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Chapter Text

Thanos snapped, and everything went to hell. Just not in the way the Avengers feared it might.

The Mad Titan hadn't really explained what eliminating half of all life would look like, so they didn't know what to expect. Would people just keel over dead, leaving the survivors to clean up the bodies? Would they burn up from the inside out and fill the universe with screams of agony? Would they simply turn to dust and blow away in the breeze? Nobody knew for sure, but they all anticipated something equally as dramatic.

They certainly didn't expect to black out and wake up stranded in some snowy field. They had no way of knowing if they were among the victims or the survivors of the Snap. For an afterlife, this place sure was cold, and they didn't really feel dead. Not that anyone had any idea what that would actually feel like, having never died before. T'Challa had probably come the closest of all of them after being tossed over that waterfall by Killmonger. His entire country had presumed him dead. Yet the same was true for Steve Rogers, who spent seventy years in a frozen coma while the world mourned him. Maybe they'd all been frozen through time like him, and that's why they woke up here in this cold, barren place.

The snow beneath them was thick, but pretty well-packed so they didn't sink in too far. Some of them were partially buried, but managed to dig themselves out with relative ease. Gradually they began to notice that they weren't alone here. The field was dotted with Avengers, spread out sparsely enough that they couldn't touch but within shouting distance.

"Alright, sound off!" a voice called, probably Tony's. "Who else ended up in this freezing hellhole?"

A chorus of introductions echoed from all over the field as the Avengers identified themselves:

"Rogers!"

"Banner!"

"Wanda!"

"T'Challa!"

"Romanoff!"

"Peter!"

"Which one?!"

"Quill!"

"Peter Parker's here too!"

"Sam!"

"Bucky!"

"Doctor Strange!"

"Thor!"

"Rhodes!"

"I am Groot!"

"Drax!"

"Mantis!"

"Nebula!"

"Rocket!"

"Okay, some of those names are definitely new, but if this really is the afterlife we'll have plenty of time to get to know each other," Tony announced. As they'd called names, they drifted closer together like a herd of cattle and now stood where they could actually see one another. They shuffled around until they stood in the groups they'd fought Thanos in, unconsciously finding the teammates they'd become most familiar with.

All of them were shivering except the superhumans like Thor. Many of them were transported here from Wakanda, which had a much more forgiving climate. Those that came from Titan were also woefully underdressed. Tony's suit was damaged from the fight and all the nanoparticles had returned to the housing unit on his chest. The track suit he'd worn underneath offered little in the way of insulation.

"Strange, you recognize this place?" Tony asked the sorcerer. Maybe somewhere in his history of studying magic he'd come across a realm of ice and snow like this one.

"No," he answered. "Frankly it could be some remote part of Earth in the far north or south."

"It could be an ice planet, like the one from Star Wars," Peter Parker offered.

"This place reminds me of Niflheim. Or Jotunheim, from where my brother Loki hails," Thor remarked.

"Alright, so we have some possibilities. Is anyone here sitting on some incredible knowledge of the Infinity stones or Thanos and can tell us exactly where we are?" Tony's question was met with dead silence. "Anyone? No takers. Okay, the way I see it the only way we're going to find out where we are is to explore it. Anyone opposed?"

Once again, no one dared question him. Tony Stark had a commanding presence about him that made people reluctant to question his orders. Even Cap and Bucky temporarily ignored the lingering hostility from the fight in Siberia in the face of this new unknown. They could resolve their personal argument later when everyone wasn't in danger of freezing to death.

"Let's split up into four groups and each take a direction," Cap suggested. Tony wasn't the only one with a natural authority, and Cap was more experienced in field work like this. "I have no idea which way is really which, but let's pretend that's north," he pointed behind him, "and base everything off of that."

"That's not north," a voice said. The Avengers looked around at each other, trying to figure out who had corrected Captain America. It was none of them, however; the comment had come from a newcomer. They'd been so caught up in listening to the breakdown of the plan that none had noticed the people ride up. Now, they all turned to face a tall, robust woman with short blonde hair, a young brunette man, and a dark-skinned man with close-cropped hair. All were on horseback, and two were fully armored like knights from medieval times.

The Avengers adjusted their stance, prepared to fight should these new arrivals become hostile. They noticed, and the strangers laid a hand on the hilts of the swords at their hips. The darker one reached for the shaft of a long spear. Bruce Banner was the only one among them to step up and address the knights. "Could you tell us where we are?"

"How did you come by this place?" the woman questioned. "Did Cersei send you?"

"Circe who? No, nobody sent us," Banner explained. "We just sorta landed here in the snow."

"Where did you come from?"

"Wakanda." The woman turned to her companions and they shared a look of utter bewilderment.

"I've never heard of such a place. Yet you speak the Common Tongue. Is this 'Wakanda' in the North or South?

"It's really…in the middle," T'Challa informed them. "We are very close to the equator. On the continent of Africa."

"Equator?" the woman clearly didn't recognize the word. They spoke the same language, what she'd called the 'Common Tongue' yet the attire and mode of transport indicated that wherever this place was lagged significantly behind in technological development. It felt like they'd been dumped into the Middle Ages.

"You have not heard of Africa?" She shook her head. Damn, this was weird. Not only were they in another time, apparently they were in another place also. But what planet could be so similar to Earth, yet have completely different geography? Was it even a planet at all? Or just a parallel universe of sorts?

"Now, can you tell us where we are?" Banner inquired.

"You're not far from Winterfell," she said.

"Great, Winterfell." Banner turned to the assembled Avengers. "Has anyone heard of that?" They all shook their heads. Not even the Guardians, who'd been all over the universe, had ever been to a place like this.

"Have you come to sabotage us? Ensure we lose so that Cersei can keep the throne?" the woman asked.

"No. As I said, we have no idea how we ended up here," Banner repeated.

"What master do you serve?" Strange interjected. Quill rolled his eyes, remembering being asked the very same question earlier.

The dark-skinned man on the far right of the trio answered, "Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, The rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Queen of Dragonstone, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons."

"Sheesh," Sam grumbled. "That's a mouthful."

"Which gods do you worship?" the woman questioned.

"Whoa, that's a pretty loaded question," Quill said. "Maybe spring for an icebreaker first."

"I am the god of thunder," Thor contributed, though his comment went entirely unaddressed.

"I'll ask again, where did you come from?" she repeated. Now she sounded more angry than wary.

"Listen," Tony cut in. "We just finished a pretty gruesome fight against an unstoppable purple titan. I'm assuming we lost, since I don't see Vision here and he was the last chance we had at stopping him. And now we find ourselves here, in the middle of this unknown medieval wasteland with no plan for how to get back to our world. Then you three show up, thankfully speaking English so we can have an actual conversation, yet you continue to repeat the same question over and over as if our answer is ever going to change. We don't know how we got here. I'm assuming some inter-dimensional transportation shit went down, but I could be way off base with that. I just want to know if you can take us to this Winterfell of yours, and if we might find food and lodging there. And also possibly whatever passes for a doctor in this time period."

Those who had been on Titan simultaneously remembered the devastating stab wound Thanos had inflicted upon Tony during the climax of their duel. The man in question stumbled as he took another step towards the mounted strangers, and only Spiderman's enhanced reflexes were quick enough to catch him before he face planted into the snow.

~0~

Most everyone at Winterfell saw the dramatic flash of light illuminate the sky to the south. All eyes immediately turned to Melisandre, who insisted she had nothing to do with it. The Night King and all of his forces approached from the north, so it was nearly impossible for them to be the cause. Cersei had lied about sending aid, but had she changed her mind? Or was this the opposite of aid? Had she sent saboteurs to ensure they lost against the undead army? Nobody could know for sure, so it was decided that rangers would be sent out to investigate.

Jon and a few other former Night's Watch volunteered for the job, along with several high-ranking Unsullied and other knights. Ultimately, Daenerys elected Brienne, Podrick, and Grey Worm to venture out and see what had caused the phenomenon. They couldn't risk sending too many if the source proved to be dangerous because they needed as many able-bodied fighters as they could muster for the upcoming battle. They didn't want to potentially lose too many to this unknown threat.

The three certainly didn't expect to find a field full of strange people who had no idea how they came to be here. After a few minutes of conversation, they didn't seem dangerous, just confused. The one with the oddly shaped beard said they'd just come from an intense battle, and only then did they notice how wounded he really was.

Brienne scanned the faces of the Avengers before her, all in various states of injury and exhaustion. Wherever they had come from did not seem much better than where they would soon find themselves if they returned to Winterfell. "We will take you back to Winterfell," she announced. Pod and Grey Worm gave her funny looks, but she couldn't just leave these people here to freeze. Besides, who would stop them from just following them back? There were too many for the three of them to defeat in battle.

"Thank you," one of the strangers said. They turned their mounts around and began following their own trail back to Winterfell. What would the queen say when they returned with a dozen or so battle-weary strangers? For their sake, Brienne hoped she wouldn't just burn them to a crisp.

"Thanks Pete, but I can walk," the wounded one spoke. The youngest of the group was attempting to support him, but the man wouldn't have it. The boy gave up and resorted to following extremely close behind him.

"So, what exactly will we find when we get to Winterfell?" the muscular one with the dark beard asked.

"A stronghold prepared for war," Grey Worm warned.

"War with who?"

"The dead."

"I feel like there needs to be a longer explanation for that," one of the dark-skinned ones remarked. They noticed he wore a strange metal armor than encased his entire body except his head. In fact, many of the strangers wore clothing the likes of which they'd never seen.

Not long after they set out, Winterfell became visible on the horizon. They heard the newcomers muttering amongst themselves, but continued their slow pace forward. Best case scenario, they'd just found additional soldiers to fight for the living in the Great War. Worst case scenario, they'd just ensured their own demise.

~0~

The settlement before them was as heavily fortified as any the Avengers had ever seen. A trench surrounded its entirety, the border dotted with massive spikes of black rock. Catapults and trebuchets faced north, each already stocked with ammunition. They observed mounted soldiers with curved blades, more men like the dark-skinned stranger who had brought them, men dressed entirely in black like ravens, men with blue shields decorated with a white bird and crescent, and savage-looking folk with various melee weapons. But the Avengers were definitely the oddest addition to the population.

A large, dark shape flew overhead, casting everyone into its massive shadow. The Avengers all looked up and their mouths fell open in shock. "Is that a dragon?" Peter asked, his eyes wide with wonder.

"Oh my god, it's a fucking dragon," Bucky remarked.

"Such a majestic creature!" boomed Thor.

Their three escorts left their horses behind and led them into what looked like the main building. "We did not bind you, but you are still our prisoners," the woman warned them.

"Not again," Tony mumbled. Those that heard him recalled the minimal details they knew of his time in Afghanistan and understood why he would react badly to being called a prisoner. Peter Parked edged himself impossibly closer to his mentor. Their captors led them to a room with a crackling fire. Within, a large group of people stood around a table, staring intently at whatever it contained and speaking seriously to one another.

At their captor's entrance, the voices hushed and the crowd all turned to stare at the new arrivals. They could now see what the table contained: a map of Winterfell crowded with pieces representing armies. "Now this looks familiar," Cap said, remembering the map of Europe he'd once strategized over with Peggy.

"We didn't find the cause of the great light, but we found the result," the woman explained to her comrades. The Avengers fanned out against the wall so they could see the people before them, all of whom eyed them with a combination of curiosity and fear.

"Who are they? Where have they come from?" a silver-haired young woman dressed in white furs asked.

"They claim to come from Wakanda," she explained.

"Umm, some of us actually came from Titan," Peter added. "It's a planet in outer space."

None of the Avengers would ever forget the look of utter bewilderment on the faces of the strangers after that comment.

"Are they Cersei's?" a dark-haired young man in a thick cloak asked.

"No. They appear to have never heard of Cersei. Or Winterfell for that matter."

"So they just appeared out of nowhere? Seems unlikely. They're probably lying," another said. The comment came from the shortest among them, a dwarf with a deep scar across his cheek.

"I know that voice!" Thor exclaimed. He took a step towards the small man and stared at his face and hands in puzzlement. "Eitri? Your hands have been restored! But how did you grow so small?"

The man took a step back from Thor, clearly affronted. "I've not the faintest idea what you are talking about."

"Wait, I'll show you." Thor stepped away from his friends and held out his hand. It took a few moments, but sure enough Stormbreaker came crashing in from wherever it had been left behind in the snow. Almost instantaneously, swords were drawn and held to the throats of the gathered Avengers.

"Hey, hey, hey! Watch where you're pointing that!" Tony said. Thor hefted Stormbreaker and braced himself for a fight, but the standoff continued.

"Eitri the dwarf forged this axe for me," Thor explained.

"Well, you've got the wrong dwarf. I am Tyrion of House Lannister, and I have never been a blacksmith," the short man retorted.

"Why don't you put those down," Tony suggested, "And we can talk this over like grown-ups."

Slowly, swords slid back into their sheaths and the tension in the room diffused slightly. From the back of the room, a wheelchair rolled forward, in it a teenage boy with a faraway look in his eyes. He stared at the assembled group intently, and they couldn't help but feel he was somehow staring into their minds.

"Are you a Child of the Forest?" he inquired, his question directed to Groot.

"I am Groot!" the tree replied. Rocket elbowed him and whispered something about watching his manners.

"Look kid, I don't know what that means, but Groot would like to make it known that he is no child," Rocket said. All of the natives plus a few Avengers gasped and stared at the creature. They'd never seen a talking raccoon before.

"It speaks!" a red-headed girl said.

"Yeah, it sure does," Rocket sneered. "Now we'd better get some answers pretty soon, or something worse than the bubonic plague is about to rip through all of you." He squared his little shoulders and bared his teeth as menacingly as a small rodent-like creature could.

"What's this map for?" Cap asked, indicating the strategy display before them.

"First, can I get some names? I can't keep referring to you in my head as wintry strangers numbers one through twelve," Tony said. "This one," he indicated Tyrion, "is the only one who's bothered to introduce himself."

"I am Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen…" the silver-haired one began, but Tony refused to listen to the whole list again.

"Yeah, we've heard it before. Protector of the Realm, Mother of Dragons, whatnot. No need to repeat the whole thing, you'll waste your breath." She fumed at this comment, but she didn't order his execution or anything, so Tony figured he hadn't overstepped too far.

"And this is Jon Snow." She indicated the man with long, black hair beside her.

"Bran," the boy in the wheelchair said. "Though some know me as the Three-Eyed Raven."

"That's not at all creepy," Natasha muttered.

"Those who brought you here are Brienne of Tarth, Podrick Payne, and Grey Worm," Daenerys explained.

"I'm sorry, did you say Grey Worm? You know what, I'm not going to waste my time questioning it," Tony decided.

"So, what is the map for?" Cap repeated. "Who are we fighting?" the other Avengers noticed how he said 'we' instead of 'you,' already including himself among those against whatever foe Daenerys and her followers faced.

"The Night King will arrive before dawn," the one called Jon Snow explained. "He brings with him countless undead led by his White Walkers." One glance at the map showed just how many the undead army numbered.

"Why exactly is this Night King attacking you all?" Rhodes asked. "What did you do to piss him off?"

"We merely exist," Bran explained. "He means to wipe out all of humanity and its history, to create a world of unending winter and night."

""Well, hot wheels over here is laying it pretty heavy on the melancholy," Tony huffed. "This Night King sounds like a real downer. At least Thanos was decent enough to leave half of life behind.

"Who is Thanos?" Jon asked.

"Pretty much the most powerful and most evil being in our universe. We were in the middle of losing a fight with him when we ended up here," Quill explained.

"So you are warriors?"

"Indeed," Thor said. "We are Earth's mightiest heroes."

"Would you lend us your strength in the coming battle? We have need of every last man."

The Avengers all looked at each other and exchanged nonverbal conversation. Yes, they'd just come from the most grueling battle of their lives and they were all exhausted, but they couldn't take advantage of these people's hospitality and not help them in their own fight for survival.

"Yes, we will aid you in whatever ways we can," Cap announced. The Avengers all nodded their approval of this plan. Tony, who'd been leaning against the wall for the past few minutes, started to sag, growing paler by the second. Peter grabbed his arm and wrapped it around his own shoulders to hold him up.

"You don't happen to have doctors here, do you?" Peter asked. He knew enough about medieval times to figure that medicine was not very advanced here, but at this point anything was better than nothing.

A rather fat man stepped forward and offered his healing services. "I don't know what a doctor is, but your friend looks like he could use a maester. I didn't complete my training at the Citadel, but I know my way around pretty well.

"Peter, I'm fine," Tony insisted, but at the same time he leaned even more of his weight on him.

"No you're not. You're going to let him help you."

"But they don't sanitize anything in medieval times! He's gonna give me an infection!"

"I will join you, and hopefully prevent such an occurrence," Doctor Strange offered. The man led them out and down several hallways to another room that looked vaguely like a witch's cabin, full of various herbs. Tony leaned on Peter the entire walk, not steady enough on his feet for the younger one to let go.

"I'm Samwell Tarly," the man introduced himself. Peter finally let go of Tony when he sat down on the edge of a flat wooden table. Still, he hovered nearby.

"Strange, you know any healing spells? Whatever you've got is probably better than what passes for modern medicine here."

"I've cured grayscale," Samwell told them somewhat smugly. "Which in all other cases proves fatal. I can close up a wound."

"Healing spells are not really within my repertoire," Strange admitted. "But I am a doctor."

"You're a doctor?" Peter said, astonished.

"I told you my name was Doctor Strange."

"I thought that was made up!"

"It's not."

"Then why did you become a wizard?"

"I needed a career change," he said vaguely. Peter and Tony both noticed that he clenched his hands into fists and hid them within his cloak.

"So what exactly happened in this battle you mentioned?" Samwell asked.

"It's a long story," Tony insisted.

"I've got time."

"I'll try to simplify it…let's see. Thanos had this special gauntlet, and he needed six special stones to add to it. This guy," he pointed to Doctor Strange, "had one of them. The three of us, plus a few others, were on Thanos's home planet of Titan. Basically, he showed up, demolished us, got the stone he needed—because someone just gave it to him—and left. Back on our home planet, he got the last stone he needed and magically transported us here. I think he messed up because his intention was to kill half of all life."

"That's all well and good, but I meant how were you wounded?" Samwell clarified.

"Oh. He threw a moon at me, then stabbed me with my own sword."

"He threw a moon?" Samwell sounded confused. Maybe they weren't very familiar with the concept of more than one moon.

"That's not important. The stab wound is what's throwing me off. I did the best I could, but I didn't have the necessary materials to fix it properly."

"Can I see it?"

"Fine." Tony unzipped his jacket and pulled it off, revealing the wound in his left flank. Though not too wide, the sword had gone all the way through, severing who know how many blood vessels in the process. Blood still trickled slowly, though it was clear he'd lost a lot since the wound was inflicted. Samwell approached and gently prodded it, causing Tony to wince.

"Do you have a needle and thread?" Strange asked.

"Yes. We're not savages. Cauterizing is so barbaric."

"Do you have a means of cleaning it?"

"Cleaning it? Why?"

"I don't have time to explain microbiology and infectious disease to the likes of you. Just trust me, it'll all go better if you clean it first. Use heat on the needle and soak the thread in whatever passes for alcohol around here."

"Alcohol?"

"Wine, mead, brandy, whatever you drink around here that makes your head feel funny. It's not ideal, but it'll have to do in this unfortunately dire era of medicine."

"Okay," Samwell surrendered. He left the room in search of the necessary supplies.

"Strange, why don't you just do it?" Tony suggested. "Even if you were some fancy surgeon as I suspect you were, they still had you do simple suturing in med school, didn't they?

"I can't."

"Why not?"

Strange refused to answer, but both Peter and Tony noticed he buried his hands even further within his red cloak.

Samwell returned with a needle, thread, a lit candle, and container of brandy. "Someone will definitely notice this is missing, so it'd better be worth it," he said, shaking the bottle just a bit. He held the needle over the candle to heat it up while Strange charged Peter with soaking the thread.

"I'm not going to like this, am I?" Tony asked.

"Probably not," Samwell said. "You should drink this first." He offered the man a small glass of milky white liquid.

"What is it?"

"It'll help," Samwell promised, evading the actual question. Tony shrugged, as things couldn't really get much worse than they already were even if this guy poisoned him, and downed it in one gulp.

"Wow, that is pungent." Tony puckered his lips and shook his head back and forth. Samwell allowed it to sit for a few minutes before having Tony lie down to give him better access to the wound. Strange watched over his shoulder as Samwell tied the skin together with expert stitches. Peter, on the other hand, couldn't watch at all and confined himself to the opposite corner of the room.

"What's the matter Parker? Not a fan of needlework?" Tony joked. Peter shook his head without turning around, though he noted the slightly drunken, slurred tone to his mentor's voice. Whatever Samwell had him drink must've been pretty strong. Samwell finished the entrance wound quickly and washed all the dried blood off, per Strange's instructions. Then Tony turned over and he began work on the exit wound on his back.

"Shouldn't something like this hurt?" Tony asked. "What did you give me?"

"Milk of the poppy," Samwell answered.

"Of course," Strange muttered.

"What's that?" Peter asked, still turned around.

"Opium."

"You gave me opium?" Tony sounded personally affronted, though he sighed dreamily afterwards. "Wish I'd had that luxury in the cave with Yinsen."

"What happened in the cave with Yinsen?" Strange asked. He was entirely unfamiliar with Tony's past, with the events that had led to the creation of the first Iron Man suit. Upon meeting Tony, he'd just assumed he had fun tinkering with his machines and fancied himself a superhero.

"Open heart surgery," Tony said nonchalantly. "Now that hurt like a bitch."

"Open heart surgery in a cave? What sort of medication was available in a cave?" Strange had never heard something so preposterous in his life. He was accustomed to a sterile operating room with all the proper tools of his trade. The idea of doing anything so delicate in a cave was unimaginable. Even the lighting would be inadequate, not to mention the monitoring equipment.

"I think just chloroform," Tony answered.

"You're a madman," Strange said.

"Hey, it's not like I had a choice. It was either that or let shrapnel tear me up from the inside out. Besides, the car battery wasn't so bad."

"I refuse to delve any further into this matter. I've learned more about you in the past ten minutes than I did the entire time we spent together on an alien planet." Strange frankly didn't think he could handle learning what Tony meant about a car battery in light of everything else that had happened to him in the past twenty four hours.

"Well, in your defense, you were a little preoccupied protecting your necklace. Which you ended up giving away anyway…why exactly?"

"It was the only way," Strange muttered mysteriously.

"Anyway, I shared. Now it's your turn," Tony whined, sounding like a petulant child forced into sharing his toys. "You're being way too vague about this career change of yours."

"It was a car accident," Strange explained. "My hands were destroyed. I had multiple surgeries to try and fix them, but nothing worked well enough to allow me to continue to be a surgeon. So I went to Nepal and learned magic."

"That's over-simplifying it."

"Indeed it is, but we don't have time to go through all of that."

"Why not? I like story time." Tony lolled his head sleepily to look at the ceiling. Strange noticed his eyes slightly roll back into his head every so often, probably an effect of the opium. There was no other way to put it: he was high.

Peter finally turned around since Samwell was finished with his stitching. "Mr. Stark, you sound drunk," he half-laughed.

"Hold on…did you say Stark?" Samwell asked, suddenly dead serious.

"Yeah, that's his name. Tony Stark."

"You are of House Stark?"

"Ummm…yes?" Tony said, unsure what he meant and unable to reason it out through the drowsiness.

"Winterfell is the ancestral home of House Stark, one of the most ancient houses in all of Westeros, descended from the First Men."

"That's great. Though I'm pretty sure I'd know if I was a part of some ancient and noble house. Last time I checked, I was not."

"You bear the name," Samwell pointed out.

"Yes, and the kid here calls himself Spiderman. That does not make him a man."

"Hey!" Peter said, offended. "Spiderboy just sounds lame."

"You must speak to Bran, Sansa, and Arya. They are the last living members of House Stark."

"What happened to all the others? Shouldn't a noble house also be fruitful and whatnot?"

"Lyanna Stark died in childbirth. Eddard Stark was beheaded. Catelyn and Robb Stark were savagely murdered at a wedding. Benjen Stark disappeared beyond the Wall, presumed dead. And young Rickon Stark was shot down at the Battle of the Bastards."

"Geez, that's a pretty fucked up track record. I don't think I want to be part of this house."

"They have an admittedly rocky history."

"I'll say. That's actually worse than my Starks, not that I ever thought there could be a family more dysfunctional than my own."

"What happened in your family?"

"My parents were both killed by my teammate's best friend. Actually, you probably saw him back in that strategy room. He's the one with a metal arm and brooding looks. We actually got into a huge fight over it not too long ago, duked it out in a bunker in Siberia. I totally won, though. They ran away like scared little puppies."

"It would seem Starks do not fare well whatever dimension they come from," Strange remarked.

"Hey, it's still a better name than Strange."

~0~

Once Tony, Peter, and Strange left, the rest of the Avengers converged on the strategy table to learn everything they could of their foe and the battle plan. "Okay, so this Night King wants to destroy humanity, am I correct?" Rhodes asked.

"Yes," Jon grumbled.

"How exactly does he plan to execute that mission?"

"He'll come for me," Bran said solemnly. "As the Three-Eyed Raven, I represent the entirety of human memory. If he kills me, there will be nothing left but word of mouth among the survivors."

"And those will number few," John added. "Several of us have encountered the Night King and his army before. We were lucky to escape alive."

"Why haven't you just assassinated him?" Natasha asked.

"It is not so easy as that. He is constantly well-guarded. And he now possesses a dragon."

"He has a dragon?" Cap sounded shocked.

"Yes. He murdered one of my children with a spear of ice and resurrected him as one of the undead," Daenerys explained solemnly.

"Wait—your children?" Banner clarified.

"Yes. Viserion is one of my three dragons. The other two, Drogon and Rhaegal, remain alive and on our side."

"So we have two dragons and he has one. Those are great odds," Quill said.

"They are slightly in our favor, yes, but that does not mean we have the upper hand in this fight. Every loss we take is a potential gain for the Night King's forces."

"How's that so?" Banner asked.

"The Night King resurrects the fallen. They join the undead army."

"Oh," the Avengers sighed collectively. Suddenly they realized just how dire the situation was. Killing an army of the undead was hard enough as it was, but if their numbers could so easily swell while their own dwindled, this might prove to be a more difficult fight than Thanos.

"These undead, can they be killed?" Thor questioned, thinking of his sister Hela.

"The wights are most dangerous because of their incredible numbers. They can be killed by fire, which we do have in abundance. The White Walkers, however, require a wound from a weapon of dragonglass or Valyrian steel," Jon explained.

"Yes, and what are those materials?"

"Dragonglass, or obsidian as some call it, is a black mineral. You may have seen it in the defenses around Winterfell."

"We're familiar with obsidian."

"Valyrian steel is a metal from the ancient forges of Valyria. A few of us are armed with it, but it is very rare."

"So this Night King and the White Walkers can only be killed with one of these materials?"

"Yes. We also discovered that killing a White Walker will kill all the undead he reanimated. Since the Night King leads them all, his death should ensure the entire army falls."

"Great, so all we have to do is focus our attack on him and the rest will topple like dominoes," Rhodes suggested enthusiastically.

"Did you forget the part about the undead dragon?" Jon asked, clearly frustrated with their lack of understanding. He looked like he'd explained this exact situation a hundred times before and was tired of repeating it. "He will not leave himself undefended for any length of time."

"Okay, since you clearly know so much about him, why don't you just explain the plan?"

"That's what I've been trying to do, but you keep asking questions!" Jon snapped. The Avengers took a shy step back and remained silent to allow him to continue. Using the pieces on the board, he roughly outlined the plan of action.

"Sounds like a solid plan," Cap commended. "We will assist in any arena necessary."

"What's to stop us from just sticking you among the countless other infantrymen?" Jon asked.

"We are no ordinary soldiers," Cap defended. "Many of us are…enhanced," he explained, for lack of a better word.

"Enhanced how?"

"It would probably be easier to show rather than tell you," Natasha told them. "You should take this outside, unless you want them to break everything in here." That intrigued them enough to lead the Avengers outside to an empty courtyard. They were intercepted by Samwell Tarly and the Avengers who'd left with him.

"Hey look, a party!" Tony shouted excitedly. "Why didn't you guys invite me?" The others immediately noticed the slight slurring of his words and completely out of character juvenility. Rhodes strode over to Peter and Tony and asked the former what happened.

"He's, um…high," Peter explained with a slight giggle.

"On what?" Rhodes looked at his friend more closely and noticed his pupils had been reduced to pinpoints.

"Milk of the poppy!" Tony answered eagerly.

"Opium," Peter clarified.

Rhodes laughed. "I knew he acted strangely when he's drunk, but this is something else."

"Boom! You looking for this?" Tony said, imitating Rhodes's favorite War Machine story.

"Yes. Actually, Tony, I've been looking for this my whole life."

"Where's Samwell? He said there were people I was 'sposed to talk to," Tony said. Samwell heard this comment and brought over a girl even younger than Peter, introducing her as Arya Stark. "She looks downright dangerous," Tony commented.

"Looks can be deceiving," she said snidely. Peter hid himself behind Tony, set on edge by this girl that looked like she could skin him with one stroke.

"Arya, this is Tony Stark," Samwell informed her.

"Stark?"

"The one and only."

"What are the words of House Stark?" she quizzed.

"Stark men are made of iron," Tony monotoned. His father probably never expected him to embody that as literally as he had.

"Winter is coming," she corrected.

"Look around, it's already here." Tony gestured to the snowfall beneath their feet.

"I'm afraid you're right," she said and strode off to God knows where.

Attention returned to the Avengers' commencing display of skills. However, the natives assumed this would include a swordfight and prepared arms for the newcomers. "I won't be needing that," Wanda remarked with a crooked smile when the tall blonde Brienne offered her a sword. "Actually, just throw it to me." The woman tossed the sword and the Scarlet Witch easily caught it. With her mind. The sword floated on a cloud of red energy halfway between the two women. The natives looked on in utter awe and disbelief.

"Where did you learn such magics?" Daenerys asked.

"HYDRA," Wanda answered curtly and unceremoniously dropped the sword to the snowy ground. T'Challa showed off next, suiting up with a subconscious trigger of his toothed necklace. He leapt easily to the top of the surrounding wall and back down, landing with impossible grace.

"He is like a shadowcat," Jon remarked.

"That's a much cooler name than Black Panther," Tony said. The display continued, and the natives grew ever more hopeful for their future as the Avengers proved worthy combatants. Thor's lightning in particular amazed them.

"Still think we're replaceable infantry?" Cap asked.

"No," Jon and Daenerys both said.

"Now, about that food and shelter we requested earlier," Banner said.

~0~

Winterfell proved to be very cozy, especially with all the people running about. The Avengers split up, each gravitating towards different groups. While everyone else ate, Tony took a nap and awoke afterwards almost entirely back to normal. He didn't seem to remember much of what he'd said or done after the stitching, though he complained about how much it itched now.

Peter Parker raved about the authenticity of the food, claiming it was like a renaissance festival. Thor considered it reminiscent of home, while the rest of the Avengers ate it simply because they needed the nourishment. Afterwards, they were outfitted in heavy winter cloaks to stave off the freezing cold of Winterfell. No longer did they look like gaudy superheroes, but like true northmen.

Chapter Text

"If we're going to participate in this, we're gonna need some weapons," Cap pointed out. Somehow, his temporary shield hadn't been transported from Wakanda along with him. His forearm felt naked without anything strapped to it.

"Our smiths have been working nonstop in the forges with dragonglass," Jon Snow informed them. "We should have plenty to arm you."

"Do you have any shields of dragonglass?"

"No. A shield is for defense; dragonglass is needed for the attack."

"I have an…unconventional fighting style," Cap tried, unsure how to explain this to people accustomed to traditional sword-and-shield.

"Trust me," T'Challa cut in, "Get this man a shield."

"Very well. Gendry should be able to see to you; you can find him in the forge."

Cap nodded his thanks and set off to find the forge, Sam trailing behind him. They found the forge with relative ease and asked for Gendry. A young, soot-covered man came out to meet them and Cap explained what he wanted.

"A shield edged with dragonglass?" Gendry confirmed. Cap and Sam both nodded. Gendry shrugged, "It'll be an interesting change of pace. I've made so many daggers I could make them in my sleep."

Cap and Sam followed him into the forge and watched as he expertly fashioned a sharp ridge of dragonglass around the perimeter of a Knight of the Vale's shield. They had no means of giving it a paintjob, but the white bird and crescent on blue wasn't all that different from Cap's classic red, white, and blue. Once it had cooled, Gendry handed it over and Cap graciously accepted. He hefted the shield and smiled; this reminded him of the first time he'd wielded the shield Howard Stark had fabricated for him. He looked at Sam, who grinned back at him.

"Welcome back, Captain America," he said.

"It'll have to be Captain Arryn for now," Cap corrected with a chuckle. He'd learned during the strategizing session that the knights with the blue shields came from a place called the Vale, home of House Arryn.

"Captain Arryn it is."

~0~

Stephen Strange futilely rubbed his hands together to warm them up in the frigid outside air. He'd stepped away from everyone else so he could think in relative quiet, but the only isolated location he could find was outside the walls of Winterfell. His aching hands did not approve of the temperature. Instead of trembling as they usually did, they gradually stiffened in the cold like hardening cement.

He shoved the pain to another part of his brain and refocused on the task at hand. For the past hour, he'd been trying to sling ring a portal that could lead him and his companions back to their own dimension. This was one of the first skills he'd ever learned as a sorcerer, and he thought he'd long ago mastered it. After the Ancient One dumped him on Mount Everest to force him into conjuring one, the task grew easier with every portal he created. He tried to utilize his uncomfortably cold surroundings to bring his mind back to that place, but it didn't work. The sparkling orange circle appeared, but instead of the desired location appearing within, he saw nothing but what was already in front of him. Apparently interdimensional sling ringing was simply impossible.

Conceding to defeat, he trudged back inside. He found a mixed group of natives and his companions seated around the fire and joined them. Strange grabbed a chair and dragged it as close to the fire as he dared. His very bones were made of ice after being outside for so long. Hopefully on the morrow the heat of battle would prevent him and all their troops from freezing to death.

"Why so dour?" the man next to him asked. "We haven't lost the war just yet." Strange managed a smile, but another jolt of pain up his wrists turned it into a grimace.

"Hey Doc, you okay?" Tony said cautiously.

"Fine. Just cold. I've been trying to conjure a portal out of here, but it hasn't worked. The closest I got was a glimpse of some woman in a tower drinking wine, but she was gone before I could step through."

"Cersei," Tyrion growled.

"I suppose so." He rubbed his hands together again to try and banish the chill. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the old man beside him staring. Strange looked at him—at the hand in his lap—and noticed the stubs of his right fingers. He sighed, regretting the excessive self pity when his situation could easily have been much worse.

"Any other ideas for how we might eventually get out of here?" Tony asked him.

Strange shook his head solemnly. "We were brought here by the power of all six Infinity Stones. It's possible it will take a comparable force to bring us back."

"You can worry about that when you're survivors of the Great War," Tyrion told them. "No use figuring out a way home if you're too dead to use it."

"He has a point," Bucky added.

"Indeed, he does. It's not in my nature to put off addressing a problem."

"Is it in your nature to drink?" Tyrion asked him.

"Not particularly."

"Well, it's never too late to change one's nature." Doctor Strange shrugged and accepted the cup offered to him. He took a cautious sip and conceded himself to an evening of company. Tyrion was right; a way home could wait until they were certain they'd be alive to use it.

~0~

Natasha Romanoff sequestered herself in the corner of the room, occasionally sipping from her cup which she'd filled with the closest thing to vodka she could find. It wasn't close enough. She'd thought the massive alien invasion would be the strangest thing to happen to her. And then they got portaled to another dimension. Just another day in the life.

She caught the eye of a young, dark-haired girl as she conversed with the tall redhead. The two resembled each other slightly; maybe they were sisters. In the shorter one, Natasha recognized the same fire that had been encoded in her by years of training in the Red Room. When she met eyes with the young girl, she traded glances with a fellow assassin. Natasha raised her eyebrows knowingly and strode outside, all the way into the snowy courtyard. The mess hall was getting too crowded for her taste.

Sure enough, she was soon joined by the young girl, who quickly introduced herself as Arya Stark of Winterfell. "And who are you?" she asked almost accusingly.

"Natasha Romanoff."

"I've never heard such a name."

"Well I'm not from around here."

"Clearly." Arya eyed the sleek black combat uniform beneath Natasha's cloak with what appeared to be jealousy. Nat knew they didn't have much in the way of women's fashion in this setting. It was either wear a dress or clothes made for a man. Her eyes fell on the thin sword sheathed at the girl's hip. She wore it comfortably, entirely used to its weight, and could probably draw it and slit someone's throat in a matter of seconds. Natasha decided, possibly against her better judgment, to test this theory.

Quick as a cobra, she lunged for Arya and attempted to knock her feet out from under her as she'd done countless times with much bigger foes. The girl easily sidestepped her, unsheathed the sword, and had it poised to plunge into the center of her chest before Nat could even register that she'd countered her attack. Nat reached for her sword hand to try and get her to drop it, but the girl intercepted her strike by snatching her wrist and holding it out of the way while she placed the sword against Natasha's throat. Nat swung right to avoid slicing herself open on the sword in front of her, simultaneously jerking her left arm to free it from Arya's grasp. She pivoted, once again aiming to disarm her opponent. Nat managed to get a grip on the girl's forearm, but she merely dropped the sword, caught it in her other hand, and thrust at Nat's abdomen. She stopped just short of piercing her suit.

"I'm impressed," Natasha remarked, stepping away in surrender. Arya sheathed the sword and smiled proudly. "Where did you learn to fight like that?"

"Braavos," the girl answered.

"I'd like to go there. Maybe they could teach me a few things."

"Maybe."

"Where did you get your sword?"

"My brother gave it to me. I call it Needle."

"I think that's a very fitting name." Arya smiled sheepishly.

"When I got back here, my brother asked me if I'd killed anybody with this blade yet."

"What's the answer?"

Arya looked at Natasha with an expression that didn't belong on such a young face. It was a face Natasha had seen in the mirror countless times, the face of one with more red on her ledger than she could ever hope to wipe out.

"We do what we have to do to get by in a man's world," Natasha said. The solemn look vanished from the girl's face and was replaced with a mirthful grin.

"I never was fit to be a lady."

"Being a lady is so overrated."

Their duel was interrupted when Steve's voice called Natasha from around the corner: "Hey Nat! Come have a look at this!" Arya trailed the spy as she followed the sound of Cap's shouting to the forge. He showed off his new shield, outfitted with a razor sharp dragonglass edge.

"He's Captain Arryn now," Sam informed her. "That's their house's sigil." She took in the white bird and crescent and nodded approvingly. The three of them drifted back towards the mess hall where they'd eaten while Arya and Gendry slipped away somewhere.

"Having fun?" Cap asked, noticing the sweat on her brow.

"You could say so," she replied vaguely.

"Did you lose?" He knew her too well to ignore her poorly-concealed disappointment.

She nodded. "Handedly."

"Don't feel bad. We have no idea what kind of training regimen these people are put through. And it's also possible there's more magic involved."

"She said she trained in Braavos."

"That's certainly helpful information for people who don't know anything about the geography of this place," Sam snarked.

"I don't think she was trying to be helpful."

~0~

Bucky felt himself being eyed by a blonde man from across the room for the duration of dinner. Every time he looked up, though, the man averted his gaze. He was curious as to what this guy found interesting about him, so he approached him after the meal concluded. What he hadn't noticed earlier was the color and stiffness of the man's right hand. It was made of gold.

"Hello," Bucky greeted. "Uh…I'm Bucky. Bucky Barnes."

"Jaime Lannister," the man reciprocated. He offered a handshake, but whether that was for sheer formality or to show off the reason for his interest in the metal arm Bucky didn't know. Regardless, Bucky accepted. The hand felt heavy in his grip; he'd hate to have to lug that around on the end of his forearm all day long.

"Nice hand," Bucky remarked.

"Not quite so nice as yours. What kind of enchantment allows it to move normally?"

"It's not enchanted. It's mechanical," he explained. Bucky himself had minimal knowledge of how the arm worked. This one had been designed and constructed for him by Shuri in Wakanda, the previous by HYDRA.

"Mechanical?"

"I'm assuming you don't have much in the way of machines around here."

"Not exactly."

"How did you lose it?" Bucky asked.

"It was chopped off by a man called Locke. You?"

"I fell off a train and into a ravine."

"Oh." Bucky had no idea how much of that explanation Jaime even understood, but he didn't ask for clarification. Bucky would probably make it worse by trying to explain further. "Would you like a drink?" Jaime offered.

"Absolutely."

~0~

Bran discovered rather shortly after the arrival of the strangers that his warging powers transcended to their personal histories. Without even trying, he was awarded brief glimpses of the events that had shaped their lives. They came to him in such quick succession he had no hope of piecing them together or even deciphering which memories belonged to whom.

After the evening meal, when everyone had spread out, Bran was able to focus on the memories of one stranger at a time. He began with the strong bearded one who had initially offered their help. Bran's eyes turned milk white as he peered into the man's past. He couldn't see linearly, only flashes of important moments, but it was enough to get a sense of his motivations.

An icy ocean approached, and a bone deep cold permeated his every sense. A scrawny boy in a dark alley, bruised and bloody yet unafraid. A man plummeted into a snowy ravine. Music played, and brightly dressed girls danced. Someone in a dark mask caught a flying metal circle with one hand. That same circle plunged downwards as he drove it into a round blue light, extinguishing it.

Bran awoke from that trancelike state and switched his attention to another of the new arrivals. Throughout the evening, he visited each and every one of them. If anyone asked why he continued to warg, he could claim he was searching their memories for any trace of Cersei or another enemy. In reality, he was just curious.

A young girl held up her middle finger and smirked mischievously. An explosion rocked a tall building, and a black-skinned man on the floor in front of him stopped breathing. A hoard of monsters poured through a clear barrier and attacked. He was tossed over a waterfall by a man covered in scars. A beautiful sunset graced the horizon.

He plunged an axe into the chest of the large purple man. He picked up a snake, but suddenly it was a young, raven-haired boy with a knife. A warhammer shattered in the grip of a woman with a helm of black horns. The same hammer buried in the ground, and he was unable to lift it. His entire body ached ferociously as he fought to hold a gate open. A white-haired man with an eyepatch faded into nothingness.

He soared through the air and was struck with something from behind. His flight turned into a plummet and he hit the ground hard. Attempts to move his legs failed. Bran recognized the feeling, the terrifying lack of sensation, though he knew that this man currently walked inside his metal suit. Impossible.

He handed over a shining green stone to the purple man Bran was beginning to recognize as the 'Thanos' the newcomers mentioned. A bald woman in yellow robes. Then the same series of events repeated themselves over and over with slight variations. Suddenly, he was moving—no, falling—at incredible speed, glass shattering around him, and he flipped over several times. Everything hurt. Shockingly bright lights shone behind him as he meticulously maneuvered the thin tools in his hands. A giant undulating face hovered in space before him, and the only thought to run through his head was, "I've come to bargain." White bandages were removed from his hands, revealing a gnarled mess of scar tissue and weak, trembling fingers.

A woman with a green face and red hair stared back at him. A bald woman closed her eyes while a piercing beep sounded in the background. He glared in hatred at Thanos while several other people restrained him. An orb revealed a glowing purple stone within itself.

An all-consuming desire to protect his world at all costs, and devastation at his own failure to do so. A heavy suit of armor encased him as he flew through the sky like a raven. He looked in the mirror at his veins turning black and felt ill with the poison filling him from the inside out. A familiar face stood above him and ripped something crucial from his chest, which tightened until he thought he'd never breathe again. "You could've saved us," a voice whimpered. A dark cave, and agonizing pain ripped through every fiber of his being. Something sharp was digging around inside his chest. A man with an eye patch and dark coat relentlessly pursued him. He saw the boy, the one with spiderlike powers, and he was smiling. They both were. A black device in front of him, bearing the name Stark, exploded in a violent flash of light and heat. He flew upwards into a hole of blackness and cold, with no hope that he'd ever return to the world he knew, but then he was flying again—not flying, falling. A pretty woman with red hair nervously plunged her hand into his chest, yet he felt no fear, only love and warmth. Searing desert heat, exhaustion, and thirst. A fight, against those he considered his friends, his teammates. His home was destroyed, and all he could think of was protecting the woman from the blast. But then she was in danger again and people were exploding and he almost couldn't save her. Watching on a small screen as a man he knew murdered his parents. More fighting, and losing. There was another battle somewhere unfamiliar, against the purple Thanos, and the burning desire to shield his world and the spider boy consumed him. But again he was unsuccessful.

Bran emerged from the last one shuddering and gasping for air. Overlaying the entire sequence had been an unshakeable feeling of failure and self-loathing. This man who bore Bran's own family name had endured unimaginable pain and hardship. Bran recognized the man's suffering as worse than his own, even though he was the boy who'd fallen from a tower and lost his legs, his father, his wolf, and Hodor. Bran looked at this man in a new light.

~0~

Rocket singled out who he thought would be the greatest partiers. He found them reveling with a large man with thick red hair and beard. "This must be the talking animal I've heard rumors about!" he exclaimed, nearly spilling his horn of ale in his excitement.

"Let's hunt him for sport!" one of the wildlings suggested.

"No, let's definitely not do that," Rocket said.

"I am Groot!" he defended.

"Either I have had too much to drink, or the tree also speaks!"

"I am Groot."

"Well, he's a man of few words. But still more words than I've ever heard from a tree! Maybe we should take him to the godswood, see if we can get any of those old faces to open up their mouths instead of just crying sap." A chorus of guffaws erupted after his joke.

"I am Groot," he muttered secretly to Rocket, who snickered. He turned his gaze to the others in the room and landed on Bucky, standing with the blonde man with a hand made of gold. He tapped Groot on the shoulder and pointed to the person in question.

"I am so getting that hand."

~0~

Drax and Nebula wanted to be outfitted with these weapons of dragonglass that the natives insisted were crucial to victory. Once they'd obtained them, the spent the evening practicing to get used to the weight and feel of them. Seasoned warriors the both of them, they wanted to be as well-prepared for the coming battle as possible.

Quill sat with Mantis and watched them work, wondering why exactly they'd promised their help to these strangers. They should be expending all their energy to find a way back to their own dimension so they could finish the fight they started. They couldn't let Thanos wreak havoc on their universe while they fought in somebody else's war. What would happen if some—or all—of them died? These people wouldn't care! To them, they were just bodies to throw at their enemies.

"You don't want to fight?" Mantis asked him quietly. Only then did Quill realize she'd had a hand on his arm for the past ten minutes, soaking up all of his thoughts.

"I'm having second thoughts," he admitted.

"Nonsense," Drax cut in. "You have had many more than two thoughts."

Quill ignored him. "We don't stand to win anything."

"No, but everyone else here does," Mantis mentioned.

"If we help them win," Nebula explained. "Our chances of them helping us get home are exponentially increased."

"Even if they want to help us get home, do you think they'll be able to?"

"Maybe. And that's enough for me." With that remark, Nebula chopped the head off a straw dummy. Quill sighed. There really was no getting out of this.

Then the horn sounded, and Quill reluctantly braced himself for battle.

~0~

Tony Stark naturally drifted towards the smartest people in a group. That was why he got along so well with his fellow Avenger Bruce Banner. Peter Parker pretty much went wherever Tony did, and that was how they found themselves seated in a circle before the fire with Tyrion Lannister, the grizzled old Ser Davos Seaworth, Brienne of Tarth, and Podrick Payne.

"When we appeared here, you kept asking if Cersei sent us," Tony said to Brienne. "Who is that?"

"Cersei is a vile woman," Tyrion began, cutting off any explanation Brienne could offer. "She is stubbornly single-minded, ruthless, and the epitome of low cunning."

"Yikes. You sound like you're no fan of hers. Is that because of an inter-house feud you've got going on or something?" Tony asked. To his knowledge, inter-house feuds drove almost every conflict in this type of setting. Arriving here to learn the current war was against a zombie hoard had been an unwelcome surprise.

"No. We are of the same house. Cersei Lannister is my elder sister."

"Ahh, sibling rivalry. That's even worse! What did she do, steal all your toys as kids? Get mom and dad to play favorites?"

"She told me on every possible occasion that I was a disgrace and she wished I'd died at birth."

"I'm sorry," Peter said. Leave it to the kid to feel guilty for something he'd had absolutely no part in.

"Where is she now?" Tony inquired.

"On the Iron Throne," Tyrion growled.

"Which is…what exactly?"

"The ruling seat of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Whoever sits the Iron Throne has absolute power over the continent, from Dorne in the south to the Wall in the north."

"What's the Wall?" Peter asked. "It sounds important."

"Aye, it is!" came the booming voice of Tormund Giantsbane, who marched into the room and took the empty seat next to Tony. "The Wall is seven hundred feet tall, as long as this continent, and heavily enchanted. It keeps the wildlings and the White Walkers out—at least it used to. First Jon Snow let all the wildlings through, then the Night King let all the White Walkers through!"

"How did he do that if it's so huge and magical?"

"He broke through it at Eastwatch-by-the-sea with the fire of his undead dragon. Beric and I were there to see it happen. Barely escaped with our lives, we did. Har!" Tormund took another huge swig from his horn of ale and wiped his beard with the back of his arm.

Tony redirected the conversation back to his intended line of inquiry. "If Cersei is the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, does she know about the threat from the Night King?"

"She knows all right," Tyrion grumbled aggressively. "But does she care? No. She intends to let the undead weaken us so we will not be able to oust her.

"What if the undead win and go for her next?"

"We warned her of that very eventuality, yet my brother insists that her promise of aid was a lie. If the undead win, I hope they tear her apart slowly."

Peter and Tony both cringed at the pure hatred emanating from the man. However, his glowering was interrupted by the hasty arrival of Bucky Barnes accompanied by the golden-handed man. They rushed in and slammed the door closed behind them, bracing it shut with their outstretched arms. Peter heard and felt Tony inch his chair closer to him, away from the Winter Soldier. Evidently he hadn't completely recovered from the revelations in Siberia.

"Why are you in such a hurry?" Brienne questioned.

"That little dog thing is after us," Jaime explained breathlessly. "Shouting something about stealing my hand." Tyrion and Tony both suppressed chuckles.

"He wanted my arm back in Wakanda," Bucky added. "I guess he just has a thing for fake hands. The two sat down to join the circle, and mere seconds later Peter noticed Rocket sneak in and silently weasel his way behind Jaime's chair. While Jaime stared almost longingly at Brienne, Rocket, with pickpocket's fingers, set to work releasing the golden hand from his forearm. The arm lay relaxed by the knight's side as they listened to Bucky retell his summary of the Battle of Wakanda. The raccoon succeeded and ran off with the hand, but Jaime noticed the absence of the weight and moved to chase after him.

"It's just for decoration," Bucky reminded him. "If the hand doesn't do anything, what's even the point of wearing it?"

"He's just ashamed," Tyrion interrupted, "Ashamed that he's joined me in the ranks of misshapen Lannisters. Father would be so pleased."

"Don't you dare mention Father," Jaime hissed. The two glared menacingly at each other for a few moments before backing down. Tony sensed some very strong emotions related to their father, and he doubted it was very good for morale if they unearthed this old conflict.

"Why a hand of gold anyway?" Bucky asked. "Isn't that heavy?" Jaime shrugged.

Podrick Payne, from his seat next to Brienne, briefly broke into song. "For hands of gold are always cold, but a woman's hands are warm." The last note hung in the air like a fine mist. The boy had a wonderful voice, not one Tony would expect to come from his mouth.

"I find a woman's hands to be frigid most o' the time," Tormund said. "But the free folk are used to the cold. Here in the south, it's downright toasty."

"I thought Winterfell was in the North," Peter said confusedly.

"To the free folk, everything south of the Wall is the south. And you lot are wee southerners." Peter tried not to laugh at the man's use of the word 'wee.' Soon after that, they were joined by yet another of their companions, Doctor Strange. He shuffled in shivering and pulled up a chair next to Davos Seaworth. After a brief discussion of his attempts at finding a way home, Tony once again brought the conversation back to Cersei.

"So, this sister of yours sits on the Iron Throne, and that makes her in charge?" he clarified.

"Yes," Tyrion said, exasperated at having to repeat himself.

"But nobody except Cersei really wants Cersei to be in charge."

"Correct."

"You also seem to have almost the entire population of the continent up here in your obsidian snow fortress."

"I fail to see where you are going with this line of questioning."

"Why don't you just relocate the seat of power? If nobody likes the person on the Iron Throne, then don't follow it." An audible gasp erupted from the natives as Tony's proposition sank in. They grumbled amongst themselves, but nobody outright attacked as Tony feared they might. Redefining the political structure of a nation never went well.

"The Iron Throne was forged with the fiery breath of Balerion the Black Dread, the dragon of Aegon the Conquerer, who first united the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros."

"And Iron Man was created in a cave in the desert from my sorry ass and some scraps provided by terrorists to make weapons of mass destruction. You take what you have and you work with it until you're happy, that's the way the world works. So instead of marching off to a second war after this one inevitably decimates your forces, just let Cersei sit on her fancy chair and go about your business without her."

Tony left the entire room in shocked silence. The natives because they'd never once considered such a way of life, and the Avengers because they had no idea Tony Stark could get so riled up over the way a bunch of strangers chose to live their lives.

"Try telling that to Queen Daenerys," Ser Davos mumbled. "She wants that throne more than anything."

"I'll make her a better one," Tony vowed with a smirk. Then the horn sounded from outside, a long resonating howl. The Night King had come.

~0~

As everyone in the room sprang into action, Tony asked the question they all ought to have thought more about: "Where are you keeping your non-combatants?"

"In the crypts," Tyrion answered. "It's the safest place in Winterfell."

"Wait just a minute—the safest place during a battle against an enemy who can reanimate the dead into hostile zombies is an underground catacomb full of dead bodies? Who's imbecilic idea was that?!"

Tyrion paused for a microsecond, but recovered to defend himself, "It's the only place the existing undead can't get into. I know it's not a great option, but it's the lesser of many, many evils."

Tony reluctantly accepted this and turned to Peter. "You're going down there," he demanded.

"What? No Mr. Stark, I can fight!" Peter insisted.

"No. I wanted you home safe, but you stowed away on that flying donut and left me no choice. Now I have another choice, and I choose to put you where you'll be safest. Even if that happens to be among zombies-to-be, I'll take what I can get."

"No." Peter stood his ground, refusing to hide underground when he could help these people and save some of them from dying. "If anyone should go down there, it's you. You're injured, and the nanotech suit is busted. How much help could you even be on the battlefield right now?"

Peter regretted that last part as soon as it left his mouth. Tony outright growled at him and Peter shrank away in fear of the imminent verbal backlash. He was saved by an unlikely knight, not in shining armor, but in a sentient red cloak.

"Stark, the kid's right," Doctor Strange said.

"So now you're ganging up on me?" Peter had never heard Mr. Stark sound so offended.

"Hey, now is not the time for bickering!" Rhodes cut in. "Stark, get your ass down in those crypts and use that brain of yours to protect the people in there with you. Spiderkid, go web up some zombies and try not to get killed." Neither of them could argue with such a convincing tone, and both were too afraid to disagree with the War Machine.

Tony turned around and wrapped Peter in his arms in a very impromptu hug. "The next time I see you better not be as a zombie," he whispered into his ear.

"It won't be," Peter promised. With that, Tony followed the flow of children, elderly, and women down into the crypts and Peter joined the armies amassing on the north side of Winterfell.

Chapter Text

A mighty force they were. Row upon row of mounted Dothraki stood, ready to charge at any moment. The breath of hundreds of horses puffed like miniature steam engines in the still, frigid air. Ranks of Unsullied warriors with their signature helmets and spears stood at attention. Northmen, wildlings, Knights of the Vale, and a few scattered knights like Brienne and Jaime bolstered their numbers to staggering. And to top it all off: the Avengers.

The Guardians huddled in a tight pack just behind Tormund Giantsbane, armed to the teeth with as many dragonglass weapons as they could carry. Drax, despite lack of a personal thirst for revenge, looked ready to rip the Night King in half with his bare hands, and Nebula wasn't far behind. Rocket was just eager to let loose and kill, and Quill just wanted this over with as soon as possible so they could go home.

The Falcon deployed his wings and War Machine, the only one who'd managed to hold onto his Iron suit through the portal here, prepared for takeoff. T'Challa's mask slipped seamlessly into place and his claws unsheathed with a wet 'shlick.' Natasha slipped two dragonglass daggers from the belt she'd stocked full of them, twirling one effortlessly before letting it fall into her natural grip. Peter's Iron Spider mask deployed, and his eyes narrowed menacingly.

On a nearby hill, Drogon roared as Daenerys climbed upon his back. The sound echoed across the battlefield, both burgeoning their courage and daring their enemy to attack. Rhaegal anxiously clawed at the snow beneath his feet. His green, scaly tail lashed back and forth, flinging snow. Ghost howled a long, chilling wail, his red eyes gleaming.

Doctor Strange closed his eyes and inhaled a calming breath. With a simple 'boom, boom, whoosh,' his quavering fists gained intricate orange energy shields. Beside him, Wanda's fingers danced with bright red light. Thor shifted his grip on Stormbreaker and the sky crackled ominously. Finally, the newly christened Captain Arryn strapped on his dragonglass-edged shield and strongly resisted the urge to shout 'Avengers assemble."

Despite their experience in world-defining battles, the Avengers visibly shrank as the true scope of their enemy was revealed. The first undead became visible as they marched inevitably southward, an endless line of soldiers stretching all the way across the horizon. Their enemies shuffled onward one step at a time, each second unveiling yet another cohort behind the previous. Their numbers even included a few giants, three times as tall as their comrades. The zombies advanced and multiplied like a bacteria growing entirely unchecked. Looking at the approaching hoard was like looking through a kaleidoscope, the image stretching infinitely into the distance on all sides.

The red sorceress Melisandre murmured some words over the curved sword of a Dothraki soldier, and one by one they all erupted in flames. The field became a massive candelabra. The Dothraki raised their burning blades above their heads and charged. Hooves kicked up powdery snow as they ran into the ranks of undead. The rest of the force watched with bated breath as one by one, the flaming swords were extinguished. In no time at all pure darkness replaced what had once been a plethora of fiery beacons.

A few scattered survivors sprinted back to the pack in a mad panic. After witnessing that slaughter, the Avengers understood just how dangerous these undead enemies were. As the wights drew ever closer, someone barked the order to begin firing. The catapults were loaded and their charges ignited. A brief countdown, and then great balls of fire arced across the sky and landed among the enemy. The payloads took down many of the undead, but for every one that fell in the flames, ten more poured over the horizon.

Along with continued catapult fire, the two dragons flew overhead and incinerated row after row of zombies. None of the Avengers, except maybe Thor, had ever seen something so magnificent. The massive columns of flame illuminated the faces of the dragons in the darkness. Then, a third shadow appeared in the sky: the ice dragon Viserion. His attack forced Jon and Daenerys to focus on defending themselves instead of attacking the approaching army, so the rest of the ground forces regrouped, and charged.

The massive army surged forward, closing the distance between the living and the dead in mere seconds. The two forces clashed and the air around them echoed with the clang of dragonglass on steel.

Nebula and Drax dove from wight to wight, stabbing and slashing with deadly precision. The pile of bodies around them grew progressively larger as more zombies dared attack them. Quill hovered around them, slowing down the undead approaching them with his blaster. The bolts weren't lethal to the creatures, but they did weaken or disable them, allowing his companions to more quickly dispatch them.

Rocket kept close on Tormund Giantsbane's tail, darting around on all fours and taking wights' legs off with swift swipes of a dragonglass knife. He much preferred guns or other projectile weaponry, but there was no such thing as a dragonglass bullet, so he made do. The wildling howled a battle cry and swung at anything that came within striking distance.

Natasha danced around like a spider in its own web, the undead mere insects tangled in its sticky strands. She was almost impossible to track, weaving through endless reams of wights with the grace of a ballerina. The enemy barely had a chance to slash at her.

T'Challa found himself fighting beside a tall, beefy man with severe burn scars on half of his face. While the former fought tooth and nail, the latter used a large sword. T'Challa allowed several of the undead to strike him, storing up the energy in his suit as Shuri had taught him to. Once he'd turned almost entirely from black to purple, he dove away from his fellow soldiers and into the midst of the enemy forces. He released the pent-up energy in a supernova of purple light, throwing all the undead in his vicinity backwards and ripping their bones apart.

In an open field, Spiderman lost the advantage of swinging over people. Fortunately, his Iron Spider suit came equipped with more tools for ground combat. He activated instant kill mode, and mechanical legs sprang from his back and instinctively found zombies to impale. He stayed in close proximity to a large group of Unsullied, webbing up the undead in front of them. The eastern soldiers could then easily stab the trapped wights.

Flashes of flame periodically lit up the sky as the dragons' ongoing aerial battle continued. Visibility in the dark of the predawn was minimal, so all the fighters were thankful for the occasional light. To make matters worse, it began to snow heavily. Whether this was natural winter weather or a magical storm summoned by the Night King they didn't know, but it obscured their vision to the point where they couldn't make out anything more than blurred shapes.

Rhodes and Falcon soared above the battlefield, out of reach of the wights' weapons. Rhodes released a payload of bombs over a patch of undead, smiling to himself as the blast ignited their torn clothing and incinerated them. Falcon repeatedly dove downwards to slice open zombie heads before returning to the skies. Back in Winterfell, they watched one of the towers go up in blue flames as Viserion breathed destruction. Rhodes changed his trajectory and headed off towards the ice dragon, leaving Falcon in charge of the aerial arena.

They'd been told that only fire or dragonglass could kill these creatures, but the native Westerosi had never encountered a being like Wanda Maximoff before. A luminous red aura of power surrounded her entire form as she tore wights to pieces. One second they were marching towards her, then a flash of red light, and their legs landed thirty feet away from their torsos.

Cap fought with his usual fervor, slinging his newly-equipped shield at any enemy unfortunate enough to step close. He threw it with such force that it sailed through three wights stacked in front of him, and they collapsed bonelessly to the ground. He dashed to retrieve the shield and punched the zombie that dared to get in his way. The impact knocked the creature's skull right off its spine. He picked up the shield and immediately used it to block the strike of an undead sword. He knocked the wight's legs out from under it and thrust the black edge of the shield into its chest. The creature instantly stilled and its blue eyes went dark.

On the opposite side of the battlefield, the undead had to contend with Doctor Strange. With the Cloak of Levitation, he hovered above the heads and out of range of the undead. Though he normally fought with complex illusions, he resorted to more down-to-earth methods. When the foe was a mindless reanimated corpse, there was no need for dramatic flair.

Thor swung his axe above his head and brought it down on the skull of a blue-eyed skeleton with barely any flesh left on it, cleaving the thing in half all the way through to its pelvis. Another wave of undead stumbled towards him, and he threw Stormbreaker. The axe spun as it flew, chopping through a dozen of the enemy before flying back to the Asgardian's outstretched hand. Lightning strikes proved just as effective, if not more, than fire when it came to defeating zombies. Thor unleashed a mighty howl and raised his battleaxe, which became a lightning rod for a massive bolt that distributed the charge among every wight in his vicinity. The smell of electrified flesh wafted through the fields.

~0~

For the first time in centuries, dragons battled in the skies. Drogon and Rhaegal wove through the air at Daenerys and Jon's commands, avoiding the jaws and claws of their brother Viserion. Drogon spewed a great jet of flame at Viserion, but the other dragon snaked out of the way just in time. Rhaegal flew up from underneath the ice dragon's hind legs, aiming to scratch at his vulnerable underbelly, but Viserion kicked out and nearly bashed him across the snout.

Daenerys steered Drogon to fly at Viserion head on, but both dragons banked upwards just before impact, their hind claws raking down their opponent's abdomen. Drogon's long neck stretched outwards and he bit down on the hard scales of Viserion's neck. The ice dragon flailed and freed himself from Drogon's jaws. He dove and sped out of the way of both dragons, aiming straight for Winterfell.

"Keep him away from the ground!" Jon shouted, his voice barely audible above the howling winds and flap of the dragons' massive wings. Daenerys spurred Drogon onward, but before she could intercept Viserion he'd unleashed a column of icy blue flame at one of the towers. He turned sharply and breathed again on a swath of their soldiers. Men collapsed screaming as they burned alive.

Through the swirling snow, Daenerys caught sight of a dark grey figure flying over the ground. He disappeared under Viserion, and then a beam of light struck the ice dragon from underneath. One of the newcomers was helping them drive the Night King and his mount back into the sky.

Rhodes aimed his repulsors at the dragon once again and fired. He couldn't do much damage to the thick scales, but his attack distracted the dragon enough for the other two to dive in closer. All three beasts shot towards the sky once again, elegantly weaving around each other. The black and the blue met in the air once again, viciously lashing out with teeth and claws.

The ice dragon broke off from Drogon and charged Rhaegal. This time, he ripped a chunk of flesh from the green dragon's left wing. The beast roared in pain and Jon barely managed to stay on as his flight jarred unsteadily. He launched fire once again, but Viserion danced easily out of reach of the inferno.

Drogon charged him once again, but Viserion twisted away and slashed the black dragon across the flank with a massive hind claw. Rhaegal dove in and managed a quick bite to his hindquarters, but the ice dragon barely noticed the wound. He shot skywards again, and the other two were forced to follow. Soon, they were above the thin clouds. The moon shone bright and full, the dragons silhouetted before its white light.

Viserion and Rhaegal clashed again, and the ice dragon's foreclaw snagged in the existing hole in Rhaegal's wing. The ensuing shriek left Jon's ears ringing. With Rhaegal distracted from the pain, Viserion tore a massive gash in the softer skin of his underside. Black blood streamed from the cut, falling to earth like heavy rain. Jon knew Rhaegal couldn't continue much longer in this state, so he ducked beneath the clouds, leaving Daenerys to continue the duel alone.

~0~

Tony had never considered himself claustrophobic, but being underground in a crypt with a bunch of strangers and the entombed dead bodies of his sort-of-relatives set his nerves on edge. Or maybe it was just the fact that almost everyone he loved was currently facing off against a seemingly unbeatable army of the dead. He should have tried harder to convince Peter to come down here instead of charging into battle. But even if he had, nothing would've stopped the kid from joining his comrades in this fight, no matter how dangerous.

At least Bruce was here to keep Tony company. He hadn't been able to Hulk out since he crashed to Earth in the New York Sanctum. Since the Hulkbuster armor hadn't been transported with him after the Snap, he wouldn't be much help on the front lines. Apparently neither would Tony, a fact which upset him more than it had any right to. Yet the more he thought about how much he wanted to be helping in the fight, the more the wound in his side throbbed. That milk of the poppy had most definitely worn off by now. His being here was probably for the best; out there, he'd be more of a liability than an asset.

Tony and Bruce sat side by side, knees tucked up against their chests due to the lack of legroom. Across from them sat Tyrion Lannister and the tall redheaded girl. "You're the one they call Stark?" she asked, eyeing Tony disdainfully.

"Yes."

"Hmm," she tutted. "You don't look like a Stark."

Tony looked to Bruce, wondering exactly how he should respond to a comment like that. The scientist only shrugged. Tony decided to spring for humor. "Don't ever let my father hear you say that; he was obsessed with the whole legacy thing."

"Maybe don't talk about fathers," Tyrion warned him.

"I suppose daddy issues aren't as uncommon as my inner demons try to convince me they are."

"You've no monopoly on 'daddy issues,' as you call them." Tony and Bruce sensed the darkening tone of the dwarf's voice. They were not going to let that fester without further explanation.

"Spill," Tony demanded. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared Tyrion down until he started talking.

"My father was also obsessed with legacy. And from day one, I tarnished his. What self-respecting man would father a dwarf?"

Bruce considered interrupting to mention how politically incorrect that was, but then he remembered that these people had absolutely no understanding of genetics or the conditions caused by them. Dwarfism was probably seen as a curse from the gods.

Tyrion continued, "Long story short, our relationship ended when he slept with my lover. I shot him with a crossbow, murdered him while he was taking a shit." Tony and Bruce both fought to contain their laughter at such a ridiculous image. They failed, but Tyrion started to crack up too, and they collectively lost their cool. Tony laughed so hard he thought the fresh stitches in his side would pop open. However, their reveling was cut short by a threatening rumble from the ceiling. The whole chamber shook with the force of whatever was going on at the surface.

Tony and Bruce tried not to imagine any details of the fight or wonder if any of their comrades had already fallen. Zombies couldn't be worse than aliens or all-powerful purple Titans, could they? Tony certainly hoped not.

~0~

Rhaegal's flight grew increasingly irregular and he stopped listening to Jon's steering commands. Instead of away from the heat of battle, the dragon soared closer. Jon could sense the imminent crash and decided it would be safer to jump ship now. He tumbled off the side of the dragon and landed in a heavy snowdrift while Rhaegal continued onwards without him. The sounds of battle resounded all around Winterfell: the clash of weapons, booted footsteps dashing to and fro, and the shouts of the injured.

None of Jon's fellow soldiers saw him land, and he was temporarily alone but for a few scattered corpses and meandering undead. Unsheathing Longclaw, he tore his way through the wights around him and let their bodies join those already on the ground. He lost track of how many he killed, mesmerized by the scope of the carnage around him. The towers of Winterfell burned in blue, the work of Viserion. Jon himself had just fought on the back of a dragon, something he'd never imagined he'd ever do, and Dany remained in the sky, now one-on-one with the Night King and Drogon's undead brother.

"Winter is here," he thought.

~0~

After watching her child fall, Daenerys's rage grew. She urged Drogon to lunge at Viserion with renewed fury. Massive jaws full of dagger-like teeth snapped at each other. The two dragons entangled themselves in each other's grip and continued to bite and claw. They temporarily plummeted downwards. Once they dropped beneath the clouds again, the dragons disengaged to avoid crashing. Daenerys flew Drogon a ways away to regroup, and the Night King did the same. They turned back towards each other and hovered briefly like rivaling knights at a joust.

The two dragons charged, powerful wings pushing them towards each other at impossible speed. Daenerys felt Drogon's chest heat up beneath her and watched Viserion's throat glow blue. Two gaping mouths opened and two jets of flame erupted towards each other. They collided in the middle, orange and blue flame combining to bathe the battlefield below in stunning purple light.

Daenerys edged downwards to avoid crashing into Viserion, and the Night King veered upwards. With a growl, Drogon charged again and ripped a long tear in the ice dragon's wing. However, the wound was reciprocated; the other's dragon's teeth found a hold deep in the black beast's shoulder. Both dragons headed for the ground screaming. Viserion landed first. The Night King dismounted while his dragon scampered off after another target.

Drogon touched down with one last flap of his great black wings. Daenerys remained on his back and fixed the Night King with a glare of pure, unfiltered loathing. He stood there defiantly, as if daring her to attack him. He stood alone, without any of his fellow White Walkers or undead wights to defend him. Daenerys knew she sat atop the perfect weapon for defeating him. "Dracarys," she called valiantly. Drogon tipped his head back and spat a scalding tongue of flame at their adversary. The blaze continued for a small eternity and Daenerys couldn't help but grin in satisfaction. When Drogon's flame finally extinguished, she was shocked to find the Night King standing there completely unscathed. Fire was supposed to kill these creatures, but whatever magics coursed through him made him as immune to dragonfire as Daenerys herself.

Then he smiled, and Daenerys panicked.

~0~

The defenders of Winterfell held their own for a while, but their army was comprised of mostly mortal men and women. And mortals grew tired. The undead, on the other hand, continued their assault even with grievous wounds, their strength never wavering. For every wight that fell in combat, another three moved in to take its place. It became impossible to move a single step on the field without stepping on a corpse.

The aerial dragon battle concluded in a screeching roar, and the two remaining beasts alit on the snowy ground near Winterfell. Viserion set off towards the keep and used his white-hot breath to torch a few more towers. Archers on the walls ran screaming in panic as their station burned beneath their feet. Some even dove off the side, hoping the snow would be thick enough for a safe landing.

Spiderman heard their cries and tore his way through more undead to reach the keep. He tossed webbing at some of the smaller fires to smother them and caught some fleeing archers before they plummeted to their deaths. A few scattered wights had breached the defenses and wandered around Winterfell looking for targets. Peter leapt up to a rooftop and immobilized them with more webs. He turned a corner and discovered that one of the giants had found its way inside. His mouth fell agape behind the mask as he comprehended the sheer scale of the creature. It had its tiny eyes fixed on a target at its feet. Peter looked down and saw a little girl even younger than himself glaring back up at the giant with pure venom in her eyes. Not a trace of fear showed itself on her face.

The giant crouched and extended a massive hand, wrapping its thick fingers around the girl's tiny body. It stood again and eyed its prize with satisfaction. Peter watched him tighten his grip, squeezing the girl to death, and immediately leaped into action. Just as he'd done with the giant Ant Man at the airport in Germany, he shot a web at the giant and swung around his knees repeatedly, binding his legs together. Frightened of this new sensation, the giant released the girl and she started to fall the fifteen feet back to the hard ground below. Peter let go of his web rope with one hand, and the force of suddenly swinging so fast on his left shoulder alone nearly pulled his arm out of its socket. With a grunt, he fired a web at the falling girl and drew her in towards himself. Her added weight put even more strain on his left arm, and he was forced to let go of the web with a howl.

He fell, but before he hit the ground the suit deployed its legs, creating a roll cage around him and the girl clutched in his arms. Once they rolled to a stop, he looked back to the giant and saw he'd managed to wrap multiple layers before releasing the webbing. Out of the blue, the Falcon flew in and smashed into the giant's head. The massive creature lost its balance and crashed to earth with a resounding thump. The girl beside him screamed a vengeful cry and ran at the fallen giant with a dragonglass dagger clutched in her hand. She plunged the blade into the monster's eye and it roared in agony. She twisted it, and the giant stopped struggling, the blue of its eyes extinguished to gray.

Peter stared in awe at her grizzly handiwork. She turned around and gave him a small smile, seemingly proud of what she'd just accomplished. He reminded himself to mention her if Mr. Stark ever said he was too young for a particular battle. The thought of Mr. Stark reminded him of the crypts, and he looked intently at the ground, hoping that those hidden beneath it remained out of harm's way.

~0~

The sounds of raging battle continued above their heads, and Bruce tapped his foot rhythmically against the stone floor. Anyone nearby could tell that there was something on his mind.

Tony knew what he would do before he announced his intentions, so he warned him not to go. "Bruce, don't."

"I have to try! If anything can bring the Other Guy out, it's a massive hoard of magical undead endangering my friends."

"And what if it doesn't?"

"Then I'll just come back here."

Tony frowned at him. They both knew that wouldn't be possible. Once he left, he couldn't sneak back in without risking letting in something else—something dangerous. They both understood that Bruce would either turn green or die. Bruce prayed he would turn green.

"Sun's getting real low," Tony whispered in a last-ditch effort to convince his friend to stay and not leave him here alone with his not-cousin and a patricidal maniac.

"It's not even dawn yet," Bruce shot back, and he left. Tony didn't know if that was a metaphor or just a statement of fact. Knowing Banner, it was probably an obscure metaphor, but Tony didn't have the mental capacity to think it through at the moment. All he could think about was the utter isolation of being without his teammates.

~0~

Bruce Banner emerged from the crypts into the midst of absolute chaos. Scattered pockets of combat intertwined in and out of each other across the courtyards. Bodies littered the ground, and he couldn't discern the defeated undead from the fallen living. Fortunately, all of the nearby undead were too occupied fighting to notice his arrival. He stared at the carnage around him and tried to summon every ounce of rage he possessed. He thought about all these people who had died protecting their homeland, all the women and children he'd been with in the crypts who would emerge to find that their husband, father, or brother had perished. He thought about Thanos, and everything he'd taken from Earth.

Still, he didn't change a shade.

"Dr. Banner?!" The kid's voice. Bruce tracked it to a nearby rooftop, where Peter was perched. He launched a few webs at two undead, allowing the men fighting them to chop them to pieces. "What are you doing here?"

"Sending the Other Guy an invitation!" Bruce shouted.

"Is Mr. Stark okay?!"

"Tony's fine! Everyone down there is fine!"

"For now," a gruff northern voice warned. They both elected to ignore his pessimism.

"How are you holding up?" Bruce called.

"Umm, I'm alright. You might want to get going green pretty soon, Dr. Banner. Those things are all over the place." He shot a web at a wight who'd started ambling towards Banner.

Bruce was about to shout back when something rushed at him. A figure with pale gray skin and white hair charged and tackled Bruce in his icy grip. Before he could even cry out, the creature's sword was buried in his abdomen. He felt his core temperature plunge, as if the blade had turned his insides to blocks of ice. Once upon a time, Bruce had been convinced he could never die, that the Other Guy would always save him even if he didn't want to be saved. Evidently, he was wrong.

Peter saw the White Walker dart from the shadows and attack Dr. Banner with impossible speed. Not even Spiderman was quick enough to stop him. At the last second, he hoped Banner's inner Hulk would kick in and he'd launch the monster miles out of Winterfell with a mighty roar, but the scientist just collapsed like any mortal man.

Peter cried out, but was forced to swing away when the White Walker heard him and turned its attention to a potential next target. He'd promised Mr. Stark that he wouldn't be a zombie next time they met, and he intended to keep that vow. The White Walker started towards Peter's new perch, fully intent on hunting him down, but a perfectly-timed dragonglass knife lodged itself in its flank. The creature shattered like a snowball thrown against a brick wall.

"Now that was just cold," Natasha quipped darkly, picking up her dagger from where it had landed. Peter knew that she cared for Dr. Banner, and partially wished she hadn't been there to watch. But he was also thankful she was here; otherwise he might've been the next victim. He thanked her, receiving only a curt nod in recognition. She set out in search of more undead to vanquish.

Suddenly a chill settled over them, dropping the temperature impossibly lower. Peter's heart leapt into his throat when their fallen comrades began to stir. Previously dead bodies heaved themselves to their feet and gathered weapons. Multiple pairs of startlingly blue eyes landed on Natasha, and they marched toward her.

Peter crawled to the edge of the roof from where he could see Dr. Banner. The scientist stirred and forced himself up to his hands and knees. Why wasn't he just marching on like the rest of them? Peter bit his lip and watched the older man's shoulders swell. He rose to his feet and continued to grow, rippling muscles springing into existence beneath his tearing shirt. But instead of turning green, his skin paled to steel gray and his dark hair bleached itself to white. But his eyes—oh God, his eyes—became two piercing sapphires. The bright shade of blue reminded Peter of burning copper chloride in chemistry class. The Hulk's eyes burned, not with chemicals, but with pure, unadulterated rage. He finally stopped growing at about eight feet tall, and then White Walker Hulk roared, the sound resonating around Winterfell like a sonic boom.

Peter's spider sense screamed at him to run away, and he didn't question it. He leapt off the roof and rolled when he hit the ground, losing as little momentum as possible without hurting himself on impact. He'd never faced the Hulk before, but he knew his only hope of surviving was to outpace him. If he caught him, Peter would be ripped apart like an injured zebra in the jaws of a lion.

~0~

The Hulk's roar could be heard all the way down in the crypts. Its frequency rattled the cavern, and Tony put his fingers against the stone wall to feel the vibration. "The son of a bitch did it," he whispered to himself. Somehow Bruce had succeeded in summoning the Other Guy. Tony tried to calculate how many zombies he could crush in one giant green fist, but he was too nervous to do proper math.

Tony's joy at Banner's success was short-lived, because the crypt soon filled with the screams of women and children as reanimated bodies pushed themselves out of the tombs around them. "I told you this was not a great spot," Tony growled at Tyrion. The dwarf only shrugged and unsheathed his dagger. They couldn't use fire in such close quarters or risk turning this 'safe haven' into a human oven. But they had explained earlier that the undead don't die easily. Even missing entire limbs they would keep on marching.

"Let's go re-kill your ancestors," Tony said to the Stark girl. She didn't much like his phrasing, but Sansa knew it needed to be done. Tony, with his own dagger, dove in front of a woman and her three children to shield them from an approaching skeleton. The thing was hardly recognizable as something that had once been human. All the flesh had long since rotted away, leaving only calcified bone and a few scraps of clothing. Relying on endless hours of combat training with his fellow Avengers back at the compound, Tony easily dispatched of the wight with a well-aimed stab. They weren't kidding about the dragonglass; the stuff was damn effective.

One of the kids shouted and pointed to Tony's right. He twisted—probably too quickly, judging by the sharp pain in his healing side—and was just in time to dispatch another zombie. His breath already heaving, he braced himself for further attacks from the undead. Tyrion positioned himself back-to-back with Tony, and the two slowly circled each other.

"Ever been in a real fight before?" Tony asked. The Lannister reeked of noble birth, based on his stories about his father and sister, and Tony had no idea what kind of trials and tribulations someone of his ilk had endured at this stage in life.

"I survived the Battle of the Blackwater. And I once bludgeoned a man to death with nothing but a shield."

"You and my friend Steve would get along great."

Their banter came to an abrupt conclusion when another rotting skeleton came out of the darkness and attacked. As Tyrion slashed at it, Tony asked, "Just how many Starks are buried down here?"

"All of them," Sansa replied solemnly.

~0~

White Walker Hulk broke through the thick wooden gate like a sharpened pencil through paper and sprung out into the battlefield. Many of the Avengers recognized his deep, guttural roar and their hearts soared with hope. "Banner has come to help us!" Thor cried, turning to catch a glimpse of his big green friend in action.

"Banner has come to kill us," Tormund corrected him, instantly recognizing the pale skin of a White Walker. Hulk picked up an Unsullied in his meaty gray fist and squeezed relentlessly. The man's body let out an audible crunch and sagged limply, and Hulk tossed him away like an unwanted fish. He ran through the fields on all fours, stomping soldiers to death underfoot. He found a massive rock and heaved it at a pack of northmen. It crushed them all, leaving only a few hands and booted feet visible beneath its mass.

Spiderman crouched behind a nearby snowdrift, watching helplessly as Hulk tore his fellow soldiers apart. He didn't have any dragonglass, but he knew he had to do something to stop his rampage. As the Hulk raised a giant fist to smash the men underneath, Peter shot a web that encased his hand, hoping to hold him back from striking. But he didn't have nearly the strength to stop the momentum of the undead Banner's fist, and Peter's feet lifted off the ground. Hulk smashed, and Spiderman flew through the air on the other end of the web. His legs deployed to try and cushion his fall, but they crumpled on impact due to the sheer force of Hulk's punch. Peter gasped for breath and tried to regroup, but Hulk noticed what he'd done. He gazed intently at his webbed fist for half a second before throwing his arm the other direction. Peter sailed through the air in a perfect arc before slamming into the ground again. Something in his left shoulder made a disgusting crunching sound.

Disoriented from the double impact, he couldn't think clearly enough to disconnect himself from the web attached to Hulk. Banner whipped him around three more times before he finally got loose, but he picked the wrong spot in his trajectory to release. He flew nearly straight upwards, almost to the height of the skyscrapers back home in New York, before beginning to fall back to earth. He knew landing safely from this height would be impossible, but he still tried to roll upon reaching the ground. His right ankle protested the impact, and he rolled ten feet through the snow before collapsing.

Hulk roared at his success and stomped off to find a new target. Peter could only watch helplessly as he tore through another cohort of soldiers. The natives ran around in a panic, having never seen anything like Hulk before. The giants from Beyond the Wall were taller, but also much, much slower. Hulk leapt around the battlefield with the speed of a hyperactive rabbit and the destructive power of a rampaging rhinoceros.

"What is that thing?!" Brienne shouted while fending off three wights in front of her.

"I've no idea," Jaime said from behind her. The two fought back to back, protecting each other's blind spots. Thanks to his training, Jaime's left-handed sword skills were adept enough to make him a formidable warrior. Brienne defeated two more wights, men she recognized as their own resurrected dead. The two were relatively unscathed, but they were growing fatigued by the second. They couldn't keep this up indefinitely, and the huge white monster was decimating their ranks.

The sky crackled, not with dragonfire, but with lightning. Thor flew across the battlefield towards the Hulk's wake of destruction. "Banner!" he called, challenging the monster. "This ends now!" This Hulk didn't speak like the green one on Sakaar; he just howled and turned to face his new opponent. Thor stood his ground, his eyes flickering with electric white light. They ran towards each other, intent on mutual destruction, and collided with a boom that probably echoed all the way to Dorne.

Thor struck Banner with Stormbreaker, putting all his strength behind the blow, but the axe just glanced off of his thick, gray hide. The axe was forged in Nidavellir while Thor held open the gate against the power of a neutron star, but it wasn't dragonglass. Hulk swept Thor aside with one enormous arm, and the god tumbled through the snow. Shaking the white particles out of his hair, he forced himself back to his feet.

"Here!" came Jaime's voice. Thor turned just in time to catch the Valyrian steel sword Widow's Wail as it sailed towards him, tossed by the one-handed knight. He'd never held a mortal-forged weapon that was so perfectly balanced.

"Thank you!" he shouted back. He leveled the sword as Hulk charged again, but instead of slashing at him Thor sidestepped. Only now that he had a deadly weapon in his hands did he realize that one blow would kill Banner. Whatever had turned him into one of these creatures could be undone, right? "Can this process be reversed?" he shouted to anyone listening.

"No! You can't unmake a White Walker! The spell is permanent!" Thor barely heard that answer over the sound of Hulk's massive feet pounding towards him over the hard-packed snow. He whispered an apology to the real Banner and faced down the monster that used to be him. Thor leapt ten feet into the air and stabbed downwards with Widow's Wail as Hulk ran beneath him. The tip of the sword just barely touched the beast's gray skin before he shattered like a mead glass thrown on the floor after a feast.

Thor landed amidst the scattered remains of the man he'd once called a friend. He thought Banner had gone down to the crypts with Stark due to his temporary inability to turn green. Clearly, he'd gone out into battle anyway and paid for it with his life. Thor could only hope he would be the sole member of their team to pay the ultimate price.

~0~

Their diminished numbers unable to hold back the encroaching undead, the army of the living fell back into Winterfell. Ser Davos lifted up the torch and swung it in the air to signal to the dragonriders that the trench needed to be lit. But between the darkness and the heavy snowfall, the signal went unrecognized. Daenerys and Drogon were nowhere to be seen. Not knowing what else to do, he looked to the nearby Avengers and prayed one of them was hiding pyrokinetic powers. None of them were, but Melisandre stepped up and began muttering an incantation.

Davos watched in wonder as she concentrated on the unlit trench before her. The nearest undead were close and getting closer. If this trench didn't ignite soon, they'd all be doomed. With a sudden gasp and a red pulse from Melisandre's ruby necklace, fire caught in the trench before them and rushed to encircle Winterfell like water released into a moat. Now he couldn't see the approaching army at all through the wall of flames.

The assembled soldiers cheered as they watched the first undead approach the flames and collapse in the heat. Bodies piled up as more and more dared to enter the ring of fire. Davos was wont to let his guard down slightly, but then he noticed a pattern. The undead fell on top of each other and began to block the flames. If this continued, they'd be able to cross the bridges made of their fallen comrades.

"They're crossing!" shouts rang out along the outermost line of defense. People tightened their grips on their swords, prepared to slaughter more undead as they passed the flames. Davos braced himself to go down fighting, but then something spectacular happened.

The base of the flames glowed with crimson energy, swirling and churning the ring into a much larger inferno. The soldiers on the inside stepped back, afraid of getting burned by the growing conflagration. Davos turned around to look for the source and he saw the woman in the red jacket floating above the army, her hands entrapped in glowing balls of scarlet light. With a shout, she threw her arms forward and the circle of flames erupted outwards, incinerating every undead soldier within a twenty foot radius.

That bought them time, but the undead continued to pour forwards in reams. They quickly closed the gap left by Wanda's devastating attack and resumed the self-sacrificing strategy of throwing themselves onto the fire. Soon enough, Winterfell was overrun.

~0~

This was worse than Loki's attack on New York. Definitely worse. At least then he'd been in the open, able to fly around the city to escape one threat or contain another. The stone walls and ceiling of the crypt made Tony feel like he was in a nuclear bunker, but all the bombs were inside with them.

A few others were capable of fighting, but the brunt of the defense fell to Tony and Tyrion. He had to give the dwarf credit; he didn't expect him to be any good with a weapon, but he held his own against the undead assault. Tony lost count of how many resurrected Starks he'd re-killed. Everything in his mind shut down except for the nerves essential for registering where the next wight was coming from and the muscle control to destroy it.

The wound in his side had long ago torn itself open, and he really hoped these things couldn't smell blood like sharks because there was rather a lot of it collecting beneath his shirt. He'd garnered even more wounds from wights that had managed to get close enough to strike him, but he didn't bother to catalogue them. He could worry about them later, when all these people weren't depending on him to keep them safe from harm.

A little girl shrieked, and Tony turned around just in time to see a skeleton almost directly on top of her. The thing stared hungrily with fiery blue eyes and reached out to her, only to have its action cut off when Tony tackled it to the cold ground. The creature hissed and a bony hand reached up and raked down the side of Tony's face. The wound was freezing, as if it had been inflicted with a wickedly sharp icicle. A few drops of Tony's blood landed on the wight beneath him. It struggled violently and flipped them both over. Tony squirmed beneath the creature's weight and his dagger skittered out of his hand, landing frustratingly out of reach. He floundered, reaching desperately for the only object that could save his life, but the wight overpowered him.

The thing's jaws were inches from his nose when the dagger shot towards him, pushed across the ground by a young girl with a burn scar across her cheek. Tony's desperate fingers closed around the hilt and he stabbed the zombie on top of him in the flank. It instantly went limp, collapsing on top of Tony. Some of its straggly hairs brushed against his lips, and he spat, wriggling out from under the now-lifeless corpse on top of him. Exhausted, he dragged himself to his feet, knowing there'd be more where that came from. Stupid Starks, burying all their dead in the same labyrinthine basement from hell. That day, Tony vowed that he'd be cremated when he died. God, he hoped he'd have a long time before he was forced to fulfill that promise.

~0~

Jon cut down more wights at every possible opportunity, but his efforts didn't seem to make a dent in their numbers. Then, the enemy bolstered its ranks by resurrecting all the fallen. Jon found himself forced to execute men he recognized as his own. He told himself repeatedly that he'd never known these blue-eyed fiends, that the men he knew had fallen valiantly in battle, but it still hurt him to drive Longclaw into their chests. "They're already dead," he muttered under his breath. "You're just stopping them from killing even more people."

Another wave of wights trotted towards him, swords drawn. Jon was so tired, physically and mentally, of fighting these creatures. The Night King and the White Walkers had consumed his existence from his first encounter with them, and he wanted to be done with them once and for all. The miniscule hope of eliminating the race of undead entirely was what kept him from keeling over. The sheer number of wights ensured that Jon could not rest for even half a second. Longclaw was in constant motion, slashing and stabbing at the undead as they approached him. One snuck up behind him and before Jon could turn around to defend himself he was sporting a bleeding gash in the back of his thigh. It hurt, but in the cold and adrenaline of the chaos the pain hardly registered.

More of the undead poured in, and Jon wondered how much of his own fighting force was left standing. If this many undead were targeting him alone, how many of his fellow soldiers could possibly still be alive? He started flagging, unable to thrust and turn quickly enough to dispatch all the wights before they got to him. He sustained another slice to the same leg, one to his non-sword arm, and one across his left flank. But the wound that brought him to his knees was a stab to the gut from a wight he'd been too slow to stop.

The memories came flooding back faster than the tide of undead sweeping through Winterfell. Ollie, and the promise of Uncle Benjen. His first inklings of hope since the man first went missing. Then the word, scrawled in black on that wooden post. TRAITOR. Confusion, a brief second of realization, and then pain. "For the watch." That phrase, echoed over and over again, each time punctuated by another knife buried hilt-deep inside him. For the watch. For the watch. For the watch. Collapsing to his knees and watching anguish and regret float around in Ollie's eyes, the same boy who had killed Ygritte. He never felt that final knife, only the pervasive cold of the snow beneath him and the heartlessness of his comrades. Then, nothing.

He'd never come close to drowning before, but he'd assumed it must feel like this. His chest constricted beyond what ought to be possible before releasing all at once, like breaking through the surface of a frozen lake after spending endless minutes underwater. Gasping air into lungs that didn't want to accept it any longer and feeling it whistle in and out through the many stab wounds in his chest.

The coming back had hurt so much worse than the departure. That night in the snow, the agony had gradually faded away to nothingness. But to be brought back meant the reverse: nothingness sharpening into agony. The Red Woman had asked him what he'd experienced in the interlude between his death and resurrection, and part of him had been tempted to answer, "Some fucking peace and quiet." Now, as he found himself surrounded by the Night King's forces, he decided that he would've preferred to just stay dead. He certainly didn't think he deserved to die twice. Longclaw slipped from his grip and he accepted that this would be the second end of Jon Snow, when something flew past his ear with dizzying speed and buried itself in the nearest wight.

A black-clad figure entered his peripheral vision and picked up the object, which Jon now recognized as a shield bearing the crest of House Arryn. He watched passively as this man destroyed all of the wights near them, protecting Jon from his imminent death. He fought with the grace of a Braavosi water dancer combined with the strength of the Mountain Gregor Clegane. In an instant, no undead remained standing, and Jon was safe.

The man turned to Jon and offered a hand to help him back to his feet. Jon staggered, the wooziness from blood loss and cold making itself known, but he eventually regained his balance. "Thank you," he said humbly. Back in the Night's Watch, none of his brothers had been able to beat him in a swordfight, but after watching that performance he had no doubt this man could defeat him handedly.

"Any time," Cap replied. "We need to get you inside."

"I'm fine," he insisted, sheathing Longclaw.

"I've heard that before. Let's go." Jon had little choice but to follow the man with the shield. They'd barely made it three steps before a great shadow descended upon them. Cap and Jon looked up into the massive electric blue eyes of Viserion. The dragon's mouth fell open, revealing rows of knife-like teeth.

"Shit," he heard Cap mutter under his breath.

The dragon's throat began to glow, signaling an imminent burst of flame. A flash of movement behind the dragon caught Jon's eye, and for a brief second he recognized Arya, sprinting madly towards the godswood. One thought consumed his mind: keep Viserion's attention on them, and not his little sister. He glared at the dragon with as much power as he could muster and yelled. Cap's voice joined his, and the two stood there, hopelessly small before the great reptile, shouting their voices hoarse.

The figure continued her mad dash towards the godswood, and Jon prayed to all the gods he'd ever heard of before that she succeeded in whatever she was rushing to do.

~0~

In the godswood, Bran sat before the weirwood tree awaiting the inevitable arrival of the Night King. The Three-Eyed Raven and his assigned guards listened and watched what they could of the battle around them. They caught glimpses of the three dragons dancing across the sky and heard the terrible shrieks of the wounded beasts. They listened to the deafening roar of White Walker Hulk and all breathed a sigh of relief when he was finally silenced. They watched the ring of fire around Winterfell explode outwards with a surge of red energy. Bucky and Groot, who'd been instructed to join Theon and his men in guarding Bran, could only hope that their friends fared well in the conflict.

They knew it was only a matter of time before the White Walkers breached Winterfell, but it still came as a surprise when the first ones entered the godswood. Bran watched from beneath the tree as his guards worked their way through the first wave of undead. Frightened for his friends and family, he warged into one of the last remaining ravens in Winterfell and watched the battle below. There were more corpses than living people scattered all over Winterfell and the lands surrounding it.

None of the defenders noticed Bran's whitened eyes; they were too busy killing the wights. Almost all of them fell before the last of the wights were eliminated. The only three who remained were Theon, Bucky, and Groot. The White Walkers themselves lined up before them in a neat formation, leaving a passage for their master to step forward. The Night King himself glided through and stopped to stare at them. Bucky looked closely, and noticed that the pupils of his eyes were not circles, but stars.

Time seemed to stop. The Night King was in no hurry, biding his time before achieving his goal of murdering the reservoir of all human history. Bran's eyes returned to normal just in time to register the enemy before him. That would be it. Bran would die as the last Three-Eyed Raven, and with him the memory of mankind. The undead would rule the world in an endless winter, the Longest Night.

A brief gust of wind, and figure leapt from the shadows. The Night King whipped around and caught her midair: Arya, brandishing an ordinary dragonglass dagger, one of thousands made by Gendry and his fellow smiths. She froze in the Night King's icy grip, eyes shining with defiance. His star-shaped eyes remained fixed on the knife in her left hand. He didn't notice when the fingers of her right hand splayed open, as if waiting for something. Then from behind Bran, something flew into her grasp: the Valyrian steel dagger that had once been used in an attempt to murder Bran. The trajectory of the blade was perfect, and the hilt landed in the center of her palm. She closed her fist around the handle and thrust the Valyrian steel edge into a gap in the Night King's armor. The villain which all of Westeros had feared for centuries turned to white dust and blew away in the breeze.

~0~

The bright blue in the dragon's throat reached an apex. Jon and Cap knew that neither of them, even the super soldier, could run fast enough to escape the flames. Briefly, Jon wondered if Viserion's fire would be cold or hot. The bright blue flames certainly looked like they could burn, but Jon knew nothing of what the Night King's magics had done to the beast's primary weapon. He hoped it burned like real fire. Last time, he'd died at the Wall, where the chill seeped into one's bones and never escaped, even when inside Castle Black. This time he'd like to be warm.

But the flames, hot or cold, never came. Viserion crumpled to the snow and blew apart like a White Walker struck with dragonglass. Jon knew what this meant. The adrenaline keeping him on his feet evaporated and he collapsed to his knees once again. A wry chuckle escaped his throat. They'd won.

~0~

Tony was drained. He was sluggishly bleeding from a dozen cuts across his body, and his arms burned from the constant strain of swinging a knife. Tyrion fared slightly better, but Tony had overextended himself to protect more people than he had. He didn't understand how there could possibly be still more after he'd beaten so many already.

No casualties had been sustained, the combined efforts of Tony, Tyrion, and a few others successfully protecting the defenseless from the onslaught of undead. But he could feel himself fading fast, and he doubted he could keep this up much longer. "Someone just kill the bastard already," Tyrion shouted upwards. Their comrades upstairs ought to be hunting down the Night King and turning him to pixie dust. Tony just hoped they'd do it soon.

He stepped backwards to avoid a wight's decrepit hands and tripped over a loose stone. Tony hit the ground hard and the zombie lunged. Its skinless jaw opened and closed threateningly, creeping ever closer to his face. Tony clenched his eyes shut and braced for the inevitable, when the creature collapsed on top of him. His eyes opened in shock, and he shoved the limp body off of him to sit up. All around the crypt, the undead fell to the ground like scarecrows without a pole.

Cheers erupted from the commonfolk huddled together. A sly smile etched its way across Tony's face. He met eyes with Tyrion, and the dwarf started laughing. "They did it," Tony sighed contentedly. And then he, too, chuckled. Their light laughter quickly turned into gut-churning guffaws. They laughed not because it was funny; they laughed just for the joy of being alive.

Chapter Text

Crystalline silence replaced the cacophony of battle. The very air around Winterfell took a cleansing breath and stillness reigned.

Once the idea of victory solidified in the minds of the survivors, they reprioritized saving the many wounded scattered about. Falcon and War Machine flew over the battlefield looking for incapacitated survivors and carried them back to Winterfell for care. There, Samwell Tarly led a force of men and women capable of basic wound treatment. The number of people who'd been struck by undead swords or were otherwise injured was staggering, and the makeshift field hospital bustled with endless activity.

~0~

Once they stopped laughing, everyone in the crypts was eager to escape their stony prison. Tony intended to let everyone else get out before he did, mostly because he was too dizzy to move. However, his companions had other ideas. They recognized that their stalwart protector needed immediate help, help which they were not equipped to provide. Two of them gently pulled Tony to his feet and helped him up and out of the crypt.

He breathed a massive sigh of relief and drank in the fresh air when they finally reached the surface. He hadn't realized how bad it smelled down there. Or maybe it was just that he'd come disturbingly close to many rotting corpses and their scent stuck in his nose. Regardless, it was great just to be able to see the sky above him instead of oppressive stone.

He didn't know his way around Winterfell at all; he'd just arrived last night for goodness' sake, so he had no idea where these people were leading him. But he couldn't exactly go another direction because he doubted he'd even be able to stand without their support. They took him to a large room that had been hurriedly converted into a hospital of sorts. Tony bit his lip. In medieval times, infection of non-lethal wounds killed just as many people as fatal wounds did. He wondered how many of the injured before him would still be alive by the end of the week. Hopefully Samwell remembered what Strange had told him when he stitched up Tony the first time.

~0~

Jon Snow remained on the ground, staring at the spot Viserion had vacated. Above him, Captain America blanched at the steadily growing red stains on the snow. He surveyed their surroundings, noting their isolation from all the other pockets of people. He had enough experience in war to know this was a definitively bad situation.

"Come on. We need to get you inside," he said authoritatively. Jon offered him no response. Cap looked at him again and barely caught him before he pitched forwards. "Alright, we'll do it this way then," he muttered. He bent down and grabbed the younger man around the waist, hoisting him up over his shoulder. "Do they feed you enough around here? You're so little," Cap remarked. He told the joke merely to distract himself from the blood now dripping down his hands.

About halfway there, Jon started to shiver. Cap felt the vibrations resonate through his shoulder and down his back and he picked up the pace a little bit. "Just hold on a little longer," he pleaded, not knowing or caring if Jon was conscious enough to hear him. He was not letting another friend die on his watch.

~0~

Peter emerged from behind his snow drift, staggering unsteadily on his feet. The landing from Hulk's Olympic-caliber toss had not been kind to his ankles. Regardless, he needed to get back to Winterfell so he could make sure all of his teammates were okay. Dr. Banner had perished, but he hoped that was the only casualty.

He made it back to the keep despite the throbbing of his right foot and left shoulder and searched the courtyards for familiar faces. The Guardians of the Galaxy and Thor had escaped unscathed, Peter was glad to note; they sat clustered together sharing tales of glorious victory. Rhodey and Sam flew back and forth above his head, ferrying the injured from the fields. He caught sight of Natasha, Wanda, Bucky, and T'Challa, and they all seemed thankfully alright. But there was no sign of Captain America, Doctor Strange, or Mr. Stark.

Peter forced his brain not to jump to disturbing conclusions. Winterfell was pretty big, and it was likely that they were just somewhere out of his sight. He set off towards the entrance to the crypts, knowing that would at least be the direction Mr. Stark came from if he left. There were people pouring out, but none of them were Mr. Stark.

Suddenly, a voice called his name. "Peter, are you alright?" He turned around and found Doctor Strange.

"Yeah. Have you seen Mr. Stark?" he asked, worry just starting to slip into his tone. Strange shook his head. "Okay." The sorcerer walked away and Peter decided just to follow the crowd. Most were moving in and out of a large room across the courtyard, so he set off in that direction. He entered a room busier than his home streets of New York. People ran this way and that, carting supplies to staunch bleeding, set bones, and who knows what else. Peter was almost knocked over multiple times by someone passing by him in a rush. Someone brushed harshly against his left shoulder and Peter bit the inside of his cheek to avoid screaming. Hulk had definitely damaged something when he slammed him against the ground.

He meandered his way through the crowd, searching for more familiar faces. He glimpsed Samwell Tarly, the maester they'd met earlier, looking severely overworked. He'd probably never had this many people to treat at once.

The hairs on the back of Peter's neck stood up, but it wasn't his spider sense alerting him to danger. It was a different sensation entirely. He turned, and his gaze landed on Mr. Stark. A potent combination of relief, joy, and fear swamped him. "Mr. Stark!" he cried, hurrying over to his mentor, who was leaning heavily on the people beside him. Correction: they were literally holding him up. He hadn't been this pale even after Thanos ran him through. His stitches from last night had clearly torn open, and his jacket was dark with blood. Twin gashes ran across his cheek, as if someone had dragged their fingernails across it. But when he caught sight of Peter, all traces of pain drained away.

"Peter!" he called back. He mustered the strength to stand alone long enough for the teenager to rush over and embrace him. The motion killed Peter's shoulder, but he didn't care in the least. "You're limping," Tony immediately pointed out.

"It's nothing," Peter assured. How could he possibly be worried about Peter when he looked ready to pass out at any second? Seriously, the man had no sense of self-preservation. Then again, this was the same man who'd flown a nuclear bomb through a wormhole. "I'm not a zombie," Peter reminded him.

"You kept your promise."

"Yeah." Silence for a beat. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what, Peter?"

"For saying you wouldn't be any help on the battlefield. I was the one who wasn't any help. You were right; I should've gone to the crypts."

"Bullshit," another voice punctuated their conversation. Natasha explained: "Stark, the spider boy killed a giant and saved a little girl's life. I saw the whole thing."

"You—you saw that?" Peter had thought he was alone. Then he remembered that she'd slain the White Walker that turned Banner, so she must've been in the area. She nodded earnestly.

"You killed a giant?" Tony didn't believe it. He laid his hand on Peter's shoulder to congratulate him, but he picked the wrong shoulder. The boy whimpered like a kicked puppy. "What's the matter?"

"Just my shoulder. I, uh, fell." He omitted the part about being hammer thrown by the Hulk.

"Like hell you did. You need—what did they call them?—a maester," Tony insisted.

"So do you!" Peter retorted.

"Fine." The two headed towards the rows of other wounded, all in various states of bleeding out. Samwell and his many assistants seemed to have everything as under control as it could be, with a pseudo-triage system in place. He took one look at Tony and delegated all his other charges to lesser healers.

"Lie down before you pass out," the maester instructed. Tony didn't need to be told twice. He half fell, half lowered himself down and the resulting jolt shot bolts pain through every cut.

"Got any more of that milk of the poppy?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Not at hand," Samwell answered matter-of-factly, working Tony's shirt off for access to his reopened and fresh wounds.

"Mind if I pass out, then?"

"I'd rather you didn't."

"Not sure I have any say in the matter at this point." Tony gasped as Samwell wrapped his torso to staunch the bleeding, tying it off tightly enough that he struggled to breath properly. He clenched his eyes shut and drew a stunted inhale, releasing only when he felt a hand on his wrist. Peter sat beside him, the teen's eyes shining with concern. Though he sensed the tantalizing promise of oblivion in the back of his mind, Tony wrenched himself away from it. Going to sleep now would only worry Peter more, and if his current appearance was anything to go by, he couldn't handle any more stress.

Two high-stakes battles fought within hours of each other were not beneficial for anyone's state of mind.

~0~

Samwell tried his best to keep up with the ever-increasing workload, but he only had two hands and they were running out of supplies. Doctor Strange offered every insight he possessed, which Samwell was thankful for, but a lot of what he said was very confusing. Some of the words sounded entirely made up, though he presumed they described things that didn't exist in this dimension. He could sense the man's frustration at not being able to help physically heal people, but he couldn't focus on pitying him in the face of so many tasks.

He bandaged Stark up as best he could. The only severe wound was the one he'd already had beforehand, which had torn open. The rest were relatively superficial; it was their sheer number that had rendered him so weak. Samwell didn't want to imagine what had transpired in the crypts to put him in such a state.

Samwell sent the spider boy away to get himself checked out while he finished with Stark. "You don't look so good yourself," Samwell told him when he protested.

"I heal fast," he insisted. The maester didn't question him. He'd briefly seen the boy on the field; he moved with an agility that should not be humanly possible. And the web things were simply mind-boggling. Samwell wouldn't be surprised if multiple of their guests had some form of super healing. But Samwell persisted, and the boy eventually relented and headed off to find Doctor Strange. He returned fifteen minutes later with his left arm in a makeshift sling.

"Mr. Stark, what would Aunt May say if she knew I broke my collarbone?"

"You did what?" he said, his voice marginally stronger than it had been before Samwell's ministrations.

"I broke my collarbone," Peter repeated sheepishly. "And probably a few ribs."

"How?"

"I told you; I fell."

"Liar."

"I'm not lying!" he insisted. Tony glared at him, knowing that the kid was concealing at least a part of the truth. "Fine. I, uh…fell out of the sky. Hulk threw me after he smashed me against the ground a few times."

"Bruce did this?! Damn, I told him not to leave the crypt. Where is he; has he de-greened by now?"

Peter realized with a sinking heart that Mr. Stark didn't know what happened to Dr. Banner. He'd been underground the entire time, so he hadn't seen what he'd become. "Mr. Stark, um…this was a bit of a different kind of Hulk."

"Last time I checked, we only had one Hulk."

"We do. Or…we did. One of those White Walkers…" Peter choked on the words, "it killed him. And then, when the Night King brought all the dead back, he changed. But he wasn't green Hulk, he was white. He came after me, and I tried to stop him, Mr. Stark, I tried, but he was too strong. I'm sorry."

Peter expected some sort of reaction, but Mr. Stark remained stoically silent. He ran a tired hand over his face, smearing some of the blood from the two shallow cuts. "Quit it with the 'I'm sorry,' Peter," he finally said. "If anyone needs to apologize, it's me."

"No—"

"Yes," he cut Peter off sternly. "I should've kept him in that crypt. He was just Banner, it would've been so easy to force him to stay. But I didn't try hard enough, and he left. He left, and he died, and he hurt you—" Tony's voice broke on the last part of that statement.

"No, Mr. Stark. It's not your fault! Dr. Banner made his own decision."

"If I'd only been more convincing, you'd be okay." Tony looked up at him with watering eyes.

"I am okay. I'm right here. What's a few broken bones?"

Mr. Stark chuckled drily, "Only you."

"Besides, it was really cool. He threw me so high, I was flying just like you!"

"Let's not talk about that because, now, every time I close my eyes, I see that image and it shaves a few years off my lifespan."

"Okay."

Samwell half listened to their exchange from where he stood nearby, enjoying a brief lull in the inflow of patients. He could tell the two cared for each other, almost like a father and son. Maybe they were, though he doubted a son would call his father Mr. Stark. But then again, maybe their customs were different than his own.

He sensed a change in the energy of the room before he heard or saw anything. Then he heard Captain America's voice shouting desperately for help. Samwell dove through the crowd of people and watched the man storm in with a limp figure across his shoulder. Oh gods, it was Jon. Samwell instantly recognized his best friend's long black hair and the white wolf hilt of Longclaw.

The crowd parted frantically, forming a pathway leading straight to Samwell. He froze, terrified by the sight of his friend being carried like a sack of grain. But Samwell Tarly wasn't a coward anymore. He was a mostly-trained maester, and he would not allow something as trivial as fear stop him from helping Jon.

"Set him down here," Samwell instructed, surprised by the authority in his own voice. Cap complied, easing Jon off his shoulder and onto the indicated bed. The former Lord Commander was shivering violently from a combination of cold and blood loss. There was so much blood, Samwell could smell it. It soaked through his clothes and coated Cap's arm and shoulder where he'd held him. Samwell recalled those enforced hunting trips from his childhood, when just the sight of blood made him vomit. He wanted to vomit now, but he quelled the sensation with sheer willpower. Jon needed the Samwell who had slain a White Walker, not some despicable coward.

Cap instinctively bent down to help Samwell strip Jon, his time as a soldier and an Avenger ensuring he knew how to handle combat wounds. Indistinct sounds came from Jon's throat, and he seemed to be drifting right on the borderline of consciousness. Neither of them wanted to remove the layers keeping him warm, but they needed to assess the damage. Cap held him in a seated position while Samwell worked off his clothes.

Ser Davos Seaworth and Tormund Giantsbane eased their way through the crowded hall to Jon's side. They stood just behind Cap while he and Samwell set him back down shirtless. Jon's eyes fluttered woozily open and met Samwell's gaze with a flicker of recognition. Samwell watched the corner of his mouth quirk up in an attempt at a smile.

Samwell couldn't find it within himself to smile back. He couldn't even focus on Jon's eyes because his gaze kept falling back to his body. He noticed the two fresh wounds, one on his left side and another in his abdomen, both still steadily bleeding. But it wasn't the new injuries that ground Samwell's thought process to a halt, it was the old ones. Seven deep, puckered scars littered his chest and abdomen, each representing what would've been a fatal wound on its own. In conjunction, they were beyond devastating. Samwell's maester-trained brain tried to figure out how his friend had sustained such injuries and survived, but he came up with nothing. His thoughts turned to white noise.

"Jon, how are you not dead?" Samwell asked the only sensible thought his frazzled mind could string together.

"I was," he murmured incoherently. Through the fog of pain and dizziness, Jon recognized the shock and horror in his friend's eyes. Samwell knew everything about Jon, even his real name and true heritage, but he didn't know about this. Jon hadn't wanted poor Sam to ever know. His throat made a noise that was definitely not a whimper because Jon Snow didn't whimper.

Samwell heard Jon whine, and the sound of distress snapped him out of his reverie. He swallowed the bile that had crept up his throat and started binding the fresh wounds. Distantly, he heard the doors fly open, and suddenly Queen Daenerys herself was staring over his handiwork. Ghost trotted silently forwards and plopped himself at Jon's head. Tormund and Davos exchanged a knowing glance, remembering where the direwolf had stationed himself that fateful night at Castle Black.

Daenerys edged her way to Jon's head and ran what she hoped was a comforting hand through his hair. She didn't care how many people around her saw. She'd watched Rhaegal fall from the sky with Jon on his back, and then she hadn't seen either of them again throughout the remainder of the battle. Once she dismounted from Drogon, she was surrounded by Ser Jorah, the blue woman, and the man with the red runes on his face and body. Despite the chaos around her during that time, she'd thought only of Jon…until Jorah had been slain. That was the first time Dany wept in a long time.

Jon's dark brown eyes tracked her movements. The position reminded her of the boat, when he'd bent the knee after returning from beyond the Wall almost frozen to death. His faint whisper of "Dany," only solidified the memory. This time, the nickname didn't remind her of Viserys. She smiled and kept carding her fingers through his hair. He leaned into her touch ever so slightly.

With pressure, the bleeding gradually slowed and finally came to a stop, much to Samwell's relief. Cap had handled the two in his leg while Samwell had busied himself with his torso and arm. Doctor Strange brought materials for stitching, verifying they'd already been sanitized—seriously, what was it with this guy and cleaning?—and one of their last doses of milk of the poppy. Samwell thanked him and set the items aside. Daenerys extended her hand, silently asking for something. He handed her the milk of the poppy and she gently raised Jon's head and coaxed him into swallowing it. He'd never expected the dragon queen to be so capable of tenderness.

Jon didn't manage to remain awake much longer, the drug proving the last straw in dragging him into unconsciousness. Samwell carefully stitched the gaping wounds closed, mindful of Daenerys watching his every move. Frankly, she scared him.

Cap didn't think there was much else he could do here. He stepped back and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. Trudging through the snow with a nearly lifeless human on his shoulder, he'd feared that he wouldn't make it in time. But now Jon was in capable hands, and Cap could relax a bit.

He walked away and wandered aimlessly around for a few seconds before he saw another familiar face: Tony. He rushed over to the man's bedside, where the young Peter was already stationed. Tony's eyes met his, and he nearly wept. Why, he didn't really know. The engineer had come out a little worse for wear, smeared blood marring his cheek which bore two long but shallow gashes.

"Steve?"

"Tony." Before he could stop himself, Cap stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Tony. The older man bit back a wince and Cap immediately retracted guiltily.

"I hear you're the hero of the hour," Tony remarked.

"What?"

"You brought back their precious Jon Snow. Apparently he's a pretty important dude around here."

"Oh."

"Can I pet his dog?" Peter cut in eagerly.

"What?"

"That big white dog."

"I'm not even sure that's a dog, Queens," Cap said, utilizing the teenager's nickname from the airport fight. "Anyway, what happened Tony? I thought the crypts were supposed to be safe."

"Yeah, well you know how the scary thing about the Night King is that he can reanimate the dead? He reanimated the dead. Very few of us were capable of fighting back. Tyrion and I took the brunt of it."

"Tyrion? Really?"

"Surprisingly, yes. The man can hold his own. But I am never going underground again."

"Understandable."

"I see you've got a new shield," Tony remarked. Then Cap remembered that Stark still had his original one after the fight in Siberia.

"I had to make do. And I'm sorry for taking things so far."

"Now? You think now is an opportune time to apologize?"

"There was never going to be an opportune time for me to apologize for something so important. I thought I might as well get it out."

"Fair enough. How was life as a fugitive?"

"It was great," Steve drawled. "It was like being on vacation. But then this big purple guy showed up and spoiled the party."

"I missed the field trip to MOMA," Peter complained.

"You've been in a Model of Medieval Atmosphere ever since we got here," Tony said, eliciting a small chuckle at his own stupid joke.

"I'm not gonna lie, the aesthetic of this place is incredible," Peter said. "Now I'm going to pet that dog even if it tries to bite my hand off." With that, he marched off towards Ghost. Tony sighed half in exasperation and half in awe at the kid's youthful enthusiasm.

~0~

After an immeasurably tense few hours, even the most critically wounded had been stabilized. Nobody showed any signs of dropping dead any time soon, though Samwell felt like he could sleep for weeks after the combined exertion of battle and leading the care of the many injured. He walked outside for a breath of air that didn't reek of blood and observed the commotion just outside the walls of Winterfell.

Heaps of the undead littered the grounds, the piles steadily growing as the unscathed soldiers added bodies. Others built pyres of wood and laid their fallen soldiers in neat rows. Of course, Samwell almost forgot that they'd have to burn all their dead. Firstly because they didn't have enough manpower to dig a grave big enough, and secondly because of lingering paranoia. The Night King was vanquished, but everyone felt safer with fewer intact dead bodies around.

Lyanna Mormont passed him, a rotten corpse slung over her little shoulders. "Can I help?" Samwell offered.

"Invite anyone who's able to help chop wood and carry bodies," she replied with her usual matter-of-factness. Samwell complied and returned, somewhat reluctantly, inside. He approached the man who'd brought Jon first, recognizing him as an authority figure among the newcomers.

"Mr—er…Captain?" Samwell's shaky address was clear enough, as the man turned his head. "We could use some help erecting funeral pyres. Are any of your soldiers capable?"

"Of course. We'd be happy to help," he said with a smile. Cap set about gathering up the uninjured members of his team. He found Thor joking with a collection of people from space he hardly knew, one of which appeared to be a raccoon and another which appeared to be a living tree. He told them of the cleanup protocol and they hurriedly got to work.

Falcon and Rhodes were already exhausted from urgently flying in all the injured, but they still offered their assistance when Cap requested it. He encountered Natasha chatting with the young Stark girl. Rumors spread quickly of their involvement in destroying the Night King, and Cap marveled at the fact that their entire world had been saved, not by any of the genetically enhanced soldiers, highly trained sorcerers, or literal gods, but by two mortal women.

"Well fought," he greeted them. Nat smirked, while Arya granted him a disdainful glare. "Samwell asked me to find more help gathering the bodies to burn. Have you seen Wanda anywhere?"

"I saw her wander off in a bit of a daze," Nat relayed. "She might just be exhausted. I'll find her and figure out what's going on."

"Great, thanks." Natasha mock-saluted him and headed off in another direction. Cap politely nodded goodbye to Arya and headed back into the busy hall. He'd last seen Bucky somewhere around here. Cap caught sight of Doctor Strange, still flitting around busily. He finally spotted Bucky, next to Stark of all places. Cap headed over and ground himself to a halt when he picked up on the topic of conversation.

"I could've been stronger," Bucky sighed. "I could've realized what they wanted me to do and resisted."

"It's not your fault," Stark insisted. Steve was shocked by the sincerity of forgiveness in his tone. Not so long ago, he'd turned on Bucky with a viciousness Steve had never seen in the engineer before. Bucky, admittedly through no fault of his own, had taken Tony's parents from him. As furious as he'd been with Stark in the heat of that moment, he had to admit the man's rage was warranted.

"Hey Buck," Steve finally cut in, unwilling to eavesdrop any longer. Bucky looked up at the sound of his voice, but so did Stark. "We could use your help outside."

"With what?" he asked.

"Collecting wood to burn the dead."

"They're burning the dead?" Tony confirmed.

"Yes. Many are still afraid of potential resurrection."

"But the Night King is dead."

"Old habits die hard, especially here in the North," a passing stranger informed them. Cap shrugged and waited for Bucky to answer his summons. Instead, Stark brought up an unexpected topic.

"What about Banner?" The slight quaver in his tone betrayed the depth of his grief.

"What about him?" Steve asked cautiously.

"He deserves some semblance of a funeral rite. Was there a body?"

"No, he shattered like the other White Walkers. I'm sorry Tony, but there's nothing left of him."

"There has to be something," the engineer insisted. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed and leaned forward to stand. Cap stopped him with a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"To ensure Bruce gets the remembrance he deserves."

"You are in no state to be going anywhere. We will make sure Dr. Banner is properly recognized."

"Let me go," Stark growled. When Cap didn't move, he said with even more ferocity, "Let me go, Steve. He was my friend, and now he's dead; I have to do something."

"You have to rest," Steve persisted.

"So does he!"

Cap had no words to formulate a response to that. He slowly retracted his hand and watched Tony rise unsteadily to his feet. His face paled distinctly, and Cap braced himself to catch him if he fainted, but Stark held his own weight. He set off with a determined gleam in his eye, and there was nothing Steve or Bucky could do to stop him.

~0~

Wanda was satisfied with the outcome of the battle, though she considered the entire instance an unfortunate distracter from Thanos. Once it concluded and the wounded were rounded up, an uneasiness gripped her, as if someone was gently tugging her in one direction. She followed the sensation, on the lookout for a potential secondary threat, but the feeling led her to a quiet room with a crackling fireplace. Before the hearth sat the woman in red who had lit the trench with some form of magic.

"The night is dark and full of terrors," she whispered ominously, turning to face Wanda. She stared blankly back, unsure what was expected of her.

"Um….I suppose it is," Wanda responded hesitantly.

"I saw it in the flames," she continued.

"Saw what?"

"You. Your friends. A group of heroes brought from another world." She stood, and beckoned for Wanda to follow. She had absolutely no idea what it meant that the woman had 'seen them in the flames,' but it didn't seem inherently malicious. Wanda trailed the woman cautiously outside into the cold and shivered sympathetically when she shed her cloak. She turned around to face Wanda and removed the ruby choker from around her throat. Melisandre grabbed Wanda's hand and placed the necklace in her palm. Then she turned and walked into the distance, through a path between two massive piles of undead. Wanda watched closely as the woman's startling red hair faded to gray and her proud posture deteriorated into a hobbled slouch. Finally, the red woman fell, finally finished her tenure as a servant of the Lord of Light.

Wanda looked more closely at the jewel in her hand. She sensed a vitality within it, a force comparable in strength to her own. She reached up and fastened the necklace about her own neck. Any trace of exhaustion from using her powers so much vanished as the ruby's enchantment surged through her.

"Nice bling," a voice from behind her startled Wanda. She tore her gaze away from the body crumpled on the horizon and faced Natasha.

"Th—thank you," she stuttered.

"They're burning all the dead and they need help transporting them," the Black Widow explained. Wanda nodded and followed her to the rapidly growing pile of bodies. This would be a relatively simple task for the Scarlet Witch. Soon enough, bodies began to float into the piles, driven by clouds of red energy. She made sure to include the aged body of Melisandre, taking extra care to lay it down gently on the bed of wood. The ruby at her throat pulsed with a reassuring warmth.

~0~

Tony knew he was probably too weak to be up and about, but he couldn't sit still knowing that Banner would be left out of the honor the rest of the dead would receive. The scientist was one of his best friends, and he'd failed to stop him from gallivanting off to his doom. He would not fail this time. He found Peter, who was staring at the white wolf from a few meters away looking positively agonized, and dragged him out by his good arm.

"Mr. Stark, what are you doing? Shouldn't you be lying down?" the teenager asked frightfully.

"Probably," Tony said curtly. Hopefully he could complete this quest efficiently, or he might pass out in the process.

"Where are we going?"

"Show me where Bruce changed."

"Umm…okay." Peter grabbed Tony's wrist (not just to guide him, but to surreptitiously keep a reading on his pulse) and started off towards where Banner had emerged from the crypts. Peter looked up and recognized the building he'd perched on top of when the White Walker sprang from the darkness and stabbed Banner.

Tony let go of Peter's hand despite the boy's resistance and paced the area. He kept his head down, poring over every inch of the snow-powdered ground beneath his feet. "Mr. Stark, what are you looking for?" Peter asked. Tony didn't answer; he was too focused on the task at hand. Several minutes passed, and Peter spoke up again, "Mr. Stark, if I was the one that badly injured, you would absolutely not let me run around in the cold like this."

"Because I'm the adult," he replied without breaking his concentration.

"You're also the one without enhanced healing powers."

"Shut up."

After about twenty minutes of relentless searching, Tony finally found it. He bent down, wincing as the movement pulled the new stitches in his side, and picked it up. He held out the object for Peter to see, and the teen scrutinized it. Realization dawned, and Peter sighed knowingly. No matter how stretchy the material, it always failed to keep up with the tensile demands of covering a massive, muscular green—in this case, white—chest. In his fist, Tony held a scrap of Bruce Banner's shirt.

~0~

When Jon finally awoke and felt strong enough to sit up, smoke from the funeral pyres filled the sky around Winterfell. Ghost rested his massive white head beside him, and Jon scratched him lovingly behind the ears. His baleful red eyes stared intently, as if asking a pressing question.

"How're you feeling?" asked the resounding voice of Tormund Giantsbane.

"Like I came back from the dead," Jon huffed.

"Don't let Sam hear you say that. I thought his eyes were gonna pop out of his skull!"

Discussing Samwell's reaction made Jon distinctly uncomfortable, so he changed the subject. "How many did we lose?"

"A lot. Your queen reports half the Dothraki and Unsullied fell."

"And the northmen?"

"They fared a bit better."

"Anyone we know?"

"Edd Tollett." The news struck Jon like a blunted training sword. He'd elected Edd his replacement as Lord Commander when he'd fled to Winterfell, had trusted the position to him. And now he'd given his life in defense of Jon's home. It was a debt that could never be repaid.

"Anyone else?"

"The Mormont."

"Lyanna?"

"No, no. She's fine. Killed a giant, actually, with the help of the spider boy." Jon smiled at the mental image of little Lyanna facing a giant. If he was that giant, he'd probably back down immediately. Lyanna Mormont, in spirit, was more bear than girl.

"How's Rhaegal?"

"A bit beaten up. But he'll be fine. A bit like you, I reckon." Jon chuckled.

"Where is the one with the shield?" he asked.

"Helping with the fires," Tormund answered.

"I have to thank him."

"We all do. I don't know what would've happened to all those kneelers if they lost their Jon Snow."

"What about you and the free folk?"

"We'd say good riddance and go back home now that you've cleaned out all the White Walkers for us!"

~0~

The survivors all crowded into the mess hall for a victory feast. Jon sat beside Dany after being carried in by Tormund, nobody trusting him to walk all that way. He looked pale and exhausted, but so did most of the people in the room. Drinks flowed freely from one end of the massive tables to another. Someone filled Peter's cup with something intoxicating, and the boy picked it up to take a sip only to be stopped by Tony.

"You're not of age," he growled, putting the cup out of reach.

"It's medieval times, there is no legal age," Peter countered. But he was silenced with a Look. Thor enjoyed himself thoroughly; Asgardian culture more closely mirrored that of this time period, and he felt right at home. He and Tormund were currently engaged in a lively discussion of how to properly cook wild swine. Arya and Natasha giggled like children in an isolated corner.

Queen Daenerys silenced the room, and all heads turned toward her. "We have won the Great War," she announced, eliciting much cheering from the assembled soldiers. "Now we will win the Last War."

"Wait, there's more?" The Avengers all met eyes, wondering how these people could possibly contemplate another war in the wake of the one they'd just fought. They knew from experience that back-to-back wars always spelled disaster.

"We will take King's Landing and oust the Usurper Cersei Lannister!" Dany called, earning more cheers. How exactly were they planning to do that with their armies devastated? "We'll rip her out root and stem."

"I am Groot!"

"Yeah, no tree metaphors!" Rocket added, effectively translating Groot-speak. Cap, unable to passively listen to this ridiculous talk, stood up and marched to the middle of the room to face Daenerys.

"You're suggesting that after narrowly winning this war, you want to immediately march off to another, unrelated conflict?"

"That is exactly what we mean to do. The Iron Throne does not belong to Cersei by any right, yet she sits upon it."

"Who cares?" Quill added his voice to Cap's dissent.

"She is a wrongful queen who must be stopped!"

"Stopped from doing what?" Bucky asked. All the natives clearly abhorred Cersei, yet none of them, with the possible exception of Tyrion, presented any solid evidence regarding why.

"From ruling the Seven Kingdoms."

"Are we in one of those kingdoms right now? Strange inquired reasonably.

"Yes, the North is a part of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros," Jon explained.

"Did Cersei order you to fight the Night King?" T'Challa questioned, his Wakandan accent raising a few eyebrows on the Westerosi's faces.

"No. We traveled to King's Landing and requested her assistance, but she lied about sending aid," Daenerys said venomously.

"So you fought this war of your own will, entirely separate from Cersei?" Natasha confirmed.

"Yes," Jon said.

"Then just live your lives like that!" Thor suggested eagerly.

"We cannot merely 'live our lives' while that tyrant sits on my throne," Daenerys explained menacingly. "As we speak, she is amassing an army to prevent our conquest of King's Landing."

"Then don't conquer King's Landing," Wanda said matter-of-factly.

"We must take King's Landing to secure the Iron Throne."

"It's just a chair," Rhodey reminded them.

"The Iron Thrones was forged in the f—"

"Yeah, we know. Forged in the fires of Balerion the Dread, all that jazz," Tony remarked. "But you've got some pretty cool dragons, too, and an equally awesome origin story. How about a throne forged in the fires of Drogon after the salvation of the human race from the Night King? You could choose who sits upon it."

The natives paused long enough to consider this prospect. To many it seemed utterly preposterous, but a few more liberally-minded people wondered why they hadn't thought of this sooner. "If we do this, word will reach Cersei and she will send her armies north to force us to bend the knee to her."

"The North is a harsh place," Tyrion finally added his voice to the tumult of opinions. "Southern soldiers and the Golden Company of Essos are not accustomed to the harsher climate. We'd stand a much better chance if they seek us out than if we take the fight to them." Tony admired the dwarf for being the first of his people to speak in favor of the Avengers' proposition. He was an influential figure among them, and swaying him was a crucial first step in preventing these people from unnecessarily marching to their doom.

"He makes a valid point," Ser Davos Seaworth commented. "Cersei is unlikely to seek us out, but she will not hesitate to fight back if we invade." Murmurs of assent traveled up and down the tables.

"The rest of the Seven Kingdoms kneel to the Iron Throne, to Cersei. They will revolt if we do something so brash."

"Not if they know what you did for them," Strange pointed out. "Royal subjects value protection, and you just saved them from the greatest possible threat while Cersei stood in her tower and drank wine. Given the choice, most will bow to you."

"They make a convincing argument," Jon said. He wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life avoiding more wars. "We are in no state to start another war."

"No more war!" someone called from the assembled crowds. Nobody could pinpoint who it was.

"No more war!" Peter Parker repeated. He didn't want to see any more of these people die, especially for no good reason.

"No more war!" Of all the people in the hall, nobody expected the Hound to be the next to speak up, yet he joined his voice to the steadily rising chorus.

"No more war! No more war! No more war!" the phrase echoed around the hall until everyone's ears pounded with it. Daenerys looked over the crowd in disbelief. All her life, she'd focused on the Iron Throne and how she'd reclaim it in the name of her family. To change that goal now seemed despicably traitorous to the Targaryen dynasty. But then she turned her gaze to Jon beside her and watched him chanting along with his people, the color returned to his face and the light returned to his eyes. She could still be a queen. She could liberate the Seven Kingdoms from the slave master that was Cersei Lannister, just as she'd done in Yunkai, Astapor, and Meereen. People would choose to bow to her of their own free will, ensuring their loyalty would be twice as strong as any imposed by fear.

Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen added her voice to the cacophony of her company: "No more war!" She met Jon's eye and he smiled wider than she'd ever known he was capable.

~0~

Aegon Targaryen forged the Iron Throne with the thousand swords surrendered to him by his subjects and the fire of his great black dragon Balerion. Daenerys Targaryen forged the Obsidian Throne with the thousand dragonglass weapons utilized to banish the Long Night and the fire of her great black dragon Drogon.

Those who'd seen the Iron Throne agreed this one was far more beautiful. The symbolism behind it made the Iron Throne look like a gnarled old stool. While everyone admired the mighty seat, Tony snuck off to complete another project. The remaining nanoparticles that made up his suit had returned to the housing unit on his chest. He didn't have enough for another suit, but he had plenty for the task he had in mind.

He popped the detachable unit off and worked on reprogramming the particles to take a new shape upon activation. He worked in silence for an hour, wishing he could play some AC/DC in the background to help him focus. When he was finally satisfied he carried his creation back to the crowd around the newly-forged throne.

Daenerys stepped up and took a seat upon the slick black surface. She'd dreamt of this moment for years and years, to sit upon the throne and look down upon her grateful subjects. As she did just this, she noticed only one thing missing: a crown. Her head felt despairingly light without anything to mark her as a rightful ruler. The crowd before her parted to reveal Stark, the man who had valiantly protected everyone in the crypts at his own expense despite the fact that he was an outsider.

He continued forward and stood before her. Daenerys's eyes lit up at the sight of the object he carried in his hands. He reached slightly towards her and paused, asking for permission to continue. She nodded eagerly, her violet eyes shining with admiration for this man. His hands drifted upwards and placed the object upon her silver hair, where it rested neatly among her intricate braids. He stepped back, revealing the hot-rod-red crown edged with gold.

~0~

Now that the Avengers had redefined the politics of an entire nation, only one issue remained: how to get home to their own dimension. The power of all six Infinity Stones had brought them here, and they suspected something of equal fortitude would be required to bring them back. Tony shot ideas back and forth with Strange, missing Bruce desperately. The scientist would be invaluable in helping figure this out. Samwell and Tyrion, apparently some of the brightest minds in Westeros, offered their knowledge as well.

"Is there a reservoir for magic within this universe? A relic of sorts?" Strange asked. "If I have access to a large quantity of existing power, I may be able to harness it to create a dimensional rift.

"What's the most magical thing you've got?" Tony paraphrased, afraid that these poor people would have no idea what the sorcerer was saying.

"We have two dragons," Tyrion offered.

"Not enough. We'd need something more…universal," Strange replied.

"What about Valyria? There has to be residual from the Doom," Samwell said.

"What's the Doom?" Tony questioned warily.

"The entire civilization was wiped out."

"By what?"

"We're not entirely sure. Something fiery."

"Let's try not to go there if at all possible," Tony insisted. "I've had enough fiery doom and gloom for a lifetime."

"Well, what about the Wall?" Samwell suggested.

"What about it?" Tyrion asked.

"It's imbued with magic. And it's huge."

"Magic and huge; that's exactly what we're looking for," Tony said.

"It's seven hundred feet high and stretches across the entire continent."

"Where is this wall?" Strange inquired.

"Just north of here."

"Can we reach it? And is it safe?"

"Yes. And it should be now that the Night King's gone. And with the new alliance between us and the wildlings, there's very little use for the Wall at all," Samwell informed them.

"Perfect. Let's do it," Tony stood up and started to head out to gather up the team.

"Stark, don't rush into this. We need a plan of action," Strange insisted.

"Right, right, a plan. Here: We go to this wall, and you do your wizard thing to use its magic to get us home. Simple enough?"

"No. It's not simple. If magic is an integral part of this wall, extracting it could be impossibly complex. Removing it without proper technique could cause a cosmic event that destroys us all."

"The Night King took down a part of the Wall without incident," Tyrion said. "According to those who were there at Eastwatch, he burned it down with Viserion the ice dragon."

"Well, we have two dragons. We could do that," Tony proposed.

"But Drogon and Rhaegal are not undead. The Night King's magics may have drastically altered the makeup of the dragonfire," Samwell explained.

"And even two dragons could only handle a small section of the Wall at once. We will need access to all its magic at once," Strange added. The group lapsed into silence as everyone pondered more strategies. Tony and Strange were at a loss, having no knowledge of the workings of this Wall.

"The Horn!" Samwell exclaimed.

"The what?" everyone else stared at him in puzzlement as he stood and began excitedly pacing.

"The Horn of Joramun. I read about it at the Citadel; legend says blowing it can bring down the Wall. That would release all the magic at once!"

"But nobody knows where it is," Tyrion countered.

"I do. I found it beyond the Wall with a cache of dragonglass weapons."

"Where has it been all this time?"

"At Castle Black, hidden in Maester Aemon's chambers."

"Why didn't you mention it sooner?"

"Well, when I found it, the Wall was still necessary to keeping wildlings and White Walkers out. If word got out that the Horn had been found, one or both of our enemies would have breached it easily."

"What are we waiting for? Let's go toot our own horn," Tony stated confidently.

~0~

The Avengers stood gathered outside the walls of Winterfell, listening to Samwell and Strange brief them on the plan. A vivid description of Castle Black would allow Strange to sling ring them a portal there—transporting things within this dimension was still possible, though he couldn't simply get them home that way. Once there, Samwell would fetch the Horn of Joramun, blow it, and hopefully the Wall would crumble, releasing all its magic. Ideally, the power would be enough to reverse the effect of Thanos's snap that had brought them here.

"Any questions?" Strange asked authoritatively once he'd concluded his briefing. The assembled Avengers all shook their heads silently. All were just eager to get home. Samwell stood next to Strange in awe as the sorcerer conjured the distinct sparkling ring of orange. Within it, they could see the massive wall of ice before them. Strange stepped aside and ushered the various Avengers through. Once Samwell—and the horse they'd prepared for his eventual trip home—stepped through, Strange followed him and the portal sealed behind them with a pop.

The Wall needed a more majestic name, Cap thought to himself. A wall was something on the side of a building, but this dwarfed any structure he'd ever seen in his lifetime. Tony wondered what marvels of medieval construction technique had allowed them to create such a monstrosity. It stretched infinitely out to either side, as if the world simply ended here. Above, it reached into the sky like the tallest of New York skyscrapers.

"Wow," came a collective gasp. Only Samwell, who'd seen it many times before, remained unfazed by the Wall's grandness. He entered Castle Black and returned a few minutes later with an ordinary-looking horn.

"You're sure this is the super-magical one?" Rhodes asked skeptically.

"Only one way to find out," Samwell replied. He looked to Strange and the two exchanged a nod. He brought his lips to the horn and exhaled. A long, low note rang out and echoed in the brisk winter air. The Avengers watched as the Wall shuddered and enormous cracks drove themselves up its face. Obviously they couldn't see magic leaking out, but the look on Strange's face betrayed the fact that he sensed an immense force. Wanda and Thor felt it too, a centuries old enchantment cracking under the pressure of the Horn's sound.

Samwell separated himself and the horse from the group of Avengers, not wanting to be transported along with them if their plan proved successful. With a resounding crunch, the structural integrity of the Wall failed and tons upon tons of ice crashed to earth. The Avengers huddled together behind Strange, who stood with his hands extended as if to soak up the released magic.

Samwell watched the sorcerer grit his teeth against the full force of the Wall's broken enchantments. He and the Avengers behind him glowed with an ice-blue aura, which steadily brightened until Samwell was forced to avert his eyes or risk blindness. He heard a snap and the snow around his feet swirled in a strong breeze. Samwell cautiously opened his eyes and watched the white powder settle on the ground once again. He looked to the spot where the Avengers had stood, and all that remained was disturbed snow. He smiled, thrilled that his idea had succeeded in returning his new friends to their homeland.

~0~

Thanos hadn't succeeded in eliminating half of the universe with his snap, but he still remained at large. How did the Avengers defeat him after returning from a medieval world overrun by an army of the undead?

It turns out Mad Titans are also vulnerable to dragonglass.