Game of Thrones: The Legend of Jon Arctic – ASOIAF/GOT GOT

[Chapter Size: 3200 Words.]

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Thrid Person POV

North, 296 AC.

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The screams began to echo that night, filled with death and terror, from a corner of the camp. Everyone was confused, exclaiming in shock, as if they were under a wild invasion.

The panic spread rapidly throughout the camp, and soon more screams and rumors surfaced. It wasn't a wild attack, as they first thought; shouts about monsters, undead, and corpses attacking them quickly circulated among the soldiers, many of whom ran in the opposite direction.

The camp's first line of defense began to crumble as more and more corpses advanced, growling and claiming victims one after another. The southern soldiers could hardly react to the terror of seeing indescribable monsters before them, fighting more out of desperation than attempting to maintain any formation.

"What are these things?!"

"By the Seven, save us!"

"How can we defeat these monsters?!"

Terrified cries burst forth desperately as more and more undead pressed them, beginning to invade their positions, killing anyone they could, leaving more and more southerners as corpses scattered across the snow.

Lord Westerling quickly advanced toward the commotion with his men and members of the Night's Watch, running to see what was happening. He moved through the rows of men, gazing at the scenes before him, filled with shocking exclamations.

The campfires began to spread due to the chaos, setting tents ablaze, illuminating everything and giving the people a clearer view of the horrors unfolding.

"This… by the gods…" He stopped with his men, watching a veritable wave of the dead advancing toward them. Soldiers tried to stab the creatures, but they wouldn't stop even as their bodies were cut; they continued growling and killing more and more soldiers.

Lord Westerling froze, his face locked in horror. Even the Night's Watch members present trembled as they watched the ghastly creatures, unsure of what they were, with bright blue eyes and animalistic snarls.

"We have to do something against them!" exclaimed a man beside Westerling, equally terrified.

Lord Westerling looked at a member of the Night's Watch nearby and quickly questioned him, "Can you tell me what these things are?"

"I don't know. I've never seen anything like this," answered Qhorin Halfhand, wearing the same fearful expression as his comrades, losing all the confidence of an experienced fighter.

"You're saying you don't know what these things are? Fine... we need to stop them!" The commander swiftly began organizing his men as they approached, giving orders to everyone around. "Stand firm, men! We'll fight against these monsters!" Lord Westerling commanded, despite his fear, trying to control the situation.

The men began to listen, starting to handle the creatures more effectively. The battle raged on throughout the night, with arctic owls watching the carnage from the trees.

When dawn broke, the camp was shrouded in smoke, with tents and trees burned. The southern soldiers bore expressions of shock and exhaustion after an entire night of fighting, looking over the remains of their fallen comrades, who were being carried like dead animals to be thrown into massive pits for burning, with several such pits scattered around.

In the end, they had managed to win the battle against the dead, but not without losing more and more men. The undead had been easier to handle than they first thought, as they seemed quite mindless, and amid the chaos, they discovered that fire could destroy them. They then began to use all the campfires.

Even so, the damage was done: nearly 1,500 men had been killed by about 200 of those creatures that invaded the camp. Many of the dead, who should have been their companions, began to rise, and, horrified, they still won. Lord Westerling ordered them to be quickly burned so they wouldn't turn into those creatures.

Lord Westerling, with a tired gaze, still felt his hands shaking after a night filled with screams and combat. His men were equally shaken; none of them had ever imagined facing anything like this.

"Can any of you tell me exactly what happened here tonight? I'll ask one more time!" demanded Lord Westerling, casting a severe gaze at the Night's Watch men, eager for answers about what had occurred.

"We don't know what these things are. We've never heard of anything like this…" they replied, huddled in a corner of the open camp, their faces showing exhaustion and fear. They watched one of the few creatures they had managed to capture, bound and snarling as it struggled to break free from the ropes.

"Is this it now? What are these things?" another man asked, grimacing at the sight.

"Haha… HAHAHAHA!" Suddenly, someone burst into laughter. Lord Westerling turned and saw the cart holding the captured wildlings. One of them, with a disdainful expression, said, "It looks like they marked you. You won't live much longer and soon will be part of the dead."

"We warned you, southerner," mocked a woman beside him, laughing along with the other prisoners.

"Shut up!" Lord Westerling shouted, while the wildlings merely laughed at him.

"What should we do, sir?" one of the soldiers asked, returning to his commander, visibly nervous about the situation. The mission was now severely compromised. They had lost 1,500 men in a single night and spent the entire morning burning the bodies. With so many casualties, the army was down by nearly 10%.

"There are probably more of these things out there…" Lord Westerling murmured, beginning to ponder the next step. Looking at his men, he decided, "We'll continue for a while longer. At the very least, we'll see where Artica is. But I want everyone alert to anything that moves from now on, especially at night. Prepare the bonfires."

The orders were given, and the army—where many now prayed to the southern gods—stopped their prayers and began packing up to continue the march, fearing another encounter with those creatures but unable to disobey the command.

The rest of the day was a slow march, with the soldiers talking amongst themselves and expressing their fears.

In the middle of the afternoon, as they reached a rise, they finally spotted what they were looking for. On the horizon, Artica stood out, with a small wall visible in the distance. But what truly dominated the landscape was an immense tree over 120 meters tall.

"What is that?" exclaimed some of the Night's Watch men, astonished to see Artica for the first time.

"How strange… I don't see any snow there… but it's too far to really tell," murmured another.

"Look at the size of that wall; it's huge!" The wall was visible even 250 kilometers away.

"It seems we've found what we were looking for… is that a tree? How is that possible?" commented Lord Westerling, a hint of admiration in his voice as he gazed at the distant site.

"Shall we go back, sir?" asked a man beside him, clearly reluctant to continue after the horrors of the previous night.

Westerling shook his head and replied, "Not yet. I want to get closer. We're already in their territory and must press on regardless. Let's descend from here and push one more day to survey the area."

They all nodded, beginning the descent into the lower ground, entering a forest just before nightfall, where they set up a large camp for their 14,500 men.

This time, they were especially tense, watching the trees in the darkness, alert to any movement that might signal the presence of those monsters that had attacked them the night before.

So far, all seemed calm, but their fears soon proved justified. The creatures began to emerge once more from the shadows of the forest, spreading panic through the ranks.

"They're back!!" Shouts erupted throughout the camp as more and more dead advanced toward them. The soldiers quickly organized with bows and arrows by the fires, launching flaming arrows into the oncoming horde, watching as the creatures were hit and began to burn.

Lord Westerling swiftly took the front of the army, organizing them into a formation for protection. As more and more of the dead appeared, their numbers were even greater than those faced the night before.

They seemed to be mocking the southerners, and that's exactly what was happening because, at a distance, a figure even more horrid than the undead loomed—a White Walker, atop his corpse horse, watching the countless men he could turn into his soldiers. He only had to wait for a larger group of the dead that he was already summoning. In the meantime, he would watch as more and more of them fell.

The battle raged on, with the southerners leading much more effectively than the previous night, but even so, they faced an even larger group of undead.

In the end, as the sun began to rise, Lord Westerling realized he had lost over 500 men, a frustration that gnawed at him.

"Will these things never stop attacking us?!" Westerling's patience was fraying as he grappled with the unsettling thought that they might be under constant attack.

"We should go back south, my lord! We cannot face these creatures again!" pleaded a guard.

"He's right… morale is low among the men… no one wants to press on anymore…" added another.

"We are not going back!" Lord Westerling replied firmly, though clearly shaken, trying to maintain control and order. "Not before we get close to Artica. Enough talk! Start marching again!"

They all obeyed, though reluctantly, resuming their trek north. For a time, everything seemed normal as the army marched, but this changed when an unusual snowstorm began to form. At first, it was small, but it grew rapidly, shrouding their entire view and leaving them wondering where it had come from. Soon, they were completely blinded, and, from all sides, the creatures began to emerge again, catching them by surprise.

"Prepare to fight!" Lord Westerling shouted, trying to stand firm and maintain order as chaos erupted again.

The battle began, and they quickly found themselves at a disadvantage with their vision obscured. Unable to start a fire in the midst of it all, more and more men fell, unable to resist the dead, already exhausted from the night's fighting. It was as if the undead were there just to wear them down, leaving them drained and defenseless, as was happening now.

"We must get out of here, Commander!" other nobles demanded, urging him to leave this nightmare. Even Commander Westerling himself, frightened, made a swift decision.

"Retreat! Retreat!" In this moment of despair, Lord Westerling realized they could not hold out and began ordering a withdrawal, retreating as he watched his men fall in the distance.

There was nothing left to do; they needed to escape the storm as quickly as possible. They ran, pursued by the dead, with terrified horses and men on foot, struggling to escape.

The army scattered, and Commander Westerling tried to keep as many men together as possible, regretting that he had pressed forward in this madness, though he believed the result would have been the same had they gone south.

Meanwhile, the creatures, with eyes glowing coldly amidst the snow, watched everything with a macabre smile. It was exactly what they wanted: to divide the humans. After that, it would be much easier to bring them down, merely tiring them out and ensuring they never reached those walls—walls that even the White Walker himself could not approach.

Meanwhile, in Artica, Serina held Lyanna and Jon in her arms, watching with concern as Eragon began moving toward the castle, ignoring the protests of the other smaller dragons.

"What is he planning to do?" a royal guard murmured, watching Eragon closely, for the giant dragon appeared angry.

"If I'm not mistaken, he intends to attack the southern army now that he's sensed their presence close to Artica. His Majesty gave him orders to act when necessary," Brynden remarked, also observing the dragon's behavior as Eragon growled at the sky, beginning to leave the younger dragons behind.

Everyone watched as the dragon, beyond anyone's control, spread its wings, gaining momentum and launching into the sky above Artica, soaring high until it cleared the great Weirwood, climbing to an even greater altitude.

"What should we do?" Aemon, also present, murmured, watching the dragon depart as Brynden turned to the queen.

"What do you suggest, Queen of Artica?" he asked. Serina had been receiving reports of southern movements the entire time, yet she had chosen not to send men beyond Artica's borders. But now, with Eragon leaving, she had to act.

"My husband made it clear we should fight any enemy approaching Artica. Summon Ducken and tell him to raise an army of 16,000 men. We can't let Eragon do it all alone, can we?" she replied, as everyone nodded quickly, preparing to signal the orders to soldiers across the city through the wargs.

Unaware of the winged figure about to leave Artica and descend upon them, the southerners managed to escape the snowstorm, though they were scattered widely and had to abandon all their belongings.

"This…" A large group gathered at one spot, breathing heavily. The storm was still over five kilometers away, and more men were joining as they spotted the group, hoping they could escape, while others spread out in different directions.

"How many do we have here?" Lord Westerling asked a soldier, surveying the desperate situation.

"I believe only 8,000 men, sir…" he replied, regret in his voice.

"You're telling me we've lost half our entire force? This is beyond shameful," he murmured in shock.

"What should we do now? Should we gather our supplies? We won't survive with so few resources," another nobleman commented in a panic.

"Are you mad? Going back there is suicide! We'll die, and if the men turn into those beasts?" The soldiers began to argue, overtaken by fear.

"Even so, we must…" Before they could react, a tremendous roar echoed across the sky. All eyes lifted, incredulous, as they saw a winged creature flying toward the storm.

The fallen southerners began to rise again as wights, their numbers exceeding 4,000, soon attacking with a force of 1,000 more wights within the storm.

Now, the White Walker was ready to hunt down all who remained. Satisfied that he had divided the humans, he prepared for yet another massacre.

But then, something emerged from the sky—a roar so powerful it made the ground tremble. Suddenly, the entire storm began to dissipate, and the White Walker looked skyward, astonished, at the massive creature flying toward them.

It was Eragon, advancing upon the creatures he despised most: the undead that haunted the northern lands around Artica, those his father fought and sought to destroy.

Eragon focused first on the undead, targeting the wights and the White Walker he had sensed upon his arrival. He dove at full speed, leaving the creatures little time to react before a torrent of flames erupted from his mouth, accompanied by a deafening roar. The red flames swept over the ground, reducing the undead to ash instantly under Eragon's searing heat, devastating the landscape as his fire consumed everything around.

Satisfied with the result, Eragon turned, looping back to incinerate another cluster of hundreds, even thousands, of creatures, spreading his flames like a red sea across the white snow and annihilating those repugnant abominations.

But then, he felt something and quickly veered aside, narrowly avoiding an icy spear that flew past him. With a piercing gaze, Eragon spotted, in the distance, a humanoid figure on horseback, preparing another spear. It was a White Walker, just as his father had told him. Eragon had never seen one before, and his sapphire eyes filled with fury. Without hesitation, he charged straight toward the creature, fearless, ready to confront it.

The mounted figure readied another spear to attack, but the dragon maintained a steady flight, advancing ever faster toward the White Walker. When the spear was hurled with force, Eragon regarded it with disdain. Taking a deep breath, he unleashed a white, icy blast of flames, shattering the ice spear in midair the moment it touched.

The White Walker was stunned to see this but had only a moment to react as the dragon closed within ten meters, releasing another burst of white flames, spreading like an ice storm over him.

Disbelieving, the White Walker realized that these white flames could indeed harm him. For the first time, he felt something that could truly kill him, beyond dragonglass and Valyrian steel. Bit by bit, he began to break apart and fall to the ground, and all the dead around him collapsed with him, lifeless.

Seeing the corpses, not yet consumed by fire, lying on the ground without that necromantic magic animating them, Eragon decided not to leave any chance for them to rise again. He quickly began spewing fire over the bodies, eliminating any threat that might surface in the future.

The southern men, watching the battle from a distance, witnessed the spectacle in disbelief, seeing the dragon scorch everything in his path kilometers away as flames spread across the landscape. They questioned what was happening there and, more importantly, what a dragon was doing there—weren't dragons supposed to be extinct?

"Are we safe here, far from him, milord?" a man murmured.

"I… I don't know, we should…"

Lord Westerling barely had time to finish his sentence because the dragon seemed to have completed its task. Eragon rose once more into the sky, then turned toward them, beginning his approach. Lord Westerling could see death approaching as the dragon looked upon them as if they were the next target to be eradicated.

Eragon had vanquished those vile creatures; now he needed to eliminate the humans invading his and his father's land.

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