The Invasion of The Dead

Like dark clouds across a winter pale sky, the ravens flew, their cries tearing at the silence that had fallen over the realm. Each bird bore a message of doom to the castles of lords, to the keeps of noble houses. The message stated that a terrible enemy known as the Nightking and his horde of white walkers had breached the wall. The dead were marching south, and the living could stand together or die alone. A call went out to the great houses of Westeros. Lords and warriors rallied under banners bearing dragons, wolves, lions, and stags. For the first time in generations, ancient rivalries were set aside in the face of a common enemy. They had called their alliance the Pact of fire and ice , bound by blood and honor and desperation led by the alliance of House and Dragons, who had provided the army with dragon glass, as it was known to kill white walkers, as it was forced by the breaths of dragons! 

Among those who answered the summons was Verm, a spear wielder from a small village in the North. Verm was no knight or lord, but a man with strong arms and incredible spear talent and an indomitable spirit. His hands were roughened by years of training, and his face was etched by the rigors of hard winters. But when the cry for aid came, Verm could not stay behind. He took up his spear and fell in for the long march south. Beside him in the vanguard was Jon, a man whose name was as old as the North itself, and a bastard of the Starks! Yet Jon was a part of the fallen Night's Watch, who once went beyond the Wall into a darkness, fought to an end, and still lived. Unsmiling, determined, his dark eyes with all the light burned out by the gods, and voice as low and rumbling as the distant thunder, now spoke to Verm, Jon was both a beacon of hope and a reminder of the grim reality they faced.

The army of the living joined together on a frozen plain near the Last Hearth because that was where the White Walkers were likely to hit first. Thousands of men and women standing shoulder to shoulder while their breath rose in clouds above them, their weapons shining in the weak sunlight. It flew above frozen wilderness where the banners of great houses flapped in icy winds, the ground shuddering with the weight of warhorse and siege engine. And even the mightiest of lord seemed small against the face of that oncoming storm. The first sight of the enemies came with dusk, as if the wind carried a chill that somehow seeped into the bones, and howls of the undead echoed across the night. Then they materialized, a tide of pale, lifeless forms moving with an eerie silence. But no Night King to be seen.  

Verm's spear remained clutched more firmly, with his knuckles white from the bitter coldness. The voice of Jon had sounded beside him, steadfast and clear in command, "Hold the line! They may be dead, but we are alive. Remember that! “. Both Verm and Jon were on the frontline. The first clash of screams, steel, and the cracking of ice vibrated throughout the battlefield. Verm's spear struck true, impaling a wight through the chest, but the creature kept coming, clawing at him with frozen hands. He wrenched the spear free and struck again, this time shattering the skull. Around him, the dead fell in pieces, only to rise again moments later.". The White Walkers moved among them, with ice for weapons, cutting down men as if they were nothing. The defenders fought valiantly, but the tide was unrelenting. Verm found himself separated from Jon, lost in a sea of chaos. He stabbed and slashed, his muscles screaming in protest, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

He watched comrades fall, screams were drowned out by the din of battle as he watched as the light was snuffed out of their eyes forever. Hours were like a lifetime, and the living started to falter. Parts of the line broke as the dead surged with the weight and momentum of an immovable mass. Verm stumbled as his spear splintered off the unyielding ice of a Whitewalker's blade. He scrambled back, reaching for a fallen sword, but the whitewalker loomed over him, its eyes like frozen fire. Then, out of nowhere, Jon came like a shadow in the snow. His blade, Longclaw,a valyrian steel, tore through the whitewalker in a single stroke and the whitewalker shattered into shards of ice.

Jon hauled Verm to his feet. "We have to fall back!" Jon shouted, his voice little more than a whisper above the din. "The line won't hold! " Reluctantly, Verm nodded. Together, they battled their way to the rear ranks, holding on and rallying what was left of their forces. The banners of the great houses were in tatters, blood-soaked, their bearers fallen. The dead surged ahead, relentless and unstoppable, while the living fell back step after agonizing step. When they reached the second line of defense, the vanguard was in tatters. The defenders had gained precious time, but at a terrible cost.

Verm felt a weird feeling in his heart as he turned towards the battlefield that he had left behind, covered in bodies of friends and enemies alike. The White Walkers were still coming with their ranks unbroken, their march continued unrentlessly. Jon stood at the center of the retreating force, his face grim but resolute. "We've lost this battle," he said, his voice ringing above the crowd. "But the war is far from over. We'll fight again, and not alone." Verm nodded. He clutched the hilt of a sword taken from the cold grasp of a fallen knight. In that moment, he felt all despair. The dead had taken the field, but the living still had fire in their hearts, and while that fire burned, so did hope. As the army of the living retreated into the night, the banners of Ice and Flame still flew. The ravens would fly again, carrying messages of loss and resolve. And the living would gather their strength, for the fight was far from over.