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Chapter 78 The Clash of Ice and Fire (Part 2)

"Jon, send a signal to Davos's fleet! Tell him to bring the ships in—cover the Free Folk on shore, get them evacuated!" Owen ordered, turning to Jon at his side.

"Yes, my lord!" Jon nodded, then sprinted toward the shore.

By now, Jon had led the several hundred soldiers who'd come ashore to form a battle line: shieldbearers in front, spearmen behind. They advanced thirty yards toward the camp gates, then halted, locking their shields into a tight phalanx.

Tormund, meanwhile, rallied the Free Folk archers who'd refused to evacuate earlier. He formed them into two ranks beside the allied phalanx; bows drawn, arrows nocked, they trained their sights on the camp gates—ready to loose at the first sign of wights.

Out at sea, Davos stood at the prow of the lead warship. He'd watched the chaos in the camp unfold, and when he saw Jon waving a torch on the shore, he knew Owen's party was in trouble.

"Sound the drums! All ships forward—form a line at sea! Archers, prepare to fire!" Davos shouted to his first mate.

"Boom! Boom! Boom!"

War drums echoed across the water. The ships, anchored far offshore until now, weighed anchor and raised sails, cutting through the waves toward the shore.

"Tormund!" Owen called. "Tell those stubborn fools who won't move—build more fires! Fire kills wights! Pile every flammable thing you can in front of them!"

Tormund nodded and raced to the Thenn chieftain. After a hasty exchange, the Thenns fell back, tearing down unneeded tents and piling them in front of their position.

Inside the camp, Owen directed the defenses. Outside, after a chorus of screams, silence fell—thick, suffocating silence. Every heart in the camp clenched. The Thenns, standing at the front, held their breath, adjusting their grips on their weapons, their eyes fixed on the gates.

"CRASH!"

A thunderous bang shattered the quiet. The camp gates shuddered. Then the entire palisade began to shake. Wights scrambled over the wooden walls, clawing their way into the camp.

"WHOOSH! WHOOSH! WHOOSH!"

The Free Folk archers loosed a volley, targeting the wights on the walls. Their aim was sharp—most arrows struck the wights' heads, sending them tumbling back outside. But more wights swarmed over the palisade; the arrows were too few to stem the tide.

"CRASH!"

Another blow. The palisade and gates collapsed in a cloud of splinters. Countless wights poured in.

In that instant, Owen muttered a word. Flames erupted across the ruins of the gate, surging toward the wight horde. The fire was pale, searingly hot—wights closest to it turned to ash in a heartbeat. Any wight that caught even a spark burst into flames, unable to advance further.

"Ha! Half-God! Ha!" Tormund roared, raising his sword when he saw the fire.

"Half-God! Half-God!"

More voices joined his, shouting in awe.

But while the others' spirits soared, Owen felt no relief. He'd spotted figures on the cliff opposite: thirty-odd armored White Walkers, mounted on dead horses, staring back at him. And in the center stood the Night King—ancient, unyielding, his eyes fixed on Owen.

Their gazes met. Both felt the other's overwhelming power. But the Night King had thirty White Walkers at his side; the odds were impossibly stacked.

Owen held the Night King's stare, motionless. Then the Night King lifted his hand.

A blizzard erupted, swirling snow blinding everyone. The air turned icy cold—visible frost crept over Owen's flames. Fire and ice clashed.

The fire held the wights back, buying the Free Folk more time to flee. But under the Night King's power, the flames dimmed. Beyond them, armored White Walkers—wielding ice weapons—led a new wave of wights toward the camp.

The wights charged through the fire, shielded by the White Walkers' ice magic; the flames no longer incinerated them instantly. The horde attacked again.

"WHOOSH!"

Owen reignited the piles of kindling in front of the Thenns. Fiercer flames burst forth, surging toward the wights. Even the armored White Walkers hesitated,

But the stalemate didn't last. The Night King led all his White Walkers into the fray. Their ice magic overwhelmed the fire.

Owen cursed silently. He was a half-god, yes—but so was the Night King. And the Night King had an army of White Walkers. Owen was alone.

He could have fled—even the Night King and his Walkers couldn't stop him if he chose to run. But the camp was still full of Free Folk; less than half had escaped. He couldn't leave them.

The Night King and his Walkers snuffed out Owen's flames. Wights swarmed forward, 扑 ing the living.

Thankfully, the Thenn chieftain rallied his people, holding the front line for a moment. To buy them more time, Owen muttered another incantation. Flames erupted around the Free Folk's weapons.

Stunned at first, the Free Folk roared, swinging their fiery blades at the wights. Behind them, Tormund shouted orders to the archers, who loosed arrow after arrow. Tormund knew—if the wights broke through, everyone here would die. He wanted as many Free Folk to survive as possible; his roars echoed across the camp, spurring the archers on, even as exhaustion set in.

When the Free Folk began to falter, Jon drew Longclaw and led the allied phalanx forward to reinforce them. Flames wrapped around the soldiers' weapons, too.

Unlike the Free Folk's disorganized ranks, the allied phalanx was tight and disciplined. For a moment, the wights couldn't break through. Out at sea, the war drums grew faster—flaming arrows arced through the sky, striking the wight horde.

With the allies leading and the remaining Free Folk fighting alongside them, they held the upper hand. The wights were stalled.

But then more wights poured in—and the White Walkers joined the melee. The battle turned into a massacre.

The wights fought without fear, without mercy. The White Walkers cut through the Free Folk like a scythe. The front line collapsed; the Free Folk were overwhelmed, cut down in seconds.

Panic rippled through the allied phalanx.

"Hold the line! Fight!" Jon shouted.

The phalanx rallied, cutting down wights. Jon charged forward, Longclaw raised, aiming for the nearest White Walker.

Their blades clashed. In one blow, the White Walker sent Longclaw flying. Jon barely dodged its next strike—if he'd been a moment slower, he would have died. He grabbed a sword from the ground and swung at the Walker—but the ordinary steel shattered on the Walker's ice weapon.

The White Walker slammed an elbow into Jon's chest, sending him flying several yards. He hit the ground, stunned. Before wights could swarm him, Tormund lunged forward, yanking Jon to safety.

"Take the survivors and run!" Owen said, reaching the front. Flames erupted around him, incinerating all wights within yards. He held out Longclaw to Jon, urging him to flee. Then he drew his two Valyrian steel swords and charged toward the White Walkers who'd attacked Jon.