The dragons soared in the sky at the edge of sight.
Their massive forms and the powerful magical auras they gave off made them as conspicuous as torches in the night, still clearly visible even as darkness deepened. Almost within reach, yet they never crossed that final distance to enter striking range.
The Chief Cold God Priest, constantly aware of the movements of the three dragons and gnashing his teeth at their cautious distance, also vaguely sensed dense clusters of life signatures appearing at the far end of the road to the southwest.
Whether it was a fortress built along the great road or a human army that had rushed to the front lines upon receiving news, either way, the road south was blocked.
This was the worst outcome of the failed plan. The blitz assault on the Wall had not succeeded, and every attempt to adapt had met with setback after setback. Step by step, the situation had devolved into complete defeat. They, who were meant to be the destroyers of the world and the ultimate enemy of mankind, had become the ones surrounded and hunted by their prey. Though now hundreds of miles from the Wall, that magic ice barrier beyond the horizon still reminded the Cold God Priests constantly what true despair felt like.
Unable to bait the dragons into attacking, and facing the Night's Watch, fully equipped with every manner of countermeasure, there was no hope of victory.
But heading further south meant nearing the threshold where magic levels would drop dangerously low, while also walking straight into the path of another human army, its strength unknown. Death awaited in either direction.
...
From a "God's eye view" or the perspective of a satellite, the Cold God Priests did, in fact, have one safer option remaining: abandon the road, retreat west into the Wolfswood, and use the dense forests and rugged terrain of the mountain clans' territory to evade pursuit.
They would remain north of the magic depletion red line, slowly recover their power, and bide their time waiting for a turning point.
But aside from directly violating the Cold God's final command, this plan faced a fatal practical problem: though wights needed no rest, controlling them was not as easy as it seemed.
Except for a very few "intelligent wights" who were immediately converted with extra magic to preserve their brains and act as relay nodes—like the one who feigned death and infiltrated Castle Black to assassinate the Lord Commander—most wights were no more than forcibly reanimated corpses. They acted purely as puppets controlled by the magic of the White Walkers.
Their brains already rotted, these puppets had even less intelligence than animals. Their movements required constant remote control from their masters.
The difference can be clearly understood by comparison. In the human army, when Aegor gave the order, "Pursue the enemy, stay with the main force," every soldier understood the command and used their own judgment to follow it.
But when the Cold God Priests commanded their wights, it was more like: "Move left foot. Move right foot. Maintain balance. Move left again. Move right again."
Using ultra-low-temperature magical thought organs composed of pure energy, White Walkers possessed immense computing power, far beyond that of human brains. Acting as command centers for thousands of wights was not difficult—provided they had enough magic. The more complex the commands, the greater the mental load and faster the drain on their magic, which, in a low-magic environment, meant a rapid shortening of their remaining lifespan.
When assaulting the Wall's Great Gorge defense line, backed by the infinite magical field of the North, the Cold God Priests had operated like laptops plugged into power, running on high-performance mode. They could micromanage every wight precisely to minimize casualties and maximize damage. But once they crossed the Wall and entered the lands of the Gift, they were unplugged, running on battery, and had to shift to power-saving mode, cautiously conserving every drop of stored energy.
To a human army, deviating from the road into the forest merely meant increased fatigue and lower visibility.
But with Greenseers and wargs aiding them, the living had no fear of losing track of their prey or falling into ambushes. For the Cold God Priests, however, whose magic reserves were nearly depleted, managing thousands of wights across rough, forested terrain—navigating obstacles, keeping formation, reacting independently—was like trying to play a high-performance game with only 5 percent battery remaining. It would be burning their lives away just to keep moving. Not only would they fail to shake the enemy, they might collapse before even being caught. It was impossible.
Having failed to bait the enemy into a trap and now surrounded with no way forward or back, the Chief Cold God Priest continued the march southward under cover of darkness, half-forced and half-resigned. A strange sensation of helplessness and sorrow welled up within him.
He did not fear death, but it frustrated him deeply that he could not fulfill his purpose for existence.
Yet when he once again examined the magic within him—still relatively full thanks to extreme conservation—the despair that nearly consumed him began to fade. It was replaced by grim resolve.
If baiting the dragons had failed, what if they added the lives of those waiting up ahead?
Tomorrow's battle would either mark the end of another age-old clash of ice and fire or become the turning point that reversed their defeat. Even if they lost, they would lose gloriously.
---
Morning came.
After much discussion and with the support of others, the allied army pursuing the wights had made camp the night before, surrounding the Queen and her three dragons, enduring one more night in the biting wind. According to Aegor's plan, they woke at dawn, broke their fast early, and resumed their march south along the King's Road, following the trail of the wight army, though it was nearly covered again by fresh snow.
Only one night had passed, and already the road the wights had trampled flat was buried again, the snow now deep enough to cover boots and wheel rims, turning every step and turn of the wagons into an exhausting effort.
But no one complained. On the contrary, everyone was grateful.
Thanks to the Gift's absorption of the Free Folk and the careful pre-war planning, the roads had maintenance crews assigned even before the battle broke out. On the day of the first engagement, while others fought, some still worked to clear the snow.
What had once seemed like wasted effort now proved invaluable. The snow pushed aside had built up into high banks taller than a man, forming two white walls along either side. The middle, sunken King's Road was clearly visible in the vast white wilderness. Even without guides, it could not be lost.
The howling wind blew in from the west, carrying snow with it. It was another sunless winter day.
Five thousand soldiers of the Gift marched south beneath the protection of the dragons. By noon, there was still no sign of the enemy. After another half day of grueling march, all they could see were clearer and clearer tracks. Then finally, as if by design—just as Aegor had predicted—half an hour before sundown, the gray wight horde appeared within the sight of birds controlled by the wargs.
After a full day of forced march that had pushed every soldier to the edge of exhaustion, the distance between the two sides had neither increased nor decreased. Exactly right. Coincidence?
Daenerys no longer believed so. Faced with the evidence, the Queen had no more doubts. When the army halted for supper, she silently summoned the dragons back to the ground. She no longer spoke of striking first.
As smoke rose in the swirling snow and the soldiers gathered for food and rest, word spread that made many go pale before they could even raise their spoons.
Aegor had given a new order: the army was not to pitch tents or prepare to camp. After supper, they would resume the march and continue through the night. Before dawn, the war would end.
Of course, the Lord Commander was not insane enough to believe that five thousand soldiers could defeat over ten thousand wights in open battle at night. But according to the reports from Bran, Robb Stark's Northern reinforcements had already stopped just to the south after receiving the raven. Judging by the wights' speed, they would encounter the North's vanguard within a few hours, before dawn.
That army would hold the enemy for a time, though how long was impossible to say. But they could not hold forever. No matter how exhausted the soldiers of the Gift were, they would have to grit their teeth and press on.
Everything had to end tonight.
(To be continued.)
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