292 AC
The Wall
Third Person POV
Every man and woman, from the grizzled Night's Watch veterans to the freshly mustered levies from the South, from the grim Northern clansmen to the disciplined legions of the Reach, held their breath, their weapons clutched tight in gloved hands. The air was thick with the scent of fear, of damp wool, and the metallic tang of cold steel.
Along the battlements, hundreds of wildfire barrels stood ready, their wicks primed, their contents an ominous green glow in the gloom. Catapults and scorpions, massive war engines assembled with feverish haste, were aimed towards the unknown, their mechanisms groaning under the tension of their loaded payloads.
The silence was absolute, broken only by the shriek of the wind and the nervous shifting of feet on the icy battlements. Below, stretching into the abyssal blackness of the Land of Always Winter, nothing could be seen. The night was a profound, suffocating dark, deeper than any natural shadow, impenetrable by torchlight. It was as if the world itself had swallowed the enemy whole.
Then, a low, guttural rumbling began. It came from the very foundations of the Wall, from deep beneath the colossal ice. A soft, growing vibration that resonated through the stone and ice, rising steadily, chillingly. It was the sound of something immense, something countless, approaching from the other side.
The rumbling grew louder, a deep, resonant growl that shook the very ground. It was the sound of a vast, unseen multitude, advancing with an inexorable, terrifying momentum. The cold intensified, seeping into the very marrow of their bones, a precursor to the unnatural chill that was about to descend.
Then, the rumbling was joined by a sickening, rhythmic thudding. It was the sound of bodies hitting the gates, the massive, reinforced Steel and iron doors at the foot of the Wall. Not just a few, but a continuous, grinding impact, a relentless battering that spoke of sheer, overwhelming numbers. The gatehouse groaned, protesting under the strain, a horrifying echo in the darkness.
A guttural roar ripped through the night, a chilling, inhuman sound that seemed to emanate from the very heart of the approaching darkness. It was the signal.
From the central command tower of Castle Black, a single, fiery beacon flared into the night sky, its crimson glow piercing the gloom. It was the pre-arranged signal.
"FIRE!" the command boomed from a thousand throats along the Wall's length. "DROP THE WILDFIRE! LOOSE THE ARROWS!"
With a synchronized effort, the wildfire barrels were released. They tumbled from the top of the Wall, dark, ominous shapes plummeting into the unseen void below. They struck the ground with sickening thuds, some cracking open, spewing their viscous, glowing green contents into the darkness.
Then, a rain of fire arrows followed. Thousands of flaming projectiles streaked downwards, tracing fiery arcs against the blackness. They landed amongst the fallen barrels, igniting the spilled wildfire with a furious, instantaneous burst of green-tinged flame.
A colossal, emerald inferno erupted at the foot of the Wall. The sudden, unnatural light illuminated a scene of unimaginable horror and staggering scale.
They could now see the dead. They were not a marching army, but a vast, undulating wave of corpses. Humans, their bodies desiccated, skeletal, or horribly bloated, pressed forward with an unstoppable, mindless purpose. They were a living tide of death, their numbers beyond counting.
Interspersed among the human dead were grotesque, horrifying forms. Lumbering giants, their immense bodies shambling forward, their dead eyes burning with cold blue light. Animals, bears, wolves, great elk, distorted and skeletal, their flesh ripped, but still moving with chilling, unnatural speed. And worst of all, scuttling on countless legs, terrifyingly swift, were monstrous, skeletal ice spiders, their icy eyes glowing with malevolent intelligence, their venomous fangs glinting in the green light. The sight was a nightmare made real, a horrifying, endless mass of death.
As the green flames illuminated the horrors below, a chilling new sight emerged from the perpetual gloom above the horde. Against the backdrop of the icy sky, dragons with glowing blue eyes descended. These were the former wild dragons of Dragonstone, now resurrected, their bodies mottled with rime and decay, their roars replaced by rasping, guttural sounds of death.
There were twenty of them, led by the colossal, undead form of Cannibal. Their descent was swift, terrifying, straight for the Wall.
Upon the Wall, the ice dragon riders of Asgard, mounted on their magnificent, living dragons, reacted instantly. They had been patrolling, anticipating this. Their beasts, their scales shimmering with ethereal light, were already in motion.
"Engage them! Do not let them touch the Wall!" the command rippled through the Northern riders, their voices firm, devoid of fear.
With piercing shrieks that cut through the cold air, the ice dragons surged forward. They were slightly larger than many of the undead dragons, their living forms more agile, their movements fluid and powerful. They met the charging undead dragons head-on, a clash of elemental forces.
The sky became a maelstrom of beating wings, clashing scales, and roaring beasts. The ice dragons fought with a savage grace, their bodies imbued with ancient power. They aimed to intercept, to push back, to distract. Their primary objective: to hold off the dead dragons so they could not destroy the Wall. It was a desperate aerial ballet, a swirling dogfight against overwhelming odds.
While this aerial battle raged, a terrifying new threat emerged. The wargs, their minds pushed to their limits, their visions strained by the chaos below, managed to pinpoint a specific target. A message, urgent and terrifying, flashed through the telepathic network to the command tower.
"Euron Greyjoy! On a dead dragon! Size of Vermithor! Approaching fast!"
Indeed, a massive, undead dragon, its decaying wings beating with sickening force, was visible now, separate from the main aerial engagement. Upon its rime-covered back sat a dark, lone figure, his form distorted by the distance, but his intent clear. It was Euron Greyjoy, heading directly for the Wall.
He was fast, his undead mount seemingly impervious to the constant struggle of the other wild dragons. As he drew near, his form became clearer. In his hand, raised high, was the dragonhorn, its obsidian surface glowing with an ominous, pulsating light.
When he was near the Wall, within striking distance, Euron brought the horn to his lips. He took a deep breath, and unleashed a chilling, resonant blast that cut through the sounds of battle, a sound of ancient, binding magic.
Below, in the encampments, the Targaryen bonded fire dragons began to react. Their majestic heads snapped up, their eyes widening in pain and confusion. They started to struggle, to buck, to defy the commands of their riders. The bond, a deep, ancient connection between dragon and rider, was immense, but it was being strained to its very limit. The horn's power was agonizing, a psychic assault on their very wills.
Their riders, the Targaryen princes and princesses, gripped their saddles, their faces pale with effort. They began to speak, to urge, to command their dragons in High Valyrian, their voices filled with desperate pleas. "Calm, my love! Resist! Remember our bond! Remember your rider!"
The dragons roared in defiance, their bodies writhing, their minds locked in a terrifying battle against the horn's dark magic. Some bucked so violently that their riders clung on for dear life.
Euron Greyjoy, a maniacal grin splitting his face, raised his horn again, preparing for a second, even more devastating blast, and urged his undead mount to breathe fire at the Wall, aiming to unleash a full blow.
At that critical moment, a new, powerful roar ripped through the sky. From behind the Targaryen encampment, moving with a speed that belied his massive size, Prince Brandon Stark entered the fray. He was astride his own ice dragon, Winter, a magnificent beast of crystalline scales and icy breath.
Winter, responding to Brandon's urgent command, soared directly into Euron's path. Brandon, a grim determination on his face, maneuvered Winter with expert precision, intercepting Euron just as the madman was about to unleash the full force of his undead dragon's breath upon the Wall.
The two dragons collided in mid-air, a sickening crunch of ice and decaying bone against living scale. The impact diverted Euron's dragon, sending its fiery breath harmlessly into the snowy plain to the side.
However, a section of the Wall's top, already weakened by the fading magic, was caught in the periphery of the blow. The stone and ice groaned, a massive crack snaking across its surface, and a chunk of the battlement was damaged. But it still held. The line was bent, but not broken.
A collective sigh of relief swept through the soldiers on the Wall, a ragged, desperate sound of triumph. Brandon Stark had arrived just in time.
Euron Greyjoy, his eyes blazing with fury at the interruption, urged his undead dragon to engage Winter. The two dragons, one of living ice, one of undead fire, clashed in a brutal, aerial duel.
Brandon and Euron fought with their dragons for a while, a terrifying dance of death in the frigid sky. Winter moved with powerful, deliberate strikes, attempting to overwhelm the undead beast, while Euron's dragon, fueled by dark magic, was relentless, feeling no pain.
Brandon, his face grim, realized this prolonged engagement was dangerous. He looked at the struggling Targaryen dragons below, their minds still battling the horn. He needed to end this. Now.
With a cold, calculating resolve, Brandon changed into his half-lycan form. His body swelled, muscles rippling under his clothes. His skin hardened, his teeth sharpened, and his eyes glowed with an animalistic intensity. He quickly removed his harness, letting it fall, and stood, balanced precariously, on Winter's back.
As Winter gained the upper hand, pushing Euron's undead dragon higher, gaining superior position, Brandon seized the moment. With a powerful, almost inhuman leap, he jumped from Winter's back onto the decaying hide of the undead dragon.
He landed on its back with a sickening crunch. His sharpened nails, embedded themselves deep into the dead dragon's leathery, icy skin, providing a firm grip, preventing him from being dislodged by its writhing. Euron, turning to face this impossible attack, looked utterly shocked, his single blue eye widening in disbelief. He had not anticipated such a desperate, feral move.
Brandon moved with the speed of a predator. Before Euron could fully react, before he could raise the horn again, Brandon lunged. His powerful, transformed hand clamped around Euron's neck, twisting with brutal, efficient force. With a sickening snap, Brandon took his head, cleanly severing it from his body. Euron's body slumped, lifeless, falling from the dragon's back into the darkness below.
As Euron's headless corpse tumbled, the dragonhorn, clutched at his waist, became visible. Brandon snatched it, his grip firm. With a primal roar of triumph, he brought his other hand down, crushing the ancient, obsidian horn into countless fragments. The dark, binding magic that had tormented the dragons immediately dissipated, a palpable wave of freedom washing over the Targaryen beasts below.
Brandon then ordered Winter, telepathically, to come near him. His own ice dragon, its eyes blazing with fierce pride, moved swiftly. Brandon, still in his half-lycan form, leaped back onto Winter's back, his powerful legs absorbing the impact.
With the horn gone, Brandon turned his attention back to Euron's now-riderless dead dragon. It was a still-dangerous threat, a puppet of the Night King's will. With a roar of grim determination, Brandon reached for one of the dragonglass spears that were attached to Winter's saddle, prepared for just such an encounter.
He aimed, then thrust with all his might. The dragonglass spear, sharp as a razor and imbued with the magic of the North, pierced the dead dragon's neck, shattering its icy core, delivering a final, definitive blow. The undead dragon shuddered, its blue eyes fading, and it plunged from the sky, a lifeless hulk.
Brandon's chest heaved. He had done it. He had removed Euron, destroyed the horn, and cleared the way. He was about to raise his hand, about to send the signal to King Maekar, about to command the fire dragons to unleash their fury upon the dead, now that they were free.
But before he could finish giving the command, a new, colossal shadow fell over the Wall. A terrifying, rasping roar tore through the air, shaking the very ice.
He looked up. And then he saw it. Cannibal. The largest of the undead dragons, its immense, black, decaying body now flying at full speed, directly towards the Wall. It was a horrifying vision of ancient power resurrected.
Cannibal, unchecked and unbound, opened its massive maw. A torrent of blue, unnatural fire erupted from its throat, a chilling, destructive inferno. It was not mere flame, but something colder, more potent, a deathly fire that seemed to consume life itself.
The blue fire washed over a section of the Wall, not far from where the previous damage had occurred. The ancient ice groaned, protested, then fractured. With a deafening, cataclysmic roar, a vast section of the Wall was destroyed, crumbling inwards, sending tons of ice and stone crashing to the ground.
A gaping gap now stood in the shield of Westeros. And through it, with an unstoppable, relentless surge, the dead started moving. The endless wave of the dead, no longer held back, poured through the breach, their numbers seemingly infinite, their blue eyes burning with cold malice. The Long Night had truly begun.