[302 AC – The Wall – Breach]
The sound of a horn blared loudly across the land, reaching the ears of temple warriors, Northmen, and wildlings alike.
"LINE!", the Undying Priest's shout echoed over the raging battlefield immediately after, as he had recognized the sound as the signal that it was.
Blazing flames and a sea of wights surging towards them, the Fiery Hand warriors didn't hesitate as they carved a path of fiery destruction through the undead horde to close up the breach, gritting their teeth as they did so while forcing back their exhaustion after hours of battle.
Where the soldiers of the Northern Kingdom and the Free Folk could leave the battlefield and rest for some time, as others took up their position, the Red Temple's elite warriors did not have that luxury.
So it was no surprise that after a strenuous battle that had already been going on for hours, even their inhuman physique would be affected by exhaustion, and were it not for the magic bestowed upon them by their Lord they would have long since collapsed.
Still, even Thoros started to feel drained despite being a High Priest, making him vastly more powerful than the Fiery Hand warriors.
They had already cut down thousands and tens of thousands of wights, but there was seemingly no end in sight. Worse yet, they hadn't yet come across a single White Walker, who were the real threat in this war.
Even Kinvara, the most powerful sorceress of the Red Temple, couldn't sense them through their tainted magical presence as the undead horde around them polluted the already thin natural magic of the surroundings with their 'stench'.
The casualties amongst the Northern army and the Free Folk also started to increase exponentially as the battle raged on. Even if they could rest their bodies, their minds started to become sluggish, causing them to make mistakes and fall victim to the tireless wights besieging them.
Robb himself had nearly died several times already, having been saved repeatedly by the armor gifted to him by Jaehaerys. Even Grey Wind had been injured severely, causing him to not be able to fight by his side anymore.
The young King could feel that with the rising exhaustion amongst his men, despair also started to show its ugly visage, making the soldiers believe that they could not win against the unending horde of undead.
The wildlings under Mance Rayder's command, on the other hand, seemed to be better off mentally. Having lived through more hardship in the lands beyond the Wall since their birth, making them more resilient, but even their fighting spirit was approaching its limits.
Kinvara and all the other leaders present knew that something had to happen soon to change the tide of the battle, because as it stood they would lose inevitably as even the superior regenerative abilities of the Fiery Hand warriors had their limits.
…
Without hesitation and restraint, Jaehaerys cut through the horde of undead, drawing as much strength from Lyra as his body could possibly endure, his cloak a blood-red blaze that infected every wight he passed, hungrily devouring their aged and rotten flesh.
His actions were uninhibited as nothing could stop his advance amongst the undead army, though his movements grew somewhat frantic after hours of battle.
Jeaherys knew that even the elite warriors of the Red Temple could not keep up with the intensity of the battle at this rate, as contrary to the army of wights, they were living beings and not abomination created by the darkest of magics, and therefore needed rest.
He had primed his senses for anything unusual but even after enhancing them to a draconic level, he could find no trace of the Others, which was something that weighed on his mind heavily.
Still, as retreating was not an option, Jaehaerys forced himself to draw even more power from his bonded companion, feeling his bones creak and muscles tear under the strain of the draconic magic pulsing through his mortal form, his rampage turning into a banquet of destruction as the ferocity of his attacks increased greatly.
He knew that, without finding and killing the White Walkers, the only way to relieve the pressure on the Fiery Hand warriors was to kill as many wights as possible, and so he began to devote his every thought and movement to wreaking havoc amongst the horde.
….
Shing.
Another swing, another death.
Breathing raggedly, exhaustion weighing down her every muscle, Maege Mormont couldn't help but be thankful once again to the monstrous dragonrider that had brought back her House's ancestral blade from the traitorous hands of the ranger that had killed her older brother.
Without Longclaw, with its unrivaled sharpness and light weight, she knew that she would not have been able to last as long as she had against the undead rushing at them.
Her mind was weary after hours of battle, as the short rests she had taken may have given her body a chance to regain some much-needed energy, even though her limbs started to feel as if they were filled with lead still, however, they did not manage to revitalize her mind.
And yet, Maege knew that she could not retreat. This battle was already their last line of defense, and if they lost it, their homes and families would inevitably fall next. They had to stop these undead and their creators here and now, there was no alternative, no other plan in case of failure.
This was the battle that would decide it all, this was the place where the future of her homeland would be decided, and so she would follow her House's words, embody them until she drew her last breath.
Here we stand.
…
Val didn't think she could go on any longer. With every wight that appeared before her, she believed that it would be the one to finally end her.
The ax in her hands seemed to weigh more than a mountain, the handle slick with her own blood as the skin of her hands had been ravaged by the hours of battle even through her gloves, every movement causing agonizing pain to the raw flesh beneath.
With gritted teeth she fought on though, not sure herself how she kept moving when struggling seemed to be pointless in the face of the unending horde making its way towards them.
It was during these moments when she should truly be focused on the enemy ahead that the image of a blazing bird made its way through her mind, making her remember the world-shattering aura of the one that they called the Red God.
All her life Val had believed in the Old Gods, thought of the godswoods as a place for prayer, and of nature as her gods' territory, but now she was not so sure anymore.
She had never met her gods, had never really been given an answer to her pleas and prayers by them. She had to grow up fighting and killing to protect herself in the harsh lands that were her home, living her life at the edge of survival.
And so, Val couldn't forget how she had felt in the presence of the flaming avian, her deepest instincts telling her that this creature was of a divine origin, that no mortal could ever carry with itself such intimidating might.
The way the world had fallen silent in its presence, as if afraid of invoking the Red God's wrath, the natural laws bending to its will and whims.
And as she felt the despair slowly settle into the hearts of the warriors around her, Val instead found herself praying to the Red God for the first time in the silence of her own mind, believing that only a being like him could bring them salvation.
She hoped for a miracle to save herself and her family. And the Red God answered.