Hers Is The Fury

Second Wave

[King's Landing]

The first wave of wights had been defeated, but the survivors had retreated, leaving behind a trail of death and destruction in their wake.

As the second wave of wights poured into King's Landing, the soldiers knew they needed something more than just swords and arrows to take down the undead horde. They had heard rumors of a weapon that could pierce through the wight's unnatural armor - the scorpion ballista.

Theon Greyjoy, once the prince of the Iron Islands, now a broken man after his torture at the hands of Ramsay Bolton, was tasked with manning one of these powerful machines. He climbed up onto the wooden platform, his heart racing as he looked out over the battlefield.

"Ready?" shouted the soldier next to him.

Theon nodded, gripping the lever tightly. He could see the Night King, perched atop Viserion, leading the charge. The dragon's eyes glowed blue, its scales gleaming in the sunlight.

"Fire!" roared the commander, and Theon pulled the lever, sending a bolt soaring towards the dragon. At the last second, Viserion swerved, avoiding the bolt, disappearing in the sky.

When he reappeared, the Night King was not on his back. Where he was, was anyone's guess.

Theon wasted no time, and loaded another bolt into the scorpion. He aimed and waited patiently for an opportunity to present itself.

When it had, he pulled the lever, releasing another bolt.

It struck true, embedding itself deep into Viserion's wing. The dragon let out a deafening roar and began to plummet towards the ground, its wings flailing wildly.

To many, it was a beautiful sight, but also a dangerous one - for if their allies dragons came too close to the scorpions, they risked being struck by the deadly projectiles.

In one of the many abandoned homes, Arya Stark slowly opened her eyes, groggily taking in her surroundings.

As she sat up, she felt a sharp pain shoot through her left arm, reminding her of the dragon fire that Drogon had spewed during her failed assassination attempt on Daenerys. A quarter of her right arm was burned and blistered.

She looked up, feeling eyes on her. She could faintly make out short blonde hair.

"Careful, my lady," a voice said from beside her. "You were gravely injured."

"Brienne?" Arya called out, her voice hoarse. "Is that you?"

Arya turned her head to see a figure appear before her, silhouetted by the faint light filtering in through the broken ceiling. It was Brienne of Tarth, her face etched with concern as she knelt beside Arya.

"Thank the Seven, you're awake," Brienne said, relief evident in her voice. "I feared for your life when I found you unconscious in the street."

Arya scowled, remembering the events that had led her here. "Did I succeed?" she asked bluntly, her mind still foggy from her injuries.

Brienne hesitated, her expression falling into one of sorrow. "No, my lady. I'm afraid not. The Dragon Queen survived your attack. Her dragon carried her away."

Arya's anger flared, hot and bitter, like bile rising in her throat. She had come so close to ending the reign of terror that had plagued Westeros for so long, only to fail miserably.

"Then I will go after Cersei," Arya declared, determination etched across her face. "She has always been my true target."

Brienne raised an eyebrow, concern written across her features. "My lady, please reconsider. You have already come so far, risked so much. Is it worth it for one life?"