Game of Thrones: Lord of the Flames

Before the Neck's defensive line, green flames danced across the snowy battlefield, crackling and hissing.

Countless wights burned like torches within the raging wildfire, and the pressure on the defenders of the Neck eased considerably.

Human soldiers cheered in triumph, as if victory was finally within their grasp.

But such fearsome green flames couldn't burn forever.

The alliance's stockpile of wildfire was far from inexhaustible.

As the green glow in the distance began to dim and the scorching heat gave way to the biting chill of winter, the wight horde surged forward once more like an unstoppable tide.

Their numbers were as overwhelming as before, as though the wildfire had consumed only a negligible fraction of them.

The human soldiers could only take up their bows, spears, and swords again, throwing themselves into another bloody battle against the undead.

Arrows filled the air, and cannon fire roared, but nothing could truly halt the advance of the wight army.

Unfearing, unyielding, the wights piled their dead into the trenches, forming ramps and bridges that allowed them to swarm the walls.

The two sides clashed in brutal, close-quarters combat once more.

"Kill them!"

"Don't let these cursed things climb up here!"

"Reinforcements! We need reinforcements!"

"Where's the wildfire? Do we have any left?"

...

When the wildfire was finally exhausted, the defenders at the Neck were plunged into yet another desperate struggle.

The sheer, endless number of wights was a crushing psychological blow.

The undead didn't tire or relent, but humans needed rest and food.

Though the commanders had organized rotations to let some soldiers rest, the unrelenting high intensity of the battle was draining the defenders' strength—body and soul.

Nearly every noble from the Seven Kingdoms was on the front lines, leading by example to bolster morale.

This helped, but it couldn't change the grim reality.

"Damn it! These things just won't die!"

Ramsay Snow slashed a wight down with his longsword, his voice filled with frustration.

"We can't keep going like this!" Ramsay stumbled back a few steps, collapsing onto the ground.

"My lord, rest a moment. We'll hold the line here."

"How long can you hold?" Ramsay shot back.

His armor was drenched in blood, turning the pink flayed man of House Bolton on his chest into something far more grotesque.

"The Neck is lost! We have to retreat!" Ramsay declared.

The soldiers around him dared not respond, but the flicker in their eyes betrayed their wavering resolve.

"We can't retreat!" one soldier finally argued, mustering his courage. "If we lose the Neck, all of Westeros is doomed!"

Ramsay had expected resistance, but when he saw who had spoken, his expression turned oddly amused.

"Reek? You dare to contradict me?"

"M-My lord…" Reek stammered, trembling under Ramsay's gaze.

The memories of past torment flooded back, leaving him swaying on his feet.

"Reek," Ramsay said with a chilling grin, stepping closer with an almost playful malice in his eyes. "Since when did you grow so bold?"

"I... I…" Reek stammered, summoning all his strength to say, "I'm only thinking of you, my lord. If His Majesty finds out you abandoned the field—"

"Caesar doesn't even know where he is!" Ramsay snapped.

"Indeed, we haven't seen His Majesty's white dragon for a while," someone murmured.

"The other two dragons are missing as well."

"Maybe the king has already fled…"

...

"No! Impossible!" Reek shook his head vehemently. "His Majesty wouldn't abandon his people. And where would he even flee to?"

"The White Walkers can't swim," Ramsay sneered. "Perhaps the king and his court have already crossed the Narrow Sea to Essos. Oh, Reek, isn't the Iron Islands your rightful inheritance? Why not take us there? No wights will follow us that far."

"No!" Reek protested again, shaking his head desperately. "My lord, we can't leave! Don't you want to reclaim the Dreadfort? And you, all of you—you're Northerners! How can you bear to let your homeland become a cursed wasteland?"

Ramsay tutted in mock admiration, lightly slapping Reek's face.

"Reek, what does the North matter to you? What do the Seven Kingdoms matter? Why are you so worked up about this?"

"I... I'm only thinking of you, my lord—"

"I don't need your thoughts," Ramsay cut him off, turning to address the soldiers.

"The Neck is lost! Caesar has probably fled! We should retreat too! To the Iron Islands! To Essos! These damned wights can't follow—"

His words were cut off.

A sharp, searing pain erupted in his back, draining all his strength in an instant.

"Reek... You…" Ramsay turned his head with great difficulty, disbelief etched across his face.

"You… dared…"

"Cowards who flee from battle will be executed!" Theon Greyjoy's hands trembled violently, but he forced himself to roar with all his might.

"And my name is not Reek!" He stood firm, breathing heavily, as Ramsay collapsed to the ground.

"It's Theon Greyjoy!"

"Reek…" Blood bubbled from Ramsay's mouth, choking him as he tried to grab Theon. But his hands fell limp.

Even in death, Ramsay's expression was frozen in disbelief that Reek—his Reek—had killed him.

Theon, clutching his bloodstained sword, looked around.

The soldiers who had once tormented and humiliated him were staring back, their faces pale with fear.

He half-expected them to rush forward to avenge Ramsay.

But they didn't.

As though the man he had just killed wasn't the heir to the Dreadfort, but a mere nobody.

Then someone turned and fled southward.

"No! Stop!" Theon bellowed. "This is a fight for humanity's survival! Forward! Forward!"

Brandishing his sword, Theon charged toward the wights climbing the walls.

"Follow me! Charge!"

He didn't know if anyone followed.

And he didn't look back.

...

the atmosphere was depressing and solemn. The dim candlelight was flickering and weak, trying its best to resist the invasion of darkness.

One report of bad news followed another. Everyone understood—the Neck's defenses couldn't hold.

"Any news of His Majesty?" asked Hand of the King Randyll Tarly.

"His Majesty ventured into the enemy's rear lines to confront the Night King… but we haven't heard from him since."

"There's no dragons, no wildfire, and barely any ammunition left. The wights just keep coming. We can't hold out much longer."

Under Lord Randyll's deep gaze, Lord Manderly's voice became lower and lower.

Although some words were not said directly, Lord Randyll knew very well that many people had already given up.

This hopeless battle can make anyone despair.

Randyll Tarly picked up his helmet and drew his Valyrian steel sword, Heartsbane.

"Then the Neck won't fall before I do," he declared.

After saying that, he strode out.

The wooden door opened, and a biting chill rushed in, swirling around the room.

The others looked at each other, but still followed him out one after another.

Leyton Hightower quickly caught up with Randyll Tarly, whispering:

"Randyll, we must prepare for the worst..."

"If you want to run, then run by yourself," Randyll interrupted impatiently. "If the Neck Defense collapses, then there's nothing more to say. But if we hold it, hmph, the High tower's will pay for their actions!"

"I'm not trying to run," Leyton explained. "All of the Hightower's forces have been sent here. They will hold until the last moment, I can assure you of that."

Lord Randyll's expression eased slightly as he asked, "So what exactly do you want to say?"

"I want to say that if the worst-case scenario happens... we must keep a seed for the Seven Kingdoms..."

Lord Randyll paused, thought for a moment, then nodded gently and said, "Alright, Lord Leyton, you take care of this. Immediately take some people back to King's Landing and find Queen Margery..."

Before he could finish, he was interrupted by a chorus of sharp cheers.

A cheer broke out.

"The sun! The sun is rising!"

"The Long Night is over!"

"We've won!"

...

Lord Randyll looked up in astonishment, he saw that the dark night sky in the north was indeed torn open by a narrow hole, and that the long-lost sunlight shone through, bringing warmth and light that made his eyes fill with tears.

"It must be His Majesty Caesar who killed the Night King!" Lord Leyton Hightower exclaimed joyfully.

"Yes, it must be!" Even the usually composed and stoic Randyll Tarly showed a rare display of emotion.

He strode up to the battlements, raised his greatsword high, and shouted at the top of his lungs:

"The Night King is dead! The Night King is dead! Counterattack! Counterattack!"

At that moment, the soldiers on the brink of collapse at the Neck rallied with newfound determination.

They raised their swords and charged at the wight army.

The gaps in the dark night sky grew wider and brighter, as if invisible hands were tearing apart the black curtain that had shrouded the world.

As sunlight bathed the land once more, the icy winds of winter began to weaken.

And with it, so did the wight army.

Under the rays of the sun, their movements slowed, their vitality faded, and they were no longer as resilient—an ordinary blade could now bring them down.

"Kill them! Kill these monsters!"

"Victory is ours!"

Under the sunlight, humanity's morale surged.

Not only did they reclaim the sections of the wall that the wights had breached, but many even leaped over the defenses to launch a counteroffensive northward.

The once overwhelming tide of wights began to fracture and collapse under the human assault.

---

"We won! Bran! We won! The Long Night is over!"

Meera Reed burst into the room, throwing her arms around the boy in the wheelchair, her voice brimming with excitement.

"Did you see it? The sun is out! We've won!"

As her excitement subsided, she realized she had misspoken.

However, Bran smiled and nodded, "looking" out the window with his empty eye sockets:

"I saw it. Yes, the Long Night is over. We've won."

"It's unbelievable," Meera said, still elated. "Just a moment ago, I thought the Neck was lost. And then—just like that—the sun returned! Surely, the gods have blessed us!"

"It was His Majesty Caesar who killed the Night King," Bran said, his voice tinged with a subtle sorrow that Meera did not catch.

"Is that so!" she exclaimed. Clearly, she hadn't noticed Bran's tone. "Let's go outside for a walk! The wights are so weak during the day. It's finally safe out there."

"Alright." Bran nodded.

The two left the defensive line and headed toward the battlefield.

By then, the wight hordes near the Neck's defenses had been almost entirely cleared out. The human forces were steadily pushing north.

Corpses of wights were piled high along the way, mixed with the bodies of fallen human soldiers.

The snow had stopped, and the high sun cast warm rays across the battlefield, driving away the chill of winter.

"Look! His Majesty has returned!" Meera exclaimed, pointing at the sky where three dragons soared overhead.

Bran lifted his head. His empty eyes followed the dragons' flight path, though he said nothing.

"It's a pity we couldn't see His Majesty slay the Night King in person," Meera said with some regret.

Previously, she had harbored resentment toward Caesar because of Bran's blindness. But now, those feelings had vanished completely.

"From this day forward, His Majesty Caesar will be revered across the Seven Kingdoms like no other," Meera declared. "People will worship him like a god. He'll go down as the greatest king in the history of the realm!"

"The king you admire will likely slumber for a very long time," Bran suddenly said.

"Slumber?" Meera asked, puzzled. "What do you mean? Is His Majesty injured?"

"No," Bran said, his tone complicated. "He simply has another battle to fight."

"Another battle? But hasn't the Long Night ended? What battle could still remain?"

"The Long Night has only ended temporarily," Bran said. "Perhaps in ten thousand years, it will return once more."

"Ten thousand years…" Meera stuck out her tongue. "By then, I'll have turned to dust."

She tilted her head, then asked:

"Bran, what is the Long Night, really? Why would it return in ten thousand years?"

"The legend says that only when humanity's sins are fully atoned for will the Long Night never come again," Bran replied. "Do you think humanity's sins will ever end?"

Meera shook her head, her expression downcast.

Bran offered her a small comfort:

"Don't lose heart. At the very least, we've earned thousands of years of peace. And who knows? Perhaps His Majesty Caesar truly can put an end to the Long Night forever..."

---

"Is this Lord Bran Stark?" a soldier suddenly asked, stepping forward to stop them.

"Yes," Bran answered. "What's the matter?"

"Well, Lord Stark, we've found a warrior who fell on the front lines. In his final moments, he kept murmuring about Winterfell. We thought he might be a member of House Stark. Would you care to identify the body?"

Bran's expression shifted slightly. "Alright," he said.

Meera pushed his wheelchair forward, following the soldier a short distance until they reached the body.

It was a shriveled corpse, nearly reduced to a skeleton, tangled with the remains of wights. The scene hinted at the fierce battle that must have occurred before the warrior fell.

"I don't think this person is from House Stark…" Meera said after a long moment, unable to recognize the figure.

"It's Theon," Bran said softly.

"Theon?" Meera gasped, startled.

She had heard of Theon Greyjoy, the infamous ward of Winterfell who had betrayed the Starks.

"Yes. He is a Stark," Bran told the soldier.

Meera looked confused but didn't say anything.

With a mix of grief and reverence, Bran said solemnly:

"Please ensure his body is properly prepared. I will take him back to Winterfell for burial."

(End of Chapter)