The vast, frozen expanse of the Narrow Sea lay in heavy, suffocating silence.
The living stood in their strict formations along the black sands of Eastwatch, their breath pluming in the freezing air. The heavy infantry of the Westerlands gripped their oak shields, the archers of the Reach stood ready with bow and arrows, and the siege crews waited by the tensioned levers of the trebuchets. Behind them, the stone walls of the fortress loomed, offering no retreat.
Through the thick, creeping white fog, the true horde of the dead finally began to march.
It was not a mindless, rushing sprint like the vanguard had attempted a moon ago. The massive army of the Night King moved with a slow, terrifying, crushing weight. Tens of thousands of rotting corpses, skeletal rangers, and pale, lifeless wildlings stepped in absolute, silent unison. Their boots crunched heavily against the solid ice, the sheer mass of their numbers causing the frozen sea to groan in protest beneath them.
Eddard Stark stood near the center of the Westerlands shield wall, his grey eyes locked on the approaching tide.
Beside him, King Robert Baratheon rested the heavy Valyrian head of Stormbreaker in the frozen mud, his massive chest rising and falling evenly.
Ser Brynden Tully stood on a wooden crate just behind the lines, a red signal flag gripped tightly in his calloused hand.
"Steady," Brynden's voice rang out, harsh and practical, carrying down the disciplined ranks. "Let them hit the stone."
The front ranks of the dead reached the shoreline. They did not pause or attempt to navigate the terrain. Driven entirely by the cold will of their masters in the deep mist, the first wave marched directly over the edge of the first trench.
Hundreds of wights tumbled headfirst into the deep, wide pit.
The trap worked exactly as it had before. The bottom and the steep sides of the trench were lined heavily with thousands of jagged, upward-facing spikes of pure black dragonglass. As the rotting bodies crashed into the pit, the ancient, brittle stone pierced their flesh and shattered the necromancy animating their bones. The piercing blue light in their eyes snuffed out instantly. The corpses went completely limp, turning back into inanimate dead meat.
More poured over the edge, pushed forward by the crushing weight of the horde behind them. They fell onto the spikes, twitching once as the obsidian severed the magic, before going perfectly still.
For sixty heavy, grim seconds, the dragonglass trench swallowed the dead.
But the masters of the cold did not care for casualties. They possessed an endless supply of bodies. The wights continued to pour into the trench until the sharp obsidian spikes were completely buried beneath a thick, heavy layer of rotting flesh and shattered bone. The trap was spent.
The trench was filled to the brim.
The dead still marching from the frozen sea did not fall. They stepped directly onto the packed, lifeless bodies of their fallen kind, using them as a solid path to march straight across the first trench.
"They are crossing the stone," Tywin Lannister noted coldly from his horse behind the lines.
"Hold your ground," Ned commanded, raising a heavy leather glove.
The dead marched forward. They crossed the ten paces of frozen mud and stepped directly into the second trench. This trench was not lined with dragonglass; it was packed tightly with heavy barrels of pitch, dry wood, and unlit jars of wildfire.
The wights simply walked over the unlit barrels, their rotting boots breaking the dry wood, entirely uncaring of the flammable trap beneath their feet. They poured out of the second trench and marched into the third, crossing the unlit pitch there just as easily.
Ned watched the pacing. He needed them committed. He needed the shoreline completely packed with the dead before he sprung the fire, ensuring the maximum possible slaughter and separating the vanguard from the core.
The dead reached the fourth trench, a mere twenty paces in front of the heavy oak shields of the Westerlands.
A few hundred wights began to march through the fourth trench, their skeletal hands reaching out toward the living men.
Ned dropped his hand. "Now!"
Brynden Tully slashed the red flag downward.
The archers of the Reach and the Vale, standing just behind the infantry lines, did not aim at the charging dead. They dipped their arrows into the burning braziers at their feet and loosed a short, steep volley directly into the snow-filled fourth trench.
The flaming arrows plunged into the heavy wooden barrels and clay jars.
The fourth trench erupted instantly.
A deafening, violent roar shook the frozen beach. A towering, blinding wall of emerald-green fire blasted straight up into the grey sky, stretching entirely across the coastline. The magical heat of the wildfire instantly incinerated the wights caught directly in the blast, turning them to floating ash.
The massive wall of green flame completely cut off the path forward. The thousands of wights trapped on the northern side of the fourth trench stopped their march, staring blankly at the impassable furnace.
But a few hundred wights had already passed through the fourth trench before it was lit. They were now trapped on the southern side of the fire, charging directly into the Westerlands infantry.
"Take them!" Tywin Lannister ordered.
The heavy oak shields locked together with a resounding crack. The long dragonglass spears thrust forward from the second rank. The disciplined men of the Westerlands ground the trapped wights against their shields.
Ned, Robert, and Jaime Lannister stepped through the gaps, their Valyrian steel flashing in the green light. The dark, rippling blades sheared through rusted iron and rotting bone, shattering the magic and dropping the dead to the mud in a matter of seconds. The stragglers were cleaned up with ruthless, mechanical efficiency.
But the fire in the trench was only a wall. To truly break the horde, they needed to strike the heart.
"Archers!" Bryden commanded loudly. "Loose!"
Thousands of yew bows were drawn tight. The sky turned dark as a thick cloud of dragonglass-tipped arrows hissed over the wall of green fire, descending rapidly onto the dense, milling mass of the dead trapped between the trenches. Hundreds of wights collapsed as the obsidian bit into their flesh.
Brynden Tully turned his attention to the fortress walls. He raised a black signal flag high into the air.
Behind the lines, the heavy siege engines engaged. The thick, tension-wound ropes of the land-based trebuchets snapped forward with a deep groan. Dozens of heavy, reinforced wooden barrels filled with volatile green wildfire soared high over the beach, arcing through the grey sky.
They crashed down far past the trenches, landing directly into the tightly packed core of the main horde still standing on the frozen sea.
A mile out on the dark water, safely beyond the edge of the newly formed ice, the ships of the realm joined the bombardment.
Lord Stannis Baratheon stood on the command deck of his heavy war galley, his pale blue eyes fixed on the distant shore. The three dozen retrofitted war cogs anchored in the churning water had their own heavy trebuchets primed and loaded.
"Loose!" Stannis commanded, his voice cold and sharp over the crashing waves.
The naval trebuchets fired. Dozens more heavy barrels of wildfire soared from the sea, raining down onto the frozen glacier, smashing into the ranks of the dead alongside the barrels from the land.
"Fire arrows!" Stannis barked.
The marine archers on the decks of the ships drew their flaming shafts and fired them in high, sweeping arcs toward the spilled green liquid on the ice.
The ignition was spectacular and devastating.
Massive pillars of emerald fire erupted deep within the ranks of the dead army. The blasts linked together, turning the frozen sea into a sprawling, roaring lake of green flame.
Thousands of wights, skeletal beasts, and rotting horses were caught in the inferno, their dry bones burning to ash in the magical heat. The ice beneath them cracked and hissed, turning to boiling steam.
The living men on the beach let out a harsh, ragged cheer, watching the enemy core burn.
But the masters of the deep cold did not intend to let their army turn to ash without a fight.
Through the thick, foul-smelling black smoke billowing from the frozen sea, the Night King moved. He did not charge the lines. He sat atop his skeletal horse, surrounded by his pale riders.
The Night King raised both of his pale hands.
The air in the bay suddenly shifted. The biting winter wind ceased, replaced by a heavy, suffocating drop in temperature that froze the very moisture in the air. A thick, unnatural wave of pure, absolute cold rolled forward from the White Walkers. He aimed one hand at the roaring fourth trench on the beach, and the other toward the sprawling lake of fire burning deep within his own army's core.
For a full minute of grinding, magical strain, the air shrieked. The Night King attempted to suppress two massive wildfire zones simultaneously.
If it had been normal fire, born of wood and pitch, the unnatural cold would have snuffed it out in a single heartbeat. But the wildfire possessed its own deep hunger. The flames fought back fiercely against the creeping frost.
The strain was too much. The Night King's hands dropped slightly. He could not overpower both fires at once. His power had limits, and the Alchemists' fire was too vast.
With cold, calculated pragmatism, the Night King made his choice. He abandoned the core of his army. He lowered his hand from the sea, allowing the naval and land bombardment to continue incinerating tens of thousands of his wights freely. He sacrificed his heavy center entirely to focus his full, undivided magical weight on suppressing the fourth trench. The sheer numbers of the dead were infinite; the living's shield wall was not. His priority was the frontline breach.
Under his focused assault, the fourth trench finally began to dim. The vibrant emerald turned to a sickly, pale yellow, the flames struggling to find fuel against the overwhelming frost.
"The fourth trench is dimming!" Brynden Tully shouted, watching the green flames shrink.
Ned did not hesitate. "Light the second trench!"
Brynden raised a yellow flag.
The archers adjusted their aim, firing their flaming shafts over the horde and directly into the second trench, fifty paces away, which the dead were currently marching across.
The second trench erupted.
A new wall of green fire blasted into the sky, catching thousands of wights entirely by surprise. The sudden explosion incinerated the dead currently standing on the barrels and completely cut off the path forward for the horde on the ice.
However, the thousands of wights that had already passed the second trench were now trapped between the blazing second trench and the dimming fourth trench.
As the Night King finally snuffed the last struggling embers of the fourth trench out, those trapped wights charged directly at the shield wall.
The brutal melee resumed. The Lannister spearmen thrust their dragonglass weapons forward, shattering the rotting corpses, while the Valyrian steel wielders stepped through the gaps. The fighting was brutal and close, but the numbers were manageable. The living held the line, methodically cutting down the dead that had breached the gap.
Out on the frozen sea, the Night King shifted his focus again. Ignoring the continuous, devastating bombardment still wiping out his rear guard, he raised his hand toward the newly ignited second trench, beginning the slow, heavy process of suppressing the green flames with his cold magic.
"The second trench will not hold long against that frost," Brynden Tully observed, wiping sweat from his scarred face after a minute of watching the green flames already beginning to pale.
"We need the fourth trench back," Ned stated firmly, wiping dark gore from the blade of Ice.
"Captains!" Brynden roared, turning to the rear lines. "Bring the reserves forward! Haul the barrels! Refill the fourth trench now! Move!"
While the heavy infantry held the shields, hundreds of fresh men from the Crownlands and the Riverlands rushed forward from the fortress. They carried heavy wooden barrels of pitch and clay jars of wildfire, dragging them through the frozen mud. They threw them frantically into the smoking, blackened pit of the fourth trench, working with desperate speed to reset the trap.
It was terrifying, frantic labor, but the men worked relentlessly.
As they hauled the barrels, the Night King's cold magic finally overwhelmed the second trench. The green fire sputtered and died, plunging the middle of the battlefield into thick, smoking darkness.
The dead immediately resumed their relentless march, pouring over the ruined second trench and stepping into the third, unlit trench.
"They are crossing the third!" a captain shouted, watching the horde advance rapidly. "The fourth trench is not fully packed!"
Brynden Tully did not panic. He simply adapted the rhythm of the slaughter.
"Ignite the third!" Brynden bellowed.
The archers fired again. The flaming arrows plunged into the third trench.
Another deafening explosion rocked the beach. The third trench blasted upward, catching the charging wights in a roaring furnace of green and orange flame. The blast bought the living the precious time they needed.
"Fall back!" Brynden commanded the supply runners. "The fourth trench is primed!"
The men hauling the barrels scrambled backward, retreating safely behind the heavy oak shields of the Westerlands just as the heat from the third trench washed over the lines.
The dead that had managed to pass the third trench before it ignited charged the shield wall, but their numbers were thin. The dragonglass spears and Valyrian blades made quick, brutal work of the stragglers, dropping them to the frozen sand.
During this entire, grueling sequence of retreating fire, the bombardment never ceased.
The ships of the royal fleet out on the water, and the land-based trebuchets behind the fortress, continued a relentless, punishing rhythm.
Heavy barrels of wildfire smashed into the deep core of the dead army on the frozen sea, exploding in brilliant flashes of emerald light.
The archers maintained a steady rain of dragonglass arrows, thinning the horde with every volley.
The Night King actively sacrificed his numbers, accepting the staggering losses in the rear to maintain his slow, inevitable pressure on the front lines.
"The traps are spent, Ned," Robert Baratheon grunted, resting his heavy warhammer on the ground as the third trench began to pale and dim under the Night King's assault. "The fourth trench is the last line. Once that fire dies, there is nothing between the shields and the entire horde."
Ned Stark nodded slowly. He looked at the heavy, smoking battlefield, and then turned his gaze back to the fortress.
"The footmen have done their part," Ned declared, his voice carrying a calm, lethal certainty. "They have thinned the herd, and they have bought us the time we needed. Now, we break their core."
Ned turned to Brynden. "Lord Tully. Order the infantry to fall back. Open the corridor."
Brynden nodded sharply. He raised a blue signal flag.
The captains of the Westerlands shouted the command. Moving with flawless discipline, the heavy infantry locked their shields and slowly stepped backward. They parted in the center, creating a wide, open corridor through the middle of their lines, leading directly toward the unlit fourth trench.
From the safety of the fortress courtyard, the heavy cavalry of the living rode forward.
It was not a massive host of thousands. It was a highly concentrated, terrifyingly lethal spearhead composed of the finest warriors and the greatest Valyrian steel in the Seven Kingdoms.
King Robert Baratheon rode his massive black destrier, the heavy Valyrian steel of Stormbreaker resting across his saddle.
Eddard Stark rode beside him, the twin Valyrian blades, Winter and Justice, strapped to his back.
Behind them rode a gathering of legends. Ser Jaime Lannister held the golden hilt of Brightroar.
Ser Barristan Selmy sat tall and unyielding in his white cloak with his own Valyrian sword, Oathkeeper.
Prince Oberyn Martell gripped a long ash-wood spear tipped with a Valyrian steel spearhead.
Sandor Clegane, his burned face set in a grim scowl, held a heavy Valyrian steel axe.
Garlan and Loras Tyrell wore thick plate armor, their faces serious and focused.
Addam Marbrand and fifty of the absolute finest, hardened veterans of the Wolfpack rode tightly behind the lords, all gripping long, heavy lances tipped with jagged dragonglass.
But the most terrifying figure in the cavalry did not ride a horse.
Padding heavily beside Ned's stirrup was Loki. The giant charcoal-grey direwolf was a vision of absolute nightmare. The smiths of Winterfell had not left the beast unprotected.
Loki wore heavy barding made of thick boiled leather, completely studded with jagged, razor-sharp shards of black dragonglass.
Upon his massive head rested a custom-forged helm of Valyrian steel and leather, fitted with long, curved fangs that extended down alongside his own terrifying jaws.
The beast looked like a demon forged of black stone and shadow, his golden eyes burning with predatory intelligence.
The heavy cavalry formed a tight, wedge-shaped spear formation at the mouth of the infantry corridor, waiting just behind the fourth trench.
"The third trench is dead!" a sentry shouted from the walls.
Out on the beach, the green flames of the third trench sputtered into ash under the Night King's relentless frost.
The massive horde of the dead, tens of thousands strong, immediately surged forward, charging blindly across the ruined earth.
"Light it!" Ned roared.
The archers fired their last volley of flaming pitch into the freshly packed fourth trench.
The green fire blasted into the sky, creating a roaring, impassable wall of flame mere paces in front of the waiting cavalry. The charging wights crashed into the fire, burning to ash instantly, the heat washing heavily over the armored knights and their restless horses.
"Hold!" Robert bellowed, his massive voice cutting through the roar of the flames, keeping the horses steady.
Out on the ice, the bombardment from the ships and the land trebuchets continued to rain wildfire into the deep ranks of the dead. But the Night King had finally reached the front lines.
The master of the cold rode his skeletal horse directly toward the edge of the burning fourth trench. He did not step into the flames, keeping half a bowshot back—close enough for his cold magic to physically smother the Alchemists' fire, but far enough to avoid the searing, magical heat of the blaze.
He raised both of his pale hands, pointing them directly at the trench. The air around him shimmered as a massive, suffocating wave of pure, unnatural winter poured from his palms, crashing directly into the emerald flames.
The living knights sat upon their warhorses, waiting with bated breath.
They watched the towering wall of green fire begin to pale. The heat faded, replaced by a biting, creeping chill that frosted the iron rings of their mail.
The wildfire hissed and shrieked, fighting the magic, but the Night King's concentrated proximity was too much. The flames shrank lower, and lower, until finally, the last green ember was snuffed out entirely, leaving only a wide, smoking pit of black ash.
The wall was gone.
The mist parted, revealing the terrifying, endless horde of the dead standing merely twenty paces away, their blue eyes burning in the gloom.
"Lances down!" Ned Stark roared, drawing his own dragonglass spear; other warriors also followed suit.
The fifty Wolfpack veterans leveled their long, dragonglass-tipped lances in perfect unison, aiming directly at the rotting chests of the dead.
King Robert Baratheon let out a deafening, joyful roar, raising the spear high into the freezing air.
With a blast of the hunting horns, both sides charged. The horde of the dead rushed forward in a silent, mindless tide, while the finest warriors of the living realm drove their heavy warhorses directly into the smoking ash, launching themselves straight into the dark core of the enemy.