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The remnants of Eastwatch staggered through the bitter night. Men limped, dragged the wounded, or rode broken sledges pulled by half-frozen horses. Smoke still clung to their cloaks, mingling with the stench of scorched stone and charred flesh. Behind them, far in the distance, a plume of black and grey rose where the Wall had been breached.
"Keep moving! For the Watch, lads, keep moving!" a veteran ranger shouted, his voice cracking from cold and smoke.
One young ranger, face pale beneath the soot, glanced back at the fading glow. "Seven hells… it wasn't just a breach. It tore the Wall like paper!"
"No," rasped another, older and bleeding from hi head, "not it. Him. That thing upon the dragon… gods save us, we need to get away from here and fast!."
A horn was blown weakly, more to keep spirits clinging to survival than a rally for war. "We send word! Get to the ravens! At least one for Winterfell!" one cried as they stumbled into a small hunter's outpost halfway to the main road. The lone maester there, pale with fright, rushed to his rookery, hands shaking as he tied the desperate message 'Eastwatch fallen. Wall breached. An ice dragon rides the storm.'
Farther west, along the retreating column from Castle Black to Last Hearth, the ground shuddered beneath their boots. It was a deep, rolling groan, like the world itself had woken and resented their march. Horses neighed, men clutched their cloaks tighter, and the column paused as if the very air had grown heavier.
Jon Snow's eyes turned eastward. A faint, eerie glow flickered on the horizon, half-swallowed by the mist that never seemed to lift. His jaw clenched. "That was no thunder," he muttered, the words freezing in the air.
A ranger at his side whispered, "Gods… they've done it. It came from Eastwatch... it might be gone even."
Jon's hands curled into fists, snow crunching beneath his boots as he strode forward. "I just hope they sent word before it happened… damn it all! Most of our strength's here and at the Last Hearth where we have most of our men, freefolk and the army of the north. If the dead march now, there's naught to stop them from flooding the eastern coast."
Another ranger, nervous and pale, spoke out of turn, "All this army ready, and we leave the Wall empty? Are we not dooming the realm?"
Jon whirled on him, his voice cutting through the frigid night like a blade. "It's not the dead you fools, it's a dragon! Take your weapons and move. Or do you fancy a dragon's flame to warm your bones?"
He turned to the nearest maester, his expression grim. "The army we heard of… the one sent from King's Landing. Have they arrived here yet?"
The man shook his head, breath steaming. "Not yet, Lord Snow. They'll dock at Karhold first. It will be some time before they reach us."
Jon exhaled sharply, his breath clouding the frigid air. "It's fine. Karhold's close enough to both Eastwatch and Last Hearth. If the worst has happened and by the gods, I think it has then mayhap the king's shadowspawn can hold them long enough for the rest of us to meet them there."
A horn sounded from the rear, a warning to hasten their retreat. The column lurched forward again, boots crunching over hard-packed snow, sledges creaking under the weight of supplies hastily taken from Castle Black.
High above near the wall, far beyond the drifting clouds, the night sky burned faintly where the breach lay. Aeron Grim soared upon the Cannibal's back, the monstrous shadow dragon slicing through the sky with wings like black sails. The dragon's violet glow rippled across the mists, its roar was raw and furious.
Aeron's cloak snapped in the wind, his eyes narrowing as the distant ruin came into view a torn scar where the Wall once stood proud. "So that's your game…" he muttered, his voice low but there was an edge to it. He leaned forward, the wind biting his face. "Faster, Cannibal. He can't be far."
The dragon answered with another earth-shaking roar, its speed doubling as it cut through the blizzard.
****
The night in the land of the Gift was deathly calm, eerily so, with the kind of cold that gnawed into the marrow. A pale moon hung low, painting the barren land in silver and shadow. A small band of Northern soldiers huddled near their campfire, the flames struggling against the biting wind. Their breath steamed as they muttered lowly about the sound they just heard from the wall, about the whole patrolling they have been doing lately, about the strange tidings that had swept through the North like a curse.
Then the ground began to tremble around them, not with the roar of a storm or a mere earthquake, but with something heavier, a march of an army. A low, unnatural mist rolled in from the dark horizon, curling along the snow as though the earth itself exhaled frost. The horses snorted and reared, their eyes wide with primal terror.
One of the men, a grizzled ranger with a scar running down his jaw, stood first, squinting into the pale veil ahead.
"What the fuck…" his voice cracked like dry wood. "Do you see that?"
The others followed his gaze. At first, there was only the fog. Then shapes began to emerge lines upon lines of figures, skeletal and twisted, marching in silence. The glint of ice caught the moonlight: spears, swords, and the pale skulls of dead horses carrying their frozen white walkers. Above them, a shadow moved against the stars, vast wings unfurling, a scream splitting the heavens like the wail of a thousand dying souls.
"Is that… a bloody dragon?!" one whispered, his lips trembling. "No… no, we are not going to stay here, we need to report back!"
"It's them..." another stammered, stumbling back. "The tales were true.. the walkers and the strange winter.."
Panic spread like wildfire between them. The soldiers scrambled for their weapons, for their mounts, for any road that led south. The cold air burned their lungs as they ran, boots crunching through the snow, their campfire forgotten and snuffed out in the gale.
Above, the Night King rode the frozen beast, his blue gaze sweeping the land like a hunter sighting prey. From that height, no man should have the ability to see anything, yet his head turned sharply. In his pale, clawed hand, the spear formed ice harder than iron, sharp as the fangs of a dragon. He drew back and hurled it.
The spear whistled like a banshee's cry, cutting through the night. One of the fleeing men jerked mid-stride, the weapon striking clean through his chest from a distance so far it defied reason. He fell, lifeless, his blood hissing as it hit the snow.
The survivors shrieked and ran harder. "Go! Go, damn you! Ride for the Last Hearth! For Karhold! Anywhere but here!"
But the sky howled again, and more spears rained down silent and merciless. Each impact cracked the frozen earth, splintering their bones and their hope for survival alike. One by one they fell, their screams smothered by the mist.
And then, as the white haze thickened around their corpses, the cold crept deeper. Fingers twitched. Eyes snapped open no longer the brown or green of the living, but an unholy, piercing blue. One man rose, the same spear still lodged in his chest, snow clinging to his beard. He turned without a sound, falling into step with the silent army that now passed like a tide of death.
Far above, the Night King did not show emotion, but the pale blue flame of his eyes flared faintly, as though pleased with his little hunt.
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If you Like this story! Check out my other stories! Shadow Monarch in DC
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