Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 416: The Night King’s Encirclement Strategy

“Here they come! Here they come!”

Grenn, stationed closest to the ruins of the Wall, readied himself. As the Night's Watch commander responsible for detonating the mines, he had the most perilous vantage point. The once-mighty black Wall had been reduced to scattered boulders and gravel. Dusted by the falling snow, the black rubble now appeared as if lightly frosted with sugar.

Grenn and his men were concealed among the debris, their dark cloaks blending with the ice and stone. They had kept their vigil for most of the day, bracing for this moment. Finally, the enemy appeared.

Through his binoculars, Grenn saw them clearly. The wights leading the horde were grotesque, their forms twisted and broken. Some staggered forward, missing arms or legs. Others had gaping holes in their torsos, exposing blackened ribs or tatters of rotting cloth. The more macabre ones crawled, their lower halves entirely gone, dragging themselves across the icy ground.

But the human wights were only part of the terror. Among them lumbered massive creatures: towering giant wights, skeletal reindeer wights, snarling wolf wights, and even goat wights with gnarled, broken horns. The grotesque parade was a scene from the deepest abyss of nightmares.

“This must be a monster that crawled out of the seventh level of hell,” Grenn muttered, his breath fogging in the freezing air.

The sight sent a chill deeper than the weather ever could. He reached for his flask, hoping a swig of wine would steel his nerves. But when he tipped it back, nothing poured out—the contents had frozen solid.

Frustrated, Grenn moved to toss the flask aside, only for it to stick fast to his lips. The icy metal clung to his skin, freezing his lips and tongue in place. He jerked his head back in surprise, the flask dangling from his mouth like a grotesque parody of a bird’s beak. The free folk attendants nearby burst into quiet laughter at the absurd sight.

“Damn it,” Grenn growled through clenched teeth, tugging futilely at the flask. The pain of the frozen metal pulling at his skin brought tears to his eyes. He dared not yank it free too hard—his own flesh was at stake. Just as he considered thawing it with his breath, his squire interrupted.

“My lord, the White Walkers have entered the minefield!”

Grenn grimaced and gave the flask a final, desperate pull. Pain exploded through his face as he ripped it free. Blood dripped from his torn lips, staining the snow at his feet. His mouth and chin were a mess of crimson, the skin raw and ragged.

The sight made his squire recoil in horror, clamping a hand over his own mouth instinctively. Grenn ignored him, breathing heavily as the icy air numbed the searing pain. With grim resolve, he grabbed a handful of snow and pressed it against his wounds, the chill stifling the heat and bleeding. His stoic display cowed the soldiers around him, who dared not utter a word.

Once composed, Grenn refocused on the advancing horde. The wights were steadily entering the minefield, their movements slow but relentless. His heart sank slightly—there wasn’t a single White Walker among them, much less the Night King himself.

“Kill one and count one,” he muttered, his voice low but determined. Grenn removed his gloves and wrapped his fingers around the trigger, readying himself. He waited, hoping more of the undead would stumble into the mines.

From a watchtower on higher ground, Ned and his commanders observed the battlefield through spyglasses. The ruined Wall loomed in the distance, the enemy now clearly visible against the icy expanse.

“Lord, wights have appeared in 40% of the minefield,” reported one of the skinchangers, who had just dismounted from his shaggy mount.

“Keep scouting!” Ned commanded firmly.

“Yes, my lord!” the skinchangers replied in unison, their voices steady despite the tension.

There were twenty skinchangers stationed at Ned’s command post, each warging into ravens. These birds were crucial for relaying orders and gathering intelligence from the frontlines. The skinchangers sat in two orderly rows, their eyes rolled back as their consciousness roamed through their avian companions.

“Viserys,” Ned murmured under his breath, a name spoken only to himself. Though he occasionally missed Robert, he was grateful that the crown had not been his to win. History, it seemed, had taken the better path.

A quarter of an hour passed before the skinchangers reported back. “Lord, wights have been seen in 70% of the minefields!”

“Are there any signs of movement in the Icebone Towers?” Ned inquired sharply.

“Lord, there are no signs of movement in the Icebone Towers on the southern side of the Great Wall ruins,” came the response.

“Continue to scout!” Ned ordered.

Another quarter-hour slipped by before another report came. “Lord, wights have already passed through our minefield!”

Ned had no time to react before flashes of light appeared in the distance. The mines were detonating. Moments later, the rolling thunder of explosions reached them.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The rumbling echoes washed over them, a grim symphony of destruction. The sight of the explosions brought a measure of relief to Ned’s otherwise tense demeanor. He could already picture wights being blown to bits.

For Ned and the seasoned Night’s Watch, the sight and sound of exploding mines were expected, even routine. But for the lords and soldiers of the North, it was their first time witnessing such devastating power. Conversations broke out among them, filled with awe and curiosity about the mines’ effectiveness.

“Nothing can withstand such force,” one lord murmured, his voice filled with wonder.

“Will my castle hold?” Rickard thought suddenly, realizing the question must be lingering in the minds of others as well.

The lords were acutely aware that these weapons came from Viserys. The Targaryens now had not only their fearsome dragons but also weapons of terrifying precision. Robert’s rebellion seemed like an impossibility now. Yet most of the soldiers, more practical than political, simply felt reassured that such weapons were on their side.

The tension that had hung over them since the Wall’s collapse began to ease.

“Father, why do we see the light before we hear the sound?” asked the Greatjon’s son, his voice carrying a childlike curiosity.

“Stupid,” came the gruff reply. “Because the eyes are in front of the ears!”

The explosions continued for more than ten minutes, a spectacle that felt both terrible and grand. Meanwhile, Ned collected reports from the skinchangers on the killing zones.

“Lord, the Castle Black sector has killed around 40,000 wights.”

“Lord, the Greyguard sector has killed around 60,000 wights.”

Similar reports came in from other sectors. In just under a quarter-hour of detonations, the mines had destroyed over 150,000 wights.

It was an impressive figure, enough to boost morale among the soldiers. Yet, Ned couldn’t allow himself to feel content. Viserys had warned that the total number of wights could be two to three million—or more. This victory, significant as it seemed, was only a dent in the enemy’s forces. Worse still, the Icebone Towers—massive structures associated with the White Walkers’ strategy—remained untouched.

But to the soldiers and commanders, it felt like a triumphant haul. Spirits were high.

Then came the bad news.

A messenger rushed into the command post, his face pale as snow. “My Lord Commander,” he gasped, “White Walkers have appeared behind our lines!”