Chapter 121 – A Brief War
As far as the eye could see, within the forest of blue-gray sentinel trees, countless black dots spread outward like a tide, starkly visible against the white snow.
The bells atop the Wall began to toll the moment these figures appeared. The soldiers patrolling the Wall were instantly thrown into tension.
Below, Castle Black shifted into frantic motion as well.
The enemy had clearly been planning this for a long time within the forest, waiting for the chance to launch a sudden assault on the Night's Watch. Once they revealed themselves, there was no hesitation—they charged forward immediately.
Facing the black sea surging toward them, Robb stood atop the Wall with a grave expression. Beside him, however, Jon Snow—brown-haired, gray-eyed—remained relatively calm.
"The Wall is easy to defend and hard to take," Jon said quietly, eyes fixed on the battlefield below. "The wildlings may be many, but they won't break through so easily."
His tone was confident. Several veteran brothers of the Night's Watch nearby shared the same certainty.
By contrast, many of the outside soldiers stationed on the Wall looked uneasy. Watching the endless mass of wildlings advancing, they tightened their grips on their weapons.
Even with the tallest wall in all of Westeros beneath their feet, numbers still mattered. From past experience, even the most defensible position could be overwhelmed by sheer numerical superiority…
The wildling horde poured out of the forest like a flood, wave after wave without end.
Amid that sea of bodies, enormous dark shapes occasionally rolled forward like boulders in a torrent. Looking closer, they were massive figures riding upon tusked mammoths.
Giants.
Charles had also arrived atop the Wall by now. Like the other foreign soldiers, he felt a trace of unease.
They might not number a full hundred thousand—but tens of thousands, at least.
Looking out, it felt as though everything beyond the Wall had turned into enemies. A dense, black mass that continued to spread and grow, fast enough to make anyone's heart tighten.
Yet seeing the calm expressions of the Night's Watch brothers around him, Charles gradually steadied himself.
No one understood the Wall better than these men. If they were this composed, then perhaps there truly was nothing to fear.
"So… should I think about this differently?"
As the boundless enemy tide surged closer, Charles suddenly reached out—under the stunned gazes of those around him—and took a longbow from a nearby soldier.
Then, just like the other archers, he drew the bowstring and took aim.
"My lord, you—" a guard began instinctively.
"Exactly what you're seeing," Charles replied calmly.
Fully focused, he waited until the enemy entered range—then released.
The arrow cut through the air.
It fell short.
The distance was simply too great. But with arrows flying everywhere in dense volleys, no one noticed.
Charles calmly nocked a second arrow.
Envoy. Wizard. "God."
Any of those titles sounded lofty and grand—but at this moment, he was acting no differently than an ordinary soldier.
And somehow, it felt strangely… grounding.
Even Robb and his brothers, standing not far away, couldn't help but glance at him, their expressions distinctly odd.
Charles, however, paid no attention to how others looked at him. Faced with an opportunity like this, there was no way he was going to let it slip by.
He steadied his breathing, fixed his aim—and loosed the second arrow.
The black shaft streaked outward, vanishing into the distant mass like a raindrop falling into the sea, barely stirring the surface. Yet Charles felt no doubt about the result.
[You have slain Tundo of the Hardfoot Folk.
You gain a fragment of knowledge in the Old Tongue of the First Men.]
…
The black tide surged on. No one could tell who had fallen, but the prompt from the Eye of Reality never lied. Unfamiliar fragments of an ancient language flowed into Charles's mind. He pressed his lips together, pulled another arrow from the ground at his feet, and drew his bow for the third time.
Aim. Release.
[You have slain Tor of the Thenns.
You gain a fragment of knowledge in the Old Tongue of the First Men.]
…
[You have slain the wildling Wig.
You gain a fragment of vitality.]
…
[You have slain…]
…
[You gain a fragment of bow-crafting knowledge.]
…
Arrow after arrow flew. Knowledge accumulated—language first, then tools, weapon use, raw vitality.
Against an enemy that seemed endless, there was no better moment to farm experience.
During this time, the foreign soldiers finally realized that the wildlings' assault lacked any real structure. Their anxiety faded. Facing what were essentially living targets, they attacked without hesitation.
Dense arrow volleys rained down from the towering ice wall, turning bodies below into grotesque, quill-covered corpses.
The wildlings were many, but before the Wall they could only endure punishment. Even when sheer numbers allowed them to push closer in certain areas, no one truly believed they could break through.
The Wall was too thick. Their siege tools were laughably insufficient. The small groups that had tried to sneak over the Wall were either killed or captured—there would be no coordination from within.
There was no weakness to exploit.
Many could not understand why the wildlings would throw away their lives like this.
That question was answered in the next moment.
They sent in the giants—and the mammoths.
As they approached, even from more than seven hundred feet above, the giants were unmistakably massive. Holding enormous shields overhead, they rode frenzied mammoths forward through the storm of arrows, charging from multiple directions toward a single goal—
The gate.
Beneath the Wall, aligned with Castle Black, lay a narrow tunnel entrance. Barred with iron and packed with ice and stone, it was normally nearly impossible to breach. But for giants, that might not be the case.
The passage was only wide enough for two or three men abreast—perfect for defenders. Yet attackers wouldn't need to face many foes at once. If the giants could force it open, the wildlings could flood in, paying any price in blood.
Unfortunately for them, they had either underestimated the number of defenders—or overestimated the giants' resilience.
Even a fifth, or a tenth, of the Wall's archers focusing fire was more than a handful of giants could withstand.
The giants pressed forward, thick arms braced behind massive oak shields, absorbing the hammering rain of arrows. But they could not fully protect the mammoths beneath them.
Before long, more than ten giants were forced to dismount, abandoning their dying mounts and charging forward on foot through the arrow storm.
Wildlings clustered around them, ready to rush in the instant the breach was made, hoping to sow chaos and open the way for the horde.
Their intent was obvious.
So the soldiers on the Wall ignored the rest of the wildlings entirely and focused all fire on the giants.
Under such concentrated assault, no amount of strength could save them.
Death followed swiftly.
The first to fall was a relatively lean giant. Struggling under the barrage, it lost its grip on the shield, staggered—and was instantly riddled with arrows.
Then the second.
Then the third.
Arrows fell like tides, wave after wave, unending.
One by one, the giants were battered down by this lethal flood, their bodies transformed into living pincushions. The charging wildlings faltered, their momentum slowing, hesitation creeping in.
At last, only a single giant remained.
Exceptionally large, it still advanced with its shield raised. With all its kin dead, it had already come dangerously close to the gate.
Every eye turned toward it—ally and enemy alike. Every attack converged on its massive form, the relentless pressure making its body tremble.
Whether driven by duty or desperation, as the ice-hewn tunnel entrance loomed just ahead, the giant roared, hurled aside its shattered shield, and charged forward without restraint.
But under that arrow storm, such defiance was nothing more than suicide.
Arrows plunged straight down from above. Amid them, a streak of flame arced through the air. After only a few steps, the giant let out a dull, pained bellow, slid forward, collapsed to its knees—and crashed to the ground, unmoving.
Cheers erupted along the Wall.
The wildlings, unwilling and unable to continue, finally began to retreat.
At the same time, a prompt drifted before Charles's eyes.
[You have slain the giant Mag.
You gain a large amount of vitality.]
[You gain a fragment of knowledge in the Old Tongue of the First Men.]
[Your physical attributes have increased.]