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Chapter 444
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 16:43:43 +0000 UTCDragons are not truly intelligent beings, but they possess brains and the capacity for thought. Even after being injured by the Others’ combined assault and unable to maintain their altitude, they were far from foolish enough to crash into the horde of wights below. As Rhaegal glided downward, instinctively, it veered toward Daenerys atop Drogon. In the end, the two dragons landed not far from one another, crashing onto the northern edge of the wight army’s ranks. With a heavy thud, their descent sent up a massive spray of snow, but they avoided being immediately surrounded.
The Northern army’s formation had already been shattered. Soldiers retreated in groups of dozens or hundreds, falling back into the encampment and engaging in desperate, chaotic skirmishes near the fires. Without the timely intervention of the dragons, which reignited their courage, they would have broken entirely and fled south. Yet, even as they reached their limits, the soldiers witnessed something shocking: the wights, who just moments earlier had been swarming over their defenses, suddenly abandoned the fight. Like a retreating tide, they turned as one, ignoring the humans entirely and surging back toward the north. They crossed the ruined palisades and the dying flames of the firewalls, leaving the battlefield behind.
No—this was not a retreat. Those who survived the carnage gathered cautiously near the broken barricades and peered northward, only to realize the horrifying truth: the wights were regrouping, gathering their strength, and moving to hunt down the two fallen dragons.
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The dragons’ fiery onslaught had dealt devastating damage to the wights’ ranks. In mere minutes, they had slaughtered more undead than the seven thousand Northern soldiers had managed in half an hour of bloody combat. After a round and a half of fire-breathing destruction, the number of wights fell below five figures. The once-endless tide was no longer an impenetrable sea of black. The gaps between the wights became visible, revealing patches of white snow and the outline of their dwindling horde.
While a dragon’s wings were vulnerable to damage, their bodies remained monstrous killing machines. Even grounded, Rhaegal and Drogon covered each other from afar, spewing flames and lashing out with their powerful tails. Wights caught in their path were either reduced to ash or smashed into lifeless heaps. For every wight that managed to slip through their fiery breath or evade their tail swipes, hundreds more were obliterated. As long as the dragons could keep fighting, the undead would pay dearly for every inch of ground gained.
But the Others, though drained of magic, were still fearsome warriors of supernatural strength. From within the horde, they continued their assault, hurling jagged stones and other projectiles at the dragons. The piercing whistles of the missiles filled the air, and even the thick scales on the dragons’ bodies began to crack and fall under the relentless barrage. Some stones came dangerously close to hitting Drogon’s eyes or Daenerys herself, forcing the dragons to close their eyes and shield their vulnerable spots. This disruption allowed the wights to push closer, closing the circle around the dragons.
Rhaegal, bleeding from its head and unable to bear the pain any longer, let out a furious roar. Beating its injured wings, it forced itself into the air, escaping the encirclement. However, this left Drogon, carrying Daenerys and burdened by the weight of its saddle and rider, unable to take off due to the tear in its wing membrane. Forced to stay grounded, Drogon continued to fend off the wights with fire and tail swipes, but gaps began to appear in its defenses. Some wights slipped through, clawing their way up Drogon’s legs and back. Their physical attacks, while minor nuisances to the dragon, posed a grave threat to its rider. The situation had become dire.
Just as Daenerys and Drogon faced unprecedented peril, the Gift army finally arrived. Charging through the snow, they let out battle cries as they approached the embattled dragon, ready to provide relief.
The mountain clansmen cavalry, mounted on their hardy northern ponies, reached the battlefield first. Unlike traditional cavalry, they didn’t lower lances or draw swords for a direct charge. Instead, they slowed to a speed the wights couldn’t match, lit dragonglass bombs from their saddlebags with torches, and hurled them into the undead ranks before retreating to safety. The explosions wreaked havoc among the wights, thinning their numbers further.
In the chaos of the blasts, the Gift infantry charged forward, shouting and brandishing weapons. Pausing briefly to ensure their ranks were coordinated, they plunged into the disoriented wight horde without hesitation.
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As mindless puppets, wights were the least vulnerable to flanking or encirclement tactics. No matter how an enemy attacked, the outermost wights could instantly pivot under their controllers’ commands, forming an impenetrable front that was immune to fear or hesitation. Yet, for the first time, the wight army showed signs of disorder and confusion.
This wasn’t due to a failure in the Others’ control or a decline in the wights’ strength. Rather, for the first time, the undead faced a situation where they lacked the overwhelming numbers needed to dominate the battlefield. With fewer wights to shield them, the Others themselves became vulnerable. Lacking the magical reserves to reinforce their icy armor or resist high temperatures, they now found themselves threatened by dragonfire, dragonglass, and wildfire bombs.
Under threat, the Others were forced to retreat further, disrupting the wights’ formation. Hemmed in by the dragons on one side and the advancing Gift army on the other, the Cold God’s priests realized they had no choice but to fight to the death.
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"Others! Watch out!"
At close range, the pale forms of the Others stood out starkly against the wights’ darker, decayed bodies. Soldiers shouted warnings and called for archers wielding dragonglass-tipped arrows to focus fire. Unexpectedly, they discovered something astonishing: the Others, once impervious to normal weapons at the Wall and Hardhome, could now be killed even by conventional arms.
"I think I just killed an Other with a dragonglass arrow!"
"The bombs work too!"
"Then what are you waiting for? Kill them all!"
This revelation spread rapidly across the battlefield, filling the Gift soldiers with newfound courage. Armed with dragonglass, spears, bombs, and wildfire, they surged forward, carving a path through the wights surrounding Drogon. They rescued the queen from the brink of death, while the remnants of the Northern army regrouped and launched a counterattack from the south, completing the encirclement.
Every Other that fell caused hundreds of wights to collapse lifelessly, thinning their ranks further. Rhaegal, having regained its bearings, swooped back to protect its mother, unleashing flames upon the remaining undead. The battlefield was littered with bodies—both human and wight—and thick smoke filled the air. Victory for the living seemed inevitable.
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Not far from the chaos, the Chief Priest of the Cold God stood over Viserion’s lifeless body. With a small escort of wights, he had separated from the main force to reach the fallen dragon. He paid no attention to the carnage behind him.
Excellent. Since the dragon had been struck down at a low altitude, its wings were undamaged. Once reanimated, it should still be able to fly. Placing a pale hand on Viserion’s head, the Chief Priest began to assess the dragon’s internal magical state.
Perfect. The ice spear had not pierced through its body, ensuring that all its cold magic had been fully absorbed. Fire magic within the dragon had been almost completely extinguished. All that remained was to infuse it with cold magic.
Wasting no time, he began channeling his power into the dragon. Magic surged from his small, humanoid form into Viserion’s massive body, spreading through its muscles and blood. The dragon’s body began to transform, its fluids converting into a substance more suited to conducting cold magic. While half his magic was sufficient to make it move, the Chief Priest poured in even more, determined to make the dragon fly. Without wings of their own, the Others needed this dragon to escape the battlefield and turn the tide.
Finally, after consuming nearly all his reserves, the transformation was complete. Viserion’s massive frame stirred, its eyes snapping open, glowing a brilliant, icy blue. It focused immediately on its new master.
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Before the Chief Priest could climb onto Viserion’s back or decide whether to attack the remaining dragons, the humans, or retreat to the Wall, a sharp whistle pierced the air.
Reacting instinctively, he dodged at the last moment, avoiding the dragonglass arrow aimed at his heart. The projectile struck Viserion instead, piercing its neck. Fire magic erupted from the wound, undoing the painstaking transformation.
"No! No!" the Chief Priest roared in the Old Tongue. Desperately, he tried to inject more magic, but before he could make progress, a second arrow flew, burying itself in the dragon’s shoulder. The surge of fire magic was too much. Viserion’s glowing eyes dimmed, and its massive body collapsed once more.
Furious, the Chief Priest turned to face the humans responsible, directing his remaining wights to charge while he armed himself with a jagged stone, vowing to make them pay.
