ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

The coming of the Night King did not bring fear as men commonly understood it. Fear was a knife at the throat, a scream in the dark, a horse rearing beneath you when arrows began to fall. This was older and colder. It passed through wool, leather, steel, flesh, and bone, sinking into the marrow as if life itself had become an offense the world meant to correct.

The white mist rolled to the foot of the Wall, pale enough to make the snow look stained. Within it walked a tall, cold figure clad in crystalline armor, an ice sword held in one hand and a dark crack still visible along the ruined right arm. He came slowly, almost courteously, allowing every man atop the ramparts to see the strange patterns in his armor and the blue fire burning where eyes should have been. That patience frightened Arthur Greyoak more than haste would have. Beasts charged. Men postured. Kings announced themselves.

Castle Black felt the weight of him. Battanian oathkeepers who had sung through arrows and death found their throats tightening around their war songs. Rangers of the Night’s Watch gripped spears until their knuckles whitened. The free folk who had been admitted through the Wall knelt where they stood, whispering prayers in broken voices. Among Stannis’s remnants, some traced the fiery heart across their breasts while others made the sign of the Seven, faith becoming very flexible when extinction arrived at the gate.

Even the Unsullied and the Dothraki bloodriders Daenerys had brought north looked changed. These were men who had crossed deserts, seas, slave cities, and battlefields without asking the world for mercy. Yet before the thing beneath the Wall, their faces hardened around a confusion they would have hated to name. Courage was accustomed to enemies who bled properly. The dead were rude enough to deny that courtesy.

Only Daenerys and her dragons answered differently.

Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion did not cower beneath the Night King’s presence. They erupted. Their long necks arched, wings half-spreading as claws sank into ice and frozen earth. Flame gathered deep in their throats, red-gold and furious, turning the air about them to wavering glass. Their roars shook loose snow from roofs and ramparts, full not merely of anger, but loathing. Fire had seen its enemy and wanted the old argument settled with teeth.

Daenerys stood beside Drogon, silver-gold hair whipping in the hot wind stirred by the dragons’ breath. She did not retreat. Her violet eyes fixed on the pale figure below, and in them burned shock, hatred, duty, and something prouder and more dangerous. Blood of the dragon did not merely resist challenge. It remembered conquest, even when conquest had been dressed as salvation often enough to fool entire kingdoms.

“That is the Night King,” she said, not loudly, yet Arthur heard her through the roars and wind. “The monster that nearly killed Jon Snow and set every raven in Westeros screaming.” There was no tremor in her voice. There was fury, and the cold discipline of a queen forcing fury into words. “Drogon feels him. They all do. They want to tear him apart.”

Arthur could feel it as well, though not through a dragon’s blood. The green pulse he had woken beneath the old trees trembled inside him, strained between two vast hungers. One was the cold silence at the foot of the Wall. The other was fire given wing, proud and violent, ready to burn the world clean and call the ashes peace. Between them, the pulse flickered like a candle in a hall where two kings drew swords.

“Your Grace,” Arthur said quickly, his voice calm because panic was a luxury best left to poets and dead men, “his coming is no common assault. Jon wounded him. Stannis broke his towers with sacred fire. He would not stand before us now unless he had purpose, strength, or both. We cannot answer him by giving him what he wants.”

Daenerys turned her head. Flame moved in her eyes, or perhaps it was only Drogon’s breath lighting her face from below. “And what does Lord Greyoak believe he wants? Shall I stand here like some frightened girl while he measures the Wall with that sword of ice?”

Her hand rose toward the blade in the Night King’s grasp. Even from the rampart, looking at it made the soul feel scraped. “Drogon’s fire melts steel and stone. Rhaegal and Viserion can burn ships to smoke. I will not believe that thing can stand against all three.”

“Ordinary ice would not,” Arthur said. He pointed to the dark crack along the Night King’s right arm. “That wound came from Longclaw and dragonglass. Valyrian steel and obsidian, together, struck him during a ritual beneath the ice. It did not destroy him. It slowed him. It hurt him. That is not the same thing.”

Daenerys looked, and her anger did not fade, but it sharpened into attention. Arthur pressed on before pride could recover the ground reason had gained.

“And look behind him.”

Beyond the mist, more pale figures emerged. White Walkers, dozens of them, moved like lordly guards in a dead king’s train. Their ice weapons glimmered without warmth. Farther back, the mist churned with shadows packed too tightly to count. Wights. Thousands, perhaps more. They did not howl or shout. They waited, which was somehow worse. Men were loud when they gathered to die. Corpses had better manners.

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“He has brought his strength,” Arthur said. “This is not a raid. This is the prelude to a full assault, perhaps the assault. If the dragons leave the Wall and are drawn low, slowed, surrounded, or struck by some art of his, we lose more than fire. We lose the one thing he clearly cares to answer. We need height, walls, scorpions, archers, dragonglass, and command. We need to make him spend his dead before we spend our living.”

Daenerys’s jaw tightened. She was proud, not stupid. There was a difference, though Westeros often mistook one for the other and wrote songs about the consequences. She could feel the dragons straining against the cold below. Their fury made them powerful, but power without rein was only another way to fall.

“What would you have me do?” she asked. Her tone was softer, though the fire in it had not gone out.

“Hold. Watch. Bleed them.” Arthur spoke the words like orders, because they were simple enough to be remembered when men began screaming. “The Wall remains our greatest weapon. The dead must climb. We make every foot cost them. Your dragons remain our last and strongest answer, not our first mistake. Burn the densest masses. Strike White Walkers only when they expose themselves and only from height. If the Night King reveals a weakness, then we act together.”

He met her gaze fully. “No man here will name you coward for restraint, Your Grace. Not while your dragons darken the sky. This battle is not a tourney, and glory will make a poor cloak for the dead behind us. I ask you, as commander of the Westerlands forces at the Wall and as one who would very much prefer the living to continue being inconvenient, to fight with us, not apart from us.”

Daenerys looked at him for several heartbeats. Drogon growled low behind her, hot breath washing across the rampart. Rhaegal scraped claws against ice. Viserion’s pale head turned toward the mist, elegant and murderous.

“At the first true opening, I will take it,” she said at last. “And if your men stand too near my fire, that will be their error.”

“Then I will give them excellent instructions not to make it.”

She almost smiled. Almost. That was probably the safest amount.

Arthur turned before the moment softened into something useless. “Kator! Pass the order. Full readiness across the Wall. Scorpions loaded. Archers to their marks. Pitch and oil prepared. Oathkeepers reinforce the shield lines at every weak section. Night’s Watch men hold the towers and gates. Obsidian heads for any White Walker who comes near enough to flatter us with a target. Move.”

The orders ran down the Wall faster than fear could gather itself. Men who had been staring at the Night King as if he had already climbed into their skulls began to move. Barrels were dragged forward. Scorpion crews wound their engines. Archers checked bowstrings with fingers that shook only a little. The Battanian songs rose again, lower than before, rougher, but alive. Duty had not slain fear. It rarely did. It merely put a spear in its hands and told it to stand in line.

Daenerys placed a hand against Drogon’s neck and sent commands in the wordless way she used with her children. The dragons did not like them. That much was obvious. Their growls deepened, and smoke curled from their jaws in black and green and pale gold breaths. Yet they held, restless and furious, as dragons considered obedience with all the grace of kings asked to wait outside a door.

Below, the army of the dead advanced to within bowshot and stopped.

The Night King lifted his head. Those blue eyes passed over the Wall, over the men arrayed upon it, over Arthur, Jon Snow, Stannis on his stretcher, the black brothers, the free folk, the oathkeepers, the Unsullied, the bloodriders. Last of all, his gaze settled on Daenerys and the dragons.

Drogon roared as if insult had become flesh. The scales along his neck bristled, and fire flared between his teeth. Daenerys held him with will and hand both, but Arthur saw the effort of it.

The Night King did not flinch. Slowly, he raised his unbroken left hand.

No horn sounded. No drum beat. No shouted command crossed the snow.

The White Walkers screamed as one.

It was not a sound meant for ears. It went deeper, straight through skull and thought, like a thousand shards of ice breaking inside the mind. Men cried out along the ramparts. Several fell to their knees, blood leaking from nose and ear. A young ranger dropped his spear and clawed at his face until the man beside him struck him across the jaw hard enough to return him to the world. Mercy was sometimes untidy.

Then the mist broke.

The wights came like a pale flood loosed from a broken dam. They ran without breath, without fear, without the smallest care for balance, pain, or their own ruin. They hurled themselves at the Wall, at the gates, at old cracks and scarred ice where the blue towers had weakened the ancient magic. They climbed over one another, hooked frozen fingers into seams, and built ladders out of bodies as if death had finally found honest employment.

At their front came White Walkers with ice blades in hand, no longer content to command from the rear. They moved swiftly, flanked by older wights in rusted armor, corpses that still remembered enough war to be useful. They drove toward the weak points like white arrows fired by a patient hand.

“Loose!” Kator roared, and the Wall answered.

Arrows fell like black rain. Scorpions thundered. Jars of pitch and oil shattered among the dead and burst into flame. For a moment, fire spread across the snowfield in bright, hungry sheets. Then the cold pressed down, and the flames bent low. Wights burned, fell, and were trampled under by those behind them. Unless arrow or spear took the head, many dragged themselves onward burning, as if fire were only another inconvenience added to a long list.

The White Walkers were worse. Their weapons flashed, cutting arrows from the air and knocking aside stones. Frost moved before them in pale veils, stealing heat from fire arrows and hardening oil before it could spread. They came on beneath a storm of missiles and did not hurry. They did not need to. The dead had time. The living merely borrowed it.

Daenerys saw them too. Her face changed from anger to decision, and decision in a Targaryen could be as dangerous as madness if placed near enough flame.

“Now,” she said, swinging herself onto Drogon’s back. “Drogon. Rhaegal. Viserion. Those pale commanders. Burn them.”

Arthur turned. “Your Grace, wait!”

Drogon’s wings opened, and the warning died beneath the gale. The black dragon hurled himself into the sky with Daenerys on his back, and Rhaegal and Viserion followed. Three living flames rose above the Wall and dove toward the White Walkers driving hardest for the weakened ice.

Far below, the Night King looked up.

And closed his fist.