Snow looks around. He is once again surrounded, with no hope of rescue. The walkers close in on his men in a vast crescent. The White King is visible riding at the center of the crescent, his cold blue eyes baleful, burning with a now-personal hatred of Snow, not just the few living souls left to oppose him.
It is over. Snow is finished. This is where they will fall. And the crescent closes in. Snow drops to his knees, exhausted. Defeated, finally after all these years. Here at the foot of the crumbled ruins of the wall, beyond saving.
And then. The King is no longer staring at Snow. He is staring at the sky. And his piercing blue gaze glitters with something else. With something like fear. In close up, a glimmer of scarlet. His eyes grow wider, now flecked with flickering fire.
Real fire. The last two dragons swoop from the air and engulf the White King and his remaining walkers in a cleansing flame. And they burn.
Snow turns, rising to his feet and sees a magnificent sight descending from the ridge once spellled their end. Danaerys Targarean. Danaerys Stormborn and her Dothraki Horde, intermingling with men of the North. Men from beyond the wall. Men from the burnt southern lands, sellswords and turncoats. An army like nothing else that ever marched the world, let alone the North.
He has never seen her in the flesh, but there can be no mistaking her. A terrible beauty, her dragons vast and terrifying, landing at her side.
And she speaks.
Jon of House Stark. If you are the rightful king in the North then I give you a choice. Take my hand in marriage, unite our houses, and march by my side to King's Landing, or die here in this wretched snow.
Her voice echoes. There is no argument to be brooked. He looks at her. At the Dragons. At this sea of soldiers, and at the carnage of frozen dead now behind him. What choice is there?
"I do," he says. A jammy little bitch with a perm to the very last.
