292 AC
Beyond The Wall
Third Person POV
As they rode, the swirling chaos around them slowly began to thin, not because the dead had vanished, but because they were concentrating. The sheer density of the reanimated bodies gave way to a more structured, terrifying formation.
Then, against the desolate, frozen horizon, framed by the pale, eerie light of the true North, they saw them. The true enemy. The Night King.
He stood motionless, a figure of absolute stillness, his form cloaked in shadow and ancient ice. Before him, arrayed in a silent, chilling guard, stood his lieutenants: fifty White Walkers, their skin bone-white, their eyes burning with malevolent blue light, their crystalline blades glinting in the pale gloom.
And before them, a dense, unyielding mass of 3,000 wights, their numbers a chilling testament to the scale of the Night King's power. These were not the shambling, mindless dead they had been cutting through. These were the freshest, the strongest, the most recently reanimated, their movements more coordinated, their hunger more palpable. They formed a gruesome, living shield around their master.
Of the 10,000 cavalry who had charged through the Wall's breach, only half remained. 5,000 riders, their horses lathered with sweat and foam, their armor dented, their faces grimed with frost and gore, now stood before the ultimate confrontation. Their numbers were dwindling, their breath ragged, but their resolve was unbroken.
Brandon Stark, still in his half-lycan form, felt the cold prick of exhaustion, but his mind was sharp, focused on the ultimate prize. He looked at Robert Baratheon beside him, the Lord of Storm's End, who, despite the carnage, still bore a terrifying grin, his eyes blazing with the anticipation of battle.
"Robert!" Brandon roared, his voice cutting through the rising din. "Continue to charge! Do not waver! This is it!"
Then, Brandon twisted in his saddle, his voice carrying back to the weary, battle-hardened riders behind them. "Listen to me! We are moving! Do not stop until I, or Lord Robert, reach the Night King!" His voice was a primal call, igniting the last reserves of strength in the remaining cavalry. "Take care of those minions! Smash them! But we are going for the head!"
He raised his sword, Theo above his head, the blade shimmering with a cold, living light. His voice, amplified by his lycan form, became a guttural, defiant roar. "FOR THE LIVING!"
The cry was taken up by the 5,000 remaining cavalry, a ragged, desperate cheer that echoed across the frozen plains. "FOR THE LIVING!"
The cavalry surged forward once more, their horses pounding the ice, a desperate, unstoppable momentum. The 3,000 wights, a truly formidable barrier, moved to intercept them, their bone-hard bodies colliding with the charge. The sounds of combat escalated into a deafening, sickening roar of clashing steel, splintering bone, and human cries.
The soldiers behind Brandon and Robert threw themselves into the fray, cutting, smashing, and burning their way through the tide of wights. They were disciplined, brave, but also driven by the primal fear of what lay beyond if they failed. They were buying time, carving a path for their leaders.
For what felt like an eternity, the battle raged, a brutal, horrifying stalemate against the endless horde. The minutes stretched, agonizingly slow. The wights, tireless and relentless, threw themselves against the cavalry, attempting to overwhelm them with sheer numbers. But the living fought with a desperate ferocity, their morale fueled by the knowledge that the fate of the world rested on their charge.
After fifteen grueling minutes of relentless combat, a small, elite group of warriors had pierced the wight lines. They were the very best, the most skilled, the most determined fighters in Westeros, their strength and courage having carried them through the chaos.
At their forefront were Prince Brandon Stark and Lord Robert Baratheon, grim-faced, their weapons dripping with the icy ichor of the dead. Behind them rode 40 men, the cream of the realm's warriors.
There was Ser Barristan Selmy, the White Bull, an aging but still formidable figure of the Kingsguard, his Valyrian steel blade a blur of motion.
Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, his legendary blade Dawn glowing faintly in the dim light, its movements impossibly swift.
Lord William Dustin, a grim Northern lord, his axe a terrifying extension of his will.
Lord Bryden Tully, the Blackfish, his calm demeanor belying a fierce cunning, his movements economical and deadly.
Lord Rodrick Forrester, a stalwart Northman, was fighting with the desperation of one defending his home.
Ser Jorah Mormont, his face grim, fighting with the stoic resolve of a bear.
And many others, the finest knights and most hardened warriors from every corner of Asgard and the Seven Kingdoms, their names soon to be legends, their faces etched with the cold certainty of their mission.
They forged a new, smaller spearhead, driving relentlessly towards the fifty White Walkers and their silent, terrifying master.
The White Walkers moved. They were not mindless automatons like the wights. They were ancient, intelligent, and impossibly swift. Their crystalline blades, sharp as razors, shimmered with an unholy light, emanating an intense cold that caused breath to freeze in the air.
Brandon roared, his voice a guttural command as they met the first line of White Walkers. "Focus your attacks! Aim for the heart! They shatter!"
He himself moved with blinding speed, a terrifying blend of human skill and lycan ferocity. Two White Walkers glided towards him, their icy blades raised. Brandon ducked under the first, his Theo slicing upwards, shattering its crystalline arm. Before the second could react, Jon flashed across, piercing its chest. The White Walker exploded into a shower of icy shards, its blue eyes fading into nothingness.
Robert Baratheon met a towering White Walker head-on. His dragonglass warhammer, its obsidian edge shimmering, smashed axe head into the creature's chest. The impact resonated with a terrifying force, shattering the White Walker into a thousand pieces of ice and dust. "Take that, you frozen bastard!" Robert bellowed, his voice filled with a desperate, furious triumph.
Ser Barristan Selmy, his movements surprisingly fluid for his age, danced around a White Walker, his Valyrian steel blade darting like a serpent, finding vital points, shattering its icy armor with precise, practiced strikes.
Ser Arthur Dayne, a beacon of lethal grace, engaged two White Walkers simultaneously. Dawn, his pale greatsword, seemed to glow brighter as it moved, its edges singing as it met the ice blades, shattering them with impossible ease. He moved with a chilling efficiency, a master at work.
They were cutting through the White Walkers, but each one was a formidable foe, demanding absolute focus and skill. The battle was a blur of flashing steel, shattering ice, and desperate shouts. The cold radiated from the White Walkers, intensifying the frigid air, threatening to freeze them where they stood.
Brandon, his focus absolute, moved relentlessly forward. He was a force of pure, unwavering determination. He saw the Night King, a silent, static figure, seemingly observing the chaos with detached interest.
"He's mine!" Brandon snarled, a low growl that was barely audible above the sounds of combat, meant only for himself. He had seen the Night King's face before, in the whispers of prophecy, in the chilling tales of the Long Night. This was his true enemy.
He engaged another White Walker, a particularly large one. It struck with a sweeping blow of its icy blade, but Brandon parried with Jon, his muscles straining. With Theo, he stabbed upwards, piercing its chest. The White Walker exploded, showering him in icy dust.
He cleared his path, his eyes never leaving the Night King. He pushed forward, leaving the remaining forty warriors to deal with the last of the White Walker guard and the continuing press of the wights. This was his fight.
Then, with a final surge, Brandon found himself directly before the Night King.
The Night King stood utterly motionless, his ancient, skeletal face devoid of emotion. His piercing blue eyes, twin points of malevolent cold, fixed on Brandon, seeming to see not just the man, but the very essence of the life within him. He raised his own crystalline blade, a weapon of pure ice, radiating an impossible cold.
Brandon did not hesitate. His grip tightened on Theo and Jon, the steel humming faintly, as if eager for this final clash. His lycan form seemed to hum with primal power, a direct challenge to the ancient death before him.
With a primal roar, a defiance against all the cold and silence, Brandon lunged. He raised Theo high, aiming for the Night King's head.
The Night King, with a speed that defied his stillness, met the blow.
Brandon's sword, Theo, and the Night King's crystalline blade clashed.
A terrifying, high-pitched shriek of grinding metal and shattering ice ripped through the air, an unholy sound that vibrated through the very bones of all who heard it. Sparks, both fiery and icy, flew from the impact. The final battle had begun.