It had been done. The Night King had been slain.
Everyone had seen Drogon fighting the Ice Dragon. Everyone had seen both dragons crash into the mountainside. Some soldiers had even claimed to have seen Jon Snow leap from Rhaegal. But, without a doubt, everyone heard Viserion’s shriek as Longclaw cut him open from throat to tail. Everyone saw as a pillar of blue fire rose into the sky.
What most failed to realize was that that had not been the end of the battle. The Night King had emerged from the husk of his undead thrall. And while Jon Snow had the love of the North, of the Mother of Dragons bolstering his strength, the Night King had centuries of warfare and experience and strength borne of the darkest magics. The King of the North put up a valiant fight, but his frozen foe buried his spear in Jon’s chest without ever changing the expression on his face.
In the end, in mankind’s darkest hour, it was Arya who saved the day. The youngest surviving Stark thrust her Valyrian steel dagger in the Night King’s back, piercing his frozen husk of a heart.