292 AC
The Wall
Third Person POV
The roaring cacophony of ice and stone tearing apart vibrated through every bone in the bodies of the 30,000 soldiers manning the Wall. Cannibal's unnatural blue fire had done its devastating work. A vast, jagged gap now yawned in the thousand-foot-high barrier, spewing chunks of ice and shattered rock down onto the plains below. The impenetrable shield of Westeros, a sentinel for millennia, had been breached.
Through that gaping wound, a horrifying, relentless tide surged. The sounds of the dead, no longer merely rumbling beneath the ice, rose to a guttural, terrifying roar, a sound of mindless hunger and ancient malice. They came, a continuous, unending torrent, pouring through the shattered section of the Wall like water through a broken dam.
Below, the green inferno of the wildfire still burned, consuming swathes of the dead. But their numbers were infinite. They flowed over the flames, trampling their burning brethren, their frozen flesh sizzling, but still they came, a relentless wave of death.
First through the breach surged the smaller dead: reanimated human corpses, skeletal and gaunt, their eyes burning with an eerie blue light, their decaying limbs scrambling over each other in a grotesque rush. They moved with an unnatural speed, an uncanny, silent purpose, their numbers overwhelming.
Behind them came the true horrors: lumbering giants, their immense forms now animated by the Night King's will, their frozen, muscled bodies moving with an unstoppable momentum. They pushed through the ranks of smaller dead, their great, ice-covered clubs rising and falling with terrifying force, smashing aside anything in their path.
Twisting, scuttling, and skittering with sickening speed were the grotesque, many-legged forms of ice spiders. They were nightmare creatures, larger than horses, their segmented bodies covered in crystalline fur, their fangs dripping with icy venom. They moved with a chilling intelligence, darting through the slower dead, their blue eyes blazing with predatory hunger.
The frozen earth literally shook as the sheer volume of the dead poured through the breach. Animals, twisted and malformed, wolves with shredded fur, bears with splintered bones, massive undead elk, their antlers like frozen branches, added to the terrifying press. It was not an army marching; it was an entire ecosystem of the dead, returning to reclaim the living world.
On top of the Wall, near the breach, a desperate, valiant defense was already underway. 30,000 soldiers, a mix of Northern and Southern forces, faced the terrifying reality of the onslaught.
"Archers! Focus fire on the breach!" Lord Robert Baratheon's booming voice, raw with urgency, cut through the din. He stood near the crumbling edge, a massive warhammer already in his hand, his face grim but resolute. "Loose! Loose!"
Thousands of arrows, tipped with dragonglass, rained down into the swirling mass below. The dragonglass arrows, rarer and more potent, sizzled as they struck the dead, shattering their forms with a burst of icy mist, a tiny but vital victory against their numbers.
"Wildfire catapults! Target the choke point! Keep them burning!" shouted Lord Tywin Lannister, his voice cold and precise, emanating from the command tower at Castle Black. He oversaw the coordination, his strategic mind already adapting to the overwhelming, impossible foe. His Lannister legions, disciplined and unyielding, formed a grim line along the battlements, their crossbows raining bolts into the breach.
Down at the foot of the breach, where the dead first spilled onto the human side of the Wall, the advance elements of the army had already formed desperate shield walls. Knights from the Reach, their polished armor now grimed with ice and gore, stood alongside grim Northern spearmen and the unyielding disciplined forces of the Crownlands.
"Hold the line!" Lord Umber's guttural roar echoed across the grinding chaos. His giant figure, leading a contingent of grim Northern spearmen, stood at the forefront, his greataxe already red with icy blood. "They cannot break us! Stand firm!"
Spearmen, their long shafts bristling like a porcupine's quills, met the initial surge, thrusting into the oncoming dead. The shield walls, a desperate human dam, buckled under the sheer pressure of the ceaseless tide, but they held them back, for now. The sound was a sickening cacophony of splintering wood, grinding ice, and the wet thud of impact.
Above the Wall, the sky had become a terrifying battlefield.
The ice dragons, already soaring, moved with a silent, preternatural speed. They were slightly larger than many of the undead dragons, and their living forms were more agile. They intercepted the blue-eyed horrors head-on, a desperate aerial ballet of life against undeath.
Meanwhile, the ten Targaryen fire dragons, recently freed from the dragonhorn's agonizing influence, now flew low over the massive torrent of dead pouring through the breach. They did not linger. Instead, they performed terrifying, calculated passes.
With guttural roars of pure fire, they would dive, unleashing torrents of scorching flame onto the endlessly surging dead. The fire consumed vast swathes of corpses, turning them into sizzling, smoking ash, momentarily creating gaps in the wave of undeath, giving the beleaguered soldiers below a precious few seconds of room to breathe. Then, with powerful thrusts of their wings, they would bank sharply and soar upwards, avoiding entanglement with the overwhelming numbers of dead dragons and the relentless ground horde. Their fire, a vibrant orange-red against the sickly green of the wildfire, was a terrifyingly effective weapon, turning death into dust.
"Keep them clear!" Prince Aelor Targaryen, riding his own dragon, Tessarion, commanded other fire dragon riders from above, his voice relayed by telegram to the ground commanders. "Burn the choke points! Give our men space!" He coordinated the fiery aerial attacks, ensuring they were precise and maximized their impact.
As the grim battle raged, a new, chilling roar split the sky. From the desolate depths of the Land of Always Winter, a colossal shadow surged forward, faster than any other undead beast. It was Cannibal, the largest of the undead dragons, its immense, black, decaying body now fully animated by the Night King's malevolent will. It flew with a terrifying purpose, ignoring the melee around it, heading directly for the already breached section of the Wall, intent on widening the gap.
Prince Brandon Stark, astride his own ice dragon, Winter, saw it. His eyes, in his half-lycan form, were burning with a cold, focused fury. He had just dispatched Euron Greyjoy, but the fight was far from over. Cannibal was the Night King's ultimate weapon, a horrifying symbol of the threat.
"Winter! Now! Intercept Cannibal! Do not let it reach the Wall!" Brandon's telepathic command was sharp, urgent. Winter, a magnificent beast of crystalline scales and icy breath, responded instantly, surging towards the monstrous undead dragon.
The two colossal dragons met in a clash that shook the very air. Ice against reanimated flesh and bone. Winter fought with a primal ferocity, its claws raking, its icy breath attempting to encase Cannibal in a freezing shroud. Cannibal, driven by the Night King's cold will, was relentless, lunging with decayed fangs, attempting to tear at Winter's living flesh.
Just as the two behemoths locked in a terrifying aerial struggle, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, riding his majestic red dragon, Meraxes, soared into the fray. He had seen Cannibal's trajectory, seen Brandon's desperate interception.
"Brandon!" Rhaegar's voice cut through the wind, his concern evident. "I'm with you! We take this beast together!" Meraxes unleashed a torrent of fire, searing Cannibal's already decaying hide, causing it to shriek, a sound of agony and rage. The combined might of a living ice dragon and a living fire dragon, two of the largest of their kind, was now arrayed against the monstrous undead serpent.
As the three dragons engaged in their titanic struggle, Brandon's heightened senses, sharpened by his lycan form, suddenly screamed danger. A cold, distinct presence, a malevolent will, pierced the chaos. He instinctively ducked his body, a sudden, jerking movement that saved his life.
A spear of impossibly sharp ice whistled past his head, so close he felt the frigid wind of its passage. It would have impaled him clean through.
Brandon's eyes snapped to the direction the spear had come from. There, far above the main battle, silhouetted against the dark, desolate horizon, stood the Night King. He was not alone. Around him, a retinue of White Walkers stood silent and watchful, their blue eyes burning. The Night King's gaze was fixed on Brandon, a chilling, ancient malice.
The Wargs' earlier messages had pinpointed Euron, but the Night King himself had been elusive. Now, he revealed himself, a silent, terrifying figure of ultimate command.
Brandon's blood ran cold, but his resolve solidified. This was the moment. The plan.
"Rhaegar!" Brandon roared, his voice carrying above the din. "Continue engaging Cannibal! Do not let it move! Keep it away from the Wall!"
Then, with a swift, decisive movement, Brandon urged Winter. "Winter! As low as you can! To the cavalry unit! Swiftly!"
Winter dipped sharply, streaking downwards, dodging blows from Cannibal and the other undead dragons, making a beeline for the human lines. It soared low over the teeming encampments, heading for the section where the cavalry unit, a massive formation of heavy horse, stood prepared.
As Winter swooped to within meters of the ground, Brandon, still in his half-lycan form, jumped from the dragon's back. He landed with powerful, agile grace, tucking and rolling, then springing to his feet.
He immediately spotted Lord Robert Baratheon, mounted on a massive black destrier, surrounded by the finest knights and horsemen of the Stormlands, the Reach, and the North. Robert was clad in his war-plate, his hammer gripped in his gauntleted hand, his face grimly eager.
Brandon ran towards him, his lycan speed astonishing. He leaped, grasping the stirrup, and with a powerful heave, pulled himself up behind Robert on the massive destrier's back. The horse snorted, surprised but not panicked.
"Robert!" Brandon's voice was raw, urgent, filled with a grim triumph. "I've seen him! The Night King! He's watching us! He's out there! We should prepare to march! Now!"
Robert Baratheon's eyes, previously filled with battle fury against the dead at the Wall, widened slightly as he recognized Brandon, then the true import of his words. A slow, terrifying grin spread across his face, a flash of his predatory joy.
"About bloody time, Stark!" Robert roared, his voice booming across the assembled cavalry. "I was waiting for this! Let's give that icy bastard a taste of human steel and fire!"
He turned his head, his gaze sweeping the battlefield, seeking out a specific figure in the sky. He spotted Prince Aelor Targaryen, riding his fire dragon Tessarion, still coordinating the fiery passes above the breach.
"Aelor!" Robert bellowed, his voice carrying like thunder, a voice that had led charges and broken armies. "Aelor! The cavalry will be charging! Prepare the way! Make sure our path is clear as we go! Burn a path for us!"
Prince Aelor, high above, heard the call. He looked down, saw Robert's grimly triumphant face, and then Brandon Stark's half-lycan form behind him. He understood. The signal. The Night King had been found.
Aelor nodded, his face grim, and barked commands to the other fire dragon riders through their telepathic bonds. "Form up! Two columns! Clear the path! The cavalry charges! For the Living!"
With a synchronized roar, the fire dragons rearranged themselves. They flew low, side-by-side, their massive forms becoming living flamethrowers. They began to breathe fire in two continuous columns, searing the ground, melting snow, turning frozen earth into steaming mud.
The scorching inferno advanced in a terrifying, purposeful line, creating a fiery tunnel through the endless, teeming wave of the dead. It was a path cleared by dragonfire, a blazing, impossible road carved directly into the heart of the enemy.
The cavalry, seeing the fiery path, let out a thunderous cheer, their horses pawing the ground, eager to charge into the inferno, towards the ultimate confrontation. The Long Night had truly begun, and the living, led by a Stark and a Baratheon, were charging directly into its heart.