Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 418: Blood of the North

Jon led his forces into an arc-shaped formation atop the slope, a defensive line that resembled a white shield. With their weapons equipped with obsidian spearheads, they braced for the onslaught of wights surging uphill.

The obsidian spears were devastating against the undead. Each strike pierced through the chest of a wight, instantly collapsing it into a lifeless heap. Some of the skeletal wights were so fragile they scattered like dry straw when struck, their disjointed limbs tumbling down the hill. Severed heads rolled freely, grotesque remnants of their former selves. One such head, with bulging, feral brows, was crushed beneath a horse’s hoof, splintering apart with a sickening crunch. The glowing blue eyes were ejected from the shattered skull and landed far from the fray, lifeless.

The rumble of hooves soon drowned out the clash of battle. A cavalry of wights—around 70 to 80—led by two White Walkers charged up the slope. Their icy steeds trampled everything in their path, their relentless advance cutting a swath toward Jon’s position.

Jon yanked his obsidian spear from a wight's chest, but the spearhead was wedged too tightly to free. As the cavalry closed in, he twisted and pulled desperately, but the brittle obsidian snapped, leaving behind a jagged edge.

Obsidian—harder than steel but far more brittle—was effective but fragile. It reminded Jon of the cycle of history: the First Men fell to bronze-wielding Andals, who were in turn overpowered by steel. Now they had come full circle, relying once again on stone. The one advantage was its abundance, allowing every soldier to carry spares.

Jon quickly unscrewed the broken spearhead to replace it but stopped short. The wight cavalry was climbing the hill without slowing, and there wasn’t enough time to prepare. Gritting his teeth, he hurled the broken spear toward the lead White Walker.

The White Walker, clad in shimmering ice armor, deflected the spear with ease using his ice blade. But as Jon braced for the next move, the Unsullied soldiers around him shifted into a dense formation, their spears bristling like the quills of a porcupine.

Before the cavalry could be fully stopped, a wight next to the lead White Walker suddenly surged forward, slamming directly into Jon’s line. The force of its impact, accompanied by the haunting wail of the Song of the Dead, created a devastating breach.

“Fall back! Fall back!” Jon shouted, his voice raw, but the order came too late.

The gap widened, and White Walkers poured through like pus from a wound, dragging hordes of wights in their wake. Jon’s formation split in two, leaving the soldiers in the breach surrounded on both sides.

The chaos was merciless. Soldiers stabbed wights in front of them with obsidian spears, only to be blindsided by other wights lunging for their necks, jagged black and yellow teeth bared. Warm blood splattered onto the cold, hard ground, a stark contrast to the bloodless wights.

The situation was dire. The breach in the formation grew wider, and the screams of the dying filled the air. Worse still, both Jon and Grey Worm were positioned together, leaving half the remaining soldiers leaderless.

The older veterans among the troops, initially disoriented by the “taste” of the battle, now realized the grim truth: the stench of blood came only from their own. Their foes were lifeless husks—unfeeling, unyielding, and devoid of blood.

Jon’s face hardened as he drew his Valyrian steel sword.

Jon's sword, "Coldfyre," embodied the essence of ice and the ferocity of flames. He stood resolute, leading the last remnants of his forces in a desperate stand against the relentless White Walkers, who surged forward like moths to a flame. These enemies were not only fearless but also tireless and seemingly infinite in number.

Amid the chaos, a White Walker warrior paused, a glimmer of excitement flickering in the blue glow of its eyes. Something about the man before it—his stance, his presence—hinted at a bloodline of extraordinary power. The warrior’s instincts urged it forward, blade in hand, as Jon Snow felt exhaustion creeping into his limbs.

The battle raged on. Jon, his swordsmanship precise and determined, struck down two wights in quick succession. He barely had time to catch his breath before a chill ran down his spine. Turning sharply, he saw a White Walker closing in, its icy blade poised for a strike. There was no room to maneuver, no escape. The frozen weapon loomed larger and larger in his vision.

Just as despair began to grip him, a white blur barreled into his side. Ghost. The direwolf slammed into Jon, shoving him clear of the attack but exposing himself in the process. The White Walker’s blade slashed through Ghost's belly, and crimson blood bloomed across the wolf’s pristine fur.

A surge of anger and grief overtook Jon, his mind drowning in the roar of blood rushing through his veins. The fatigue that had weighed him down evaporated, replaced by a surge of raw power. With newfound strength, he launched himself at the White Walker, skillfully exploiting the terrain to gain the upper hand.

His soldiers, emboldened by their Lord’s ferocity, rallied. For a brief moment, they pushed the wights back, the tide of battle appearing to shift. Yet the illusion of victory was short-lived. The truth was harsh: Jon and his men were deep within the heart of the enemy's ranks. As he fought on, Jon became painfully aware of the dwindling numbers at his side. Fewer than a hundred remained, the rest having fallen—and risen again—to join the army of the dead.

Though they had cut down thousands of wights, the achievement felt hollow against the ceaseless tide of the undead. The sheer vastness of the enemy, stretching endlessly into the darkness, was suffocating.

Despair threatened to take hold, but instead, Jon felt an unexpected calm, even a hint of joy. He was not afraid. Perhaps this was the end.

“Am I going to see Shiera?” he wondered, the thought soft and almost serene.

Raising his gaze, he took in the contrasting skies above: the serene blue above his head and the stormy gray looming in the distance. Before him, the wights drew closer, their cold forms blending with the howling wind that chilled him to his core.

“Shiera! I'm coming!” Jon bellowed, his voice raw with emotion. “Kill!”

Gripping Coldfyre tightly, he prepared to lead his soldiers in a final, defiant charge against the horde. Just as his feet shifted forward, a horn’s deep, resonant call echoed through the icy battlefield. It wasn’t the sound of the enemy—it was the horn of Winterfell.

Jon spun around, his eyes catching a flicker of movement in the distance. Rising against the bleak horizon were two banners: the silver-grey direwolf of House Stark and the white sunburst on black of House Karstark. Relief and confusion mingled as he saw Rickard Karstark’s army charging into the fray, led by none other than Harrion Karstark—the same man who had once scorned him.

The Icebreaker Castle army’s resilience had bought time for Robb Stark and the northern lords to gather reinforcements. Now, the combined might of the North surged forward like a tidal wave, slamming into the wights with devastating force. Farther out, Jon noticed flashes of combat as other armies joined the fight, igniting new fronts in the seemingly endless battle.

Jon’s momentary relief was shattered as his gaze fell on Ghost. The direwolf’s once-brilliant red eyes now glowed an unnatural blue. His heart clenched, but there was no time to falter. With a heavy heart, Jon raised his sword and swiftly brought it down, ending Ghost’s suffering.

The grief coursing through him reignited his rage, fueling his charge. Jon turned his sights to the White Walker warrior who had nearly ended him earlier. With a guttural cry, he surged forward, blade swinging in a fury of vengeance.

Meanwhile, the tide of battle shifted further. Reinforced by the Karstarks and other armies, the soldiers of the North and the Night’s Watch fought with newfound strength. Even Ned Stark, stationed farther south, had chosen to move his forces into action.

Ned had calculated the risks. Though more wights approached from behind, their numbers in this specific area were finite, and their lack of equipment made them vulnerable to the disciplined northern troops. Additionally, the landmines they had placed near the Wall would delay the undead reinforcements for a short time—an hour or two at most. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for the northern armies to stage a breakout.

The soldiers of the North and the Night’s Watch fought fiercely, their unity and morale shining against the overwhelming odds. Not only did they stabilize the front lines, but they began to push the wights back, clawing their way toward victory, step by bloody step.

Though the enemy’s numbers were vast, the courage of the North burned brighter.

“Lord Commander, we saw that these wights all came from the forest,” Orell reported. As the "Head of the Wargers" among the Night's Watch, he had been among the first to surrender to Viserys. His tone was steady, but his keen eyes betrayed concern.

Ned frowned, deep in thought, as if a map were forming before his eyes. To the east of The North lay the Bay of Seals, its terrain dense with forest. To the west, the Bay of Ice bordered the rugged mountain lands, home to the clans of The North. The region was a mix of forests and foothills, with the layered foothills scattered throughout. It became clear that the Night King had likely used the cover of the forest and mountains to outmaneuver them.

If the enemy had flanked them from the forest to the east, the logical step was to advance into that area. Deepwood Motte, the stronghold of House Umber, was the closest defensible position. Perhaps they could establish a foothold there and hold out until reinforcements arrived.

“My lord! The Icebone Tower—it’s moving towards us, to the south!” A Skinchanger, visibly distressed, brought the urgent news. Though his words were disjointed, Ned quickly pieced together the situation.

Raising his binoculars, Ned scanned the horizon. Despite the dim light, the Icebone Tower was unmistakable—its massive, bone-white structure loomed large, an imposing contrast against the surrounding gloom. He knew well its devastating capabilities from Viserys’s prior tests. The Tower could unleash two horrors: a freezing ice mist that snuffed out any trace of heat and deadly ice bone spears, whose power far outmatched mortal weaponry.

This was no fight that steel could win. Only magic could counter such overwhelming force. Yet, for now, they had no choice but to stand their ground and endure the mounting casualties.

“Hurry! Fall back to the rear!” Rickard’s voice rang out, urgent and commanding.

“Father! Let me stay! I’m already a Night’s Watchman—let me die here!” his son protested.

“Cut the nonsense! Don’t the Night’s Watchmen have fathers? I won’t stand here and watch you die before my eyes!” Rickard snapped.

His love for his eldest son was unshakable, memories of the boy’s first steps, his first swing of a sword, and his first arrow shot flooding his mind. His son was his legacy, the continuation of his life.

Suddenly, the battlefield was pierced by a deafening sound. Ice spears, thick as arms, rained down in torrents. Thousands of Icebone Towers lined the horizon, launching tens of thousands of ice arrows and spears into the positions of The North and the Night's Watch.

The icy onslaught shattered armor as if it were paper, sending warm blood splattering across the frozen ground. Rickard shielded his son with his body, but an enormous ice spear tore through them both, their lifeblood freezing almost instantly.

Everywhere, the story was the same. Lords fell under the relentless barrage, targeted with chilling precision. Greatjon’s body bristled with over a dozen ice arrows. Nearby, Rickon and Bran wept as Robb, impaled through the stomach by an ice spear, drove an obsidian spike into his own head to avoid a wight’s grasp.

Amid the carnage stood Ramsay Snow, bastard son of Roose Bolton. For the first time in his life, Ramsay felt like a true noble, summoned by Robb in his father’s stead while Roose served as King Viserys’s King's Justice.

It was a fleeting triumph, overshadowed by the ice spear that now pierced his chest. The cold numbed his senses, dulling the pain even as he whispered, “Father…”

In this timeline, Ramsay had not committed Kinslaying. His relationship with Roose was one of mutual respect, not betrayal. But as the numbness spread through his body, his eyes caught something on the horizon: an orange-red flame.

It spread across the ground with unnatural speed, a searing wave of fire racing directly toward the icy army.