Disclaimer:
Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
ASOIAF and all of its characters belong to GRRM
I own nothing but the original characters I make.
"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 95: The Battle of Hardhome
The screams filled the air of Hardhome like the wailing of the damned, a chorus of terror and agony that rose above the howling wind and the clash of steel.
Ned Stark burst through the doors of the hall, his sword drawn, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum.
The scene that greeted him was one from a nightmare made flesh, a vision of hell that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his days.
The snow was no longer white.
It was red, stained with the blood of the living and the dead. Bodies lay scattered across the frozen ground like broken dolls, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles, their eyes staring blankly at the grey sky.
Some of them were wildlings, their furs torn and their flesh rent by claws and blades.
Others were the wights, the risen dead, their skin pale as milk, their eyes burning with the same cold fire of the Others. They moved through the settlement like a tide, their numbers seemingly endless.
A thousand of them, perhaps more. They carried rusted weapons and broken tools...whatever they had been holding at the time of their deaths, and they moved with a purpose that spoke of a single, unifying will.
Behind them came the Others. The White Walkers. Beings of old legends and nightmares.
They were taller than any normal man, their bodies slender and graceful, their armor shimmering like ice. Their faces were smooth and inhuman, their eyes burning blue like cold stars. Some of them rode on pale horses whose hooves left no tracks in the snow, while others seemed to be mounted on top of gigantic black spiders, their legs moving with an eerie, silent grace.
Their swords were made of an icy crystal, gleaming under the pale light of the northern sun, and they carried them with the cold confidence of creatures that had never known defeat.
Ned had heard the stories about these creatures, had listened to Old Nan's tales of the Others and their army of the dead.
He had dismissed them as legends, as fairy tales meant to frighten children, just like everyone else. But now, standing on the frozen shore of Hardhome, he knew the truth. The stories were real. And those ancient horrors were now coming to kill them all.
"Form a line!" Mance Rayder's voice rang out above all the screams and shouts, his sword raised high. "Don't let them get to the center!"
The wildlings responded to his command, their fear momentarily forgotten. The men and women formed a ragged line across the entrance to the settlement, their weapons raised, their faces set in grim determination.
Tormund Giantsbane stood near the middle of the line, his great axe held tight in his hands, a roar of defiance drawn on his lips.
"Come and face me, you frozen bastards!" he shouted, his voice carrying across the battlefield. "I'll send you back to the hell you crawled out of!"
The wights answered his challenge with a shriek that pierced the sky, a sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. And then they surged forward.
"Stay close to me," Ned told his son as he prepared for the battle. "We need to make our way to the docks and get onto one of the boats. Do you understand?"
"Y-yes... Father." Bran looked even more terrified than during the battle at the Wall. The opponents this time were not even humans anymore. He wasn't sure if his arrows would be enough.
As if reading his thoughts, Ned spoke again. "Conserve your arrows, but... if you have to shoot, aim for the head at least."
Bran simply nodded.
The Lord of Winterfell fought with the skill of a man who had spent his life training for the battlefield. His steel sword sang through the air, cutting down wight after wight, each stroke precise and deadly.
He moved with the type of motion that came from years of practice, his blade finding the gaps in the creatures' defenses, severing limbs and crushing skulls.
But for every one he killed, two more took its place. The dead tide was endless, their numbers seemingly inexhaustible.
The minutes felt like hours, the battle continuing with no end in sight.
"Father!"
Suddenly, Bran's voice cut through the chaos and reached his ears. Ned turned and felt his heart lurch in his chest when he saw his son being dragged away by the tide of the battle.
Summer was at his side, the direwolf's teeth tearing into the throats of the wights, but they were being overwhelmed. The creatures pressed in from all sides, their claws reaching for the boy, their cold eyes fixed on their prey.
"Bran!" Ned tried to reach him, tried to push through the mass of bodies, but the wights were too numerous. He could not get through, could not reach his son.
And then Bran was swept away, his small form disappearing into the mass of people and monsters.
"BRAN!"
Ned's scream was lost in the roar of the battle. He fought with renewed fury, cutting down wight after wight, trying to reach his son. But it was no use. The dead were everywhere.
He lost sight of Bran, lost sight of everything but the need to survive.
Mance Rayder fought like a possessed man, his sword flashing under the dim light while his face became a mask of cold fury. He had led these people for years, had fought and bled and sacrificed for them. He would not let them die here, not like this.
"Hold the line!" he shouted, his voice hoarse. "Don't let them break through!"
The wildlings held, their courage fueled by pure desperation. They fought with axes, swords, spears, or with anything they could find. They fought for their lives and for the hope of a future that seemed increasingly distant.
Tormund Giantsbane looked like a whirlwind of death, his great axe cleaving through the wights with savage efficiency. His red beard was streaked with blood, a wide smile plastered on his face.
"That's it, you frozen bastards!" he roared. "Come and taste my steel!"
But even Tormund could not fight forever.
One of the Others appeared before him, its icy sword in hand. Tormund raised his axe to meet the blow, but the creature was faster. Its blade sliced through the haft of the axe as if it were made of paper, and then through Tormund's chest.
The giant's grin froze on his face. He looked down at the blade protruding from his chest, his eyes wide with surprise. And then he fell, his body crumpling to the snow.
"TORMUND!" Mance screamed with grief and rage. He charged forward at the Other, his sword raised high. The White Walker turned to meet him, its blade moving to block his attack.
But Mance was too fast, too driven by anger and desperation. He drove his sword through the White Walker's chest, or where its heart should be.
"Yes!" he shouted. He had done it...he had killed one of the legendary Others.
Or so he thought.
The moment of triumph did not last long. The White Walker grabbed hold of the steel blade embedded in its chest and pulled it out. It gave the sword a mocking glance and then threw it at its feet.
"N-no... that can't be..." Mance could not believe his eyes. The creature before him did not even seem bothered by the deadly strike.
The White Walker raised its icy sword.
Mance collected himself and scanned his surroundings, searching for a weapon to use...anything. He found one. Tormund's great axe, or what remained of it, had landed somewhere nearby. Without hesitation, he rushed past several wights and reached for it. He turned around with the now-short axe in hand, cleaving the heads of several undead creatures.
The Other was still locked onto him and approaching.
Mance got ready. "Alright... come here, you monster... I'll take your head this time."
The Other suddenly stopped and opened its mouth, as if it was trying to speak. But the sounds that came out were not words...they were inhuman sounds that did not resemble any language. The creature was looking at something behind Mance.
It was then that the King-Beyond-the-Wall heard something and turned to look. Another White Walker was right behind him, sitting on top of its horse, an ice spear in hand. They had somehow gotten this close without him noticing...something that should have been impossible for a veteran warrior such as himself.
The Other raised its icy spear and brought it down on him. Mance tried to move his feet to avoid the attack, but he was too slow. The spear was buried into his shoulder and kept going until it reached his insides. Blood poured from his mouth like a fountain, and Mance knew that this was the end for him. The last thing he heard before everything went dark was the scream of Val.
"Gods...have mercy on us." Ned saw Tormund and Mance Rayder fall to the attacks of the Others.
With their leaders dead, the morale of the wildling army began to break apart.
The remaining survivors were now scattering, trying to run away from the settlement in any way they could. Their courage had been shattered by that ice spear.
But there was no safety to be found. The wights were everywhere, their numbers seemingly endless.
And every wildling that fell would soon rise again as one of them.
Ned fought his way toward the harbor. He could only hope that Bran, wherever he was, would be doing the same, as this was their plan.
He spotted Val ahead of him, the tall blonde woman still fighting with all she had. She had lost everything but was not giving up.
Ned called for her. "The boats! We need to get to the boats!" It was their only way out of here. He didn't think those undead creatures were able to swim.
Val turned, her eyes filled with grief and rage. "My people are dying! I cannot abandon them!"
"Your people will need you to survive!" Ned grabbed her arm, pulling her toward the coast.
Val hesitated, her eyes darting across the battlefield. She could see her people being cut down and mauled, could see the dead rising to join the enemy. And she knew that Ned was right. She turned and ran with him, her spear still in her hand.
However, they did not get too far before running into another issue. There was a wall of wights blocking the only path to the docks. If they wanted to get there, they would need to cut down hundreds of them.
Just as Ned was considering their options, he heard a loud shriek coming from his right. When he looked over, he spotted the figure of Gilly, still clutching her baby. Ghost was in front of her, growling at the undead, willing to protect her until the end.
They made it to one of the remaining houses, but now they were surrounded by a dozen wights, and the door appeared to be locked. They were trapped.
Ned did not need to think twice. He charged at the undead creatures, cleaving the head of the first one he could reach.
Val was right behind him. Between the two of them, they made quick work of the wights and rescued Gilly, but the situation was still dire.
They appeared to have gotten the attention of all the wights blocking the way to the docks, and now they were all closing in on the small house.
Ned kicked the door, but it was too stuck by ice and rust. It would not budge. They had nowhere to go now.
"What do we do?" Gilly cried.
"We'll fight them!" Val had her spear ready.
Ned was about to say something when he noticed a change in the wights' behavior. They were no longer approaching and appeared to have stopped.
And then he saw it. The wights parted ways to allow passage. The Other moved in between them, riding on top of its pale horse, its ice spear covered in blood.
It was the same one, Ned noticed. This was the same White Walker who had killed Mance Rayder. And now it had come for them as well.
Ned's eyes moved from side to side. They were completely surrounded.
He held the steel sword tightly in his hands and wished he could instead have his Valyrian steel greatsword. Perhaps then he would have a chance.
But still, he stepped forward. "Come on then, you monster. I'll face you." Ned spoke with the authority of the Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North. He knew that his blade was useless against the creature, knew that steel could not harm the Others. But he would not give up. He would not surrender.
"Stand behind me," he said, his voice firm. "Whatever happens, do not run. Do not give them your back."
The White Walker approached, its spear raised. Its horse moved with a deadly grace, its steps silent on the snow. It was close now, close enough that Ned could see the frost on its armor, the cold fire in its eyes. "For Winterfell..." Ned muttered, raising his sword.
The White Walker lunged at him, spear coming down like an arrow. Ned raised his sword to meet the blow, knowing that it would shatter, knowing that he would die.
And then he saw something flashing before his eyes and heard the creature before him produce a sound that could not be described.
It happened too fast. One moment, the Other was in front of him, and the next, the creature and its horse had been reduced to shards of ice. The only thing remaining was a sword now buried in the snow.
A Valyrian steel sword had come flying out of nowhere.
It spun through the air like a streak of dark lightning and struck the White Walker in the head, piercing through its skull and emerging from the other side.
Ned could do nothing but stare at the sword, his heart pounding in his chest. He recognized it instantly...the dark blade, the wolf's head pommel, the ancient rippled steel.
"Longclaw." The sword of Jon Snow. The blade that had been given to him by Lord Commander Mormont, that had been carried into battle against the wildlings and the dead.
"Jon's sword..." he murmured.
"That worked better than expected."
The voice came from above, calm and composed.
Ned looked up, his eyes wide with shock at the unbelievable image.
He found Joffrey Baratheon, standing on top of a flying carpet, his green eyes fixed on the battlefield below. He looked like a god of death descended from the heavens, his golden hair loose about his shoulders, his expression cold and unreadable.
"J-Joffrey?" Ned's voice was barely a whisper. "How did you... what are you doing here?" And why was that old carpet floating in the air?.
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