292 AC
Beyond The Wall
Third Person POV
The clash resonated, a terrifying shriek of steel and ice that silenced all other sounds for a fleeting, impossible moment. Brandon Stark's sword, Theo, met the Night King's crystalline blade, sparks — both fiery and icy — erupting from the point of contact. The raw power emanating from the Night King was immense, a palpable wave of ancient cold that pressed down on Brandon, threatening to crush him.
The Night King moved with an eerie, silent grace, his every movement precise, powerful, and utterly devoid of wasted effort. He was slightly stronger than Brandon, even with the Prince in his formidable half-lycan form. Each parry, each block, sent jarring tremors up Brandon's arms, threatening to break his stance. The cold emanating from the Night King was not merely physical; it seeped into the soul, a chilling, ancient malevolence that sought to extinguish all life.
Yet, Brandon met force with a superior skill born of countless battles and lifetimes of honed combat. His two swords, Theo and Jon, became extensions of his will, a blur of steel dancing around the Night King's single, terrifying ice blade. He moved with a speed that defied the cold, his lycan agility allowing him to weave, duck, and strike with uncanny precision.
The Night King thrust with his blade, a silent, deadly lunge aimed at Brandon's heart. Brandon, with a guttural growl, parried with Jon, diverting the strike, the impact shaking his entire frame. Before the Night King could recover, Theo flashed, a deadly silver streak aimed at his exposed side. The Night King parried effortlessly, his ice blade meeting Theo with a shriek of scraping metal.
"Not while I breathe, you frozen bastard!" Brandon snarled, his own voice a raw, animalistic challenge. He pushed forward, a whirlwind of strikes, forcing the Night King to retreat a single, measured step. "We are fire! We are fury! We will not freeze!"
Their blades met again and again, a relentless symphony of destruction. Brandon's strikes were quick, calculated, aiming for the Night King's joints, his neck, any perceived weakness. But the Night King seemed to anticipate every move, his defense flawless, his counter-attacks chillingly precise. He wasn't just fighting; he was waiting, assessing, learning.
The fight was a brutal, intimate dance of death, the fate of the world hanging on every parry, every thrust. Around them, the sounds of the larger battle raged – the screams of the living, the endless moans of the dead, the clash of steel, the roar of dragons. But in this small, lethal circle, only the whisper of the wind and the clang of their blades mattered.
Brandon noticed a pattern. The Night King favored powerful, sweeping strikes, followed by quick, piercing thrusts. His footwork was minimal, almost gliding, relying on subtle shifts of his body to evade. Brandon used his lycan strength to meet the power, and his agility to counter the speed.
He feigned a high strike with Theo, then dropped low, sweeping Jon towards the Night King's legs. The Night King effortlessly parried with a simple downward flick of his wrist, his blade shimmering. He was impossibly fast.
Night King flowed into an attack, his ice blade blurring, aiming for Brandon's throat.
Brandon parried with Jon, twisting his body to avoid a follow-up thrust. He lunged with Theo, aiming for the Night King's unarmored chest, a vital spot. The Night King simply shifted, his body barely moving, and the blade harmlessly scraped against what felt like solid rock or ancient ice beneath his cloak. It seemed his entire being was an armor.
The fight stretched on, each blow draining Brandon's energy, while the Night King seemed tireless, unfeeling. Brandon's breath came in ragged gasps, his muscles screaming, his senses dulled by the pervasive cold. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that he could not win a prolonged duel of strength. The Night King was simply more.
He parried another powerful blow, the force of it driving him back a step. The Night King pressed his advantage, his ice blade a glittering blur, relentless. Brandon saw the opening, but it was a trap.
The Night King feigned a strike at his head, then twisted his blade, aiming for Brandon's chest, a lethal, finishing blow. Brandon saw it coming, the inevitable, chilling end. He was too slow, too weary, to fully parry, too rooted to escape.
But Brandon was a Stark of Asgard. He was a warg, a lycan, a warrior who understood sacrifice. And he knew how to seize the smallest chance.
In a desperate, agonizing decision, Brandon made his choice. He did not try to block with Theo, nor to dodge entirely. Instead, with a raw, defiant cry, he shifted his body, offering a different target.
The Night King's ice blade sliced through the air, unerringly fast. It struck Brandon's left arm at the shoulder. The impact was sickening, a sound of tearing flesh and grinding bone. Brandon gasped, a cry of pure agony ripping from his throat as the blade bit deep, severing muscle and sinew, threatening to cut through bone.
His left hand, still clutching Jon, went numb, the sword falling uselessly to the icy ground. Blood, hot and vibrant in the frigid air, gushed from the wound, steaming against the cold. The pain was immediate, blinding, but Brandon fought through it, his lycan form roaring in defiance. It was a calculated risk, a desperate, agonizing sacrifice.
With a surge of pure, unadulterated will, Brandon ignored the searing agony in his left arm. He didn't even acknowledge its loss. All his focus, all his remaining strength, poured into his right hand.
Even as the Night King's blade finished its devastating cut through his arm, Brandon lunged forward, a raw, primal scream tearing from his throat. His right arm, empowered by his lycan fury and fueled by the will power that this was his only chance, thrust Theo forward with all his might.
His target was the Night King's chest.
His sword, Theo, imbued with Brandon's desperation and ancient magic, plunged true. It met no visible resistance, no hard ice or bone. It slid cleanly into the Night King's chest, piercing the very essence of the ancient evil.
The Night King's blue eyes widened, for the first time, in something akin to shock, or perhaps, pain. A guttural, unheard sound seemed to echo from deep within him, a silent scream of primordial agony. The cold around them intensified exponentially, a blinding white-blue flash of light erupted from the point of impact, and the Night King's form stiffened, frozen in time.
Brandon, Theo buried deep in the Night King's chest, held his ground, his body trembling from exhaustion, agony, and the immense, terrifying power now coursing through his sword. The cold, raw and pure, threatened to engulf him, but the faint warmth of magical steel, now connected to the heart of the Night King, fought against it.
The final, impossible gamble had been made.
The Night King's rigid form, the embodiment of death, began to shatter. It was not a slow crumbling, but an instantaneous, complete disintegration. His crystalline armor, his skeletal crown, his gaunt face, and his very being exploded outwards in a silent, furious burst of thousands of glittering ice particles. They danced for a fleeting moment in the air, catching the pale, dim light of the frozen sky, then vanished into nothingness, leaving no trace behind but an unimaginable cold. The ultimate evil was gone.
The effect on the battlefield was immediate, terrifying, and utterly profound.
Across the vast, chaotic plains beyond the Wall, where a seemingly endless tide of corpses had been relentlessly surging, a chilling stillness descended. Every single wight, every reanimated human, giant, animal, and terrifying ice spider, suddenly froze in place. Their blue eyes, which had burned with malevolent hunger, flickered once, then dimmed, going utterly dark. The mindless, relentless movement ceased. The guttural moans died. The terrifying shuffle of thousands of feet fell silent.
For a heartbeat, the battlefield was utterly still, a vast, grotesque diorama of frozen death.
The White Walkers, the Night King's silent lieutenants, their imposing forms, their crystalline armor, their impossibly sharp ice blades, all glowed briefly with a fading blue light. Then, with soft, shimmering sounds like breaking glass, they shattered into countless fragments of ice, dissolving into the frigid air, leaving behind only the unbearable cold that had always heralded their presence.
Above, the skies cleared with an almost supernatural speed. The Now Twelve undead dragons, which had been locked in brutal aerial combat with the living dragons, let out final, guttural moans of protest and despair. Their blue eyes dimmed, and their unnatural animation ceased. Their massive, decaying bodies, no longer held aloft by dark magic, shuddered once, then plummeted from the sky. They hit the ice and snow with sickening thuds, falling lifelessly, vast heaps of rotting flesh and shattered bones.
The sudden, absolute silence that descended upon the battlefield was deafening. The incessant roar of the dead, the sickening thud of their charge, the clang of steel, the guttural moans – all gone. Replaced by the whistle of the wind and the rapid, ragged breathing of the living.
For a stunned, disbelieving moment, the living stood motionless. On the Wall, the 25,000 soldiers stared, their weapons still poised, their eyes wide with disbelief. The cavalry, having charged into the heart of the horde, now found themselves surrounded by motionless, rapidly dissolving bodies. The dragonriders, locked in desperate aerial duels, suddenly found their monstrous opponents falling lifelessly from the sky.
A collective gasp, a ragged sound of utter disbelief, rippled through the ranks of the living. They blinked, rubbed their eyes, trying to comprehend the impossible. The endless tide of death, the nightmare come real, had simply… ceased. Vanished.
Then, a single voice, raw with emotion, tore through the silence. From somewhere on the Wall, a lone soldier, perhaps a man from the Reach, dropped his sword, his face streaked with tears and grime. He threw back his head and let out a primal, guttural roar.
"THEY'RE GONE! THEY'RE GONE! FOR THE LIVING!"
The cry was infectious. It spread like wildfire, a wave of realization, of relief, of sheer, overwhelming triumph. One voice became ten, ten became a hundred, a hundred became a thousand.
"FOR THE LIVING!" The cry thundered from the Wall, a defiant, joyous bellow that echoed across the plains, tearing through the cold, silent air.
"FOR THE LIVING!" The cavalry, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten, roared back, their voices hoarse, their weapons raised to the sky in a gesture of absolute, unbridled victory.
"FOR THE LIVING!" The dragonriders, soaring above, joined the chorus, their own triumphant roars mingling with the joyous shouts of their men.
From the command tower of Castle Black, Lord Tywin Lannister, usually impassive, felt a tremor of something akin to awe. His eyes, cold and calculating, had seen the impossible achieved. He watched as the last of the wights stopped moving, a grim satisfaction settling over him. He knew the victory was won. He turned to his aide. "Signal the horns! Long and sustained! Let all of Westeros know! The dead are broken!"
On the ground, in the heart of the now-dissolving enemy, Lord Robert Baratheon stood amidst the vanishing dead, his dragonglass warhammer dripping with ichor, his face grimed with sweat and blood. He threw back his head, a wild, joyful grin splitting his face, his eyes blazing with a mixture of disbelief and triumphant glee. He had met death, and death had broken.
"WE DID IT! WE DID IT, YOU ICY BASTARDS!" Robert bellowed, his voice raw but filled with exultation. He turned, searching for Brandon. "BRANDON! WE DID IT! YOU BLOODY GENIUS!"
On the Wall, King Maekar Targaryen, usually stern and unyielding, felt a wave of relief so profound it threatened to buckle his knees. His face, which had been a mask of grim determination, crumpled in a mixture of awe and dawning, overwhelming relief.
He saw the dead stop moving, the terrifying threat simply vanishing. He saw his own fire dragons, no longer struggling against the horn, soaring freely, their roars now triumphant. Tears welled in his eyes, unbidden, for the sheer magnitude of the victory. He raised his hand, trembling, to wipe them away.
"It is done," King Maekar whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion, utterly unlike his usual commanding tone. "By the gods... it is done."
His sons, Prince Rhaegar and Prince Baelor, their faces pale, looked at each other in stunned silence, then a wave of profound relief washed over them.
"He did it," Prince Baelor breathed, his eyes fixed on the spot where the Night King had vanished. "Brandon... he actually did it."
Meanwhile, on the other part of the Wall, King Rickard Stark watched with a grim, knowing satisfaction. There was no wild exultation on his face, but a deep, abiding sense of fulfillment, of ancient duty discharged. He had lived with this prophecy, this terror, for generations. Now, it was broken.
He looked towards where Brandon had been, a deep, proud light in his eyes. He saw his son, a figure of silent, resolute power, standing amidst the dissolving dead. He saw the ultimate price Brandon had paid.
"He fought well," King Rickard whispered, his voice rough. "He fulfilled his destiny."
Prince Eddard Stark, his face grim, yet filled with a quiet triumph, looked out at the vanishing horror. "The Long Night is over," he breathed. "The dead are truly dead." He thought of Benjen, somewhere out there, and offered a silent prayer of thanks.
The other Northern Lords, from Lord Skoll to Lord Umber, exchanged looks of stunned disbelief, then a growing elation. Centuries of grim vigilance, of whispered fears, had culminated in this impossible victory. They let out hoarse cries of triumph, their voices echoing across the now silent plains.
The roar of "FOR THE LIVING!" intensified, spreading throughout the encampments, relayed by telegrams to every corner of Westeros. The realm had stood on the precipice, and had pulled back. The Long Night had ended. But the memory of its chilling return, and the sacrifice made, would forever be etched into the very soul of Westeros.
The sun began to peek over the distant mountains, casting a pale, cold light over a battlefield now covered only in shimmering ice dust. The Wall remained breached, a gaping scar in its ancient face, but the ultimate darkness had been vanquished. For now, the living had won.