Game of Thrones: Lord of the Flames

Boom! Boom! Boom!

A series of deafening explosions erupted along the Neck's defensive line.

In the pitch-black darkness, vibrant bursts of flame blossomed one after another, illuminating the snowy battlefield.

Under the brief flashes of light, the land north of the fortifications was revealed—an endless, teeming sea of wights.

Each round of cannon fire sent limbs and shattered corpses flying into the air, but these losses were negligible compared to the seemingly infinite horde of the dead.

The wights surged forward, weaving through the bombardment, braving the catapulted boulders, and pushing through the falling rain of arrows. They crossed trenches and pits, relentless in their advance, until they finally reached the walls of the Neck's defenses.

They began to climb.

"Fire! Keep firing!"

"Don't let them reach the walls!"

"Use fire! Burn them quickly!"

Commands rang out in rapid succession along the defensive line.

From the very start, the war between humanity and the Others had plunged into its most brutal and intense phase.

The wights knew no pain, no fear, and no hesitation. Unlike human armies that tested and probed before launching full assaults, the wights attacked in an overwhelming, unending tide. Their strategy was simple but effective: drown the Neck's defenses in an ocean of the dead.

This reckless onslaught was enough to break the nerves of any faint-hearted soldier. Fortunately, the warriors stationed at the Neck were the elite of the Seven Kingdoms.

Most had survived the horrors of the wight outbreak in King's Landing and had developed some degree of resilience and experience. More importantly, they understood that this battle was humanity's last stand—there was no retreat.

Thus, even as the wights launched their frenzied assault, the soldiers on the wall maintained order, fighting back with measured discipline.

The Neck's defensive line had been hastily constructed, and time had not allowed for its full fortification. However, built with the combined resources and manpower of the Seven Kingdoms, it was far from easy to breach.

Catapults hurled boulders, scorpions fired massive bolts, and an arsenal of rolling logs, spikes, and even cannons unleashed destruction along the 100-kilometer stretch of the line.

Wave after wave of wights fell, collapsing like stalks of wheat under a farmer's sickle.

But wights were not living beings. What would be fatal to a human—a crushed skull, severed limbs—did little to deter them.

Many wights, missing arms, legs, or even heads, still managed to reach the walls, clawing their way up. The sight was enough to chill even the bravest of warriors.

"Push them back! Keep them off the walls!"

Brienne of Tarth, the lady knight from Evenfall Hall, bellowed as she charged into a cluster of climbing wights.

Crack!

Despite her gender, Brienne's combat style was ferocious and powerful, her movements as bold and sweeping as any man's.

"Die!"

Her obsidian blade cleaved through a wight's skull as if it were butter pierced by a hot iron rod. The wight's body disintegrated mid-fall, turning to mist before it hit the ground.

Such was the power of dragonglass.

Entire mountains of dragonglass had been excavated from Dragonstone in preparation for this war. Weapons forged from the precious mineral had been distributed among the front-line soldiers, proving invaluable against the undead.

"Hold the line! Don't fall back!"

Lord Edmure Tully, the ruler of Riverrun, charged into the fray, leading by example. His bravery inspired the soldiers, who found strength in his leadership.

"Kill these bastards! Reclaim our lands!"

Jon Umber, one of the northern lords, wielded twin dragonglass axes, swinging them with a fury unmatched on the battlefield. He was a whirlwind of death, severing wights as they clambered up the walls.

Amid the chaos, lords and knights of all backgrounds—cunning Freys, treacherous Boltons, and more—fought shoulder-to-shoulder. Whatever schemes or grudges they held before were cast aside in the face of annihilation.

All knew that if the Neck fell, Westeros was lost.

The Seven Kingdoms would be consumed by the icy embrace of the undead, becoming a frozen wasteland of death and despair.

This grim realization ignited a desperate resilience among the defenders. Soldiers, nobles, and even common laborers dug deep into reserves of strength they didn't know they possessed.

Arrows rained down. Boulders and firebombs hurtled through the air. Tens of thousands fought with every ounce of their might, causing unimaginable losses among the wight horde.

Yet, none were as devastating as the dragons.

Cleopatra, Drogon, and Rhaegal—the three dragons of the Targaryen family—soared overhead, raining fire upon the enemy. Their flames carved swathes of destruction through the horde, leaving trails of ash and scorched earth.

Wights shrieked as they burned, their forms reduced to smoke and cinders.

Every time dragonfire rained down, the defenders erupted in cheers, their morale bolstered by the sight of the mighty beasts.

Of the three, Cleopatra, the white dragon, was the most fearsome. Her firestorms swept across the battlefield like tidal waves, her very presence radiating intense heat. Soldiers standing miles away could feel her fiery breath cutting through the winter chill.

Perhaps this was no more than what Aegon the Conqueror did in the Battle of Field of Fire.

Her legendary fury earned her the nickname "White Death."

The men clung to the hope that this "White Death" would deliver them from the darkness, bringing back the warmth and light of summer.

Despite the countless wights reduced to ash by dragonfire, the enemy's numbers showed no sign of thinning.

It was as if they were endless, pouring ceaselessly from the northern shadows.

This relentless tide drove the soldiers to their limits. Each human casualty only swelled the wight ranks, as their fallen comrades rose again to attack them.

Worst of all, the wights needed no rest. Their assault was unyielding, day and night. The human defenders, however, were mortal.

Before the war, the kingdom's army command had also considered this and divided the defenders on the defense line into three batches, which took turns to fight forward.

But even so, as time went on, the human defenders inevitably became tired and slack.

Fatigue bred mistakes, and mistakes were fatal.

After two grueling days, a section of the defensive line east of Moat Cailin finally broke.

The wights surged through the breach like a tidal wave, overwhelming the defenders and wreaking havoc among the rear lines.

"Hold the line! Don't let them through!"

Lord Matthis Rowan roared, his voice hoarse with desperation.

But his shouts were drowned by the chaos. The breach widened, and defeat seemed inevitable.

Then, a colossal white shadow descended from the heavens.

Boom!

Cleopatra landed with earth-shaking force, her massive body blocking the breach. She opened her jaws, unleashing an inferno that incinerated everything in her path.

The wights disintegrated en masse, reduced to ash.

"Reform the line! Quickly!" Lord Matthis seized the opportunity to rally his troops, reinforcing the defenses.

From Cleopatra's back, Samwell Caesar stood tall, wielding a greatsword that shone like a miniature sun. Its radiant light pierced the darkness, a beacon of hope for the soldiers.

"Warriors of the Seven Kingdoms!" Samwell's voice boomed over the battlefield. "There is no retreat! Behind us are our homes, our families, and all we hold dear. I, Samwell Caesar, will fight alongside you to the very end—to victory!"

His words reignited the soldiers' resolve. They rallied around him, shoring up the defenses and renewing their attack.

Matthis Rowan approached Samwell, his voice trembling. "Your Majesty, how many more of these creatures are there?"

"Are you afraid?" Samwell asked with a faint smile.

"Never!" Matthis straightened at once. "But the men… they're at their limits."

"This is a trial by fire."

"Aren't you afraid, Your Majesty?" Matthis Rowan asked, locking his eyes with that of the King.

"No, because In the midst of winter, i found there was, in me, an invincible summer." Samwell replied, his tone calm yet brimming with confidence. "And we will endure. We will win."

In their hearts, King Caesar was like a god. When they heard such words, they were so excited that they could not control themselves. They all echoed loudly and declared that they would fight to the death.

Samwell looked at the defenders here regaining their fighting spirit and consolidating their defense, with a look of satisfaction on his face.

But when he turned his gaze back to the deep darkness in the north, a hint of worry finally emerged.

He knew he could not afford to show it. As the King and the people's symbol of hope, he had to remain steadfast.

Mounting Cleopatra once more, Samwell took to the skies.

As time passed, more breaches appeared along the Neck's defensive line. The three dragons soared back and forth, acting as firefighters, swooping down to seal the gaps where they could. Yet, despite their efforts, the defenses began to falter under the relentless pressure.

Seeing the line on the verge of collapse, Samwell's anxiety grew. He mounted Cleopatra and flew back to Moat Cailin, heading straight to the command center.

"Your Majesty!" the officers stood and saluted in unison.

Samwell waved them off, signaling for brevity, and went straight to the point:

"What's the situation?"

The overall commander of the battle, Lord Randyll Tarly, stepped forward and reported grimly:

"Worse than we anticipated. The defensive line isn't tall or sturdy enough, and our weapon stockpile is insufficient. Most critically, our cannon ammunition is nearly depleted. The number of wights far exceeds our expectations. If this pace continues, the Neck's defenses won't hold for another three days."

Samwell nodded, though frustration flickered across his face.

The cannons, though powerful, were only moderately effective against the horde, and the production of ammunition lagged far behind the voracious demands of the battlefield.

Accepting a steaming cup of spiced wine from his attendant, Samwell drank deeply and made up his mind. It was time to deploy humanity's most devastating weapon against the Others.

"Issue the order: unleash the wildfire."

"Yes, Your Majesty!"

The command quickly rippled through the ranks. From the rear, countless workers carefully transported black-cloaked ceramic jars to the frontlines.

Wildfire—an alchemical masterpiece of the pyromancers—was renowned as one of the deadliest explosive substances ever created.

However, due to its complicated production process and exorbitant cost, wildfire was rarely used.

In the Battle of Blackwater Bay, Tyrion Lannister had unleashed wildfire on an unprecedented scale, showcasing its terrifying potential in war. That wildfire, however, had been a stockpile amassed by the Targaryens over centuries. To replenish it would require enormous resources.

Fortunately, Grand Maester Qyburn had developed a lower-grade version of wildfire, using brandy as a base ingredient. While less potent than the original, this version was simpler and cheaper to produce.

Knowing that wights feared fire, Samwell had ordered Qyburn to manufacture large quantities of this modified wildfire in preparation for the war.

No one had expected the battle to deteriorate so quickly, forcing humanity to resort to its secret weapon so early.

"Careful! Watch your step! Don't drop it!"

"Move faster! Pick up the pace!"

Laborers carried the jars of wildfire to the frontlines, where soldiers loaded them onto catapults and trebuchets.

With heavy thuds, the jars were launched high into the air, arcing over the defensive walls before crashing into the seething mass of wights below.

Smash! Smash! Smash!

The sound of shattering jars echoed across the battlefield, sharp and unmistakable.

The mindless wights pressed forward, oblivious to the danger, marching into the growing pools of spilled wildfire.

Unlike the original version, which exploded on impact, Qyburn's modified wildfire remained inert until ignited. But in terms of flammability, it was equally as volatile.

"Switch to fire arrows! Fire at will!"

"Light the cannons! Shoot now!"

Burning arrows and explosives rained down, igniting the pools of wildfire scattered across the snow-covered battlefield.

Suddenly, the night was pierced by brilliant green flames.

For a moment, the soldiers on the wall heard an eerie, high-pitched whistle, like the breath of some unseen entity.

Then, the whistle turned into a furious roar.

From the snowy plains, towering columns of emerald fire erupted into the sky, 20 to 30 meters high, stretching fiery arms outward to consume everything in their path.

The battlefield before the Neck became a vision of hell.

The green infernos devoured the wights wholesale, their relentless tide ground to a halt as the flames burned through rank after rank. The air filled with an otherworldly light as the wildfire blazed, bathing the snow in a sickly green glow.

For the defenders on the wall, it was both a horrifying and mesmerizing sight—a gate to hell, holding the dead at bay.

(End of Chapter)