[302 AC – The Wall – Breach]
Spilling out from the dark woods like a tide, the army of wights devoured the purity of the snowy plains around the Wall akin to locusts, their mere presence tainting these freezing lands.
Their numbers seemed endless and the men atop the Wall to both sides of the breach could not help but tremble in fear, the mere thought of having to face them directly causing a primal terror to bloom in their hearts.
Nervously glancing down at the elite soldiers of the Red Temple, they only hoped that these warriors were indeed worthy of their reputation, as this situation urgently needed fearless and legendary fighters to hold off the army of the dead.
Kinvara though was calm as she stared at the approaching wave of undead, small flames already dancing around the tips of her fingers while she called forth the full force of her magic.
Her dark cloak fluttering in the icy wind slowly settled down, while the glittering snow next to her feet started to hover and dance around her figure, the sheer pressure of her magical might affecting the world around her.
Jaehaerys was much the same, as he had already ignited the blood-red flames cloaking his figure, surges of draconic power causing his heart to beat like a war drum, his senses being enhanced to inhuman heights.
His right hand held tightly onto Blackfyre, one of his House's two ancestral blades, the dark Valyrian steel humming as if excited while his magic poured into it. A blackened roundshield made out of the same magical steel as his blade was strapped to his left hand, the Targaryen crest painted on the smooth surface in dark red.
His whole being was filled with the urge to destroy and annihilate the enemies in front of him, Lyra's instincts suffusing and merging with his own desire to wreak havoc on the army of wights and to let the world witness the true power held by a dragonrider.
Thoros, clad in dark-red leather armor atop his Valyrian steel chain mail, had likewise already drawn his weapon in preparation for the coming battle.
A storm of fire raged around the blade of the bastard sword in his hands, the same sword which had been given to him by his Lord all those years ago before he had set off on his journey to Westeros. And once again, he planned to wield it and bring honor to the Red Temple and his Lord.
He wasn't the only one with such thoughts as the ten thousand Fiery Hand warriors behind him felt the same way.
They did not battle to gain glory or riches, but because they sought to honor their Lord with every enemy they cut down in his name.
It was their unbreakable faith that made them such fearsome warriors as it gave them focus and direction, in addition to their enhanced superhuman physique. Not a shred of fear could be seen in any of them, as they waited silently behind the Red Queen, the Dragonlord, and the Undying Priest.
They were clad in dark-red plate armor, which they wore over a set of leather-covered chainmail, and armed with a short sword and a roundshield, all of which was made with Valyrian steel. The edge of the shield was sharpened all around, so that it could be used in dismembering wights, which was the most viable way of destroying them, besides using fire.
Their formation was arranged in such a way that they stood in groups of fifty at the opening of the breach, with enough space between the groups to let a part of the wights through so that the men on the battlements behind them could deal with some of them.
With a simple command though they could close these gaps to relieve the pressure from the battlements, which was the plan for this coming battle.
The army of undead approached the breach ferociously, bones clattering and undead flesh moaning as they drew closer and closer. Until finally, the fastest amongst them was only a few dozen feet away from Kinvara's position.
This particular wight was a giant almost thrice her size, which explained its speed, but the Red Queen didn't flinch as she waved her hand, while calling upon her magic and fire.
And with an almost deafening roar, one of the horrors of Old Valyrian appeared as the blazing flames Kinvara summoned turned into an enormous Firewyrm that simply snapped its jaws around the undead giant, turning the wight into ashes in but a moment.
As if having waited for this moment, Jaehaerys ruptured the ice beneath his feet as he burst forward, ripping through the army of wights and obliterating everything in his path.
Blood-red flames exploded around him and consumed the undead, while his black blade found no resistance as he hacked through dozens of wights every second, being unstoppable in his charge.
Thoros didn't lag behind, as his bastard sword carved through the atmosphere, splitting the air before him as a storm of fire erupted along the trajectory of his every swing, hordes of undead being annihilated with every move he made.
The massive burning Firewyrm had meanwhile wrapped itself around Kinvara and crushed everything that dared to approach her, while she condensed fiery storms in the palms of her hands, throwing them against the tide of undead in front of her.
Like a goddess of fire, she turned the surrounding area into a blazing furnace, hundreds of wights falling victim to her flames.
The Fiery Hand warriors followed suit as they ignited their blades, which was the only magic they had been gifted by their Lord, and fearlessly clashed with the undead army rushing at them, trying to overwhelm them with their numbers.
It was a hellish start to an even more hellish war, and the forces atop the Wall were not idle, as they fired hundreds and thousands of flaming arrows down at the approaching horde. The catapults hurling down barrels of oil and animal fat, followed by flaming boulders which crushed every undead it landed on.
The men and women atop the fortifications around the breach also readied themselves for the coming storm.
The bowmen drew their bows, flaming arrows sitting ready on the bowstrings, while others armed themselves with throwing spears and rocks to thin out the number of wights as much as possible before they inevitably had to face the undead in battle.
There were half a dozen gaps in the U-shaped barricades that had been erected for this battle, which were filled with thousands of Northmen, Riverlanders, and members of the Free Folk. All of whom were nervously waiting for the first of the undead to slip through the formation of the Red Temple's warriors.
They knew that if there was a chance for victory, it would be a hard-fought one for them.
Killing these undead wasn't an easy task by any means for a normal man as it took great strength and a high-quality blade to dismember a body, so most of them were wielding clubs and maces, some of them even holding war hammers. Their goal was to maim the wights before killing them once and for all, as even if they were undead, they could not move with broken bones.
Robb Stark stood to the front at one of the gaps in the battlement, clad in a black brigandine armor that Jaehaerys had gifted him and armed with his family's heirloom blade, Ice.
The incredible sharpness of this blade along with its light weight made it his best choice for this battle, while his brother's gift had already greatly increased his chances to survive as the metal plates of his brigandine were made out of Valyrian steel.
Grey Wind stood by his side, growling and snarling as it sensed the undead in the distance, their unnatural stench spurning the direwolf's violent instincts.
The Young Wolf saw the bright flames in the distance, the roars of unending fiery explosions echoing in his ears, when finally the first wights appeared in his field of vision, the undead running towards him and his men tirelessly.
The young King didn't bother to scream words of encouragement to the men behind him at this moment, instead he let loose a roar of his own and stormed forward without hesitation, his blue eyes filled with steely determination.
His bonded companion followed his example. The massive direwolf easily overtaking him with his speed, Grey Wind threw himself at the first wight he reached, his strong jaws and sharp claws ferociously ripping into the undead.
A chorus of shouts and roars erupted only a moment later as his men followed behind, their bravery stimulated by their King's example.