292 AC
Castle Black
Third Person POV
The relentless wind, a constant companion in the Far North, tore across the frozen plains, whipping against the towering, impossible expanse of the Wall. Its ancient ice, a thousand feet high and miles long, seemed to hum with a fading magic, a mournful whisper against the encroaching darkness. Below its colossal shadow, the desolate, icy wastes stretched into an unforgiving horizon.
But within the protective embrace of this ancient barrier, and across the vast, snow-covered lands to its south, a different kind of sound now filled the air. Not the quiet vigil of the Night's Watch, but the immense, throbbing heartbeat of a continent united. Castle Black, the grim bastion of the sworn brothers, was no longer a solitary outpost. It had become the nexus of Westeros's defiance.
The grounds surrounding Castle Black, once barren and windswept, were now a sprawling, temporary city of military might. Tents, thousands upon thousands, stretched to the horizon, their varied colors a patchwork quilt against the stark white of the snow. The banners of every great house in Westeros, from the fiery dragon of the Targaryens to the stark direwolf of the North, fluttered in the relentless wind, a solemn, unifying display of force.
The air itself vibrated with the collective energy of 400,000 soldiers, an army unprecedented in the history of the realm. This was not merely a muster; this was the entirety of Westeros's fighting strength, brought to bear against an enemy that defied all known warfare. The very ground seemed to tremble under the sheer weight of so many men, so many horses, so much steel.
The scent of woodsmoke, thick and pungent, mingled with the earthy smell of damp leather, the metallic tang of polished armor, and the nervous sweat of a quarter-million men. The clang of hammers, the shouts of officers, the distant rumble of supply wagons, the disciplined tramp of marching boots – these were the sounds of humanity's final preparation.
On top of the Wall, a thin, determined line of 30,000 manned soldiers stood vigilant. Their figures, dwarfed by the immense scale of the ice, were nevertheless resolute. They were the first line of defense, the watchful eyes peering into the gathering storm beyond. Their breaths plumed into frosty clouds, their weapons glinted in the perpetual twilight of the Northern sky, their faces etched with a grim, unwavering resolve.
Above them, soaring through the desolate sky, were the terrifying, magnificent beasts of fire and ice. Ten great fire dragons of House Targaryen, their scales shimmering with shades of crimson, gold, and bronze, their massive wings beating with powerful, rhythmic strokes, circled above the frozen landscape. Their roars, deep and resonant, echoed across the icy plains, a sound of ancient power, a warning to the encroaching darkness. They were awe-inspiring, fearsome, and utterly vital.
And alongside them, sometimes circling in graceful, chilling silence, were the fifteen ice dragons of Asgard. Their scales, translucent and crystalline, caught the sparse light, making them seem like living glaciers in the air. Their eyes glowed with an ethereal, icy blue light, and their breath, a chilling mist, trailed behind them. These ancient creatures, bound to the Starks by blood and magic, moved with an almost preternatural quiet, their presence a stark, beautiful contrast to the fiery might of the Targaryens.
A constant aerial vigil was maintained, with six dragons – three fire, three ice – always patrolling the Wall's immense length. Their watchful eyes, both keen and magical, pierced the perpetual twilight beyond, searching for any sign of the advancing horror, any hint of movement in the vast, white void.
A truly unnerving development had been confirmed in the past few days. The fire dragons, the Targaryen beasts, could now, with startling ease, move beyond the Wall. This had been a feat considered impossible for millennia, as the Wall's ancient enchantments had always repelled them, preventing passage to the magical beings of the South. This chilling shift suggested that the very magic of the Wall, its protective enchantment, was indeed fading, perhaps eroded by the relentless, encroaching power of the Others. It was a terrifying confirmation that the enemy was not merely physical but magical, its power already beginning to seep into the very foundations of the world, weakening humanity's ultimate defense.
Then, the final, grim news had arrived. Delivered by the swift messengers of the Night's Watch, corroborated by the ethereal whispers of the wargs who constantly pierced the veil of the unknown, sacrificing their minds to observe the enemy. The dead were close. Two days. Two days away from the Wall. The final countdown, the terrifying, inevitable beginning of the Long Night, had begun.
Within the frigid, stone-hewn War Room of Castle Black, a space usually reserved for the grim, solitary deliberations of the Night's Watch leadership, the most powerful men in Westeros were now gathered. The room was sparse, utilitarian, designed for purpose rather than comfort, its rough-hewn stone walls lined with hastily drawn maps of the North, crude sketches of defensive positions, and ancient carvings depicting horrors long forgotten. A large, worn wooden table, scarred by centuries of use and etched with the marks of countless previous commanders, dominated the center of the room.
The air was heavy, thick with the unsaid, with the sense of destiny and dread that hung over every soul present. Every face in the room, from the hardened warriors to the calculating lords, bore the indelible mark of the dire circumstances. This was not a meeting of politics or pleasantries; it was a council of war, a desperate last stand.
At the head of the table, a stark juxtaposition of fire and ice, sat King Maekar Targaryen and King Rickard Stark. Maekar, regal and unbowed, his silver hair a beacon in the dim light, exuded an aura of calm authority, though the lines around his eyes spoke of sleepless nights. Beside him, Rickard, grim and unyielding, his dark eyes holding a deep, ancient wisdom, sat like a pillar of Northern stone, embodying the very spirit of his unforgiving land. The two Kings, representing the South's might and the North's resilience, were united against a common, existential foe.
Around the table sat their royal families, the living symbols of their power:
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the Crown Prince, ever the scholar and warrior, his eyes sharp and analytical, already dissecting the grim possibilities. His face, usually serene, was taut with a grim determination.
Prince Baelor Targaryen, hot-headed and direct, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword, his eagerness for direct combat barely contained.
Prince Aelor Targaryen, Hand of the King, his face etched with the strain of countless decisions and the profound worry of his monarch.
Prince Aerion Targaryen, Lord of the Stepstones, his usual arrogance replaced by a grim, if still self-assured, understanding of the severity of the threat.
Prince Brandon Stark, his eyes holding a profound, unsettling knowledge, his silence often more impactful than any speech. He surveyed the room with an almost preternatural calm.
Prince Eddard Stark, steadfast and honorable, his jaw set in firm resolve, embodying the unflinching duty of his house.
Prince Benjen Stark, the youngest, now a sworn brother of the Night's Watch, his youthful eagerness tempered by the gravity of his new reality, his gaze fixed intently on the older commanders.
Across from them sat the Lord Paramounts, the pillars of the South, their presence a testament to the unprecedented unity of the realm, their faces reflecting the unique burdens of their lands:
Lord Tywin Lannister, his face impassive, his green eyes assessing everything with cold, precise calculation, already weighing men against objectives.
Lord Mace Tyrell, his usual boisterousness subdued, a nervous energy about him, clearly out of his element in the harsh Northern climes.
Lord Robert Baratheon, grim-faced, his usual joviality replaced by a simmering intensity, his thick brow furrowed, eager for a fight.
Lord Jon Arryn, old and wise, his gaze steady, burdened by the historical echoes of this moment, a pillar of calm amidst the rising storm.
Lord Edmure Tully, earnest and worried, looking out of his depth yet determined to contribute to the realm's defense.
Prince Obreyn Martell, his face unreadable, his quiet intelligence observing every nuance of the room, his long-term strategies now put to the ultimate test.
And surrounding them, representing the grim heart of the North, were its major Northern Lords, their hardened faces reflecting centuries of vigilance against the very threat now upon them:
Lord Rickon Skoll, from the Moat, his face weathered like ancient stone, his eyes sharp with the knowledge of winter's true terror.
Lord Rykar Lothbrok, a fierce warrior, his beard grizzled, his hand resting on the pommel of his greatsword.
Lord Torrhen Karstark, his features as stark as his name, resolute and unyielding.
Lord Jon Umber, a giant of a man, his gruff demeanor belying a deep-seated loyalty.
Lord Roose Bolton, a chillingly calm figure, his eyes holding a disturbing glint, even in the face of universal dread.
Lord Rodrick Ryswell, a cunning and adaptable lord from the western North, his gaze intelligent and keen.
Also present were the grim-faced military leaders: the Kingsguard Commander, Ser Barristan Selmy, a paragon of knightly virtue, standing silent and watchful beside King Maekar; and William Dustin, the Wolf Pack Commander, a grim, battle-hardened veteran of the Northern armies, chosen for his strategic prowess and unflinching loyalty, standing near King Rickard.
King Rickard Stark cleared his throat, his voice, though not loud, cut through the heavy silence, instantly commanding attention. "My Lords, Princes. We have gathered. The wargs have reported. The dead are two days away. Two days, and the Long Night begins anew. We have rallied. We have gathered the greatest army Westeros has ever seen. Now, we must plan. We must decide how best to wield this strength."
Rickard Stark continued, his gaze sweeping over the assembled lords. "The Wall is our shield. But a shield needs a hand to wield it, and a sword to strike. We need to assign commanders to the key forts along the Wall. Castle Black, Shadow Tower, Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. These are the crucial points. Who will hold them? And who will command the men atop the Wall itself, the vanguard against the storm?"
Lord Tywin Lannister, ever pragmatic, spoke first, his voice cold and precise, cutting through the heavy air. "My legions are disciplined, Your Grace. They excel at defense. I propose my forces, under my direct command, man Castle Black. It is the strongest point, and requires absolute control."
Mace Tyrell, though a bit flushed, pushed his chest out. "Highgarden's knights are renowned, Your Grace! We could hold Eastwatch. A strong naval presence there could deter any flanking movements from the sea, should the Others somehow try to bypass the Wall via the ice."
Lord Umber, his gruff voice rumbling, spoke up. "The Shadow Tower, Your Grace, should be held by men who know the mountains, who know the passes. My sons, and the mountain clans, would be best suited to guard its ancient ways."
Robert Baratheon slammed a fist on the table, a booming sound in the confined space. "Put me on the Wall, Your Grace! Give me a hammer and thirty thousand men! I'll bash every one of those frozen bastards back to hell myself!"
Jon Arryn, ever thoughtful, raised a hand. "While the enthusiasm is appreciated, Lord Robert, the Wall requires precise, coordinated command. I propose a unified command structure on the Wall itself. Perhaps Lord Ryswell, with his keen understanding of Northern logistics and his own cavalry, could oversee patrols along the top."
Lord Karstark spoke, his voice firm. "My house has bled for the North for centuries. Our men are strong, hardened. We will hold whichever fort is deemed most critical, Your Graces."
Edmure Tully wrung his hands, his concern palpable. "My men are good fighters, Your Grace, but the Riverlands are open. We are not accustomed to ice and snow. We would serve best in support, perhaps ensuring supply lines or defending a strategic point behind the Wall, keeping the flow of men and material constant."
Prince Obreyn Martell, his face impassive, spoke softly, his voice a quiet counterpoint to the more impassioned Northern lords. "Dornish spears are swift, Your Graces. We are not accustomed to static defense. We would be best suited for mobile engagement, for striking where least expected, should the line falter, to cut off their flanks or rear."
Lord Bolton, his gaze unnervingly calm, offered, "My men are... disciplined. They will obey any command, anywhere. If a breach requires a desperate, suicidal stand, my house is ready to provide it."
King Maekar listened to each lord, his expression unchanged, absorbing their strengths and weaknesses. Rickard merely observed, his dark eyes missing nothing, evaluating every proposition.
"And then," King Maekar continued, his voice grave, cutting through the various proposals, "the truly terrifying question. What do we do if the Wall is breached? What if they somehow break through? This enemy... it does not eat. It does not rest. It is relentless. It feels no pain. It feels no fear. It simply advances. How do we fight an endless, tireless horde that cannot truly die? How do we stop the tide if it washes over us?"
A palpable shiver went through the room. The question hung in the air, a terrifying reality that none had truly faced before. Human armies could retreat, could regroup, could starve an enemy out. Not this one. It was a foe of a fundamentally different nature.
It was then that Prince Brandon Stark, who had been silent for a long while, his gaze fixed on the crude map of the North spread across the large wooden table, finally spoke. His voice was low, calm, almost detached, yet it commanded immediate, absolute attention from every man in the room. His stillness seemed to draw all eyes to him, sensing a truth about to be unveiled.
"Your Grace," Brandon began, his eyes lifting to meet Maekar's, then Rickard's, and finally sweeping across the faces of the assembled lords. "My Lords. We cannot fight this enemy like a traditional war. A prolonged war, a war of attrition, we will lose. Their numbers are endless. Our numbers are finite. Our resources are finite. Theirs are the very dead beneath our feet, rising with every casualty we suffer."
He paused, letting the grim truth sink into the very marrow of their bones. The enormity of the statement resonated in the silence. Then, his voice gained a chilling, precise clarity, each word weighed, each phrase imbued with a terrible logic.
"Our main target must be the Night King," Brandon declared, his words ringing with conviction. "Once he is dealt with, the war will be over. The dead will fall, inert once more. Their source of power, their animating force, will be severed." He tapped a finger on the map, far beyond the Wall, in the uncharted territories of the Land of Always Winter.
"Our wargs," Brandon continued, explaining the vital role of his unique Northern assets, "they have been constantly scanning the lands beyond the Wall. They pierce the veil, enduring the cold, sacrificing their minds to pinpoint his exact location. They will continue to do so, throughout the battle. They are our eyes in the darkness, our crucial intelligence."
"Once we know where he is," Brandon outlined, his voice growing firmer, laying out a terrifying, yet possibly only, strategy, "we should make our way towards him. With our best cavalry, our swiftest, most disciplined riders, supplemented by our own dragons. It must be a surgical strike, a desperate gamble, a piercing thrust at the heart of their darkness. We should take him as soon as possible. It cannot be delayed. This is our only path to victory."
"We cannot have a prolonged war with this enemy," Brandon reiterated, his voice firm, echoing the grim reality of their situation. "Every day that passes, more of our living will die, and more of their dead will rise to swell their ranks. We must end it swiftly, at its source, before the tide becomes truly insurmountable."
Then, his gaze flickered, a new layer of profound concern entering his usually cold eyes. "And then there is Euron Greyjoy. If he truly has the dragonhorn, that dark relic he is rumored to possess, the very horn that binds and commands the wild dragons, then the Valyrian dragons, the fire dragons of House Targaryen, are vulnerable."
A collective gasp went through the room. The horn's legendary power over dragons, even those bonded to riders, was a terrifying thought. If Euron could command the wild dragons, he could command the others too, turning Westeros's greatest weapon against itself. The thought was chilling.
"The fire dragons," Brandon explained, his voice grim, "can only truly join the battle once that horn is taken care of. They are too vulnerable to be controlled, to be turned against us. We cannot risk such a catastrophic betrayal. The ice dragons, our dragons, are immune to the horn's magic, being creatures of a different essence. They will be our initial aerial defense. They will buy time."
He then looked at King Maekar, then to the Kingsguard Commander. "We have barrels of wildfire. Lots of them. Stockpiled over the years. We should prepare them for launch. They can be hurled from the Wall, from the catapults, or even carried by our ice dragons, dropping them with precision."
"We can launch them towards the dead," Brandon proposed, his eyes burning with a grim strategic fire, "and ignite them. This will destroy numbers of the dead, creating a fiery barrier, It will make sure the dead do not come near the Wall, We can use their mindless hunger for life, their attraction to heat, against them, forcing them into a killing zone."
A tense, absolute silence followed Brandon's words. His plan was audacious, desperate, and terrifyingly logical. It hinged on swift, decisive action, on using their enemy's nature against them, and on a perilous, almost suicidal, strike at the very heart of the darkness. It was a plan born of necessity, of the understanding that conventional warfare against the dead was futile.
Lord Tywin Lannister's eyes narrowed, weighing the audacity of the plan against its cold, strategic brilliance. "A high risk," he mused, his voice devoid of emotion, "but if the Night King is truly the key, then it is the only path that offers any hope of decisive victory."
Mace Tyrell looked pale, but even he nodded slowly, a shiver running through him at the sheer scale of the gamble. Robert Baratheon, however, grinned, a flash of his old, battle-hungry self returning. "A bloody charge at the bastard himself! Aye, that's a plan I can get behind, My King! Let me lead the vanguard!"
Jon Arryn stroked his beard, his brow furrowed in deep thought. "The wargs' continuous tracking will be paramount, Prince Brandon. And the cavalry must be chosen with utmost care. This is not a charge for glory, but for the very survival of all."
Prince Oberyn Martell, his face still unreadable, gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod of agreement. "A desperate gamble. But as Prince Brandon said, a prolonged war against this enemy is suicide. Precision is our only weapon against overwhelming numbers."
Lord Skoll, his face grim, simply grunted in agreement. "We will find him, Prince. Our wargs are ready."
Lord Lothbrok clenched his fist. "And our riders will ride. No matter the cost."
Lord Bolton, his lips barely curving into a faint, chilling smile, nodded. "A quick, decisive cut. Efficient."
King Maekar Targaryen looked at King Rickard, a silent understanding passing between them. The prophecy, the enemy, the final, terrifying conflict that their ancestors had foretold. Brandon's plan, born of Northern understanding and Asgardian insight, resonated with the ancient truths of their joined houses.
"Then it is settled," King Maekar said, his voice firm, filled with renewed purpose, the weight of his crown settling heavily upon his brow. "The strategy is clear. We will strike at the head. We will fight them at the Wall. And we will send our champions to face their King."
Rickard nodded, his gaze unwavering, a silent promise of support. "We will ensure our wargs are relentless, Your Grace. The moment the Night King reveals himself, the signal will go out. We will not fail."
The discussion continued, though less about the overall strategy and more about the grim details of its execution: which specific cavalry units would be chosen for the Night King strike, the precise communication protocols for the wargs, the exact placement of the wildfire stockpiles, and the specific commands for each fort. Lord Skoll would command the Shadow Tower, Lord Karstark Eastwatch, while Tywin Lannister would take command of Castle Black itself, leveraging his strategic prowess. Lord Umber would be put in charge of the main Northern host's ground defense, while Roose Bolton, would command the Wall's central defenses, Robert Baratheon, perhaps to his delight, would command Cavalry.
Finally, after long hours of intense deliberation, the grim council drew to a close. The grim-faced leaders rose from the table, their chairs scraping across the stone floor. The weight of their decisions pressed heavily upon each of them, but also a grim, desperate determination.
They moved towards the door, their steps resolute, their faces hardened. The world was on the brink, and they were the last defense. The cold of the North, the chilling reality of the approaching enemy, now seemed to pervade the very air of Castle Black, seeping into their bones.
They filed out of the War Room, leaving the large wooden table, its maps, and its weighty decisions behind. The silence of the room, once filled with their voices, now seemed to hold the echoes of a coming battle, the grim certainty of a fight for survival. The Long Night was truly here, and Westeros, for the first time in millennia, was ready to meet it.