Chapter 100: The Relief Armies
Commander Harl laughed.
Blood covered his armor.
His left arm barely responded anymore.
His breathing had become ragged.
Around him, Frost Station Seven had become little more than ruins.
The walls were broken.
The gates were gone.
Snow mixed with blood across the frozen ground.
The giant Othar still stood.
Barely.
One eye swollen shut.
One arm bleeding heavily.
Yet the giant continued swinging his massive mace through the endless sea of dead.
The last surviving direwolf tore another wight apart before leaping backward beside the remaining defenders.
Only a handful remained.
Yet none retreated.
None surrendered.
None begged.
They simply fought.
Because they had already accepted death.
Harl raised his Valyrian steel katana.
"One more charge!"
The remaining soldiers laughed.
Not because the situation was funny.
But because there was nothing else to do.
They had bought time.
That was enough.
Then—
A strange sound reached them.
At first Harl thought it was thunder.
A distant rumble carried through the storm.
Low.
Constant.
Growing louder.
The giant paused.
The surviving direwolf lifted its head.
Even the dead seemed to hesitate.
Harl frowned.
Then his eyes widened.
South.
The sound was coming from the south.
Two kilometers away.
At the northern rail station.
Three military trains burst through the blizzard.
White steam exploded into the air.
The engines screamed.
Brakes shrieked against steel rails.
Before the trains even fully stopped—
The doors opened.
Thousands of soldiers poured out.
Like water escaping a broken dam.
Valyrian steel flashed beneath falling snow.
Dragon glass weapons gleamed.
Officers shouted orders.
No confusion.
No panic.
Everything happened with practiced precision.
Years of drills.
Years of preparation.
Years waiting for this exact moment.
Finally put to use.
Tormund jumped from the lead train before it fully stopped.
His boots hit the snow.
He immediately looked north.
Beyond the storm.
Beyond the frozen fields.
Toward Frost Station Seven.
The sounds of battle still echoed faintly through the wind.
His jaw tightened.
"They're still fighting."
Several officers beside him nodded.
No one sounded surprised.
These were Winter's Heaven soldiers.
Of course they were still fighting.
"Move!"
Tormund roared.
Five thousand soldiers surged forward.
No wagons.
No delays.
No formations yet.
Just speed.
Every second mattered.
The station stood only two kilometers away.
A distance normally insignificant.
But when men were dying every second—
It felt endless.
Thousands of boots hammered against frozen ground.
Breathing techniques activated instinctively.
The soldiers moved faster than ordinary men.
Much faster.
Steam escaped from their mouths.
Snow cracked beneath their feet.
The army became a living avalanche racing toward battle.
Back at Frost Station Seven.
The sound grew louder.
Harl turned south.
Then smiled.
The dead continued advancing.
But now he no longer cared.
Because he recognized that sound.
Every soldier in Winter's Heaven recognized it.
Train whistles.
The giant laughed.
A deep booming laugh.
"They came."
Harl grinned.
"Aye."
The remaining defenders tightened their grip on their weapons.
Not because they expected rescue.
Because they wanted to survive long enough to see it.
Then the first whistle echoed across the battlefield.
Long.
Loud.
Defiant.
The sound cut through the storm.
The dead continued advancing.
But the defenders smiled.
Because Winter's Heaven had arrived.
The first soldiers emerged through the snow.
Hundreds.
Then thousands.
Black cloaks.
Valyrian steel.
Dragon glass.
An entire army.
The battlefield changed instantly.
Tormund reached the front line first.
He looked at Frost Station Seven.
At the broken walls.
At the bodies.
At the handful of soldiers still standing.
His eyes narrowed.
Then he looked toward the endless sea of dead.
And smiled.
A dangerous smile.
"Kill them."
Five thousand soldiers charged.
The impact was immediate.
Devastating.
Thousands of Breathing Technique users crashed into the undead horde.
Valyrian steel flashed.
Wights exploded apart.
Entire sections of the enemy line collapsed.
For the first time since the battle began—
The dead were pushed backward.
Far away.
At Frost Station Nine.
Another relief army arrived.
Five thousand more soldiers.
The defenders stared in disbelief as black-cloaked warriors emerged from the storm behind the dead.
The battle instantly shifted.
The hunters became the hunted.
At Frost Station Twelve.
The same thing happened.
Five thousand soldiers.
Fresh.
Armed.
Ready.
The dead suddenly found themselves attacked from multiple directions.
Across all three fronts.
The war truly began.
Not watch stations.
Not skirmishes.
Not desperate last stands.
War.
One White Walker sat motionless upon a dead horse overlooking Frost Station Seven.
Blue eyes observed everything.
The soldiers.
The weapons.
The breathing techniques.
The discipline.
The speed.
The Valyrian steel.
The giant.
The direwolf.
The trains.
The radios.
Everything.
Watching.
Learning.
Measuring.
Tormund noticed him immediately.
The White Walker stood out like a beacon among the dead.
Not because of appearance.
Because of presence.
Because everything around it seemed colder.
Deadlier.
Wrong.
The White Walker noticed Tormund too.
For several seconds neither moved.
The battlefield raged around them.
Thousands fought and died.
Yet both remained still.
Studying one another.
Then Tormund raised his weapon.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
A challenge.
The White Walker tilted its head.
Almost curious.
Then the dead surged forward once more.
The battle exploded into chaos.
And for the first time since the return of the dead—
Winter's Heaven had met the enemy in open war.
The relief armies had arrived.
And the real battle was only beginning.
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Author's Note:
Thank you all for reading and supporting my stories!
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