292 AC
Beyond the wall
Third Person POV
The roaring inferno, a dual column of dragonfire, ripped through the endless tide of the dead, carving a blazing, impossible path through the frigid darkness. It was a tunnel of living flame, roaring fiercely, melting snow and steaming the ancient ice, illuminating the horrors of the oncoming horde with a searing, green-tinged light.
Behind this fiery vanguard, the ground thundered. Lord Robert Baratheon, atop his mighty black destrier, led the charge, a living whirlwind of fury. By his side, riding with an almost unnerving calm, was Prince Brandon Stark, still in his half-lycan form, his muscles rippling, his dark eyes burning with an unholy light.
"FORWARD! FORWARD, YOU BASTARDS! FOR THE LIVING!" Robert's voice, a primal roar that tore through the din of battle, was the rallying cry for the cavalry.
"FOR THE LIVING!"
"FOR THE LIVING!"
"FOR THE LIVING!"
"FOR THE LIVING!"
Ten thousand heavy horses, their hooves churning snow and steam, surged forward, their riders grim-faced and determined. They were the spearhead of humanity, plunging into the very heart of death.
They burst through the newly made breach in the Wall, the roar of the undead rising to a deafening crescendo around them. The cold was immediate, absolute, a palpable presence that assaulted their lungs. But the dragons' fire carved a path, a momentary respite from the overwhelming numbers.
Robert, a monstrous figure of rage and strength, wielded his dragonglass warhammer, its massive head shimmering with obsidian shards, an axe blade glinting on its reverse. With every swing, the hammer crushed skeletal warriors, shattering their frozen forms with explosive force. The axe blade bit deep into the flesh of lumbering undead beasts, cleaving through bone and sinew. He was a force of nature, a thunderbolt of vengeance.
"DIE, YOU BASTARDS! DIE AGAIN!" Robert bellowed, a spray of icy gore rising with each devastating blow. His eyes, fixed on the distant horizon where the Night King likely waited, burned with a furious, joyous hatred. "FOR THE REALM! FOR THE LIVING!"
Beside him, Brandon moved with a chilling efficiency. He wielded two swords, gleaming blades forged with magic, "Theo" and "Jon", the very same weapons he had mastered in a previous life. He was a whirlwind of precision, his movements economical, every strike devastating.
"Stay tight! Keep the line!" Brandon's voice, sharper, more guttural in his lycan form, cut through the din, guiding the charge. "Do not break formation! We are a spear, not a scattered hand!"
Theo, in his right hand, moved with a fluid grace, severing heads and limbs with effortless precision. Jon, in his left, met blows with a steely clang, deflecting attacks and parrying unseen dangers. His strikes were not wild flurries, but surgical cuts, aimed at shattering the reanimated forms with minimal effort. Where Robert was a brutal force, Brandon was a deadly instrument, cutting a path with surgical fury.
They cut open the path like a spear penetrating the dead, their horses trampling the smaller corpses, their blades and hammer shattering the larger ones. The dead clawed at them, their icy fingers scrabbling at armor, but the momentum of the charge was unstoppable. Blood, black and congealed, sprayed into the air, mingling with the chilling mist of shattered ice.
"They're thicker than anticipated!" Robert roared, his face grim despite the thrill of combat. "Keep that fire coming, Aelor!"
As the cavalry, a burning spearhead, tore deeper into the endless horde, a chilling new threat emerged. High above them, maintaining the fiery path, was one of the fire dragons, its scales glowing, unleashing a continuous torrent of flame onto the swarming dead.
From the distant, icy horizon, a figure stood motionless amidst a retinue of White Walkers. It was the Night King. His gaze, cold and ancient, fixed on the burning dragon, a flicker of malevolence in his blue eyes.
With a slow, deliberate movement, the Night King raised his hand. From the very air, a spear of impossibly sharp ice materialized in his grasp, shimmering with an unearthly blue light. He raised it, his arm moving with an unnerving, effortless grace.
Then, he hurled it.
The ice spear flew with silent, terrifying speed, a bolt of pure, destructive cold. It streaked through the night, a direct, lethal trajectory towards the fire dragon.
The spear struck the dragon's leg, piercing its thick, scaly flesh with a sickening thud. The dragon let out a piercing roar of agony, a sound of immense pain and shock that cut through the sounds of battle. Its coordinated flame faltered, stuttering.
The wounded dragon thrashed, its powerful body reeling from the unexpected blow. Its rider, a young Targaryen Prince, desperately clung to its saddle, his face contorted with pain for his beloved beast. The dragon, no longer able to maintain its precise fire column, roared once more in defiance and pain, then instinctively began to fly high, seeking to recuperate, to gain altitude away from the immediate danger, its flame sputtering. The fiery path began to waver, threatening to collapse.
The Night King, his face devoid of emotion, his eyes fixed on the struggling dragon, began to materialize another spear in his hand. He was preparing to unleash another lethal blow, to take down another of the critical fire-breathing guardians.
Brandon Stark saw it. He saw the first spear strike. He saw the dragon's agonizing roar. And he saw the Night King, already preparing the second. His mind, quick and decisive, recognized the immediate, dire threat. Losing another dragon, especially now, would spell disaster for the charge, for the entire battle.
"Not this time, you icy bastard!" Brandon snarled, his voice a guttural growl that was half-human, half-wolf.
Without hesitation, with a movement born of ancient training and desperate need, Brandon pulled one of his swords from his grasp. It was Theo. With a powerful, whipping motion of his arm, Brandon threw Theo not at the Night King himself, but directly in the path of the shimmering ice spear.
The Magical steel, sharp and imbued with ancient magic, met the ice spear in mid-air. There was a bright flash of light, a crackling sound, and the spear, the Night King's lethal projectile, shattered into a thousand glittering fragments of ice. Theo, having completed its grim task, continued its trajectory, landing with a soft thud on the frozen ground some distance away.
The Night King, his hand still raised, his cold eyes fixed on the point where his spear should have been, paused. His head tilted almost imperceptibly. He saw his spear miss, saw it shatter. Then, his chilling blue gaze shifted, pinpointing the source of the sword.
His eyes locked onto Brandon Stark, who was still charging at him, a blur of grim determination and deadly intent, astride Robert's horse. A flicker, almost imperceptible, of something akin to interest, or perhaps even recognition, crossed the Night King's ancient, frozen face. He had found his challenger.
As Brandon continued his relentless charge, his eyes never leaving the Night King, he performed a subtle, yet astonishing feat of will. "Theo!" Brandon's voice, though a guttural command, resonated with a powerful, innate connection. He called his sword back.
And just as he spoke, Theo, lying inert on the ground, began to shimmer. Then, miraculously, impossibly, it began to levitate. Slowly at first, then gaining speed, the Magical steel blade flew through the air, directly towards Brandon. It angled precisely, its hilt turning, and with a soft thud, it settled perfectly back into Brandon's empty hand. All this happened as he continued his thunderous charge, his focus unwavering.
The cavalry roared around them, a furious wave of steel and fury, cutting through the endless tide of the dead. Brandon and Robert were at its very tip, a living spear aimed at the heart of the darkness.
"He felt that one, Robert!" Brandon snarled, his eyes fixed on the Night King. "He's watching us! He knows we're coming!"
"Good!" Robert bellowed back, his voice raw with excitement, smashing a shambling giant with his hammer. "Let the icy bastard watch! Let him see the wrath of the living! This is what I was born for, Stark! To smash things! And that frozen face needs smashing!"
"Hold your fervor for the King, Robert!" Brandon cautioned, cutting down two undead horsemen who tried to flank them. "He's the target! Keep the path clear! No diversions!"
"Always the strategist, even when charging death itself!" Robert chuckled, though his eyes were grim. "This is a hell of a ride, Brandon! Better than any tourney! Better than any boar hunt!"
"This is the last hunt, Robert!" Brandon replied, his voice chilling. "For all of us! This is the only chance!"
They cut through the dead like scythes through wheat, their horses tireless, their determination absolute. The fiery path created by the dragons flickered, maintained by the remaining fire dragons, creating a blazing tunnel through the dark sea of corpses.
"The Wall! It's holding!" Robert roared, glancing back at the immense ice barrier, now a distant, damaged silhouette. "Aelor's doing a fine job keeping them clear!"
"He's buying us time!" Brandon shot back, his eyes scanning the horde ahead. "Time we must use! The Night King will not wait forever! He knows our intent now!"
The thought of what lay ahead, of facing a being of pure ice and death, was terrifying. But for Brandon, it was also a grim imperative, a destiny long acknowledged. For Robert, it was the ultimate battle, a chance for glory against the greatest foe imaginable.
They plunged deeper into the ranks of the dead, their charge relentless, their eyes fixed on the chilling figure of the Night King, a silent, menacing beacon in the distance. The sounds of battle behind them, the screams of the living, the endless moan of the dead, began to fade, replaced by the thundering hooves of their charge, and the grim beat of their own hearts. They were coming.