Chapter 24: The Night Battle
Crack… crack… crack…
A thin layer of frost slowly spread across the floor and walls inside the building. The cold from outside pressed relentlessly inward, invading every gap and crevice. Only the roaring bonfires continued to radiate heat, barely holding the freezing air at bay.
Saelen's fur cloak was already coated in ice crystals, its weight growing heavier by the moment. Each breath he exhaled instantly turned into white mist, and a pale layer of frost formed over his lips. He ran his tongue across them—there was no sensation at all.
With a grim sigh, Saelen forced his stiffened body to move and glanced behind him.
The others were no better off.
Some were already trembling uncontrollably, their teeth chattering as the cold gnawed at their strength.
Jon had been right.
The White Walkers were stalling—waiting for the fires to die.
Saelen understood this all too well. The enemy was using the unnatural cold to drain their stamina bit by bit. Once most of them were exhausted, frozen, and sluggish, this small force would be wiped out without mercy.
"Saelen," Robb said through clenched teeth, his voice shaking from the cold. "If we let this drag on, we're finished. While we still have strength, we need to break the deadlock—now."
Saelen nodded. He had reached the same conclusion.
"Warriors of the North! Brothers of the Night's Watch!" Saelen roared.
"This is the moment to choose heroism! Follow me—slay the White Walkers! The North will prevail!"
With that, he gripped Ice in both hands and charged out of the building.
"Saelen will prevail! The North will prevail!"
Robb, Jon, and the others thundered after him, shouting as they burst into the night.
Saelen plunged straight into the army of wights.
The Valyrian steel greatsword swept in a brutal arc. Wherever its blade passed, shattered bodies fell apart. The wights let out their final, shrill screeches before collapsing into lifeless heaps, torn apart by the cutting edge of Ice.
Snow churned beneath his boots as Saelen carved a path forward, steel flashing in the firelight—every swing a declaration that the living would not go quietly into the cold.
The Valyrian steel sword truly lived up to its reputation as a bane of the undead.
Every swing carved down one or two wights with ease.
Saelen let out a thunderous roar, the pent-up pressure of days of tension finally exploding. Trusting in the protection of his armor, he charged back and forth through the wight horde. In no time, he had carved out a small clearing around himself. The ground was carpeted with broken corpses, and each step he took was accompanied by a crack, crack as frozen bones shattered beneath his boots.
Once the rage in his chest had been vented, Saelen's mind cleared. He quickly scanned the battlefield.
Robb, Jon, and Ser Rodrik—along with several Winterfell guards—were fighting in tight coordination. Every thrust of their dragonglass spears dropped a wight. Further back, Theon and six or seven skilled archers provided covering fire. With so many enemies pressing in, it was no exaggeration to say their arrows never missed.
Qhorin swung his dragonglass spear with a single arm and lost none of his lethality. The Night's Watch brothers clustered around him, fighting as a unit. The faint cold shimmer of dragonglass flashed again and again as wights fell. Empowered by the weapons, the others grew bolder with each kill.
Soon, the frost-covered ground was layered with wight remains. At this pace, victory seemed possible.
Then—
ROAR!
A shrill, piercing scream split the air. Heavy footsteps thundered from the darkness as an even larger mass of wights surged forward, instantly flooding the clearing they had just fought so hard to create.
The situation turned dire in an instant.
The formation had spread too wide. If this continued, they would be surrounded and cut apart.
Saelen shouted at the top of his lungs,
"Robb! Qhorin! Jon! You're too spread out! If you get separated, you're finished!"
"Fall back and form up at the exit! Hold a defensive formation—save your strength!"
Understanding the danger, Robb and the others acted without hesitation, calling their men back. As they withdrew, Saelen swung Ice in wide arcs, halting the pursuing wights and buying time for the formation to take shape.
Robb stepped fully into the role of commander.
"Form up! Form up—don't panic!"
"Shield bearers to the front—shields up!"
"Move faster! Saelen can't hold them alone!"
A dozen soldiers raised their shields at the front—among them Smalljon Umber and Eddard Karstark. They planted the shields into the ground at a slight angle, gripping them with both hands and bracing their shoulders behind them.
"Spearmen—center line! Brace your spears!" Robb called.
Another dozen warriors stepped in behind the shields, dragonglass spearheads protruding through the gaps, aimed at the charging wights.
"Archers to the rear—support fire! Others guard the flanks!"
Theon and the archers took position behind the spearmen, loosing dragonglass arrows. There was no need to aim carefully—each arrow claimed a wight.
Seeing the formation set, Saelen cut down several wights with a sweeping strike and used the opening to retreat. He took position on the left flank beside Robb and Jon, both of whom were clearly winded from the earlier fighting.
But the wights gave them no respite.
Howling, they slammed into the formation. Some fell to arrows mid-charge, only to be trampled beneath the press of bodies behind them.
Saelen gripped Ice with both hands, feet planted wide, eyes locked forward.
"Hold the line!" he shouted.
"Hold it!"
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The wights crashed into the shields like a living avalanche. Some impaled themselves on dragonglass spears and collapsed instantly. Many more were shoved forward by the relentless mass behind them, pinned against the shields and unable to move.
In moments, the front line was packed so tightly with wights that not a sliver of ground could be seen. Endless blue eyes glowed in the firelight, chilling the soul. The screams and snarls battered the ears.
The shield bearers were under immense strain.
The wights felt no fatigue, no pain—and their strength was terrifying. Human endurance, however, was finite, and the front line was beginning to falter.
Seeing this, Saelen turned to Jon.
"Jon—take five or six men and reinforce the shield line. They won't hold much longer. Leave this side to me."
Jon nodded and was about to move when Saelen grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close.
"Be careful," Saelen said quietly. "You will survive."
Jon nodded, deeply moved, and led his men forward. They pressed in behind the shields, gripping them with both hands and driving their shoulders forward.
The crushing force slammed into Jon's shield, vibrating through his bones.
"Hold!" Jon roared. "Hold the line!"
"You bastard, what are you doing here—trying to get yourself killed?" Smalljon Umber shouted beside him, utterly unfazed by the monsters inches away.
Jon snapped back angrily,
"I'm not a bastard! My name is Jon Snow—remember it, Smalljon!"
Smalljon burst out laughing.
Then his expression hardened as another massive impact drove his shield backward.
Veins bulging, face flushed red, Smalljon bellowed,
"Hold fast, Jon Snow!"
With a mighty shove, he forced the shield forward again.
Inspired, the soldiers around them took up the cry.
"Hold fast, Jon Snow!"
"Hold fast, Jon Snow!"
Jon couldn't quite describe what he felt.
Amid the freezing cold and deafening chaos, a warmth rose in his chest. In that moment, he finally understood something—what honor truly meant, and where his path lay.
Years of bitterness and confusion seemed to lift all at once.
Laughing aloud, Jon joined the chorus at the top of his lungs:
"Hold fast—Jon Snow!"