The morning at Mance Rayder's camp dawned cold and quiet, an eerie stillness hanging in the air. The Free Folk were preparing for their journey south of the Wall, Mance overseeing the gathering of his people with grim determination. Their temporary encampment was nestled between jagged, frozen mountains on one side, with a tall wooden wall protecting them from the landward approach. The sea, their only escape, lay to the west, where makeshift docks were hastily constructed as a final line of defense.
Jon Snow, standing with Tormund Giantsbane and a few other members of the Night's Watch, was tense, his gaze scanning the horizon. The truce between them was fragile, but it was a necessary alliance to face the greater threat looming to the north.
With the help of Jon Snow and Tormund Giantsbane, the agreement with the Night's Watch had been reached. Yet, even as the last bags were being packed, a deep chill settled over the air, unnaturally sharp for the time of year.
A ripple of unease spread through the camp, and it wasn't long before a horn blew from the scouts in the forest. The sound echoed across the encampment, setting every heart on edge. Jon, already alert, met Tormund's gaze. They both knew what was coming. Before the alarm could even settle in, shadows appeared at the edge of the forest.
White Walkers.
Their piercing blue eyes were visible at first, a deadly contrast to the surrounding gloom. Behind them, a relentless horde of wights poured forward, skeletal hands and rotting limbs moving with unnatural speed.
Mance's face hardened. "Get the people moving, now!"
Before anyone could react, the White Walkers appeared. Emerging from the forest in terrifying numbers, their skeletal forms clad in icy armor, glowing blue eyes filled with deathless malice. The ground seemed to freeze beneath their feet as they advanced, a legion of wights trailing behind them, an unrelenting wave of death.
"Into the walls!" Mance shouted, urging the Free Folk toward the crude defenses they had built. The camp was protected by a sturdy wall of wooden logs on the landward side, a mountain on the right, and the sea to the west. It was a fortress of desperation, but there were no other options.
Chaos erupted as people scrambled toward the gates, women clutching their children, giants leading the way in the hopes of holding the line. Those who could fight—Jon, Tormund, and others—stood their ground outside the gates, steel in hand, ready to fend off the dead.
Jon gritted his teeth, drawing Longclaw. "We need to hold them off!" he shouted, his voice rising above the din. Tormund echoed the call, rallying the nearby Free Folk warriors.
Jon met the first wight head-on. Its dead eyes locked onto him as it lunged, claws outstretched. He swung Longclaw in a clean arc, decapitating the creature with a burst of frost and bone. Another wight charged him from the side, its teeth bared in a snarl. Jon ducked under its wild swing and drove Longclaw up into its chest, the Valyrian steel cutting through the rotting flesh as the wight collapsed at his feet.
The first wave hit with brutal force. The wights, ravenous and unyielding, surged forward, and the defenders clashed with them in a frenzy of blades and blood. Jon swung Longclaw in wide arcs, cleaving through dead flesh, his Valyrian steel blade severing wights with each strike. Tormund, his axe and sword in hand, fought like a man possessed, roaring as he chopped through the enemy.
"Get inside!" Jon shouted to the retreating Free Folk, his voice barely audible over the din of battle.
The giants at the front swung massive tree trunks, scattering wights with their sheer strength. Yet even they struggled against the endless tide of the dead.
As they fought to get the last stragglers inside and closed the doors, the first wave of wights crashed against the wooden walls. The Free Folk defenders manned the barricades, stabbing down with spears and hacking at the wights with axes.
For a moment, it seemed the wooden walls would hold. The wights clawed at the logs, but the Free Folk pushed back, spears and arrows finding their marks. But then, one of the White Walkers strode forward, its icy aura chilling the very air around it. It raised a spear-like sword, and with a sweep of its hand, ice magic surged forward, freezing the logs of the wall.
The wood groaned under the weight of the ice, the once-sturdy defenses now brittle and cracking. With a final push from the wights, the logs shattered, allowing the dead to flood in.
"Get ready!" Jon shouted as the gate splintered. He and Tormund braced themselves as the horde flooded through, the Free Folk beside them doing their best to hold the line. Jon swung Longclaw with all his might, cleaving through wights, the Valyrian steel slicing effortlessly through their decaying flesh. Blood and ice splattered the ground as he cut down one after another, his arms burning with the effort.
Jon and Tormund fought with desperate fury. Longclaw flashed in Jon's hands, severing the head of a wight. Beside him, Tormund brought his axe down, cleaving a wight from shoulder to hip.
"Fall back!" Jon called, seeing the wall collapsing. He pushed through the chaos, slashing and parrying, trying to get the survivors to safety. But the wights were relentless. A giant fell, overwhelmed by sheer numbers, its body crashing to the ground, crushing both wights and Free Folk beneath it.
But the sheer number of enemies was overwhelming. The wights pressed in, their cold hands clawing at shields and weapons. More and more Free Folk fell, and the defenders were being pushed back toward the center of the camp.
The White Walkers themselves finally began their advance. One strode through the battlefield, its ice spear raised, and with a single motion, it hurled the spear into the crowd of Free Folk. The weapon struck a Wildling through the chest, freezing him solid before he shattered into a thousand pieces. Another White Walker joined the fray, sweeping its icy blade in a deadly arc that froze everything it touched.
The battle was fierce and chaotic. The Night's Watch, though few in number, fought valiantly alongside the Free Folk, cutting down wights as they swarmed toward the camp. But for every wight they felled, another seemed to rise in its place, the sheer numbers overwhelming their defenses. The White Walkers themselves moved like icy specters, their mere presence freezing the air around them, their long, chilling swords cutting through flesh and bone with terrifying ease.
Jon and Tormund were barely holding their ground, the onslaught threatening to consume them all. The cold seemed to sap their strength, and for every wight they killed, more surged forward. The dead were winning.
Retreating toward the sea, the Free Folk crammed into the few ships and boats they had. Women and children were prioritized, leaving many to fight and fend off the dead as long as they could.
As the situation grew dire, Jon found himself surrounded. He slashed through one wight, only to be tackled by another. Tormund fought off a group of wights trying to pull him down, but exhaustion was setting in.
And then, amidst the chaos, a blinding light flashed across the sky, followed by a sonic boom that shook the earth.
Ryan had arrived.
Ryan descended, spear in hand, his body crashing into the ground with a powerful thud that sent shockwaves rippling through the battlefield. The ground cracked beneath him, scattering wights like leaves in the wind. His spear, glowing with elemental energy, spun through the air, cleaving through the dead as if they were nothing.
With precise, fluid movements, Ryan moved through the battlefield. He thrust his spear, each strike sending shockwaves of fire-infused energy through the wights. His fire manipulation was unparalleled. With sweeping gestures, Ryan created walls of flame that held back the wights, cutting through the horde like a scythe through wheat.
The White Walkers, sensing his immense power, turned their icy gaze toward him, but Ryan was unshaken. Yet, his use of flames was more controlled—focused bursts of power only when necessary. Most of his attacks relied on his spear skills, the weapon twirling in his hands with lethal precision.
Ryan locked eyes with a White Walker, its blue gaze piercing the battlefield. The creature raised its icy blade, but Ryan was faster. He lunged forward, spear ablaze with fire, and their weapons clashed in a fury of ice and flame. Sparks flew as the battle raged, the White Walker's blade dripping with frost, while Ryan's spear burned with intense heat.
A quick spin and a powerful thrust later, Ryan shattered the White Walker's blade, and with one final strike, he plunged his spear into the creature's chest. The White Walker crumbled into shards of ice, disintegrating with a haunting wail.
Jon and Tormund, both battered and bloodied, watched as Ryan's intervention turned the tide. Rallying the remaining fighters, they fought back, driving the wights toward the sea.
The battle raged on, but with Ryan's intervention, the tide had turned. He moved like a force of nature, his Kryptonian strength and elemental powers combining in a devastating display. Every blast of fire, every pulse of energy from his sphere, tore through the ranks of the undead, giving the Free Folk and the Night's Watch the breathing room they desperately needed.
The remaining giants, fueled by the sight of Ryan's strength, joined the fray with renewed vigor. Their massive clubs and fists smashed through the remaining dead, clearing a path toward the boats.
With the White Walkers retreating and the wights thinning out, Ryan thrust his spear into the ground, sending a wave of energy through the earth that incinerated the last of the dead.
The battle was over, but the cost was heavy. Bodies of Free Folk, giants, and even a few Night's Watch lay scattered across the battlefield.
Jon, breathing heavily, approached Ryan. "You saved us. Thank you Lord Ryan," he said, his voice hoarse with exhaustion.
Ryan nodded, his spear still glowing with residual heat. "For now. But this is just the beginning."
As the survivors huddled together, waiting to board the few remaining boats, the weight of their losses hung heavy in the air. The true war was yet to come, and the Wall, though still standing, felt more fragile than ever.