Game of Thrones: Second Son of House Targaryen

Chapter 424: The First Battle Ends

Benerro, still perched on the dragon’s back, no longer cared about the prophecies. The supposed Nissa Nissa, Viserys, had been pierced by the Lightbringer, yet he was somehow still alive. Every time Benerro was certain of Viserys’s imminent death, he defied all expectations and survived.

Desperate for answers, Benerro scoured his memory, searching for any account of magic powerful enough to explain this. Nothing came to mind. His frustration mounted as he considered landing to examine Viserys, but his lack of skill in controlling the dragon left him stranded in the air.

Meanwhile, Viserys and Dany quickly retreated from the Icebone Tower. The Yellow Dragon, the Green Dragon, and the Silver Dragon unleashed torrents of dark dragonfire upon the tower. The inferno rained down relentlessly, but the Icebone Tower refused to yield, standing firm despite the relentless assault.

The intense clash near the tower barely registered across the vast battlefield, which spanned tens of li. Even the presence of three dragons couldn’t distract the armies elsewhere; their attention was locked on the ongoing skirmishes.

The massive ice plain remained a cacophony of battle cries and the clashing of weapons. Yet something had changed—the wights and White Walkers, unlike in the stories or the TV series, did not disintegrate with the Night King’s apparent defeat. Instead, they began a gradual retreat.

“Lord, the White Walkers behind us are retreating toward the ruins of the Wall,” a Skinchanger reported to Ned Stark.

Ned, no longer at the makeshift command post in Mole’s Town, was riding south with his forces in retreat. Around him were wagons loaded with Skinchangers, their animals keeping watch on the battlefield.

“The White Walkers are retreating?” Ned repeated, confused. He didn’t understand why the enemy would withdraw but welcomed the respite nonetheless. After what felt like an eternity of battle, the Northern forces desperately needed time to recover.

The sky overhead remained a dull gray, teetering on the edge of nightfall. Yet, for months, true night had never come. The unending, oppressive twilight had worn on everyone’s morale.

Jaime Lannister swung his blade in wide arcs, his movements sluggish from exhaustion. He had long since lost count of how many White Walkers and wights he’d slain. Yet now, for the first time in hours—or was it days?—the relentless assault began to falter.

His sharp, azure eyes scanned the battlefield, dazed. Among the retreating figures, a familiar silhouette caught his attention: Jon Snow.

Jon himself could no longer feel fatigue. His movements were mechanical, his sword rising and falling purely on instinct. He had pushed far beyond his limits, fighting on borrowed time.

But even in his haze, Jon noticed the change. The onslaught was weakening. Yet he didn’t dare stop swinging his blade—he knew that the moment he paused, he wouldn’t have the strength to start again.

As the retreat became evident, Jon gave chase, hacking at the fleeing White Walkers. But their withdrawal was deliberate, and they quickly outpaced him. Defeated, Jon slammed his sword into the frozen ground and gasped for air, his chest heaving violently.

Nearby, the Night’s Watch observed the retreat with growing certainty. Though the attacks remained methodical, it was clear that the White Walkers and wights had received some kind of order.

In the Riverrun army, Garlan and Randyll Tarly were among the freshest troops, having joined the battle later. Their forces, less fatigued than others, were tempted to pursue the retreating enemy.

But Randyll Tarly, with his decades of battlefield experience, quickly stopped them. “Hold your ground!” he barked, ensuring no one overextended in reckless pursuit.

Looking down from above, the retreating White Walkers split into three groups: one heading east toward the coast, another west, and the third moving toward the ruins of the Wall.

The relentless dragonfire finally took its toll. The Icebone Tower began to crumble, cracks spiderwebbing through its structure. At last, it collapsed, sending shards of ice and bone scattering across the ground.

This time, Viserys did not stop Hali from landing.

“Dany, take Benerro and the others and go first. Hali, give me Qinaerys (the green dragon). I’ll go save Nymerion.”

“But, Brother, you…”

Dany and Hali looked visibly distressed, their eyes fixed on the Lightbringer still embedded in Viserys’s abdomen.

Viserys glanced down at the radiant sword, its three-foot blade protruding from his torso. Strangely, there was no blood on it. The Lightbringer, which had pierced through both him and the Night King simultaneously, still gleamed with an unnatural brilliance.

He touched the blade and felt warmth radiating from it—not a searing heat, but something akin to body temperature. It was a stark contrast to the icy chill it had held before.

Does the sword’s enchantment require both my blood and the Night King’s? he wondered.

With a steady hand, Viserys gripped the blade and pushed it further into his abdomen before pulling it out completely. The motion made Dany and Hali wince, their worry etched on their faces.

He opened his stats panel and saw his Health had dropped to 40. His Constitution had also taken a significant hit, but with hundreds of thousands of free attribute points at his disposal, he restored himself to full strength almost instantly. To reassure them, he twisted his waist lightly and smiled.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

Seeing that he truly appeared unharmed, Dany burst into tears and threw herself into his arms.

After comforting her, Viserys gently patted Hali on the head. “Hali, I shouldn’t have yelled at you earlier. But this place is really dangerous.”

Hali shook her head, placing a small hand on his stomach. “Father, I was reckless. I know you’re worried about me.”

They exchanged a few more words of reassurance before preparing to part ways.

Dany mounted the Silver Dragon with Hali and the Yellow Dragon, heading toward Winterfell. Meanwhile, Viserys climbed onto the Green Dragon, Qinaerys, to rescue Nymerion.

As he flew, Viserys surveyed the ground below. The White Walkers and their wights were retreating, but he quickly realized the threat wasn’t over. If they can build ice boats to bypass defenses here, they could attack the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea just as easily.

The Free Cities had been his intended fallback base, but now they were at risk. Once the North was secure, he’d need to visit the Free Cities personally, especially the coastal ones, and ensure they sent ships for patrols.

Soon, he spotted Nymerion, the Black Dragon, on the battlefield. It was grounded, roaring in pain, its massive wings dragging uselessly like those of an injured bird. Around it, White Walker cavalry clashed with the remaining members of the Order of the Dragon’s Wings.

The once-300-strong Order had been reduced to fewer than a hundred. Viserys noted grimly that the Lord of Crackclaw Point had made the right decision in pledging loyalty. His valor and sacrifice would deserve a generous reward.

Nymerion sensed Qinaerys’s approach and weakly raised its head, its golden eyes pleading for help. Just then, a White Walker hurled an ice spear that pierced its chest, drawing another pained cry.

Viserys’s rage ignited. He dove on Qinaerys, unleashing torrents of fire that turned the White Walkers to ice mist. At the lowest point of the dragon’s dive, he leaped to the ground and landed beside Nymerion.

Its dark scales were slick with blood, pooling beneath it in alarming amounts. The gaping wound on its neck was particularly horrifying, and its labored breathing signaled the severity of its injuries.

Nymerion looked at him with golden eyes full of pain and sorrow, like a child seeking solace after being cruelly hurt. It lowered its massive head and gently nuzzled him.

If dragons could cry, Viserys thought, it would be weeping now.

He stroked its head soothingly, his gaze shifting toward the ongoing battle. The Order of the Dragon’s Wings was still fighting valiantly, but Eustace had fallen, and his son Lync had taken command.

Lync, muddy and battered, looked up and beamed when he saw Viserys. “Your Grace! Please, take the dragon and leave! We’ll hold off these monsters for you!”

Viserys felt a wave of emotion as he watched Lync, bloodied but unyielding, standing against the tide of death.

“Lync, buy me some time, and I’ll take you all with me when we leave!”

“Yes!” Lync shouted in reply, swinging his sabre with practiced precision and cutting down a wight that lunged toward the Black Dragon.

Viserys moved to Nymerion’s neck, where a massive five-meter-long ice spear had pierced through. Thankfully, it had missed its vital arteries; otherwise, it wouldn’t have lasted this long.

Gently stroking its scales to calm her, Viserys gripped the spear. The cold radiating from it was intense, biting into his hands. With a deep breath, he pulled back with all his strength.

Nymerion let out a piercing wail of pain, its claws gouging deep furrows in the ground as its tail flailed violently. Despite his efforts, the spear didn’t come free at once.

Its flesh was extraordinarily tough, and Viserys was forced to withdraw the weapon bit by bit. After what felt like an eternity—ten strained breaths—he finally yanked it free and hurled it toward a White Walker Knight. The sheer force sent both the Knight and his undead horse flying.

The remaining smaller ice spears lodged in her body were easier to remove, though Nymerion still flinched and snarled in pain with each one. Once the last was gone, Viserys immediately cast blood magic to heal its wounds.

In under five minutes, Nymerion’s breathing steadied, its golden pupils brightened, and its immense form seemed to regain its vitality. It nudged Viserys affectionately, its massive head pressing gently against him.

He stroked its muzzle, whispering soothing words before mounting it once again.

The sight of the Black Dragon taking flight reignited the spirits of Lync and the Knights of the Dragon’s Wings. Cheers erupted from the exhausted warriors, their fears momentarily forgotten. The thought of the Night King claiming Nymerion had been a chilling prospect, but now, with its fiery strength restored, hope surged anew.

From Nymerion’s back, Viserys unleashed a torrent of dragonfire, obliterating wights and White Walkers alike. With the path ahead cleared, Lync rallied the surviving knights, urging them to press forward under the cover of flames.

Nymerion, furious from her earlier wounds, seemed to channel her anger into her attacks. Her dragonfire burned with unparalleled intensity, hotter and more devastating than ever before. Entire swathes of the enemy were reduced to ash, clearing a way for the battered armies to retreat.

By the time the day-long battle drew to a close, the battlefield was a wasteland of charred corpses and shattered ice. The cost, however, was staggering.

Of the original 10,000 Night’s Watch, only 6,000 remained. The North’s 15,000-strong army had suffered even greater losses, with over half its forces decimated.

The noble families of the North had been hit hardest—nearly two-thirds of their members perished in the fighting. Not a single Northern noble over the age of 40 had survived the carnage. Robb Stark had fallen as well, leaving his younger brother Bran to carry the banner of the Direwolf.

Bran, with his striking resemblance to Edmure Tully, caused some confusion among the soldiers from the Reach who had been conscripted into the Night’s Watch. Nevertheless, he quickly consolidated the remnants of Winterfell’s forces and reassured them.

“The White Walkers retreated,” he reminded them firmly. “That means we can win.”

In contrast, the reinforcements brought by Viserys fared much better. Of the 20,000 troops he commanded, fewer than 2,000 had been killed or wounded. The late-arriving army from Dorne, delayed by their journey, reached the battlefield near White Harbor only to find the battle all but over.

What greeted them were the smoldering remains of wights and the lifeless, charred bodies of the fallen.

More than 40,000 men gathered at Deepwood Motte shortly afterward.

The decision to make Deepwood Motte the assembly point was twofold: it was the closest fortress to the battlefield, and its proximity to the Last River, now frozen over, allowed the wounded to be transported efficiently by sled. However, the fortress itself could not house such a massive army. Only the nobles, officers, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and his guards were accommodated within the walls. The rest of the army had to camp outside.

This marked the second time the Dragonlords had visited Deepwood Motte, the first being when Queen Alysanne had come riding her dragon, Silverwing. Now, Viserys and Hermine arrived with four dragons, making the event no less momentous.

Inside the hall of Deepwood Motte, hundreds of Westerosi nobles assembled. The flickering firelight caught on their polished armor, lending the rugged castle an almost regal splendor. Viserys sat at the head of the hall, his posture commanding as he addressed the gathered lords.

“My lords,” he began, his voice solemn, “we have all paid a terrible price in this battle. We have lost blood relatives, brothers, and sisters. Let us rise and pray for their souls.”

He stood, bowing his head in silence, and the hall followed his lead. The weight of loss was palpable. Bran, Rickon, and Jon’s eyes welled with tears as Robb’s face came to mind. Ned Stark, however, remained stoic, his expression unreadable as he stared down at his boots. Yet his gray eyes betrayed an inner storm of grief.

The North and the Night’s Watch had borne the brunt of the losses, suffering devastating casualties. Over half their forces had been killed, and thousands more lay wounded. In comparison, the southern nobles fared better, though their moment of silence seemed directed more toward the sacrifices of their northern allies than their own kin.

For Edmure, Viserys’s words about losing blood relatives struck a particular chord. After all, Viserys himself was the only surviving adult male of House Targaryen. Even his sister, Daenerys, fought on the frontlines despite her pregnancy, and Viserys had brought his two young daughters into the conflict. Though the royal family had emerged unscathed, their commitment to the war could not be questioned.

Nearby, the Red Viper cast a glance at the northern nobles standing in the front row. Viserys had ensured that even a knight who had survived the battle was given a place of honor. No one challenged this decision. The ferocity of the battle had become clear through the grim accounts shared in whispers. The combined losses of the Night’s Watch and the northern army would have broken most forces, but the dragons’ morale-boosting presence and the White Walkers’ refusal to accept surrender had kept them fighting.

Viserys eventually lifted his head. Many in the crowd, particularly the Northerners, felt that no amount of silence could truly ease their pain. Sensing this, he spoke softly, “My lords, please be seated.”

As his words broke the silence, the lords and knights returned to their seats, the clinking of armor filling the hall.

“We have paid a great price in this battle,” Viserys continued, his voice steady but resolute. “But we have also achieved great success. I bring good news. Soon, we will have the weapons needed to confront the Icebone Tower. Our bows and crossbows will prove invaluable in the battles to come!”