The returning Night's Watch ranger squad was brought before King Renly to report on the situation.
"How many?!" Renly stopped abruptly, his voice filled with shock, causing the surrounding nobles to also halt and stare at the squad leader.
The squad leader's hands were still trembling. "Countless! From the top of the hill, we saw them covering the land as far as the eye could see—Wights everywhere! They didn't bother chasing us. I suppose they didn't think we were worth the effort."
Renly pressed on urgently, "How far away are they?"
The squad leader pulled a steel pocket watch from his belt and checked the time. "We rode back without stopping—it took us about an hour. The Wights, on foot, should reach Moat Cailin in approximately five hours."
Everyone immediately did the math. The scouts were lightly equipped, and their horses couldn't run at full speed through the snow. The Wights, on the other hand, did not need rest. Five hours was indeed a reasonable estimate.
"Is this information reliable?" Renly fixed his gaze on the squad leader for final confirmation. Magic surged within him, and visible waves of power flickered across his body.
The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Benjen Stark, noticed the man's hesitation and gave him a push. "Ser Jeremy Rykker, go over the details once more—make sure you haven't overlooked anything!"
Jeremy snapped to attention and gave a crisp salute. "I swear on my life! The Others are marching on Moat Cailin!"
Renly nodded at Jeremy, then drew his sword, Storm, and raised it high. Channeling magic into his voice, he bellowed to those around him: "Hear me! By my authority as King, I command all—lords, knights, soldiers, and commoners alike—take up arms! Defend humanity!"
"Defend humanity!" Benjen unsheathed his longsword.
Everyone within Moat Cailin raised their weapons and echoed in unison, "Defend humanity!"
The retreating forces from the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale had all converged on Moat Cailin. Likewise, the Others, having breached the Wall in three locations, had gathered their main army for an assault. There was no room for complacency—this battle would be a decisive one.
Along the vast ice walls, the oiled covers over clay pots were pulled away, revealing caches of wildfire. Bundles of obsidian-tipped arrows were hauled up from carts and onto the battlements. Iron-reinforced shields were stacked behind the parapets. Crates of provisions were emptied onto the ice, the wooden boxes broken down for torches.
The Northmen, defending the western section of the walls, prepared themselves with grim determination, eager to avenge their fallen kin. The soldiers of the Riverlands guarded the eastern section, while the knights of the Vale had tethered their horses in the rear woods and joined the defense alongside the knights of the Westerlands. The vanguard of Dorne, armed with longspears, took up positions near the King under Nymeria's command.
Beyond the walls, trebuchets and smaller catapults had been erected in large numbers. Blacksmiths and siege engineers gathered around them, making last-minute adjustments.
Messenger ravens had already been dispatched—the realm had to know of the Others' advance. If the royal fleet and the Tyroshi fleet anchored in the Bite had not yet encountered the dead upon the frozen sea, both naval forces were to land and reinforce Moat Cailin at once.
"Ser Jeremy Rykker, I hereby promote you to First Ranger of the Night's Watch," Benjen declared, ensuring his subordinate received recognition—perhaps his last honor before the coming battle.
"I accept, Lord Commander!" Jeremy saluted before gazing northward, his voice somber. "I wonder if I will ever see my family in White Harbor again."
Benjen gave a faint smile. "It would be better if you didn't. If we fall back to White Harbor, it means the Riverlands have already been overrun."
Their breath turned to mist, rising into the air above the Neck, where only tree stumps remained from past deforestation.
---
Five hours of frantic preparations passed swiftly.
Standing atop the battlements, Renly opened his eyes, severing his magical connection to the dragon soaring above. Raising a hand, he called out to those beside him, "They're here! Sound the horns!"
The war horns blared from Moat Cailin, their echoes traveling along the walls.
"Move! Move!" The officers shouted, waving their arms to direct the defenders.
"We need more obsidian arrows up here!" The quartermaster barked as workers hurried to transport more ammunition.
The defenders took their positions. Torches had been lit hours earlier. Pots of wildfire were loaded onto the smaller trebuchets.
All eyes were fixed on the northern horizon. Archers' hands trembled as they gripped their bows. Shield-bearers tightened their grips. Spearmen in full armor were already sweating despite the cold. The entire defensive line was eerily silent—none dared to break the tension with idle chatter.
On the 9th day of the 12th moon, 300 AC, the army of the dead stepped onto the Neck.
At the edge of the vast, snow-covered landscape, a single skeletal figure emerged from the trees. It wore tattered remnants of clothing and clutched a crude stone axe.
What little flesh remained on its bones had long since rotted away. Though its gait was uneven, it moved with unsettling speed, quickly reaching the top of a small hill. In its glowing blue eyes, the silhouette of Moat Cailin took shape.
"Just one Wight?" Rosamund Lannister asked, her voice trembling with unease.
She wore a crimson mage's robe with golden trim, a cape embroidered with a rearing lion on her back. Her beautiful face was framed by golden hair, and she held a golden wand in her hand. No matter how one looked at her, she appeared to be a wealthy and powerful sorceress. Yet, she was terrified of the dead—so much so that even a dead rat could make her scream in fright.
Nymeria retrieved a folded weapon from her back, swiftly assembling it into a pitch-black spear. She then picked up a black shield bearing a relief of her own profile and gripped it in her left hand. "No, look behind you."
The wights descended the hill with unfeeling, mechanical steps. Another wight appeared at the top of the hill, then another—ten, a hundred, a thousand. Soon, they were beyond what the naked eye could count, forming a dark, seething mass, with more constantly emerging from the rear.
The wights broke into a jog.
From the fortress's vantage point, it looked like a tide of black water surging southward.
The jog became a sprint.
Among them, animal wights, swifter than their human counterparts, kicked up clouds of snow as they ran, quickly overtaking the humanoid wights.
Then the sprint turned into an all-out charge!
"Hsss~~~" Everywhere the eye could see, countless wights of various forms were charging.
"Catapults, fire!"
At the officers' unified command, hundreds of fireballs rose from behind the walls. A line of green fireballs streaked through the sky, leaving trails of black smoke before crashing into the wight horde.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
A wall of emerald flames illuminated the faces of the living. The lead wights in the charge were obliterated by the wildfire explosions, their severed limbs and shattered bodies flung dozens of meters into the air.
No one cheered. Everyone knew this wouldn't be enough to stop the wights' advance.
Before the green flames had even burned out, an endless swarm of ice spiders, each as large as a horse, scuttled out of the woods. They moved in groups of three or five, their bulbous abdomens quivering as they shot strands of silk, working swiftly with their long legs to wrap the wights' burning, oil-soaked remains into compact bundles.
Four legs anchored them into the mud while the other four rose high, forming living ballistae. With the aid of the vampires, the silk-wrapped bundles were launched into the air and ignited.
"Defend! Mages, defensive spells now!"
"Protect the wildfire!"
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Shields were raised, canvas covers were pulled over the soldiers and the ceramic jars. Defensive spells flared to life across the walls. Fireballs struck the fortress, detonating on impact, sending burning oil splattering in all directions.
"Ahhh!"
Armor was useless against the burning oil. The scorching liquid seeped into the joints, coating the knights within in flames.
Fortunately, the coalition had learned from their experience at the Wall. This time, only a few unlucky souls were caught by the burning oil, and the soldiers quickly pulled away the ignited canvas before the fire could spread.
"Increase catapult range! Take out those damned spiders!"
The battle between the living and the dead had yet to reach the melee stage, but both sides had already exchanged three volleys of fireballs.
A wight army of this magnitude meant that many White Walkers were controlling them. Renly dared not let Peytvahaaz take flight. Instead, he had the dragon carry his orders eastward to the sea for support while he remained at the fortress to defend.
The central keep, unlike the flanking walls, bore the brunt of the fireball bombardment. A massive golden magical shield, over a hundred meters in diameter, enveloped the heart of the stronghold. Fireballs constantly exploded against it, and molten oil cascaded down its edges like a waterfall of flame.
Rosamund raised her wand high, her body glowing gold as she channeled restorative magic at full strength. The power radiating from her whipped up strong winds, sending her golden hair flying in all directions. Her skirt lifted as well, revealing her snow-white legs, but no one paid attention to that. The wights had already reached the base of the walls.
"Rosamund, drop the shield!" Nymeria shouted.
Blue lightning crackled and roared, drowning out the battle cries. Nearby, Renly swung Storm, sending bolts of lightning arcing from its tip into the wight horde.
"Rosamund, drop the shield! Use healing magic on the wights!" Nymeria ran up to her, shouting as she grabbed her arm.
"Alright!" Rosamund quickly dismissed the shield.
As the golden barrier vanished, several young mages immediately cast fireballs to ignite the wildfire jars buried beneath the fortress walls.
Rosamund, unlike Ayshara, was not as hardened. She was a gentle and introverted girl. Wright had trained her differently from the other three—less harshly. She had killed a few bandits and learned how to coordinate magic with an army in battle, but once on the battlefield, her nerves had gotten the better of her, and she had forgotten everything.
The wildfire, previously buried throughout the walls, ignited simultaneously, forming a continuous green blaze that stretched across the Neck, as if splitting the entire continent of Westeros in two.
"Don't just stand there—use your healing magic!" Nymeria commanded. She couldn't wield magic herself, but after spending so much time around Wright, she had learned enough to surpass some lesser mages in theoretical knowledge.
"Oh!"
Rosamund gripped her wand with one hand and pointed it at the base of the fortress. "Ha~ Ha~"
With each incantation, golden spheres of magic shot down into the wights, exploding upon contact with the snow. Healing magic stood in direct opposition to death itself—on humans and animals, it had no offensive properties and could mend wounds, but for the undead, the golden energy was more agonizing than fire.
Flames took several seconds to burn a wight to ash, but a healing spell detonating within their ranks could reduce them to dust instantly!
Renly understood this as well. However, his Storm sword was imbued with lightning, while Rosamund's wand was attuned to healing magic. With no way of knowing how long the battle would last, they had to conserve their strength and use the spells best suited to their weapons.
In the distance, the battlefield swarmed with wights. Each trebuchet blast of wildfire incinerated massive groups at a time, yet before long, more wights would surge forward to replace the fallen.
They used their comrades' corpses as stepping stones, piling over one another to smother the burning green trenches. A seemingly endless mass of undead continued throwing themselves into the flames, their bones cracking and popping under the heat. The sound of their destruction had long since ceased to be a series of isolated snaps—it had become a ceaseless roar.
"Throw more wildfire!"
"Bring up more jars!"
"Hisssss~~~"
The living forces continued hurling wildfire into the trenches, while the wights relentlessly fed the flames with their own bodies. The two sides entered a bitter deadlock.
By the time afternoon arrived, the winter sun was already beginning to set. The battlefield at the Fens of the Neck, however, remained blindingly bright. Orange torchlight, blue lightning, and green wildfire illuminated the land so vividly that even Greywater Watch, a hundred leagues away, could see the strange colors painting the northern sky.
"Prepare for engagement!" Human warriors shouted as they raised their obsidian weapons.
The wights had finally reached the base of the walls and were piling atop one another at a terrifying speed. The ones behind them used their bodies as ladders, clawing and scrambling their way up the sheer stone.
The defenders continued throwing wildfire jars, but the sheer number of wights overwhelmed them. The undead pressed forward with such numbers that they began forming breaches in the firewall, surging through while still ablaze.
"Rosamund, we're heading down!" Nymeria shouted as she sprinted toward the stairs.
"Understood!" Rosamund quickly followed.
Seeing that no White Walkers were attacking and that a group of low-ranked mages still surrounded Renly for protection, Nymeria determined that he was safe and led her Dornish warriors to reinforce the lower walls.
Individually, wights were weak—dodging their crude strikes and cutting them down was easy. But their numbers changed everything.
"Thrust!"
Along the base of the frozen walls, a commanding officer gave the order. Knights armed with spears tipped in dragonglass struck in unison, skewering the wights that had reached the battlements, sending them tumbling down.
"Thrust!"
"Raaaagh!"
Again, the spears struck in perfect harmony. The moment dragonglass touched undead flesh, the wights' internal flames were snuffed out instantly.
But the bodies kept piling.
The ten-meter-high walls had already amassed a five-meter mound of corpses at their base.
"Throw the wildfire!" Nymeria grabbed a nobleman directing the battle.
"No! Who the hell is giving reckless orders?" Greatjon Umber bellowed, irritated by the unfamiliar voice.
But when he turned, his gaze fell upon a woman clad in black armor, standing beside Rosamund. He instantly recognized her—Nymeria. His tone shifted immediately. "Wildfire will melt the walls!"
"Then throw it farther! If you don't burn those bodies now, they'll form a ramp right to the top!" Nymeria snapped. She didn't take offense—battlefields were chaotic, and people in a heightened state of combat often reacted instinctively, even striking out if startled.
"Rosamund, fall back and recover your magic. Dornish warriors, with me—slay them!"
Nymeria and two hundred Dornish warriors surged into the fray, while Rosamund withdrew to the wall's stairway. From her belt, she retrieved a vial of crimson mana-restoration potion, gripping it tightly.
"I wonder how Willem is faring…"