlements now, with hundreds more wights pouring over the crenelations with every beat of ARYA’s pounding heart. She watches as the last stand of the living cracks, crumbles, and collapses. ARYA feels her senses overloaded: the screams of terror, the metallic tang of blood, the reeking of rotting flesh. ARYA’s face betrays an unfamiliar emotion: fear.

ARYA

Retreat! Everybody retreat!

Others hear her and take up the call.

TORMUND

Fall back!

BERIC

Retreat!

All along the battlements, soldiers abandon their post and make a mad dash for the steps, but the undead immediately run them to ground. Men and women mad with terror now throw themselves from the parapet into the yard below.

TYRION hurtles carelessly along the battlements, running a deadly gauntlet through the undead. Finding the steps blocked with bodies, he veers quickly away and instead opts for an alternative means of descent: launching himself from the wooden bridge to the Broken Tower, he crashes for the second time onto the stack of lumber piled against its wall, allowing his momentum to repel him backwards into the remaining ten feet drop down to the yard.

Staggering upright, TYRION feels his feet leave the ground as the frenzied mob rushing for the southern gates lifts him up then slams him brutally back down. A boot slams into his jaw and his vision fills with pinpoints of blinding light. He curls into a ball to protect himself from the ceaseless barrage of swinging legs and stomping feet. When he feels two pairs of hands grab hold of his shoulders, TYRION is sure the wights have finally got him.

JAIME

Tyrion!

Opening his eyes, TYRION almost breaks down in tears at the sight of JAIME and PODRICK. They haul TYRION to his feet and join the survivors retreating across the yard, the undead snapping at their heels.

6.84 EXT: WINTERFELL’S YARD – NIGHT

Winterfell’s yard is filling up with wights as the undead tide crests the battlements and crashes down upon the fleeing defenders, swallowing up everything in its path. At the southern gates, GREY WORM rallies the last vestiges of the Unsullied ranks to screen the retreat.

GREY WORM

Dovaogedys! Seterys mazioragon!

[Unsullied! Hold the line!]

The battle that began between two vast armies squaring off across the wide-open expanse of the northern approach comes down now to close-quarters combat within the four walls of Winterfell’s yard among just a few hundred soldiers, the living and the undead.

Forming up in line before the gates, the Unsullied make their last, hopeless stand. With short-spear and sword they engage the onrushing undead, every strike and parry buying another few precious seconds for the survivors to pass through the gates and escape the yard. GREY WORM swings time and again at an undead press so dense he no longer has to direct his blade to guarantee a certain strike. With all the anger and defiance left in his body, GREY WORM roars into the face of death only inches from his own.

GREY WORM

*Defiant roar*

S.E: dragon roar.

All eyes turn suddenly skyward. A bright orange flower blooms in the heaviest of the rainclouds overhead, electric tendrils splintering and crackling through the thick vapour canopy until the sky over Winterfell glows an angry, pulsating red.

GREY WORM [IN VALYRIAN]

Geltigon!

Cover!]

The Unsullied dive to the dirt and take whatever cover they can. The sheltering sky splits open and the clouds disgorge a broad unbroken shaft of fire: the wights at its centre are instantly incinerated, those at its edges engulfed in rapacious flame that quickly consumes the close-packed undead army. The great black bulk of Drogon follows the fire through the clouds.

The Unsullied clamber to their feet and escape through the gates as Drogon swoops down low over Winterfell, bathing the yard in another blast of sustained dragonfire. From his back, DAENERYS directs him into a turn and comes back around for another pass.

DAENERYS

Dracarys!

S.E: Drogon breathing fire.

Every inch of the yard is afire, roasting wights screaming and screeching as they blindly clatter into each other in their mindless flight from the all-consuming flames. The few wights that succeed in escaping through the southern gates are picked off with ease by BERIC and the HOUND, TORMUND and DAVOS, JAIME and PODRICK, and all the men and women of the Northern army still able to stand and swing a sword.  Unnoticed in the chaos, GREY WORM slips away into the shadows.

6.85 EXT: COVERED WALKWAYS - NIGHT

GREY WORM slithers through the postern gate and into the covered walkways that separate the Godswood from the castle proper. Levelling his gaze on SANSA and BRAN across the barren field of tree stumps, he draws his dagger from his belt. 

MISSANDEI

Torgo Nudho.

GREY WORM freezes in his tracks. His eyes flit to his left and the portico leading to the castle’s western tower. MISSANDEI steps clear of the shadows. They stare at one another for what seems an eternity, their features dancing and distorted by the irregular, flickering light cast by the looming conflagration of dragonfire. GREY WORM follows MISSANDEI’s eyes to the blade in his hand. The look of guilt on his face slowly, almost imperceptibly, slides away, leaving something hard and hateful in its place. He tightens his grip on the dagger’s hilt and takes a step towards the Godswood.

A dozen Stark soldiers suddenly spring from the dark doorway behind MISSANDEI and hurry past. They rush to their Lady’s side, bundling up SANSA and BRAN in their furs. GREY WORM sees his window of opportunity slam shut; he returns his furious gaze back to MISSANDEI. Hers never left.

6.86 EXT: SKIES OVER WINTERFELL – NIGHT

DAENERYS turns her dragon northward over the body-strewn battlefield. The White Walkers mount their horses and spur them to a gallop, racing for the cover of the forest. But the world has yet to know a horse, living or undead, that can hope to outpace a dragon in full flight.

DAENERYS

Dracarys!

S.E: Drogon breathing fire.

All trace of the White Walkers blinks from existence beneath Drogon’s blast, not even their powdered remains surviving the white-hot heat of the dragon’s fiery breath. 

6.87 EXT: FIELDS SOUTH OF WINTERFELL – NIGHT

From the safety of Winterfell’s southern fields, the survivors of the Longest Night raise their voices in victory.

S.E: cheers.

Amid the celebratory crowd, JAIME turns his raw and bloody face to TYRION and regards his bother with an expression discordant with the jubilation all around them.

JAIME

Where was he?! Where’s the Night King?

Across the field, ARYA follows Drogon’s flight as DAENERYS circles him above the flames that threaten to burn beyond Winterfell’s yard and consume the castle itself.

ARYA

Where’s Jon?

OUTRO