Under the starless, moonless, pitch-black sky, the temporary camp of the Northern Army was brightly lit, with soldiers rushing everywhere, their shadows dancing wildly.
Scouting parties on horseback sent northward, along with the strange ravens that continued to fly in and accurately deliver messages into Robb's hands, all brought the same report: before nightfall, the wight army had reached ten miles north of the King's Road. At their current speed, they would arrive at the hastily built defensive position before midnight.
The Northern Army was fortunate. They were about to face an enemy whose numbers had been reduced to a tenth of their peak, and whose leading White Walkers had nearly exhausted their magic, rendering them a spent force. But at the same time, they were about to become the first human army in this war to engage wights in open ground without wildfire, bombs, dragonglass weapons, or the protection of solid fortifications.
That afternoon, the forces of House Hornwood arrived from the rear and joined the main host, bringing the Northern Army's total strength to seven thousand. The fragile walls and barricades constructed over a day with freshly felled trees and shoveled snow, along with a small number of dragonglass weapons and incendiaries like pitch and tar, were all they had to rely on.
And the enemy, as described by scouts, was "a vast, dense black tide."
All torches and oil lamps brought by the army were lit without reserve, casting light across the entire defensive line, but they failed to penetrate the heavy snowfall or reach into the darkness beyond the camp. Soldiers stood behind the low wooden wall, gripping bows and spears, silently facing north, waiting for the final battle.
The noble lords had already received their orders and gathered their troops. These were battle-hardened veterans, experienced from campaigns against the lions of the Westerlands, the remnants of Renly Baratheon, the Reach, the Golden Company, and more recently, the Ironborn. But in this cold and oppressive darkness, the old tales told by elders returned to their minds—stories that once made children scream and older youths wake with nightmares: pale ghosts in the woods, cold shadows, riders atop giant spiders chasing the warmth of human blood...
The fear long buried in their souls stirred. No matter how experienced or brave the warriors were, none could stop their hands from trembling with cold and dread.
...
The ravens were the first to become restless. They flapped and cawed wildly, then began crashing into their cages, as if possessed, desperate to break free and flee. The handlers attempted to calm them with meat and grain, only to be pecked through gloves and cages. They gave up and let them thrash.
Next were the dogs. Every noble house had brought some war dogs, used for hunting or supplementing food supplies, especially the dread hounds brought by the Boltons from Dreadfort. At first, they whimpered and huddled, tails tucked. But soon, stirred by the frenzied ravens, they too became wild. Though they hadn't started biting people, they barked and howled madly, tearing at their restraints in a desperate attempt to run south. Several handlers failed to hold on and lost their grip. A few dogs broke free and vanished into the night.
Eventually, all the dogs were tied to stakes driven deep into the frozen earth to contain their panic. Even then, they continued barking and yelping, their chains clinking and drawing curses from nearby soldiers.
The snowfall grew heavier. To keep flames alive in iron basins and on torches, soldiers added pitch and shielded the fire from the snow. Some impatient nobles began questioning if the wights had bypassed their position through the Wolfswood. After enduring the tense, silent wait far longer than the anticipated hour or two, the enemy finally appeared in the sentries' line of sight.
There were no towering walls to provide a vantage point, so to the soldiers watching from low towers, the approaching horde did not appear as a tide but rather a thick black line. It rose from the dark horizon, kicking up snow as it charged, storming toward them. From the moment the alarm horn sounded to the wights reaching the front line, only minutes passed.
The screeching of ravens, the barking of dogs, the neighing of horses, the gasps and mutters of soldiers—muffled by the snowfall—faded into the background. Then, the loud voice of the commander from atop the tower snapped everyone back to reality.
"The enemy is here," he bellowed. "Draw arrows, light them, nock!"
Hundreds of arrows were drawn from quivers, wrapped in oilcloth at their tips, lit by flames, and nocked onto taut bowstrings.
"My gods... how many are there?"
"Cut the talk. Hold steady. Do not panic!" The commander's voice rang again. "Alright, steady... wait for my signal... draw!"
The bows creaked as they were pulled back. The firelight from the arrowheads blinded their vision. Through the swirling snow, they could only sense that the enemy surged toward them, separated by a fragile wooden wall. Arms trembled with both fear and determination.
"Hold... a little longer!" the voice called again. Two seconds later, finally—"Loose!"
Hundreds of flaming arrows flew into the air, crossing the wall like a storm of fire, then rained down into the advancing wights, momentarily slowing their charge.
"Light again, nock! Loose!"
Another wave of fire arrows.
"Switch to dragonglass arrows! Infantry forward, prepare!"
After two rounds of fire arrows, the black tide reached the wall. Archers had no more time to light and fire more flame-tipped arrows and began using the limited dragonglass arrowheads provided earlier by the Night's Watch. The surge of corpses was partially halted by flames or toppled under fire, but the overwhelming numbers pressed on. After one more barrage, the sea of dead reached the ice-and-wood wall, roaring as they launched their true assault on the Northern line.
Due to the urgency, the wall was not high or sturdy. Soldiers had felled trees, sharpened them at one end, and driven them into the frozen ground. Snow and ice were packed behind them for reinforcement. More a palisade than a wall, it was also fronted by an isolation zone—cleared of snow and built from barrels, cart remnants, and even torn tents, doused in pitch. Fire arrows had already set this barrier ablaze, forming a wall of fire that gave some sense of safety to the defenders.
...
Relying on tactical guidance delivered by raven, Robb had drawn up a simple battle plan.
The wooden stakes and low wall flanking the King's Road created a bottleneck that would slow the enemy's charge. Archers would fire the first volleys, then the burning isolation zone would stall and burn the attackers caught outside the wall. Infantry would stand behind the barricade to finish off any that breached it, while cavalry and reserve forces patrolled with torches, ready to strike at any breach.
To any trained commander, it was clear what Robb intended: he was attempting to replicate the Night's Watch's fortress-based tactics on this frozen plain near Long Lake.
His thinking and deployment were sound. The White Walkers, lacking magic, could no longer extinguish flames like they did at Crown Town. But the insurmountable flaw was in the scale and preparation. The firebreak here, built from ordinary materials, could not match the scope or destruction of the carefully arranged fire seas at the Wall's fortresses. The single-layer wooden palisade, hastily built from timber and snow, could not compare to the thick, stone-reinforced defenses of Castle Black or Queenscrown. The limited dragonglass supplies only made matters worse.
A little lacking here, a little there... but together, these gaps made all the difference in battle.
And the enemy?
Wights felt no fear, knew no fatigue. They didn't falter from past failures. They didn't hesitate before fire or spikes. On this narrow front, ten thousand wights were just as devastating as a hundred thousand or a million. They swarmed the barricade. Under the White Walkers' command, they impaled themselves on the stakes, buried the wall with their bodies, and pushed forward with the weight of numbers. Within ten minutes, they were scaling or toppling sections of the palisade and pouring into the camp.
Archers fell back behind the spearmen and shieldmen, still loosing arrows. Robb raised his torch high and shouted, "Soldiers, fight with me! Stop these monsters! Long live the North!"
"Long live the North!"
The cry erupted across the lines. Hundreds of soldiers locked shields and stepped forward to meet the wights pouring through the fire, over the wall.
"Kill!"
"Seven hells, there are bears! Where are the spears? Help—ah!"
Screams, the thuds of weapons against flesh, roars of rage and death filled the camp. These were the elite of the North, the iron army that had swept through Westeros under Robb's banner without defeat. Even lacking dragonglass, they had devised tactics: shieldmen and spearmen would restrain the wights, while others with torches or dragonglass weapons would strike the fatal blow.
It was a solid plan. And the soldiers had the discipline and skill to carry it out. But war is never one-sided. The enemy did not comply with theory.
The wights smashed through shields, overwhelmed spearmen. Some, even after being skewered, walked down the shafts and tore at the faces of shocked soldiers. Others burned, but too slowly. Wights ablaze still wrestled with living men. And while men were immune to fire's magic, they were not immune to the heat. They burned with their foes.
Inexperience against the undead, the shortage of proper weapons, and the sheer force of the wight assault created a pressure that morale alone could not withstand. The line buckled. Cries and moans thickened across the field. Reserves were rushed in, but nothing stemmed the tide. A few minutes into the battle, a total collapse had not yet come—but Robb knew from experience that victory was already out of reach.
How did the Night's Watch ever repel such an enemy? How did they dare pursue them?
"My Lord, the Warden of the North must not fall. Let us cover your retreat!"
"Shut up!" Robb barked. He remembered how retreat had cost him Grey Wind, and yes, perhaps it had been the right choice then. But now, against an enemy so alien to anything they'd faced, if he retreated, when the wights overran the field, and turned his fallen men into more corpses marching on Winterfell, where would there be left to retreat to? "You swore to me. Fight with me! If anyone tries to drag me from the battlefield today, I swear, I'll take his head myself!"
The Lord's words lit a new fire. His bannermen and soldiers raised their weapons and roared as they launched a desperate counterattack. Those who had not yet engaged lit the tents, the food, the pitch stores. Flames burst skyward throughout the camp. Just as the counterattack surged, and Robb, torch in hand, plunged into the heart of the battle.
A thunderous roar echoed in the sky overhead.
Before anyone could react, a massive column of orange-red flame, like the sword of a god, descended from the clouds and struck the heart of the wight horde just beyond the wall.
(To be continued.)