The Battle for the Living

The air was bitterly cold, the kind of cold that got inside armor and ate at the bones. Lady Vhaera was perched on the battlements of the fortress in the tops of the rigging, breathing in ragged, visible gasps, as she scanned the icy plains endlessly in front of her. Winterfell was more than one huge fortress, it was a linchpin in the front line of defense against the Night King’s advance. If it fell, the dead would be free to rule the realms beyond, and their people would be at their mercy. This realization weighed on her so heavily it didn’t seem like she could possibly embrace her resolve any further, though she braced for the battle to come. The horizon was lost beneath heavy, relentless sheets of snow, and the sky was a sky of pale gray. The Night King’s army advanced somewhere out there.

The howling wind was cut off by Meridianos’ sharp and commanding voice. “Form the ranks! We march within the hour!” BaN’s forces scrambled to obey below. Thousands of soldiers put on their armor, readjusted their banners, and whispered prayers to the Old Gods, the New. Their faces were hardened but their eyes were afraid, afraid. Others glanced over taut wordlessly while some held a tiny bit of faith in the form of a charm, a pendant or a scrap of cloth. Ranks were filled with whispers of reassurance, each thread equally fragile and strong as fear and determination. The frost crackled underfoot, and the howl of the wind sounded far away, but closer than ever before, and they dared not break the silence.

Vhaera came down from the wall, her dark cloak trailing after her as she walked toward the rally point. A glinting black armor and his fiery red cloak flapping like some rolling paladin alerted me, Meridianos, to his presence—a towering figure whose rank made him easy to identify. His voice poked through even the storm; he exuded an unshakable presence.

Meridianos didn’t look at her, “You’re cutting it close, Vhaera.” It was half joke, but urgent. “I want every commander in place for this.”

Vhaera raised an eyebrow. “I’d trust you wouldn’t start the battle without me.”

Meridianos chuckled grimly. “Not a chance. You’re our best mind when it comes to strategy. What’s your read on the Night King’s movements now?”

Her cloak curled at the edges from the cold. Realizing, Vhaera pulled out a map, the edges curling with cold. She traced a gloved finger over the terrain. “They will split us and focus his forces on us.” We’ll fall if we spread too thin. These rivalries have sharpened our strategy with a sharp edge, but we cannot afford to lose that edge.”

However, if we make our stand at these choke points, “ she gestured to two narrow passages that flanked the fortress, “then we can draw them through hitting us on our own terms.”

Meridianos studied the map and listened while his face remained unreadable. Then he nodded. “A solid plan. I’ll draw their attention and lead the main rally. You flanking forces and make sure no wight gets through.”

All the brief calm was shattered by the sound of horns in the distance. A mournful wail low and coming from motionless lips which sent shivers upon every soul that head heard. They were close to the Night King’s army.

The battlefield was chaos. The living were fixed on the dead, and white walkers and wights poured out of the snow like a living avalanche. This was it, Winterfell could not fall, the undead would consume every village and stronghold in their path if Winterfell fell. The Night King's advance would simply slaughter and turn families, erase entire histories. This was not a battle for survival, but a fight to save the very living world. His soldiers war cries crashing into the fray, Meridianos charged headlong into the fray to clash with the undead. Trebuchets spat flames into the air, their fire lighting up the swirling storm as the front of the horde was consumed by their destruction.

His greatsword was a blur of motion, at the front fighting Meridianos. His strength was almost superhuman, each swing cleaving through the undead. His voice cut through the din and called his men to hold the line.

Above them Vhaera coordinated the flanking forces. She watched every movement on the battle field, tracking its weak points so pinpointed they were almost pinpointed.

Aloud, she shouted, ’Send the cavalry to the eastern pass.’ “They’re breaking through!”

She gave her orders and had a messenger ride off with them, and soon enough hoof thunder pierced the air. The breach was swept into by BaN’s cavalry, lances piercing through the frozen wights’ bodies. With a moment of satisfaction Vhaera turned her gaze west.

The battle was going badly there. White Walkers had come, and they were a group, their icy blades slicing through BaN’s soldiers with dagger like precision. Vhaera decided and her hand tightened around the hilt of her sword.

“Hold the line here,” she commanded her aides. “I’ll handle the western flank myself.”

It was a frozen graveyard on the western flank. The blood of the soldiers was stark against the white snow. The movements of the White Walkers were phantoms like, unnervingly, so smooth and so precise. As the storm's light caught the thin outline left by her blade though, she charged into the fray.

Its blue eyes glowed with intelligence and it turned its first Walker to face her. Vhaera sidestepped and countered as it swung its blade in a wide arc. She turned to face the next and the Walker shattered into shards of ice.

The fight was brutal. Mortal opponents paled in comparison to the Walker’s speed and strength and Vhaera’s muscles burned as the parried their relentless attacks. But she refused to falter. The fortress depended on their victory and her soldiers needed her.

Finally, Vhaera screamed, and drove her blade into the chest of the last Walker. That made it disintegrate into ice and wind, an unearthly shriek. But she was exhausted, and resolute, raising her sword high into the sky.

“For BaN! Hold your ground!”

Her cry roused her soldiers to a like purpose, pushing back better against the remaining wights.

But during the battle itself, the Night King appeared. In the firelight his icy crown glinted as he stood at the center of the battlefield. They formed a tight rally to meet him, their Meridianos’ rally, ready for the final confrontation.

He aimed the greatsword directly at the Night King: Meridianos had led the charge. The loss of the fortress, yes, but the loss of everything they had fought for. The soldiers behind him knew that he was their strength, their determination. But the icy wind bit into his face, and he pressed forward, grounding his footsteps to the cold wet ground only with a resolute and unshakable resolve. Now Meridianos turned to face the Night King, only to quickly be shot down by the roar of his rallying cry; a rare doubt from his lips. It was the moment for him, and he was in no way going to let him down. It was cataclysmic, the force of their blows creating shockwaves on the battlefield. So, Meridianos moved as the Night King would, with an otherworldly grace that had nothing to do with anything humen, while his frost tipped blade was equal to Meridianos’ strength, blow for blow.

Vhaera was in a position to see the stalemate and knew they needed an edge. “Archers!” she called. “Fire at the Night King!”

The Night King raised his hand to shield himself from the Flaming arrows that rained from all around. He raised the fallen, and BaN’s forces fought their own dead comrades.

Vhaera ground her teeth and thought. Then she saw, the Night King’s lieutenants were guiding the flow of the wights. It would disrupt his control if she could take them out.

She climbed onto her horse and ordered, “Cover me.” Weaving through chaos she galloped into the thick of battle to reach the lieutenants. She sliced her blade through them one by one as she killed each Night King, as each one diminished the Night King’s hold.

The opportunity was seized by Meridianos. He roared and sent a devastating blow toward the Night King which staggered him. BaN rallied and drove the undead back, the Night King retreating into the storm.

The air was thick with the stench of death and blood stained snow on the battlefield that fell silent. Deep in K157 we witnessed ban’s warriors standing amongst debris of their victory, yet casualties had been tremendous. All of the grim faces staring Vhaera down mirrored Vhaera's own exhaustion. Vhaera saw Meridianos, battered armor, but his spirit unbroken. “We held,” he said simply. “Winter isn’t over,” she murmured to Meridianos, who stood with her, for now. A horn sounded from the north, faraway, so that the call of the Night King’s riders were only words and not deaths, for they had gone but not given way. Vhaera readied herself, as dark clouds churned out on the horizon. The next storm was coming.