The forest, stripped of its leaves, offered an unobstructed view. At the far end of the horizon, the accumulated snow surged forward, mixing with swirling dead leaves and churned-up earth, resembling a wave crashing against the Northerners' defensive line.
"Hold the line!" Eddard gripped his longsword sideways at his waist and shouted at the restless soldiers.
The first row of soldiers planted the bottoms of their large shields into the mud, reinforcing their stability against impact. The second row, armed with round shields and spears, pressed tightly behind them, followed by a third and fourth row. The Northern army had formed a long, unbroken line to buy time for the civilians in the rear. Eddard had ordered that not a single wight was to break through, even if every man had to perish in the process.
The surging snow came closer, and the soldiers in the front ranks could now make out the wights' ruined bodies. Driven by death magic, they charged forward like rabid beasts, utterly fearless.
"Hold the line!" Lord Rickard Karstark bellowed the same command from not far away.
The wights came in all forms—not just human corpses but also dogs, foxes, and wolves. Even larger beasts like deer and bears were among them, some of the latter covered in writhing undead rats and snakes. The White Walkers had reanimated everything in their path.
Among the conscripted soldiers were many farmers—strong-bodied but faint of heart. They were used to bullying the weak and looting, but faced with such horrors, many showed signs of fleeing. Their bodies trembled, their heads darted about, scanning for escape routes. The officers in the rear saw everything clearly. Throughout the ranks, officers armed with swords kicked and struck the wavering soldiers. "Eyes front! No retreat!"
The wights accelerated their charge. Even when their limbs were torn off in the rush, they did not falter. As long as they had legs, they kept running. Their decayed bodies surged forward, their glowing blue eyes locked onto the living Northerners.
When the wights were just thirty paces from the human defensive line, the ones leading the charge suddenly sank into the snow—this was the deep trench Robb had planned.
A human falling into such a trench would likely be rendered incapable of fighting, but wights did not fear injury. The ones behind them continued their relentless advance, tumbling in after them. As the wights at the bottom tried to rise, more fell atop them, piling higher and higher. Soon, the trench was filled with a writhing mass of blackened bodies, using their own corpses to pave a road for those behind them.
Without needing Eddard's command, the knights, who had already received their orders, hurled vast quantities of wildfire-filled clay pots and flammable oil onto the writhing mass of wights.
The pots shattered on impact, splattering pungent, greenish liquid across the undead. The wights, packed tightly together, unknowingly smeared the highly flammable substance across their own bodies.
"Light it up!"
Eddard's roar echoed through the battlefield, and from behind the shield wall, countless flaming torches were hurled onto the undead.
Whoosh—
Green flames, tinged with hints of red, erupted skyward, reaching the height of a three-story building. A wall of fire cut off the wights' advance.
A humanoid wight within the blaze staggered upright. Even as flames engulfed its entire body, it felt no pain. It raised a tattered axe, pointing at the Northerners, and let out a piercing screech. Just as it attempted to step forward again, its weapon-wielding arm crumbled away, its body breaking apart. Within moments, it was reduced to nothing but ash.
"This Myrish wildfire is damn potent!"
Amid the Northerners' praises and the sickening crackle of bones breaking, the green fire burned intensely for five full minutes before beginning to wane.
"Keep throwing the fire oil! Don't stop!" Eddard shouted again, seeing some soldiers beginning to slacken.
Just as the knights prepared to hurl a second wave of ceramic firebombs, a flock of undead birds suddenly took flight from the treeline, diving straight into the human ranks.
"My eyes!"
"Aaagh—!"
The sky-darkening swarm of birds ignored the shield-bearers in the front row, instead targeting the knights carrying the firebombs. Screams rang out as chaos erupted.
These wight-birds were those the White Walkers had slain during their march south. The ones that had lost all their feathers charged alongside the main horde, while those with even a few feathers left were used for aerial assaults.
"Frontline, hold formation! Do not break ranks!"
Fortunately, the birds' attacks were not lethal to armored men. The knights, enduring the pain, set their firebombs down before swatting at the birds clawing and pecking at them.
Soldiers from the rear rushed to assist, grabbing the undead birds and hurling them to the ground. However, as soon as they hit the dirt, the wights scrambled back up and leapt at the nearest man.
"We have to crush these winged bastards completely!"
The soldiers grew ruthless, stomping the wights into the ground with all their might, grinding them into pulp before moving on.
A thick stench of decay filled the air. Those attacked by the birds had their faces pecked raw, blood streaming down their features, but the wounds were not immediately fatal. Clenching their jaws through the pain, they picked up their swords and prepared to fight on. Only a handful of unlucky knights, their throats torn open by wight-hawks, lay lifeless on the ground.
As the chaos in the rear settled, the fire wall at the front finally began to die down.
"The whole army, prepare for battle!" Eddard grabbed a shield, raised his longsword, and issued the command.
"Roar—"
The first wave of charging wights was mostly made up of broken limbs and bare bones, sent to die and scout the way. But now, those engaging in direct combat with the living were far more intact.
Many still had dried flesh on their bodies—massive bears, galloping stags, and even humanoid wights clad in the armor and weapons they had worn in life.
The wights crashed into the shield wall. The soldiers' obsidian-tipped spears could kill them, but even as they fell, they paved the way for those behind them.
"Kill!"
The battle cries of men, the screeches of the Others, the clash of steel, and the splintering of bones all mixed into a chaotic symphony.
A massive wight stag rammed its antlers against a shield, planting its four legs firmly on the ground, forcing its way forward. The soldier holding the shield struggled as his feet slid backward, unable to hold his ground. The ancient, undead elk was about to break the formation when four or five soldiers rushed in to reinforce the shield wall, stabilizing the line.
A row of spears thrust forward. The wight struck by an obsidian spearhead lost the eerie blue glow in its eyes and collapsed instantly. Under the officers' command, the spearmen retracted and stabbed again, their attacks relentless. But as one wave of wights fell, the obsidian spearheads began to fracture from the constant impact. Some soldiers had to retreat to the rear lines to replace them.
"Another wave is coming! Hold the line!"
The wights and men clashed in a brutal melee. Wildfire hurled into the fray could incinerate many, but it lacked the devastating effect of the earlier pits of flame in the trenches.
The wights' numbers seemed endless. For every one that was slain, two more took its place.
The giant stag was finally slain by the spearmen, and the dead began to pile up in front of the shield wall. Then, the soldiers noticed something—wights were no longer attacking just from the front. They were coming from above.
"Everyone, fall back five steps!"
At last, Eddard gave the order.
Formation drills were a critical part of a knight's training, especially in close combat when at a disadvantage. A single retreat order, if mishandled, could collapse the entire formation. The levied farmers, with their limited training, could charge forward easily enough, but an orderly retreat was another matter entirely. Eddard had hesitated before giving the command, only making the decision when the growing piles of corpses left them no other choice.
Perhaps the sheer number of wights prevented the engaged soldiers from breaking ranks—when the shield wall slowly withdrew from the corpse-strewn battlefield, it did not crumble.
Countless withered hands reached through the gaps between the shields. A soldier braced his shield with his shoulder, head down, but a hand seized his shoulder. More hands followed, dragging him out of the formation. His scream barely lasted a moment before his severed head was thrown back into the ranks, and his headless body reanimated, turning against his former comrades.
Then came more giant bears, their thick, decayed hides absorbing the spear thrusts. One lunged forward, its massive bulk crashing into the shield wall. Seven or eight soldiers were crushed beneath it, quickly torn apart by other wights. By the time dozens of spears finally brought the beast down, the formation was in disarray.
With gaps in the shield wall, countless wights armed with crude weapons surged into the ranks. Now, the dead and the living were completely entangled in battle.
A group of Stark knights formed a protective circle around Eddard as they fought to retreat. Even with their furious swordplay, wights still clambered over the dead, stepping on the knights' heads to leap toward Eddard.
A rusted battle-axe swung toward him. Instead of dodging, Eddard stepped in, catching the axe handle with one hand while his other, gripping an obsidian dagger, plunged into the wight's gut.
As long as they didn't get overwhelmed, knights with proper training could handle individual wights with ease. A few more swift slashes cut down the remaining wights around him, and Eddard finished them off with his dagger.
"When will our reinforcements arrive?" Ser Rickard, panting heavily, approached Eddard with his sword still slick with gore.
Tossing aside the lifeless wight at his feet, Eddard looked northward. Four dragons wheeled through the sky, breathing fire upon the dead. Stray magical projectiles arced through the air, launched from the ground below. The western flank was merely dealing with an auxiliary force of the Others—the northern front was where the wights were most numerous, where the battle raged fiercest.
"There are no reinforcements," Eddard said. "We must hold on our own."
"If this is the extent of the wights' strength, then we can win," Ser Rickard said, his armor covered in filth and reeking of death—proof that he had slain his fair share of wights.
Against an organized defense, the wights' mindless, brute-force assaults were ineffective unless their numbers were overwhelming. So far, despite the losses, the human forces had suffered far fewer casualties compared to the mountains of dead wights.
After a brief moment of chaos, the wights that had broken into the formation were all cut down. Under the officers' orders, the soldiers reformed their lines once more.
"Victory belongs to the living!"
"Victory belongs to the North!"
The pace of battle had slowed. The once endless waves of charging wights had noticeably decreased in number. Shield-bearers no longer needed to hold their shields with both hands and could now wield their swords to strike back alongside the spearmen.
Eddard retreated with the others to a small hill and observed the battlefield. The Northmen were gradually gaining the upper hand. Rickard turned to Eddard with a grin. "Eddard, I heard you emptied Winterfell's wine cellar. When we reach Moat Cailin, I want to pick the finest bottle!"
"You can drink all you want once we win." This war had only just begun. Eddard had no idea how long it would last, but he, too, wished to drink himself into oblivion once it was finally over—to forget this nightmare.
Rickard's chest suddenly burst open, an ice spear piercing straight through him. Instinct took over, and Eddard threw himself to the side, but the spear still grazed his shoulder, tearing through his armor and dragging him several yards before coming to a stop.
"White Walker! Stay alert!" a knight shouted.
"Forget about me!"
Eddard gritted his teeth and yanked the ice spear from his shoulder, ignoring the searing pain. White Walkers' weapons weren't like those of men—leaving it in would only make things worse.
Rickard had collapsed. His family's knights stood around him with their shields raised in a protective formation.
"Father!" Harrion rushed to his side, cradling him in his arms. Blood covered his hands—too much blood. The ice spear had torn through Rickard's back and burst out his chest, leaving a gaping hole. Even drinking a healing potion was futile.
Eddard clutched his bleeding shoulder and knelt beside Rickard. "That spear was meant for me... Rickard, I owe you my life."
Rickard looked up at him. "Our families were one and the same."
"Aye." Eddard clasped Rickard's hands.
Rickard's breathing was labored, but he forced a smirk. "Eddard... perhaps you were right to push south... but I still say this—the North breeds no cowards."
"I won't argue with that." But before Eddard could finish, Rickard had already drawn his last breath, never hearing his words.
Eddard reached out and gently closed Rickard's eyes. Then he pulled his dragonglass dagger from his belt and held it out to Harrion.
With a cry of anguish, Harrion took the dagger, flipped it in his grip, and plunged it into his father's heart.
Eddard stood and scanned the battlefield, searching for the direction from which the ice spear had come. He pushed past his knights and looked into the snowy distance. A pale figure stood far away, watching him in return.
"The battle isn't over yet!" Eddard turned to Harrion. "You are now Lord of House Karstark. Kill that White Walker and avenge your father!"
Harrion crossed his father's arms over his chest, then sprinted to his horse.
"Karstark knights! Avenge my father!" Harrion roared from horseback, spurring his men forward in a charge against the White Walker.
Eddard, knowing the foot soldiers had secured victory but fearing for Harrion's safety, gathered the knights around him. "Stark knights! With me—charge!"
"Kill!"
---
"We need to put distance between us and the wights, or the dragons won't be able to help!"
"I'd rather be burned by dragonfire than turned into one of them!"
A few miles north of Eddard's position, the battlefield was a hellish expanse of fire and death. Countless warriors and wights clashed amid blazing trees, their flames ignited by dragonfire. The four great dragons had temporarily ascended to the skies, unable to strike without incinerating their own forces.
Odahviing flew alongside the black dragon Shulvokun. Wright turned to Sauron and shouted, "Get back to the keep!"
Sauron had just hurled an explosive fireball into the wights below. He turned, seeing Wright approach. "No! I want to fight!"
Wright scowled. "Men and wights are mixed together now—what use do you think you are?"
Sauron pointed toward the battlefield, where a blue dragon was engaged in combat. "The prince is my age, and he's fighting!"
Before Wright could argue further, Odahviing tensed beneath him. A surge of freezing magic rippled through the air—the same chilling power that had hurled an ice spear at Eddard.
"Dragonborn, a White Walker is near!"
"You hear that? There's a White Walker down there! They can kill dragons! Get into the clouds!" Wright snapped, urging his dragon skyward.
Wright flew to warn Renly. Renly, who could conjure defensive wards, would use his dragon, Peytvahaaz, to lure out the White Walker.
While they prepared their trap, high above the clouds, Prince Lyonel and Sauron were deep in discussion. Moments later, their dragons—a brilliant blue and a shadowy black—swooped downward, diving toward the battlefield.