The Night King placed his Icebone Tower on the ice floes. Using the tower, he created colossal "ice boats" that transported tens of thousands of wights and White Walkers, encircling Ned's army.
Who would have imagined that the Icebone Tower could actually float on water? It was simply incredible.
"My lord, there are about 100,000 wights and White Walkers to our right rear!"
"Lord, 30,000 wights are appearing directly behind us..."
"Lord, behind our left flank..."
Ned quickly realized they were surrounded by the Night King's forces. Should they hold their ground and fight or attempt to break through in one direction? He wasn't sure.
In the end, Ned decided to take a risk. A strong instinct told him that Viserys was near.
The Night's Watch and the army of the North were visibly divided. The Night's Watch formed the first line of defense, while the army of the North held the second. The latter had only just arrived to support the fight, and their chain of command differed significantly. Attempting to integrate the two forces hastily would only lower their combat effectiveness.
Behind the army of the North, a white direwolf the size of a calf fought ferociously against several wights. This was Jon's direwolf, Ghost—or rather, it was Jon himself.
The white direwolf moved like a gust of wind, weaving through the black mass of wights. With a powerful snap of its jaws, it broke the neck of one wight and darted aside just in time to avoid another's attack. Even with its neck snapped, the wight wasn't entirely incapacitated. Though unable to stand, it still crawled and lashed out with deadly intent.
Jon lifted his head and locked his gaze on the White Walker behind the wights. He knew that this creature was the "controller" of the wights and that defeating it would render the undead immobile—unless another White Walker assumed control.
Feigning continued battle with the wights, Jon waited until he had maneuvered Ghost far enough from the White Walker. Then, with a burst of speed, he commanded Ghost to leap over the wights' heads.
The White Walker's glowing blue eyes flared with alarm as it saw the white direwolf charging toward it. It quickly drew a sword from its back, shimmering like an icicle.
Jon, controlling Ghost, dodged the swing of the icy blade with precision and clamped down on the White Walker's arm with his powerful jaws, severing it. The creature, unfazed by pain, continued its attack—until all its limbs had been torn off.
Jon's intention was to capture this White Walker alive.
But then, a chilling thought struck him.
"Wait, why is there a White Walker here?"
Jon, who had been fighting on the periphery of the battlefield, suddenly realized something was amiss. Because of his contentious relationship with the Northern nobles, none of them had wanted his army positioned ahead of their own. Robb had stationed Jon at the rear of the line—far from the center of the battle.
Yet here, at the very edge of the field, he had encountered a White Walker.
A gust of wind rustled through Ghost's fur as the direwolf stood atop a hill, its sharp eyes scanning the horizon.
Jon saw them. White Walkers and wights, descending like locusts from the sky.
But that wasn't all.
In the distance, the Icebone Tower loomed, its skeletal structure of severed limbs shifting ominously as it advanced.
Jon's heart sank. They were surrounded.
Realizing the futility of his plan to capture the White Walker alive, Jon abandoned the idea and turned to flee back toward his forces.
However, Jon hadn't noticed the group of wights and dead wolves that had silently appeared around him. Their glowing blue eyes pierced through the darkness, and there were more than ten of them—each as massive as Ghost. They were closing in, step by step.
Jon quickly assessed the situation. Fighting them head-on would be foolish. Manipulating Ghost's body, he found a narrow opening and bolted backward.
The ice wolves chased him relentlessly, their claws tearing through the frozen ground, while the White Walkers ahead blocked any clear path of escape. It was a trap, and Jon knew it. Without Viserys' guidance, he doubted he could have escaped this encirclement.
No, I need to return now and give Ghost's body back to him!
The effects of warging lingered heavily on Jon's mind. While inhabiting Ghost's body, his thoughts felt dulled, less sharp than when in his own form. With a final burst of effort, Jon abandoned the direwolf's body and returned to his human form at camp.
This time, Jon had brought a force of 500 men, including 100 Unsullied lent to him by Viserys. Of course, these Unsullied weren't freely given—they were only stationed at Jon's Icebreaker Castle as part of an agreement.
As Jon stepped out of his tent, he saw the Unsullied standing in perfect formation. Their discipline was unshakable. Spotting Jon, the captain of the Unsullied and an accompanying Maester approached him.
"My lord."
"Send word immediately to the Lords at the front—no, at the rear! The White Walkers are coming from behind us, and we're surrounded!"
The Maester's face paled with shock, but the Unsullied captain remained composed and resolute. This demeanor reassured Jon, who found himself impressed by the man.
Jon recalled that the captain was called Grey Worm. It struck him how underutilized Grey Worm was as a centurion. He could easily command at least 10,000 men, Jon thought to himself.
"Grey Worm," Jon said, "we'll hold the White Walkers here and buy the others time to regroup."
"Yes, my lord!" Grey Worm responded without hesitation.
With only 500 men, their defensive range was limited. Jon decided they needed to face the densest concentration of White Walkers to make their stand. A concentrated clash would not only delay the enemy but also serve as a signal to alert the rest of the army.
As Jon prepared to move out with his troops, a familiar white shadow appeared at his side.
It was Ghost.
The direwolf staggered toward Jon, its fur matted with blood, its body covered in wounds. Blood spurted from its throat, and its once-bright red eyes were dull and exhausted.
Jon's throat tightened. The sight brought back memories of the first time he had met Ghost, whose mother had been pierced through the throat by a stag's antlers.
But Ghost had no time for Jon's grief. Jon could feel the direwolf's faint but urgent questioning gaze.
Swallowing his emotions, Jon removed his white cloak and wrapped it gently around Ghost's battered body. He then turned to lead his men into battle.
They soon reached an ideal defensive position—a small, elevated hill. Though it could hold an army of a thousand, Jon's 500 would have to make do. He positioned his men strategically, intermixing the 100 Unsullied with the rest of his troops to maximize their effectiveness.
From their vantage point, Jon spotted five White Walkers on horseback. Their presence was chilling—they exuded an aura of strength far greater than the White Walkers he had faced earlier.
Jon stood firm in the center of his formation, ready to meet them head-on. He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, then discarded it, shifting into a low, battle-ready stance.
Below, the wights surged. More than 3,000 of them had already gathered, and their numbers continued to grow. The lead White Walker raised his ice spear high, signaling the horde.
With a thunderous roar, the wights charged, a black-gray tide crashing against the defenders on the hill.