292 AC
The Wall
Third Person POV
Through the rapidly dissolving remnants of the dead, a battered but triumphant column began its slow, arduous journey back towards the breached Wall. At their head rode Lord Robert Baratheon, his great black destrier caked in frozen gore, his armor dented, his face streaked with sweat and grime, but a wild, exultant grin splitting his face. By his side, in his normal form, rode Prince Brandon Stark, his powerful body weary, his left arm gone, but his eyes burning with a cold, victorious light.
They were a spear that had pierced the very heart of darkness. The 4,000 remaining cavalry followed, their horses lathered with foam, their riders exhausted but utterly triumphant. They rode through what had minutes ago been a living, shambling horde, but was now a rapidly vanishing field of shimmering dust. The air, though still frigid, felt lighter, purer, cleansed of the ancient malevolence.
As they approached the massive breach in the Wall, the roar of the 30,000 soldiers atop its heights intensified. "FOR THE LIVING!" The shouts echoed across the vast expanse, taken up by thousands of voices, a spontaneous, heartfelt cheer for the heroes who had ridden into the abyss and returned.
From the section of the Wall where the breach had occurred, Lord Umber stood, his massive frame silhouetted against the sky, his eyes wide with awe as he watched Brandon and Robert approach. He let out a primal roar of triumph, striking his greataxe against the ice. "The Gods be praised! The gods be praised! They did it!"
Lord Tywin Lannister, from the strategic tower at Castle Black, watched with a cold, almost unreadable expression, but even he felt a tremor of grudging respect. He had seen countless battles, but never a victory wrested from such impossible odds, achieved by such an audacious, desperate strike. "A victory," he murmured to his aide, "but one bought at a terrible price."
The sight of their kings and princes, exhausted but alive, returning from beyond the grave, ignited a desperate, joyous celebration across the entire army. The victory felt absolute, profound. Cheers erupted, men wept openly, embracing their comrades. The terror that had gripped them for days, for weeks, for generations, had finally been broken. The Long Night was over.
The immediate euphoria eventually gave way to the grim, necessary work of the aftermath. As the sun began to peek over the distant mountains, casting a pale, cold light, the true cost of their victory began to emerge. The battlefield, once teeming with life and death, was now a desolate expanse covered only in dead bodies.
The bodies of the fallen soldiers and the dead, those who had bravely held the line, those who had charged into the void, littered the ground before the Wall and within the camp. The vast network of engineers and supply lines, now turned to recovery, began the arduous, heartbreaking task.
Orders were given to burn the dead. Funeral pyres were constructed, rising to consume the bodies of the fallen. The air soon became thick with the smell of woodsmoke and burning flesh, a somber counterpoint to the earlier celebration. Each pyre was a testament to a life lost, a sacrifice made for the living.
The scale of the casualties was sobering. Of the original 400,000 soldiers who had gathered at the Wall, only 180,000 were now alive. More than half of humanity's assembled might had perished in the terrible, short war against the dead. It was a staggering, agonizing number, a stark reminder of how close they had come to utter annihilation.
The dragons, too, had paid a heavy toll. Of the 15 ice dragons of Asgard, only 12 remained alive. Three of the magnificent, living crystalline beasts had fallen in the brutal aerial clashes with the undead dragons, their bodies now lying cold and lifeless on the frozen plains.
The Targaryen fire dragons had suffered even more grievously. Of the original 10, only 6 were now alive. Four had been lost in the fierce, desperate battles against the corrupted versions of their own kind, their fire extinguished by the unnatural cold of undeath. Their exhaustion was evident, their scales scorched, their great bodies bearing the wounds of a terrible fight. They had mostly perished due to the sheer ferocity and relentlessness of the undead dragons, driven by the Night King's chilling will.
Even the giants who had joined the living armies, those who had fought with simple, brutal courage against their undead kin, had not escaped unscathed. Several of them lay dead, their massive forms silent monuments to their sacrifice. The victory was immense, but the price had been paid in blood, fire, and ice.
Hours later, as the last of the pyres blazed against the darkening sky, the inner circle of leadership gathered once more in the grim, utilitarian War Room of Castle Black. The air was heavy with unspoken words, with the exhaustion and the grim realization of what they had just faced.
King Maekar Targaryen and King Rickard Stark sat at the head of the table, their faces etched with the strain of leadership and the weight of the impossible victory. Around them sat their sons, Prince Rhaegar, Prince Baelor, Prince Brandon, Prince Eddard, and all the Major lords. The Kingsguard Commander and Wolf Pack Commander stood silently, their own weariness evident.
"It is over," King Maekar finally said, his voice hoarse, almost a whisper. "The dead... they are truly gone." He looked at Brandon, a silent, knowing look passing between them, a profound debt acknowledged.
King Rickard nodded, his own voice low. "The Long Night... it ended as it began. With the Night King's demise."
"Never," Lord Tywin Lannister stated, his voice cold and precise, cutting through the weary silence, "have I witnessed such a war. Our strategies, our tactics, our very understanding of warfare... useless against such an enemy. Numbers meant nothing. Discipline meant nothing against endless, mindless death."
Robert Baratheon slammed a fist on the table, a sound of grim finality. "Gods, never seen a foe like it. No courage, no fear, no honor. They didn't even fight like men. Just... moved. Like a glacier of corpses. Relentless." His usual boisterousness was gone, replaced by a deep, unsettling quiet. "No rest, no quarter, just cold. It was like fighting the damn winter itself."
Prince Brandon Stark said, his voice chillingly calm, his eyes fixed on the empty space where the Night King had stood. He still bore the fresh, gruesome wound for his missing left arm, which was being attended to by a silent healer. "They were an extension of his will. Once he fell, they fell. The puppet master cut, the strings went slack."
Prince Rhaegar, his face pale, nodded slowly. "Aegon's Prophecy. All of it. The Night King, the Long Night. It was not a fable. It was a warning."
Prince Aelor Targaryen, Hand of the King, sighed heavily. "And the dragonhorn. To turn our own beasts against us... the thought was an abomination. Thank the gods for Prince Brandon's swift action."
"The dragons suffered greatly," Prince Baelor added, his voice grim. "To see them, those majestic creatures, corrupted... to have them fight their own kind... it was a horrific sight. Even the living ones are exhausted, wounded."
Prince Eddard Stark spoke, his voice quiet. "The Wall... it held, by inches. But it was breached. A scar, a constant reminder of what can happen if vigilance falters. If ancient warnings are forgotten."
Prince Oberyn Martell, his unreadable face now conveying a deep, reflective solemnity, broke his silence. "Prophecy fulfilled. The debt is paid. But at what cost to the living? The realm is bled. Half its fighting strength is gone. A hollow victory, in some ways."
"No, Prince Doran," King Maekar countered, his voice firm. "Not hollow. Costly, yes. Grievous. But not hollow. We survived. We faced extinction, and we prevailed. Because we stood together. South and North. Dragon and Wolf. Man, giant, and dragon."
King Rickard looked at each of them, his gaze resolute. "The memory of this war must never fade. The stories must be told, not as myths, but as harsh, undeniable truth. The children of Winter hold and Dragonhold, the heirs of every house, must learn from this. The vigilance must never end."
He looked at Brandon, a deep, silent pride in his eyes, mingled with sorrow for his son's sacrifice. He knew the war was over. But the world had changed. And the future, though secure for now, would forever bear the scars of the Long Night.
The meeting continued, planning the long, arduous process of rebuilding, of re-establishing security, of mourning the lost. The war was over. The Long Night had truly passed. But its chilling echo would forever reverberate through the history of Westeros.