151: Chapter 151 Corpse Charge

The gap in The Wall. Before dawn.

While locked in combat with Drogon, the Night King used his will to issue the order for a full-scale assault to the wight army.

White Walker Generals emerged from the shadows beneath the Ice Cliff, their ice crystal longswords pointing toward the gap in The Wall.

One hundred thousand wights surged from the rift like a tide—not running, but advancing in silence.

The wights made no sound. No breath, no heartbeat, no vocal cords in their throats.

As one hundred thousand corpses moved forward simultaneously, the only sound was the faint, rustling noise of bare feet treading upon the ice.

Amplified by the sheer number of one hundred thousand, that rustling became a continuous background noise, like hail pelting against a stone slab.

On the beach, White Mane raised the dragon-kiss sword high. The blade caught the last of the pre-dawn moonlight reflecting off the sea.

The moment she saw the horde of wights surge from the rift, a brief yet intense heat flared from her Brand—not pain, but a resonance triggered by the violent fluctuations of Bloodline energy as Drogon clashed with the Night King atop the Ice Cliff.

She knew he was fighting up above. She knew she could not retreat here either.

"Spears—steady! Wait until they are in range of the dragon glass! Loose arrows!"

The Nights Watch loosed a volley of dragon glass arrows, which rained down from the ramparts.

The whistling of arrows tearing through the night sky shattered the silence of the wight charge.

The moment the dragon glass arrowheads pierced the wights' ice armor, the armor shattered of its own accord—not from physical impact, but due to the inherent mineral properties of dragon glass, which naturally counter the frost of the White Walkers.

Wights struck by dragon glass arrows developed black cracks that spread from the wound across their entire bodies; in less than three heartbeats, the fissures would cover them completely, and the wights would crumble into ice dust.

Yet, the number of wights was overwhelming. As the front ranks fell, the rear ranks trampled over the ice dust and continued their advance.

Under Robb's command, the Northern cavalry cut into the flank of the wight horde from the east.

Their horses' hooves crushed the ice dust, and the dragon glass spearheads, bolstered by the momentum of the charge, pierced the wights' ice armor as easily as frozen leather.

Grey Wind charged at the vanguard of the cavalry, his yellow eyes flashing with a cold light in the darkness, his fangs shattering the wights' ice armor with a piercing, cracking sound.

Robb's replica of the Ice sword carved arcs of dark silver light through the throng of wights—valyrian steel was equally effective against the frost of the White Walkers, and every strike shattered the armor of a wight.

Yet, the tide of wights continued to advance. High atop the Ice Cliff, the battle between the Night King and Drogon raged on, each clash of Bloodline energy triggering a synchronous resonance throughout the wight army—the Night King's will was their power source, and as long as he continued to fight, the wights would not cease.

Dragonstone Castle. The council chamber. The same moment. Dawn.

Daenerys Targaryen stood at the head of the long obsidian table.

Spread before her was a map of all Westeros, marked in red and blue ink with every march route and supply line from King's Landing to The Wall.

The red lines marked the Targaryen fleet, and the blue marked the Northern coalition. The two converged north of The Neck, merging into a thick line pointing directly toward The Wall. The Aegon crown rested upon her head—the fit was perfect.

Her violet eyes swept over all those seated at the long table: Jorah Mormont, Barristan Selmy, Grey Worm, Melisandre, Missandei, as well as the representatives from Dorne, the Riverlands, and the Vale, who were participating in the meeting simultaneously via raven. Cages of ravens lined the side of the long table, each bird with a scroll case tied to its leg bearing the sigil of its respective Family.

Tyrion Lannister, acting as the chief reconstruction architect for the interim governing council of King's Landing, had also sent the latest update via raven—his, the last to arrive, still bore traces of stone dust from the repairs to the sewers of the Red Keep.

Daenerys placed her hand upon the map. Her voice was clear and steady, resonating with particular strength against the obsidian walls.

"My lords and ladies—The Wall has fallen, and the Night King is currently locked in direct combat with my son Drogon amidst the ruins. The Young Wolf, Robb Stark, has led the Northern coalition cavalry to The Wall, and his infantry will rendezvous with our Unsullied legion at the shores of Eastwatch by this evening. White Mane and eight hundred Dothraki Cavalry are already deployed at the gap in The Wall. Rhaegal and Viserion are departing Dragonstone now to provide reinforcements."

She turned to Missandei. "Now, I will summarize the total strength of the human coalition of Westeros."

Missandei stood and unfurled the summary of the coalition forces she had prepared overnight. She read with a clear, professional tone—not to show off the figures, but with the composed demeanor of a secretary submitting the final military deployment list to the coalition's supreme command. Yet, her large amber eyes brightened when she read, "Total strength: approximately twenty-five thousand."

"Targaryen: eight thousand Unsullied, two thousand Dothraki Cavalry, and three dragons—Drogon is already engaged in battle, while Rhaegal and Viserion are heading north.

Stark/The North: approximately twelve thousand infantry and two thousand cavalry, commanded by the Young Wolf, Robb Stark, with Sansa Stark serving as logistics coordinator.

Tyrell/The Reach: food supply lines now cover the entire length between the North and Dragonstone. Additionally, one thousand Highgarden cavalry are currently en route, dispatched by the Queen of Thorns, Olenna, with Margaery Tyrell coordinating logistics from King's Landing.

Tully/The Riverlands: three thousand infantry and five hundred cavalry, commanded by Edmure Tully, have assembled south of The Neck and will rendezvous with the Northern coalition.

Martell/Dorne: two thousand Sand Snake cavalry, commanded by Obara, daughter of Oberyn Martell, are currently marching post-haste from Dorne and are expected to arrive in the North within five days.

The Vale/House Arryn: one thousand heavy cavalry, commanded by House Royce, have landed at White Harbor and are currently marching north.

The Iron Islands: Not participating—the Iron Islands fleet, under the command of Yara Greyjoy, is currently engaged in clearing the coast of the Westerlands alongside the remnants of the Lannister forces."

She paused and turned to the next page.

"In total, the human coalition numbers approximately twenty-five thousand, including four thousand cavalry, with three dragons providing aerial support."

Barristan added, his voice aged but remarkably steady.

"Approximately two hundred survivors of The Nights Watch have retreated to the Northern coalition camp. The Nights Watch Lord Commander, Martin Clegane, fell in battle when The Wall was breached, and the acting commander has rekindled the signal fire atop the ruins of The Wall.

Furthermore, Dr. Marwyn of The Citadel has sent a raven; he has retrieved some fragments of weirwood roots left behind by The Old Gods from the secret vaults. These fragments possess a slight power to restrain the White Walkers and are being rushed to the North."

Daenerys placed her hand upon the Aegon crown and scanned the representatives gathered around the table. Her violet eyes moved from the Dornish envoy to the representative of the Vale, and from the Riverlands delegation to her own Dragonstone commanders. Her voice was steadier and weightier than ever before.

"This is not a war for the Targaryens. It is not a war for the Starks. It is not a war for any single Family. It is the war of humanity against the Long Night. Eight thousand years ago, the First Men and the Children of the Forest defeated the White Walkers, but they did not destroy the Night King. Today, we end this war."

She stood tall, the Aegon crown remaining perfectly still in the morning light.

"We depart at first light. All fleets, all cavalry, all infantry—march north. The ruins of The Wall shall be the site of our final battle."

The ruins of The Wall. The beacon tower. The darkest hour before dawn.

The beacon fire burned steadily atop the ramparts. The acting commander of The Nights Watch personally threw another piece of canvas soaked in fish oil into the flames, causing them to flare two feet higher, casting dancing shadows across the ruins of The Wall in an orange-red glow.

On the beach, the Dothraki Cavalry remained locked in a stalemate with the wight horde—their dragon glass spearheads were coated in the ice dust of the shattered wights, and the horses' breaths hung in the cold air as white mist. The Northern cavalry repeatedly struck the flanks of the horde; each charge tore open a gap, only for it to be quickly filled by the wights behind. As long as the Night King fought, the wights would not cease.

Robb Stark stood beneath the beacon tower, clutching the copy of the King's Landing defense intelligence that Sansa had brought—the document was frayed from frequent handling, its edges curled, and several pages were stained with ice dust from the ruins of The Wall and the mud of horse hooves.

Grey Wind crouched at his feet, his yellow eyes fixed on the chaotic battlefield toward the Ice Cliff, which was shrouded in ice mist and Dragon Breath. His wolf ears twitched from time to time, catching the subtle changes in the frequency of every clash between sword and dragon claw within the mist.

Sansa stood by his side, wrapped in a Highgarden wool cloak, her deep blue eyes fixed in the same direction. She gripped the fingers of her right hand with her left—not out of nervousness, but as a habitual self-soothing gesture of a logistics coordinator waiting for the final report from the front. Her lips moved as if she were speaking to herself. Her voice was faint, mostly swallowed by the crackling of the beacon fire and the sea wind, but Robb caught the final few words.

"...The bracelet is almost dim."

Robb did not answer. He rested his hand on the hilt of the sword at his waist. The hilt of the replica Ice sword was carved with the head of a direwolf, its eyes inlaid with two dull obsidian stones. In the light of the beacon fire, the blade shimmered with the distinct, dark ripples of valyrian steel.

He gazed toward the Ice Cliff, his voice low and steady.

"The Night King has waited eight thousand years. The Dragon has waited two years. My father waited a lifetime for justice. We will wait no longer. At first light—the entire army charges."

The beacon fire continued to burn fiercely amidst the first rays of dawn.

High atop the Ice Cliff, the ice mist still swirled. Each collision between dragon claw and ice crystal sword continued to fracture the cliff face.

The scorch mark on the Night King's chest, burned by Dragon Breath, glinted with an intensely dark light within the mist—the obsidian fragment was exposed. It had not been shattered, but the outer layer of ice armor protecting it had been burned away.

The fragment was now protected only by that ring of delicate frost runes. They still rotated slowly, but their speed had decreased by at least thirty percent since the battle began. The destruction of the Ice Dragon had impacted his power—his frost abilities were no longer at full capacity.

The ice mark on Drogon's left shoulder remained, but the Ice Fire had completely contained the frost's erosion below the shoulder blade. Dragon Flame had reignited at the tip of his right wing; though weaker than the Ice Fire on his left, it was sufficient. The dark gold veins on his newly grown inverse scales glowed with a faint, warm light in the mist—proof that the remaining sixty-five percent of his Bloodline energy was still circulating steadily. The white mark left by the tip of the ice crystal sword on the inverse scales had vanished, and the surface was as smooth as before.

The System displayed its final prompt in the ice mist, the text in dark gold. The font was smaller and denser than before—not an emergency warning, but a tactical recommendation for the endgame.

"The obsidian fragment on the Night King's chest is exposed. Recommendation: In the next exchange, use your tail spike to freeze the remaining ice armor on the Night King's left arm, use your left claw to lock his ice crystal longsword, and use your right claw to concentrate Dragon Breath on the frost runes protecting the obsidian fragment.

The rotation speed of the runes has decreased by approximately thirty percent—sustained Dragon Breath can burn through the rune layer within three heartbeats. However, be advised: once the fragment is shattered or removed, the Night King's source of power will be severed, but the fragment itself may trigger a backlash from the Seal of The Old Gods.

The nature of this backlash is unknown. It is recommended that the host reserve at least one burst of Ice Fire energy to counter the backlash before shattering the fragment."

Drogon did not answer the System. His vertical pupils locked onto the pitch-black fragment on the Night King's chest amidst the ice mist.

His tail spike drove into the remnants of the ice armor on the Night King's left arm again—not to shatter it, but to freeze it. The Ice Fire at the tip of his tail spike condensed into thick ice crystals in the gaps between the armor and the White Walker's skin, pinning the Night King's left arm in place.

A subtle flicker passed through the Night King's ice-blue eyes. It was not anger—it was the instinctive tactical adjustment of a swordsman who had just realized his left arm was frozen. He switched the ice crystal longsword to his right hand—a hand he had not used once, having wielded his blade single-handedly with his left throughout the entire battle. For eight thousand years, no one had known whether he was left-handed or ambidextrous.

Now, he was forced to switch.

Drogon's vertical pupils contracted. Even he had not expected the Night King to use his right hand.

"...You haven't used your right hand in eight thousand years."

The Night King did not reply. The opening stance of his right-handed ice crystal longsword was entirely different from his left—his left-handed style was one of precise thrusts, each strike aimed at the inverse scales. His right-handed style was one of brute force: a downward slash.

The first strike landed on the ice crystal armor of Drogon's left wing, causing a web of cracks to explode across the surface. The second strike landed on his right shoulder but was deflected by the dark gold veins on the edge of his inverse scales, though the force of the blow drove him back a step.

The System displayed a pop-up window in white text, the sentences sharp and urgent.

"The Night King's right-handed swordsmanship is entirely different from his left. Left hand: thrust → precise strikes. Right hand: slash → suppression rather than lethality—he is stalling for time. Hypothesis: He is waiting for The Tribunal's full blockade of the Karma chains to take effect. Host must seize the moment between his right-handed strikes to attack the obsidian fragment—the window is extremely narrow."

Drogon did not take a second step back.

As the Night King's third strike descended, Drogon sidestepped—letting the blade slide past his inverse scales—and swept his right claw upward. Dragon Breath coalesced at the tips of his claws into five thin, brilliant, dark gold lines of fire. These lines struck precisely upon the ring of frost runes on the Night King's chest.

Under the intense heat of the Dragon Breath, the runes vibrated violently, their rotation speed plummeting—thirty percent, twenty percent, ten percent.

The moment the runes ceased their rotation, the obsidian fragment was fully exposed.

The Night King pulled back his right hand and slashed his ice crystal longsword downward toward Drogon's right claw. He was using the strike to interrupt the Dragon Breath—not to attack the inverse scales, but to protect the fragment.

Drogon did not withdraw his claw.

He caught the ice crystal longsword with his left hand—not by blocking, but by grabbing the blade directly with his dragon claw. The edge sliced into the scales of his palm, and frost instantly began to spread up his left arm. Simultaneously, he unleashed the final burst of Dragon Breath from his right claw.

The Dragon Breath poured into the obsidian fragment.

Under the impact of the intense heat, the first crack appeared on the surface of the fragment. The fissure began at the edge and extended inward along the natural grain polished by the Children of the Forest long ago. The crack was fine—thinner than a human hair—but it began to widen. Beneath the Dragon Breath, the Seal of The Old Gods within the fragment began to unravel. As the Seal broke, it emitted a low, deep hum, like the mournful wail of weirwood roots being frozen and shattered, compressed countless times and trapped within the obsidian shard.

For the first time, a glimmer appeared in the Night King's ice-blue eyes that was not part of a tactical assessment. It was not fear—it was the final struggle of an eight-thousand-year obsession on the verge of being shattered. His left hand remained frozen in place, and his right hand was locked by Drogon's left claw. He looked down at the fragment on his chest as it fractured.

Then, he spoke in the Tongue of the First Men. His voice was low and cold, yet he was not speaking to Drogon—he was speaking to the fragment.

"The Old Gods promised this to the ice. Eight thousand years. You have chosen the Dragon. A choice well made."

The obsidian fragment shattered in the final burst of Dragon Breath.