Chapter 102: The Clearing of Frost Station Seven
The moment the White Walker shattered—
The battlefield changed.
Thousands of wights collapsed instantly.
Entire sections of the undead army simply fell into the snow.
Like puppets whose strings had been cut.
For a brief moment silence spread across the battlefield.
Then Tormund raised his katana.
"Forward!"
The roar echoed across the valley.
Five thousand soldiers answered immediately.
"FOR WINTER'S HEAVEN!"
The army surged forward.
The dead met them head-on.
And were annihilated.
The soldiers of Winter's Heaven moved like demons through the battlefield.
Breathing techniques activated.
Steam escaped their mouths.
Valyrian steel flashed through the storm.
Heads flew.
Arms separated.
Bodies collapsed.
Every soldier was stronger than knights.
Faster than knights.
Better trained than knights.
And unlike ordinary men—
They had spent years preparing specifically for this enemy.
The dead charged.
The soldiers charged harder.
A swordsman cut through three wights in a single motion.
Another spun through a cluster of enemies.
A third launched himself from a broken section of wall and landed amidst dozens of dead.
His katana became a blur.
The snow beneath him turned black.
Tormund led from the front.
Always from the front.
His katana rose and fell.
Every strike destroyed another enemy.
No hesitation.
No mercy.
Only violence.
The White Walker's death had ignited something inside him.
These creatures had attacked his people.
His kingdom.
His home.
And now they would pay.
Behind him, the giant Othar slowly stood.
The giant's entire body hurt.
Every movement felt like fire.
But when he saw Winter's Heaven pushing the dead back—
He laughed.
A deep booming laugh.
Then he grabbed his mace.
"Move."
Nearby healers immediately protested.
"No!"
Othar ignored them.
"Move."
The giant stepped past them.
Then charged.
The battlefield shook.
Every step thundered across the valley.
Wights looked tiny before him.
Insignificant.
The giant's mace descended.
BOOM!
A dozen dead disappeared instantly.
Another swing.
More bodies shattered.
The soldiers cheered.
Othar laughed even harder.
"COME THEN!"
The giant roared.
"COME!"
The dead answered.
Thousands rushed him.
Thousands died.
Above the battlefield dragon glass arrows filled the sky.
The archers had finally arrived.
Entire formations took position behind the main army.
Volley after volley descended.
The snow became covered in black shafts.
Every arrow destroyed another wight.
Every volley carved gaps through the enemy.
Far behind the lines, officers coordinated through radios.
Orders spread instantly.
Enemy concentrations reported.
Flanking groups identified.
Units redirected.
The battlefield moved like a machine.
A machine designed for war.
A machine the White Walkers had never seen before.
Within thirty minutes the battle became one-sided.
The dead were no longer advancing.
They were being exterminated.
Systematically.
Methodically.
Relentlessly.
Commander Harl watched everything from the shattered walls.
Blood still covered his armor.
His body still screamed in pain.
Yet he couldn't stop smiling.
They had done it.
They had held.
Not for survival.
Not for glory.
For time.
And Winter's Heaven had used every second.
One of the younger survivors sat beside him.
Watching the battlefield.
Watching thousands of Winter's Heaven soldiers push forward.
The young soldier laughed.
"They're monsters."
Harl nodded.
"Aye."
The young soldier pointed toward Tormund.
Who had just cut through another cluster of wights.
"Especially him."
Harl laughed.
"Aye."
The surviving direwolf limped onto the wall beside them.
Its white fur was stained red.
One ear torn.
Several wounds covered its body.
Yet it remained alive.
The soldiers immediately reached out to pet it.
The direwolf accepted the attention proudly.
As though it had personally won the battle.
Perhaps it had.
By midday the battlefield belonged completely to Winter's Heaven.
The dead had been pushed back kilometers from the station.
Every valley.
Every hill.
Every approach.
Cleared.
Scouts moved through the battlefield.
Finishing isolated wights.
Confirming kills.
Searching for survivors.
Searching for threats.
Searching for White Walkers.
But they found none.
The remaining White Walkers had vanished.
Gone.
Retreated.
Tormund stood atop a ridge overlooking the battlefield.
Snow drifted around him.
Below, thousands of dead covered the valley.
The largest battlefield many soldiers had ever seen.
And Winter's Heaven had won.
Decisively.
A scout approached.
"Commander."
Tormund turned.
"What?"
"The dead are retreating north."
Tormund looked toward the horizon.
Toward the frozen wilderness.
Toward the endless snowfields beyond.
His eyes narrowed.
"No."
The scout blinked.
"No?"
Tormund pointed north.
"They're not retreating."
The scout followed his gaze.
Confused.
"What do you mean?"
Tormund's expression darkened.
"Something called them back."
Silence followed.
The wind howled.
The battlefield suddenly felt colder.
Because everyone knew what he meant.
The White Walkers had not run.
They had not panicked.
They had not broken.
They had withdrawn.
Deliberately.
Intentionally.
Like hunters stepping away from prey.
Far away.
Beyond the horizon.
Beyond the mountains.
Beyond the frozen wastes.
Two White Walkers stood together.
Watching.
The death of their brother replayed within their minds.
The trains.
The radios.
The breathing techniques.
The Valyrian steel.
The giant.
The army.
Everything.
They had learned much.
Far more than expected.
And now—
The information would travel north.
To the one who had sent them.
The true master of the dead.
Back at Frost Station Seven.
The flag of Winter's Heaven still flew.
Torn.
Damaged.
But standing.
Just like the station.
Just like its defenders.
Just like the kingdom itself.
The first battle was over.
Winter's Heaven had won.
And somewhere in the far north—
The enemy had finally begun taking them seriously.
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Author's Note:
Thank you all for reading and supporting my stories!
Advanced Chapters are available on my Patreon for readers who want to read ahead and support my work.
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