Chapter 442

Under the starless, moonless sky, the Northern army's temporary camp blazed with light, its torches and lanterns illuminating soldiers scurrying about, their shadows dancing across the snow-covered ground.

Scouting cavalry riding light and strange ravens delivering precise messages to Robb Stark’s hand brought identical intelligence: before nightfall, the wight army had been spotted ten miles north of their hastily erected defenses along the Kingsroad. At their current pace, the enemy would arrive before midnight.

This Northern force had a measure of luck—they were facing a horde that had been reduced to a fraction of its former size, its leading White Walkers nearly drained of magic, weakened to a mere shadow of their once-unstoppable might. But fortune only stretched so far. These men were about to become the first in this war to face the wights on open ground without the protection of wildfire, explosive powders, dragonglass weapons, or sturdy fortifications.

By the afternoon, the Tallhart forces had joined, bolstering their numbers to seven thousand. The entire day was spent constructing rudimentary defenses: fragile walls and barriers from freshly cut timber, heaps of snow packed to reinforce them, and a scant supply of dragonglass and flammable oils. These were their cards against the incoming enemy—what scouts described as “a dense, writhing tide of blackness.”

Every torch and lantern they had was lit without reservation, flooding the defensive line with light. Yet the heavy snowfall turned the surrounding darkness impenetrable. Soldiers gripped bows and spears, standing behind low wooden walls facing north, silently awaiting the inevitable.

The assembled soldiers were no green recruits. These were veterans who had fought against the lions of the Westerlands, hunted Renly Baratheon’s remnants, clashed with the Golden Company, and battled the ironborn. Yet now, as they stood in the cold and dark, childhood tales of White Walkers, icy shadows, and giant spiders that chased hunters through the woods crept unbidden into their minds. The terror buried deep in their souls surfaced, making even the bravest shiver with unease.
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The ravens were the first to sense it. They fluttered and cawed in their cages, beating their wings against the bars, growing increasingly frantic. When handlers tried to calm them with scraps of meat and corn, they were rewarded with painful pecks even through gloves. The handlers eventually gave up, leaving the birds to their madness.

Next came the dogs. Many soldiers had brought their hounds, either for scouting or hunting provisions. The Boltons, in particular, had brought an abundance of their fearsome beasts from the Dreadfort. At first, the dogs whimpered and cowered, tails tucked, but soon their behavior turned feral. They barked and snarled, straining at their leashes to flee southward. Some broke free entirely, disappearing into the night, dragging chains behind them.

In the end, the handlers drove wooden stakes deep into the frozen ground and tied the remaining dogs securely. Even restrained, the animals howled and thrashed, their chains rattling incessantly, adding to the mounting tension.

As the snow thickened, soldiers fed oil to the fires to keep them alive, shielding them from the relentless snowfall. Some of the lords, growing impatient, began to question whether the wights had veered into the Wolfwood to bypass the camp. But after an hour or two of waiting beyond the predicted time, the enemy finally appeared in the sentries’ sight.

Without the advantage of tall, sturdy walls, the approaching wight horde did not look like a tide of darkness but a thick, black line, emerging suddenly from the distant shadows of the horizon. Kicking up snow as they charged, they seemed to materialize from the darkness itself. From the first cry of alarm to their near arrival, only a few minutes passed.

The cacophony was overwhelming—ravens shrieking, dogs barking, horses neighing in panic, and soldiers gasping or muttering curses under their breath. Yet the falling snow muffled the sound, making it feel distant, almost unreal. Then the sharp, commanding voice of a sentry officer snapped them all back to reality.

“They’re here!” the officer roared. “Nock arrows! Light them! Draw!”

Hundreds of arrows were drawn from quivers, tipped with oil-soaked cloth, and lit from nearby flames. Hundreds of bowstrings were drawn taut, the firelight dancing off the steel tips.

“My gods... how many are there?” someone whispered.

“Shut up and steady yourselves!” the officer bellowed again. “Hold... hold... draw!”

The sound of bows creaked under tension as the archers pulled the flaming arrows back to their ears. The blinding flames at the tips obscured their sight of the charging wights, but they could feel the enemy closing in.

“Hold a moment longer!” the officer ordered. Two heartbeats later, his voice cut through the air: “Loose!”

Hundreds of flaming arrows streaked through the night like falling stars, raining down into the horde. The impact briefly staggered the oncoming wave.

“Light again! Draw! Loose!”

A second volley followed, but the wights surged ever closer, their advance relentless. The archers switched to dragonglass-tipped arrows as the black tide crashed against the wooden barriers. The low walls and spikes were little more than temporary obstacles to creatures that felt no pain or fear. Climbing over each other’s corpses, the wights began tearing down the defenses.
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Robb Stark stood in the heart of his army, his torch held high. “Soldiers of the North!” he bellowed. “Stand with me! Hold the line! For the North!”

“For the North!” the soldiers roared back, rallying as they clashed with the invading dead.

But no matter how brave or skilled, the soldiers were overwhelmed. Shields buckled under the wights’ relentless assault. Spears that impaled wights were rendered useless as the creatures dragged themselves along the shafts, their clawed hands ripping into the soldiers’ faces. Even when set ablaze, the wights fought on, their burning forms lashing out in death throes that claimed more lives.

For every wight that fell, another took its place. Despite Robb’s carefully laid tactics, the Northmen were being pushed back step by step. Chaos erupted, screams and battle cries blending into a cacophony of horror. Robb knew in his heart that this battle was lost.

(How did the Night’s Watch defeat such an enemy and even pursue them?)

“Lord Stark, you must retreat! The North cannot lose its leader!” one of his bannermen pleaded.

“Silence!” Robb snarled, his grip on the torch tightening. “The last time I retreated, I paid with Grey Wind’s life. And this time? If I fall back now, where will we run to? When these creatures march on Winterfell, on all of the North? You swore to me, and I swore to you—we fight to the end! Anyone who tries to drag me from this field will lose their head when we reach safety!”

His words reignited the soldiers’ resolve. As they lit the remaining oil and set their camp ablaze, a sudden, deafening roar split the sky above.

Before anyone could react, an enormous pillar of flame descended from the heavens, striking the advancing wights like a god’s wrath.