Below King's Landing, a cold wind, like the wailing of countless wronged souls, swept past the towering walls of the Mud Gate.
The bricks, once symbols of the Baratheon's glory, were now covered in a pale frost, as if the entire city was prematurely donning its shroud.
Jon Arryn, the Duke of Arryn, stood on the city wall, his cloak flapping in the wind.
His gaze swept over the battlements, towards the distant, endless, writhing tide of pallor.
That was not an army; that was the Night King's army of the dead.
The skeletal remains of direwolves moved through the ranks, and the thunder of bones rubbing together echoed as giant skeletons walked.
And above this army of the dead, the figure riding a Hatchling Dragon of ice—the Night King—gazed at the dying capital with blue eyes colder than a ten-thousand-year-old glacier.
"They're here!"
A hoarse cry tore through the brief silence.
The vanguard of wights, twisted creations that were once Northmen warriors, wildlings, and even livestock, surged towards the city walls like a broken dam.
There were no battle cries, only the clicking of bones against stone and the viscous sounds of rotting flesh rubbing together, forming a chilling requiem.
"Arrows!"
A rain of arrows, carrying the last hopes of the defenders, poured down, embedding themselves in the wights' bodies like pebbles thrown into mud, only creating tiny ripples.
The wights continued to advance, dragging their arrow-pierced bodies, climbing over the remains of their comrades, and beginning to scale the walls in a human ladder.
"Pitch! Oil!"
Scalding black liquid was poured down the wall, but its effect was minimal.
The biting cold had stripped away most of the liquid's heat before it even touched the wights, and flames, just as they ignited, were snuffed out by an invisible, icy will, leaving only tendrils of twisted blue smoke.
What followed was the hell of close-quarters combat.
A Vale Knight mustered all his courage and thrust his longsword into a wight's chest.
The expected fall did not happen; the monster merely paused, its pierced wound instantly covered in ice crystals, and the cold rapidly spread along the steel sword.
The Knight watched in horror as his hand froze to the hilt.
He tried to retreat, but his foot slipped, and with a brief, shrill scream, he was dragged into the swirling tide below the city by more pale arms.
The screams abruptly ceased.
Despair spread like a plague among the defenders.
Their arms trembled from exhaustion and cold, their blades sparked against frozen bodies, yet they struggled to inflict fatal damage.
A Night's Watch soldier desperately held back a wight attempting to climb over the battlement with his spear.
They could distinctly smell the pungent odor of grave soil and rotting flesh emanating from the wights.
"Hold! For King's Landing! For the people!"
Jon Arryn's voice was already hoarse.
He swung his longsword, personally cutting down a wight that had climbed onto the wall.
The shock from the blade numbed his aged arm.
Jon Arryn looked around, seeing only faces filled with fear and numbness.
The soldiers' eyes were gradually becoming vacant, their will to fight almost completely broken!
Just then, a section of the city wall suddenly collapsed with a thunderous roar.
Amidst desperate cries, the defense line was breached.
A tide of wights poured into the gap, and the pallor of death rapidly devoured the last vestiges of human color.
The defenders there were falling like stalks of wheat.
"Your Grace!"
The captain of the Gold Cloaks pointed to the breach in the wall.
"Tywin, with Queen Cersei and Prince Joffrey, has fled back to Casterly Rock!"
The Gold Cloaks' words made the old Duke of Arryn sway, almost falling.
At this moment, Robert and Eddard were captured by rebels, and Stannis and Tywin had abandoned King's Landing.
With no reinforcements, no oil, and no supplies, the half-million people of King's Landing were utterly without hope!
At this moment, Duke Jon felt a bone-deep weariness.
As a Vale Knight, he would never abandon a single person in King's Landing.
"Escort the people, retreat to the The Red Keep!"
He gripped his sword, fulfilling the last duty of the Baratheon Dynasty.
Even with endless cold and death before him, he still raised his sword and advanced.
The iron throne had never been so cold.
It was no longer a symbol of power, but like a giant, grotesque black spider, twisted from a thousand broken swords, lurking in the deep shadows of the The Red Keep.
Now, seated upon it, was Death itself.
The Night King's fingers gently tapped each sword blade embedded along the path on either side of the iron throne.
The tapping sound was not crisp, but rather dull and heavy.
His blue eyes, older than stars and emptier than death, calmly watched the collapsing The Red Keep gate below, and the sporadic resistance retreating like a tide into the deep passages of the The Red Keep.
Looking at this mortal throne, the Night King naturally sat down.
The sharp edges of the iron throne could not pierce his frost-covered skin.
The curse of power was so impotent against this Lord of Winter.
Dark red ice shards clung to the broken parts of Jon Arryn's armor.
His sword, too, was chipped with countless nicks.
He was no longer the lofty protector of Arryn, but a blood-soaked Goshawk, driven to desperation.
"To the west! To the old Dragonpit!"
His roar, mixed with blood foam, echoed through the empty hall.
Behind him were the last few hundred Vale Knights and Night's Watch rangers.
Their once bright armor was now covered in the marks of battle, and their eyes held only weariness and a near-numb madness.
They fought and retreated, protecting the orderly evacuation of King's Landing's people.
The wights were not eager to kill.
They pursued silently, stubbornly, like a cat-and-mouse game teasing their opponents.
A Knight turned and threw a short axe, its blade precisely splitting a wight's skull.
The creature swayed, and the ice covering its skull spread, freezing the short axe in place.
The next moment, it continued to advance unhurriedly, still dragging the axe.
Despair lay not in the enemy's strength, but in this despair of being indestructible, unstoppable.
Duke Jon's vision was somewhat blurred.
He seemed to see many years ago, within this very The Red Keep, he, Robert, and Eddard had celebrated here, envisioning a new dynasty after overthrowing the Targaryen Dynasty.
At that time, sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, and the air was filled with the aroma of wine and roasted meat.
But now, the stained-glass windows were shattered, the cold wind howled, and the former glory of the Baratheon Dynasty had been completely covered by the pallor of death.
The air held only a bone-deep chill.
They retreated into a relatively narrow corridor.
This was once the path to the royal chambers.
The walls here once displayed tapestries of past Targaryen Dynasty monarchs.
Now, those exquisite portraits were discarded in forgotten corners, the faces of the figures long blurred, like phantoms.
"Hold the door!"
Jon leaned against a cold stone wall, panting heavily.
He knew this was the end of his life.
The iron throne was occupied by Death, and the fall of the kingdom was inevitable!