Night King POV
High in the Land of Always Winter, the Night King stood motionless, a silent figure wreathed in frost. His piercing blue gaze was fixed southward, past the Wall, past the weak fires of men that flickered in the snow. The world was cold, unfeeling, and soon it would bow to his will.
The frozen air stirred around him as his commanders gathered, their skeletal forms outlined in frost. The Night King raised a hand, and a single Wight stepped forward—a scout, carrying the lingering echoes of life in its frozen flesh.
His thoughts were wordless, a pulse of cold intent that sent the Wight shambling into the distance. Behind him, the ranks of his undead army shifted like a glacier, silent but ever-moving.
Edric POV
The Wall loomed behind them, its icy expanse shimmering in the pale winter sun. Edric shivered as they moved deeper into the woods beyond. The snow-covered forest was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that prickled at his nerves.
Two days ago, a night patrol had vanished. Eight brothers of the Night's Watch, all seasoned men, gone without a trace. No horns had sounded. No bodies had been found.
The Old Bear had ordered this patrol in response. Five black-cloaked brothers, led by Ser Allard, and six Free Folk who had grudgingly volunteered after much arguing. The alliance between the Watch and the Free Folk was young, and tensions ran high.
Edric cast a wary glance at the Wildlings. They walked apart from the Watchmen, their movements lithe and purposeful. Among them was Rokk, a lean man with sharp eyes and a scar running across his jaw. He carried a spear, its iron tip gleaming coldly.
"Keep sharp," Ser Allard muttered as they trudged through the snow. "If the first patrol's out here, we'll find them soon enough."
"And if they're not?" Edric asked.
Ser Allard didn't answer.
The patrol moved cautiously, the Watchmen scanning the forest while the Free Folk listened to the whispers of the wind. The trees seemed to press closer the farther they went, their branches heavy with snow.
"Tracks," Rokk said suddenly, crouching near the ground.
The group gathered around him. In the snow were faint impressions—boot prints, uneven and erratic.
"Could be them," Ser Allard said, his voice tight. "Or someone else."
"Not someone," Rokk said, his tone grim. "Something."
The prints veered sharply off the path, leading toward a dense thicket. The patrol followed, their weapons drawn.
The stench hit them first—a sickly sweet smell of decay. Edric gagged, covering his mouth with a gloved hand.
"Gods," he whispered.
The thicket opened into a small clearing, and there they found the remains of the missing patrol.
The bodies were scattered, torn apart as if by some great beast. Their black cloaks were soaked in blood, the snow around them stained red. But it wasn't just the violence that turned Edric's stomach—it was the state of the corpses.
Their skin was pale, their eyes frozen open in terror. Some of them had risen again, claw marks raking their faces as if they had turned on each other.
"Wights," Ser Allard muttered, his face ashen.
The attack came moments later.
The snow erupted around them as Wights emerged, their frozen bodies jerking unnaturally. They came from all sides, their glowing blue eyes fixed on the living.
"Form a line!" Ser Allard shouted, his sword flashing as he cut down the first Wight.
Edric drew his blade, panic surging through him. A Wight lunged at him, its hands clawing at his throat. He swung wildly, the steel biting into its neck.
The Wildlings fought with brutal efficiency, their weapons carving through the undead. Rokk's spear skewered one Wight, then another, his movements precise and deadly.
"Back-to-back!" Rokk barked, pulling a younger Wildling into formation.
The Watchmen and Free Folk formed a ragged circle, their differences forgotten in the chaos.
But the Wights kept coming.
Edric slashed at another Wight, his arms aching from the effort. "They don't stop!" he cried, his voice breaking.
"They never do," Rokk growled, driving his spear into a Wight's chest.
When the last Wight fell, the survivors stood in stunned silence, their breath misting in the icy air.
Ser Allard surveyed the carnage, his jaw tight. "How many did we lose?"
"Four," Edric said, his voice shaking. "Two Watchmen, two Wildlings."
Rokk knelt beside a fallen Wildling, murmuring a prayer in his guttural tongue. When he rose, his expression was grim.
"We need to go," he said. "Now."
Ser Allard nodded, his face pale. "We head back to the Wall. The Lord Commander needs to hear of this."
Night King POV
Far to the north, beyond the frozen wastelands, the Night King stood on a jagged rise of ice. Around him, his army stretched into the distance, a mass of silent, unmoving forms.
Through the eyes of his fallen, he watched the survivors retreat. They were small, weak, fractured. Yet the Wall stood in his path, a towering barrier of ice and magic.
The Night King raised his hand, and the ice beneath him groaned. His army stirred, a wave of death rolling across the frozen plains.
The time was not yet, but it would come.
Winter marched south, and it would not be denied.
Robert Baratheon POV
The Great Hall of Winterfell was silent, the air heavy with tension. Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms, stood at the head of the room, his face carved from stone. The decision he was about to announce would shape the fate of the realm, and he relished the weight of it.
He slammed his goblet down on the table, the echo silencing the murmur of lords and knights. "The Wall will not fall while I still draw breath," he declared, his voice booming through the hall. "We march to Castle Black, and we reinforce it. This threat will not take us by surprise."
The northern lords exchanged uneasy glances. The Wall was a distant, cold bastion, a place for exiles and criminals, not a concern for southern kings. Yet the Wight in the dungeons had changed everything.
Ned Stark stepped forward, his face grim. "The Wall is ill-prepared for what may come, Robert. They lack the men, the supplies, and the strength to hold against a true threat. Reinforcements are needed, but taking the field yourself—"
Robert cut him off with a wave of his hand. "You'd have me sit here, fat and useless, while the Wall crumbles? I've spent years trapped in that damnable chair in King's Landing, listening to schemers and flatterers. This is a battle worth fighting, Ned, and I'll not send others to do it for me."
A murmur of approval rippled through the northern lords. For all his flaws, Robert's courage and directness were hard to deny.
Ned hesitated, then nodded. "If you're set on this, I'll send some of my bannermen with you. You'll need men who know the terrain."
"I'll take them," Robert said. His gaze swept the room, landing briefly on Jaime Lannister, who stood near the back, silent but attentive. "And a Kingsguard. I'll need one at my side."
Jaime inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "As you command, Your Grace."
Robert's decision was swift. A small contingent of riders and soldiers would accompany him to the Wall, traveling light and fast. The main army would follow at a steadier pace, carrying supplies and siege equipment.
"This isn't just about holding the Wall," Robert explained to his council. "It's about sending a message—to the realm, to the Free Folk, to whatever lies beyond the Wall. The Seven Kingdoms will not be caught unprepared."
The northern lords, grim and resolute, nodded their agreement. The southern courtiers, however, exchanged wary glances. For many of them, the Wall was a distant, almost mythical concept, far removed from the politics of King's Landing.
By the next morning, Winterfell was abuzz with activity. Ravens were sent to the southern lords, urging them to prepare their own forces for the coming war. Northern bannermen began arriving at the castle, their faces stern but determined.
Robert watched it all from the courtyard, a rare smile on his face. This was where he thrived—not in the politics of the capital, but in the camaraderie of soldiers, the clatter of weapons, and the promise of battle.
When the final preparations were made, Robert mounted his great black destrier and addressed the gathered men. "We march not for glory, but for duty. The Wall is the shield of our realm, and it will not fall. Not while I am king."
A cheer rose from the crowd, and Robert relished the sound. He turned to Jaime, who rode nearby, his golden armor dulled by the frost. "Try to keep up, Kingslayer," he said gruffly.
Jaime smirked faintly but said nothing.
The company set out from Winterfell under a pale sun, their cloaks snapping in the icy wind. Robert rode at the head of the column, flanked by Ned Stark and a dozen northern knights. Behind them followed fifty men—a mix of northerners, Crownlanders, and a few bannermen from the Reach.
As they approached the Wall, its immense, icy bulk loomed larger with each passing mile. For all his bluster, Robert felt a flicker of unease at the sight. The Wall was no ordinary fortification; it was ancient, imposing, and utterly indifferent to the men who approached it.
The Night's Watch had sounded the alarm, but what awaited them on the other side of the Wall? Was it truly as dire as the tales suggested, or had fear and isolation warped the minds of the men sworn to the Watch?
Whatever the truth, Robert Baratheon was ready to face it.