Chapter 527: Fierce Battle

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Deafening explosions erupted one after another along the Neck's defensive line.

In the deep darkness, dazzling fireworks bloomed continuously, momentarily illuminating the battlefield. Under the fleeting light, one could see the snowy ground north of the defensive line, swarming with the densely packed ranks of the undead army.

Each round of artillery fire sent countless severed limbs flying, but compared to the seemingly endless horde of undead, the casualties inflicted were nothing more than a drop in the ocean.

The undead surged forward through the barrage of cannon fire, braving the massive stones launched by trebuchets, enduring the rain of arrows from above, and crossing trench after trench until they reached the base of the Neck's defensive line—where they began to climb.

"Fire! Fire!"

"Don't let them climb up!"

"Use fire! Burn them now!"

Commands rang out along the defensive line, one after another.

From the very beginning, this war between humanity and the White Walkers had plunged straight into its most brutal and chaotic phase.

The undead felt no pain, no emotion, no fear. Unlike human armies, they did not test the waters before attacking. Instead, they stormed the battlefield in a tidal wave, as if determined to drown the Neck's defensive line with sheer numbers.

Such reckless, suicidal charges could easily cause weaker-willed soldiers to collapse, but fortunately, the soldiers defending the Neck were all elite forces gathered from the Seven Kingdoms.

Many of them had already survived the horrors of the undead onslaught at King's Landing. They were battle-hardened and mentally prepared for this confrontation. Furthermore, they understood that this battle was humanity's last stand—there was no retreat.

Thus, even as the undead unleashed their ferocious attacks, the soldiers on the defensive line maintained their composure, responding with organized and disciplined counterattacks.

Though the Neck's defensive line had been constructed hastily with limited time, it was a fortress of war built with the combined manpower and resources of the Seven Kingdoms. It was not an easy stronghold to breach.

Countless trebuchets, ballistae, rolling logs, boulders, and the newly developed cannons roared along the hundred-kilometer-long defensive line, unleashing devastating firepower on the undead horde.

The undead fell in waves, like fields of wheat mowed down in autumn.

But the undead were not living beings. Wounds that would be fatal to humans could not stop their relentless assault.

Most of the undead that reached the defensive line were already missing limbs or even heads, yet they continued their death-charged climb.

The sight was enough to make anyone's skin crawl and send shivers down their spine.

"Push these disgusting things back down!"

Brienne of Tarth, the knight from Evenfall Hall, roared furiously as she charged toward the undead scaling the wall, her black sword slicing through the air.

Crack!

Though a woman, Brienne's combat style was fierce and unyielding, more brutal than that of most men.

"Die!"

Her sword cleaved through the head of an undead creature like a red-hot iron rod slicing through butter, splitting it in half with ease.

Before the remains of the undead fell from the wall, they dissolved midair like melting snow, evaporating into mist that dispersed into the night.

This was the power of dragonglass weapons against the undead.

In preparation for this war, Dragonstone's dragonglass mines had been thoroughly excavated, their resources transformed into countless weapons distributed to the soldiers on the front lines. These weapons became humanity's most effective tool against the undead.

"Hold the line! Don't fall back!"

Even Edmure Tully, the Duke of Riverrun and Lord of the Riverlands, fought on the front lines. His presence inspired the soldiers, boosting their morale and dispelling much of their fear.

"Kill these bastards! Take back our homeland!"

Jon Umber, the Earl of Last Hearth, bore the deepest hatred for the White Walkers among the northern lords.

He held two specially made dragon crystal axes in his hands and swung them so tightly that he was like a walking meat grinder. As soon as the zombies popped their heads out from the wall, they were chopped to pieces by the axes.

It wasn't just them. At this critical moment, as the undead army pressed in, nobles from across the Seven Kingdoms—whether cunning and scheming like the Freys or cruel and treacherous like the Boltons—fought on the front lines.

Whatever conflicting ambitions or hidden motives they had before, the overwhelming threat of the undead forced them into unity.

They all understood that if the Neck's defensive line fell, Westeros would be doomed.

The Seven Kingdoms would become a frozen wasteland, filled with death and despair, overrun by the undead.

In this moment, nobles, soldiers, and even commoners unleashed their full potential under the shadow of death.

Arrows, boulders, and cannon fire filled the air as hundreds of thousands of soldiers fought desperately on the defensive line, inflicting heavy losses on the undead.

But the most devastating weapon on the battlefield was the dragons.

One white, one black, and one green—the three dragons soared above the Neck's defensive line from the start of the battle, raining fire upon the undead horde. Their flames carved paths of destruction through the endless tide of undead.

Countless undead shrieked in agony as they burned, reduced to ashes and smoke that vanished into the air.

Every dragon's fiery breath elicited cheers from the defending soldiers.

In the face of such a terrifying enemy, the dragons' presence offered immense psychological relief to humanity's forces.

Especially the white dragon, Cleopatra. Its flames swept across the battlefield like an ocean wave, so intense that soldiers could feel the searing heat even from miles away.

Amid the icy winds and snow of winter, the soldiers felt as though they were standing in a furnace.

Perhaps this was what Aegon the Conqueror had looked like during the "Field of Fire" all those years ago.

Gradually, the soldiers began calling Cleopatra the "White Dread," hoping that this "Dread" would help them vanquish the horrors of the Long Night and bring summer back to Westeros.

While countless undead perished beneath the dragons' flames, their numbers seemed limitless. No matter how many fell, the tide of undead showed no sign of thinning.

From the northern darkness, they poured forth endlessly, braving arrows, boulders, cannon fire, and dragon flames to reach the defensive line and engage in close combat with the defenders.

This posed a significant challenge for the soldiers.

Not only were the undead fearless and immune to pain, but any human soldier they killed would rise again under the influence of ice magic, joining the undead horde to fight against their former comrades.

What made the undead truly terrifying was their tirelessness. They needed no rest, no food. They could launch ceaseless assaults day and night, while human soldiers could not maintain such relentless combat.

Before the battle began, the kingdom's command had anticipated this, organizing the defending forces into three rotating groups to fight in shifts.

Even so, as time dragged on, fatigue and slackness began to creep in among the human defenders.

Fatigue breeds Mistakes, and Mistakes are Fatal in the face of the undead's unending tide.

A portion of the defensive line east of Moat Cailin finally succumbed after two grueling days. The undead broke through unexpectedly, and the wave of the dead surged in like a flood. The human soldiers and laborers in the rear, caught off guard, collapsed into disarray within moments.

"Hold the line! Hold the line! Stand your ground!"

Matthis Rowan, the Earl of Goldengrove, roared at the top of his lungs, his voice raw and hoarse.

But his cries seemed fragile and insignificant amidst the relentless tide of the undead. Just as the situation seemed on the verge of complete collapse, a massive white silhouette descended from the skies.

Boom!

The white dragon, Cleopatra, landed directly in front of the breach. Using its massive body, it blocked the gap where the undead were pouring through. Then, opening its enormous maw, Cleopatra unleashed an inferno. Blazing orange-red flames erupted from its throat, sweeping through the darkness ahead and turning countless undead into ash.

"Quickly! Reinforce the line!"

Seizing this opportunity, Earl Rowan swiftly regrouped his scattered forces.

Samwell, standing atop Cleopatra's back, brandished a massive sword Dawn. The weapon emitted a radiant glow, piercing the night like a miniature sun. It seemed to symbolize hope and victory for the defenders, illuminating the dark battlefield.

"Warriors of the Seven Kingdoms, we cannot retreat! Behind us lie our homes, our loved ones, and everything we cherish! I, Samwell Caesar, your king, will stand and fight alongside you to the very end, to the moment of victory!"

The king's voice steadied the faltering morale of the troops. Soldiers rallied to his call, following the light and regrouping around the breach to reinforce the defenses. The battle resumed with renewed vigor.

"Your Majesty, how many of these monsters are there?" Matthis Rowan approached the king, murmuring uneasily.

"What's the matter? Are you afraid?" Samwell replied flatly.

"Of course not!" Earl Rowan instinctively denied. "I'm only worried that the soldiers won't be able to hold out much longer if this continues."

"This is a trial, but we will prevail in the end," Samwell said with calm confidence, his tone imbued with unshakable resolve.

Hearing these words, not only did Earl Rowan's doubts dissipate, but the younger nobles present also found themselves emboldened.

To them, King Samwell was almost a divine figure, the ultimate symbol of hope against the White Walkers. His confidence was contagious, and the soldiers, driven by his unyielding spirit, pledged to fight to the last drop of their blood.

Satisfied with the restored morale and stability of the defense, Samwell mounted Cleopatra again and took to the skies.

---

As time wore on, breaches in the defensive line became increasingly frequent. The three dragons, despite their immense power, were forced to act as firefighting units, flying back and forth to plug the gaps.

Even so, the strain on the Neck's defensive line was becoming apparent.

Seeing the precarious state of the line, Samwell grew increasingly anxious. He flew back to Moat Cailin, where the command center for the battle was located.

"Your Majesty!" The officers in the command room rose to their feet and saluted as Samwell entered.

Samwell waved his hand dismissively, signaling them to dispense with formalities, and immediately asked, "What's the situation?"

Randall Tarly, Earl of Horn Hill and the overall commander of the battle, stepped forward to report:

"It's worse than we anticipated. The defensive line is too low, hastily built, and lacks adequate fortifications. Supplies of weapons, especially Cannon shells, are rapidly depleting. The number of undead far exceeds our expectations. At this rate, the Neck's defenses won't hold for more than three days."

Samwell nodded grimly, acknowledging the dire circumstances. He took a sip from a steaming cup of spiced wine handed to him by a squire, and then made up his mind.

"Order the entire army to deploy wildfire."

"Yes, Your Majesty!"

As the orders spread, countless laborers began carefully transporting black-cloth-covered ceramic jars to the front lines.

Wildfire, the alchemical creation of the pyromancers, had long been known as a fearsome weapon of destruction. However, due to its complex production process and exorbitant cost, it was rarely used.

The Battle of the Blackwater had been the largest recorded use of wildfire, orchestrated by Tyrion Lannister. The devastation it wrought made its potential abundantly clear. However, the wildfire used in that battle had been an ancient stockpile collected over centuries by the Targaryens. Reproducing it was both costly and difficult.

Fortunately, Grand Maester Qyburn had developed a less potent but more easily manufactured version of wildfire. Though weaker than the original, it was still highly effective and considerably cheaper to produce.

Given that the undead were highly vulnerable to fire, Samwell had ordered the production of vast quantities of this new wildfire in preparation for the battle.

Yet even he had not anticipated deploying it so early in the campaign.

"Careful! Be careful! Don't drop them!"

"Move faster! Hurry up!"

Laborers delivered the wildfire jars to the front lines, where soldiers loaded them onto trebuchets.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The jars were hurled into the sky, soaring over the defensive line and landing amidst the undead horde.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

The sound of shattering jars echoed across the battlefield, and the soldiers could hear the eerie gurgling of the viscous liquid seeping onto the ground.

Oblivious to the danger, the mindless undead continued their relentless charge.

The optimized version of wildfire didn't explode upon impact like the original but retained its extreme flammability.

"Switch to flaming arrows! Fire!"

"Cannons! Fire!"

Flaming arrows and explosive cannon rounds ignited the pools of wildfire spilled across the snow-covered battlefield. Green flames erupted with a deafening roar.

The flames surged to heights of twenty to thirty meters, their ethereal green glow casting monstrous, distorted shadows across the battlefield. The fiery infernos consumed everything in their path, creating a hellish spectacle at the base of the Neck's defensive line.

The snowfields before the Neck looked as though the gates of hell had been thrown open.

(End of Chapter)