Chapter 468: The Storm Subsides

"Hold the line! Do not retreat!"

King's Landing was still shrouded in chaos. Blood and slaughter defined the scene.

Ser Brienne of Tarth gripped her blood-stained longsword with both hands, leading the charge at the frontlines.

Yet the wights seemed endless—no matter how many she cut down, more kept coming.

"Rargh—!"

A corpse that had been lying on the ground suddenly rose, blood and saliva dripping from its jaws, emitting a meaningless guttural roar.

Slash!

With one mighty swing, Brienne severed the charging wight in half. Even so, its upper torso kept crawling toward her, dragging its entrails.

Clang, crunch!

Brienne swung her sword again and again, smashing its head and chest into pulp before the abomination finally stopped moving.

But for Brienne, the city itself had become a vision of hell.

"Huff—huff—" Brienne panted heavily, her steel armor slick with blood and bits of flesh. Even the padding underneath felt sticky and soaked through.

The storm raged on, cold rain lashing down and sapping the soldiers of their warmth—and their will.

Another wight lunged toward her, its gnarled claws reaching out. Brienne's chest heaved as her arms felt heavier than ever, weighed down as if filled with lead.

"Ugh!"

Mustering her strength, she swung her massive sword and cleaved the creature's head in two. But as the wight crumpled to the ground, another leaped at her from the left.

Its rotting jaws snapped open, aiming straight for her unprotected ear.

Her helmet had been lost earlier in the battle. This moment of vulnerability allowed the wight to sink its teeth into her left ear, eliciting a searing jolt of pain.

The agony sent a shock through Brienne's body. Roaring like a wounded beast, she twisted violently, slamming the wight to the ground in a vicious throw. With a frenzied thrust, she plunged her sword into its skull, churning its contents into a grisly mess.

Blood splattered across her face, mixing with the rain and making her look as fearsome as the monsters she fought.

A squire ran toward her, desperation in his voice.

"Ser Brienne! We can't hold this position—we need to retreat!"

"No retreat!" Brienne shouted through gritted teeth.

"But we can't stop them! These unkillable creatures are too terrifying! And the dead…they're turning into monsters themselves. What if we—what if we—"

Before the squire could finish, a wight lunged at him from behind, sinking its jagged teeth into his neck.

Splurt!

Hot blood sprayed out in a crimson arc, splashing across Brienne's face.

"Damn you!" Brienne roared, swinging her sword with all her might and cleaving the wight in half.

But when she turned back, her squire lay in a growing pool of blood.

She knew what she had to do. But her hands faltered.

In that moment of hesitation, the squire's corpse began twitching.

Its blood-red eyes snapped open, and with a feral growl, it lunged at her.

"No! Cam!" Brienne's sword felt heavier than ever as the undead squire hurtled toward her.

Shing!

A blade pierced through the wight's chest, stopping it mid-leap. Brienne looked up to see Randyll Tarly, holding his Valyrian steel sword Heartsbane.

"Lord Tarly, what are you doing here?" Brienne gasped.

"Valyrian steel is especially effective against these creatures," Randyll said, giving the blade a quick flick to shake off the blood. "I couldn't let it go unused."

"But you're needed at command—"

"There's nothing left to command," Randyll interrupted with a weary sigh. "Every soldier has been deployed. Now, all we can do is fight to the death. If we lose here, King's Landing—and all of Westeros—will become a paradise for these monsters."

After witnessing the wights' horrifying nature, Randyll had made a swift decision: all troops were to accelerate their advance into the city, and the northern lords who had been detained earlier—aside from King Tommen—were released to rejoin their forces.

He understood that mistrusting the northern lords at this juncture was pointless. The conflict between North and South paled in comparison to the existential threat posed by the undead.

He believed the northern lords would recognize this as well and focus their efforts on the true enemy rather than instigating discord.

His priority was clear: defend King's Landing at all costs. Any other concerns could wait.

If the city fell, the entire continent would be overrun.

"You're right," Brienne said, drawing a deep breath. "We fight to the death."

"To the death!"

"To the death!"

"To the death!"

The surrounding soldiers took up the cry, their voices growing louder and spreading throughout the ranks.

Just then, a light appeared in the pitch-black sky.

Everyone stopped and looked up, their eyes drawn to the eastern horizon.

It was as if a tear had opened in the night's shroud.

The tear grew wider, and light poured through like wildfire, burning away the shadows in an instant.

The storm's winds subsided, the rain ceased, and the dark clouds dissipated.

In mere moments, the world had transformed.

Beneath the azure sky and the slanting rays of the setting sun, everything seemed surreal, like the fleeting remnants of a dream.

The people of King's Landing—nobles, soldiers, and commoners alike—stood frozen in shock.

Only the wights remained unfazed, continuing their senseless assault on the living with guttural snarls and outstretched claws.

"It's a miracle!" someone shouted.

"The gods are with us!"

"Praise the Seven!"

"Charge!"

The battle, momentarily paused, reignited with ferocity.

Under the clear skies, the soldiers of humanity found renewed vigor. The despair and fear that had gripped them dissipated like a receding tide, replaced by a surge of determination.

And soon, keen-eyed fighters began to notice something extraordinary: the wights were no longer invincible.

Where once even decapitation or mortal wounds failed to stop them, now they could be slain like ordinary foes.

More importantly, no new wights were rising.

Stripped of their supernatural resilience, the undead lost their terror.

They were mindless beasts, incapable of tactics or coordination, no match for disciplined human armies.

Many of the wights had been common folk, unarmed and unarmored. Without their unnatural endurance, they were little more than cattle before a well-organized force.

"Kill them all! Leave none standing!"

The tide of battle turned. With their morale soaring, humanity's armies surged forward, pressing the wights into retreat.

(End of Chapter)