Jon Snow stood before the Night King, a chilling presence in the cold night air. His heart pounded in his chest, a drumbeat of anticipation. The battle for Westeros had begun.

Ice spiders, massive and terrifying, charged at Jon. He felt the presence of the dragon and wolf within him, an instinctual fury and cunning.

With impossible reflexes, Jon parried their attacks, his movements a blur of precision and force. His every action was a dance of survival, a dual of fates.

The fire within him roared brightly, as if answering the call of battle. He was of ice and fire, a product of two worlds clashing.

The Night King advanced, his icy gaze fixed on Jon. Their swords clashed, a shower of sparks illuminating the bleak battlefield.

Suddenly, Jon's sword ignited in a sinister green fire, the shade of wildfire. It bathed the battlefield in an eerie glow, casting long and twisted shadows.

The Night King recoiled, taken aback. Jon seized the opportunity, pressing his attack. His every movement was calculated, the wolf within him guiding his actions.

With a swift, decisive strike, Jon removed the Night King's head. The battlefield fell silent, the only sound the soft hiss of Jon's flaming sword.

As the Night King's head rolled away, the wights and white walkers exploded or collapsed in heaps. The icy threat to Westeros was finally vanquished.

Jon stood alone amidst the wreckage, his chest heaving with exertion. His sword extinguished, returning to its normal state. He had saved Westeros.

The sun began to rise, casting a warm glow over the battlefield. Jon knew then, the long night was over. Westeros was safe at last.