Jon looked around, sword in hand, gasping for breath, yet no more wraiths followed. The minutes ticked painfully, but only deafening silence met him; they had done it. With a weary sigh, Jon sagged onto the saddle like a puppet with its strings cut. Winter's titanic form, heaving heavily, slumped onto the glassy ground, making the world shake for a few heartbeats and cracking the surrounding brittle surface like an enormous cobweb. The stench of rot, death, and decay was gone, replaced with smoke and ash.