Juego De Tronos - Temporada 6 | Works 100%

Then Ghost stirred. Jon’s fingers twitched. His eyes flew open, gasping for air as if surfacing from a deep, dark sea. He was alive. The Lord of Light wasn’t finished with him. But Jon Snow was changed. He was hollow-eyed, quieter. "I was betrayed," he said. And he hanged the men who murdered him, one by one, watching the life drain from Olly’s young face without a flicker of mercy. The boy was gone. The man was cold.

And in the North, the wolves howled. The snow fell. The long night was no longer coming. It had arrived. Season six was the season of resurrection—not just of bodies, but of identities. Jon Snow rose from death as a king. Sansa rose from victim as a player. Daenerys rose from slavery as a conqueror. Cersei rose from shame as a tyrant. And Arya rose from no one as a wolf. The old world—Ned’s honor, Tywin’s order, the game of thrones played by men who believed in seasons—was over. Winter had come. And in the darkness, the only thing that mattered was fire and ice. The song was just beginning its final verse. Juego de Tronos - Temporada 6

While the Tyrells and the Sparrows fought, Cersei let her enemies gather in the Great Sept of Baelor for Margaery Tyrell’s trial. The High Sparrow, the Faith Militant, Kevan Lannister, Margaery, Loras—all of them. And beneath the Sept, three hundred casks of wildfire lay waiting. A child—Qyburn’s little bird—lit a candle. Then Ghost stirred

In the Temple of the Dosh Khaleen, surrounded by the mightiest Khals of every tribe, she overturned the braziers. Fire erupted. The Khals screamed, their painted vests catching flame like dry parchment. Daenerys walked through the inferno, naked and unburnt, her silver hair untouched. When the doors opened, the Dothraki fell to their knees. A hundred thousand screamers had found their new queen. "All riders must join the khalasar or die," she declared. She now commanded the largest horde the world had ever seen. He was alive

At Winterfell, Jon Snow stood in the godswood before the weirwood tree. He had no claim, no desire to be king. But Sansa had told him the truth: He was not Ned Stark’s bastard. He was the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. The heir to the Iron Throne. He stared into the tree’s carved face, and for a moment, he heard a whisper: Promise me, Ned.