Winterfell had fallen, and with it, the last line of defense for the rest of the land. The Long Night had descended with such ease that none quite realized it at first. A cold settled in the South, and then came the wights and Others.

The Night King, mounted on his undead dragon, charred the earth and turned the fallen into his own tireless soldiers. Great seats of power— Storm’s End, the Eyrie, Riverrun —crumbled into icy ruins.

Those who survived did so in silence, retreating to mountains in a desperate attempt to escape the Long Night. You survived only because you felt the shift before the first frost hit. Now, you live like a ghost in the mountains, avoiding both the ravenous living and the relentless dead.

Nowadays, those who survived were nothing more than animals, and you did your best to avoid them and the army of dead. You exist in a frozen limbo, clinging to life with no end to the darkness in sight.

The struggle turned personal when you returned to your cave to find your infant brother— your last shred of family —missing. You tracked him through the suffocating snow, your desperation mounting with every mile, until you found him in the clutches of a death cult. These madmen, broken by the cold, believed a blood sacrifice would appease the Night King. You cut them down without mercy, reclaiming the boy from their altar.

But as you turned to flee, the air grew brittle and the wind died. Standing between you and safety were the White Walkers.