ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

The wights charged when the first white spark appeared.

Arthur did not see the spark itself. He felt it.

A pressure moved through Castle Black, too deep for sound. The stones trembled. The Wall answered with a long groan that passed through boots, bones, and teeth. Men on the ramparts swore. Horses screamed in the yard. Somewhere below, dogs began howling.

Then the white light rose from the keep.

It was no ordinary flame. It did not flicker yellow or red. It was small at first, almost delicate, no larger than a thumb. Yet the heat of it seemed to strike the world rather than the air. It held itself like a law.

In the courtyard outside the ritual chamber, Stannis Baratheon fell to one knee.

His knights rushed forward and stopped as heat forced them back. A golden-red fire shaped itself around him, not burning his clothes, but wrapping him as if his skin had become a lamp. His face flushed dark. Veins stood out across his brow. His jaw clenched so hard Arthur thought his teeth might break.

The blue towers beyond the Wall reacted.

Their flames surged high, wild and furious. Every wight turned toward Castle Black at once. Thousands of heads lifted. White Walkers among them stood still for one breath, then the dead screamed.

The sound hit the Wall like thrown knives.

“They’re coming!” a Night’s Watch officer roared. “Loose!”

The snowfield moved.

Not marched. Moved.

A white tide rushed toward the Wall and the gates, corpses stumbling, climbing, crawling, running, dragging broken limbs and ruined faces behind them. They came faster than dead things had any right to move, which was typical of the dead. Even in death, they found ways to be inconsiderate.

Ballistae fired.

Stones fell.

Arrows hissed from the ramparts. Obsidian heads struck wights and shattered them where they hit true. Firepots burst among the front ranks, burning some, slowing more, doing little to the mass behind. Battanian Rangers picked targets with cold discipline, aiming not for the endless dead but for the pale shapes moving among them.

“Left tower!” Kator shouted.

A White Walker appeared through the mist near one of the half-built ice structures. Three arrows struck near it. One shattered against its armor. Another missed. The third, tipped with dragonglass, pierced the throat.

The creature broke apart like frozen glass.

Men cheered. Briefly. The dead were poor listeners.

Inside the chamber, Melisandre lifted the white spark in both hands.

Her voice rose into something that made ears ache. She pushed the spark toward the glowing red runes on the wall.

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When it touched them, light erupted.

No explosion came, not in any way men understood. It was more like silence being torn open. A golden-red pillar shot from the top of Castle Black’s keep, splitting the clouds above and turning snowflakes into brief sparks. The pillar climbed high, then divided into dozens of thinner beams that bent and struck toward the blue towers beyond the Wall.

They hit.

The sound was not fire burning ice. It was annihilation. A hiss, a scream, a grinding clash of powers that had no business sharing the same world. Blue flame met golden-red light. The blue flames collapsed inward. Ice towers steamed, cracked, and began to melt from within. Wight bones embedded in the towers blackened, then turned to ash.

One tower fell.

Then a second.

Then a third.

The defenders stared despite themselves. Even in battle, men recognized a miracle when it tried to kill something else first.

“Keep firing!” Arthur shouted. “Eyes on the field!”

Some men obeyed. Most returned to themselves slowly. Awe was dangerous. It made excellent targets.

Beyond the Wall, the dead faltered. The towers had been their nodes, their anchors, their obscene little candles set against the Wall’s old magic. With each one destroyed, the wight charge lost coordination. Not stopped. Never stopped. But the front ranks slowed, collided, broke around obstacles. White Walkers tried to push them forward, and the Battanian Rangers hunted those pale figures with dragonglass and bolts.

The golden-red beams kept striking.

Inside the ritual chamber, Melisandre collapsed.

Her red robes dulled. Her face aged in moments, beauty withering into something thin, ancient, and exhausted. Breath barely moved her chest. Only her eyes retained a faint ember glow.

In the courtyard, Stannis burned without burning.

Arthur saw him from the rampart. The king remained on one knee, one hand braced against stone, a flame phantom coiling around him. His hair greyed as men watched. The hard lines of his face deepened. He looked as if years were being pulled out through his ribs.

A knight tried again to reach him.

Stannis raised one shaking hand and stopped him.

“Look,” he rasped.

His voice barely carried, but the yard had grown quiet enough between roars for men near him to hear.

“The false god’s works... ash before true flame.” His mouth twisted into something like a smile, pained and mocking and stubborn to the end. “This is the price. This is a king’s duty.”

The flame surged.

The last blue towers resisted, their ghostly fires whipping like banners in a storm. The golden-red beams struck harder. Ice split. Bone turned to dust. Blue light collapsed into steam.

Then it was done.

All the towers were gone.

The Wall groaned once more, but this time the sound carried release rather than pain. The ancient ice settled. The cold pressure eased. Torches along the ramparts brightened. Men felt it before they understood. The Wall still stood. Its magic, wounded and strained, had not broken.

The dead reeled beyond it.

The defenders erupted in cheers.

Arthur did not.

He watched Stannis collapse.

The fire around the king shrank inward and vanished like the last breath of a candle. Stannis pitched forward onto the cold stone. His knights finally reached him, lifting him carefully, shouting for maesters and Melisandre’s people. He still lived. Barely. His chest rose in faint, stubborn movements. His hair had gone grey. His face looked twenty years older.

“Stannis Baratheon,” Arthur murmured.

For the first time, without calculation, he respected him.

Not liked. Liking was too far. But respected, yes.

Then the world shifted.

It was subtle at first. A pulse beneath the roar of men and the shriek of retreating dead. Arthur’s vision blurred at the edges. Green light appeared where no light should be, thin as rootlets, spreading through the air, into the ice, beneath the stones. He heard whispers like leaves in wind, or water under earth, or a thousand small living things speaking at once.

He gripped the parapet.

Kator turned toward him. “My lord?”

Arthur blinked hard.

The green light vanished.

The whispers faded.

For a moment, he thought it might have been the afterimage of the holy flame. Some leftover shock of watching a king set himself on fire for public utility, which was not a sentence most men expected from governance.

Then he felt it again.

Not death. Not cold. Not fire.

Life.

Ancient. Rooted. Patient.

Arthur’s gaze moved toward the godswood behind Castle Black.

The weirwood stood silent in the falling snow. Its carved face looked older than the Wall itself. In the afterglow of golden-red fire and fading blue embers, the red eyes seemed almost awake.

Arthur did not like that.

He also began walking toward it.