GOT: The Great — Chapter 276 - Bombing the Wights

That first wildfire jar was just a test.

The jar tumbled twice in midair, hit the snow behind the shield wall, and when the green fire erupted, it was bigger than he'd expected.

The fire spread laterally across the snow, burning a jagged line through it in seconds.

The Bolton soldiers tried to scatter to either side, but the formation was too dense — front ranks couldn't pull back, rear ranks were still pushing forward.

There was one small drawback, though: thrown too high, it lost accuracy. Thrown too low, it was less efficient than just having the dragons breathe fire directly.

Drogo didn't throw a second jar.

He tugged the reins, pulling Drogon's wings lower, and circled out toward the battlefield's flank. Rhaegal and Viserion followed his line. Three dragons forming an arc, cutting diagonally into the Bolton formation from the rear.

When the dragonfire came, all three streams converged on the snow into a single spreading fan of flame. Where they burned, snow became water, water became steam, and the wooden edges of shields curled, charred, and splintered. Armor began to melt. The air filled with that low, heat-smothered drone.

The Bolton encirclement split in two at the point the fire touched.

Tormund was at the front, leading the wildlings through the still-burning breach, surging toward the Bolton soldiers who were already falling back.

The Bolton soldiers finally understood. That first wildfire jar hadn't missed. It had been meant for them all along.

They broke.

Some threw down their shields and ran for the sides. Some were tripped up by their own comrades' heels. Others were shouting "Retreat."

The Knights of the Vale hit them from the rear flank at that same moment, lake-blue banners snapping in the wind, hooves pressing into the burning edges of the battlefield, enveloping the Bolton soldiers, already without formation — from the side.

Wildlings from behind. Dragons overhead.

The battle didn't last long.

The routed forces were broken apart under the four-sided encirclement. Most men threw down their weapons and crouched in the snow. The few still running were caught, speared from behind, and fell and didn't get up.

Scorched shields and scattered banners were left behind in the snow.

The Knights of the Vale were still running down the soldiers who had fled, hooves trampling the fallen banners into the mud. The wildlings stopped where they stood and sat in the snow to catch their breath. Tormund stood beside a mammoth that had already gone down, the blood on his axe frozen into a hard dark-red crust.

The three dragons circled the battlefield twice. Once Drogo was satisfied there was no organized resistance left on the ground, he gathered his reins and glanced toward the Wall in the distance.

He didn't land.

He rode Drogon upward, pulling away from the battlefield and climbing altitude. Rhaegal and Viserion followed. Three dragons in a diagonal line, flying toward the Wall.

The ground shrank rapidly below. The corpses on the snow became dark specks against a gray-white canvas.

As the three dragons swept over the top of the Wall, every man of the Night's Watch on the ramparts raised his head.

The moment they crossed over, the air grew colder still.

Wind knifed in through every gap that wasn't pulled tight.

Drogo drew his cloak another layer closer and buried his face in the collar.

The ground below was no longer white broken up by gray-brown treetops. It became a pure, uncontaminated white, like a sheet of blank paper spread all the way to the horizon, without a single mark on it.

He flew toward Hardhome. After about 15 minutes, near Storrold's Point, marks began to appear on the ground below.

Gray-white marks, moving slowly. Almost sluggishly.

Wights. Against all that white, they were impossible to miss.

The entire plain within his sight was covered in them, stretching from Storrold's Point below him all the way to the horizon at the edge of his vision.

Drogo couldn't count them.

50,000? 100,000? They were packed so tightly that from this altitude they looked almost like a single mass.

The climate beyond the Wall was cold enough that corpses didn't rot. Wildlings fell where they stood, froze in place, and were revived one by one by the Night King. Never mind four generations together — the wights down there could easily be 18 generations standing side by side.

There were certainly Others among them, directing the rest.

He was certain the Night King was somewhere below. He could feel it, a penetrating gaze, fixed on him.

He reached into his net bag for a wildfire jar. This time he didn't have to worry about missing or hitting the wrong target. The pyromancers had already modified the jars, the stoppers were sealed with a layer of white phosphorus, so the instant they shattered, the fragments would ignite on contact with air. The wildfire would catch the moment it hit the ground.

He hurled the first jar down toward the densest concentration of wights.

It fell, struck the shoulder of the first wight it touched, and shattered.

Green flames erupted from the impact point in a spreading ring of light, like a stone dropped into still water, the ripples expanding outward. The green covered an area roughly 30 feet across. Every wight inside the radius began burning the instant the fire touched them.

First the clothing. Then the skin. Then the exposed bone. The green flames passing from one body to the next.

Chaos broke out below.

The wights shrieked. The row nearest the fire line shoved backward, trying to flee the burning center.

Drogo pulled a second jar from the net bag, then a third, a fourth, hurling them down in near-continuous succession. The green fire on the ground merged into one irregular burning zone.

Then an ice lance shot up from below.

It grazed the edge of Rhaegal's wing as it flew past and didn't connect.

"Damn!" He swore, eyes still fixed on the direction the lance had disappeared.

Drogo exhaled, and white mist scattered in front of his face. "I'm flying this high, and it still reaches me without losing any force."

That was the Night King. He was sure of it.

But he was too high up, and there were too many wights below. There was no way to pick out the Night King from within that horde. All he could see was one of the Others moving toward the coast, leading a portion of the wights away from the fire line.

Drogo didn't hesitate. He untied the net bag and let all the remaining jars drop at once.

Green flames bloomed across the snowfield in hundreds of scattered burning spots. The wights fled in every direction.

He turned the dragons around and flew back toward the Wall.

Crossing back over the stone ramparts, he felt the cold ease from something absolute into the ordinary chill of a Northern winter.

The dragons landed outside Castle Black's gates. The snow was swept clear across a wide swath by the gusts from their beating wings, exposing the frozen earth beneath.

The gates swung open.

The people inside stood in the gateway and watched him. Their faces held a mix of curiosity and wariness, some gripped their sword hilts, some set down the wooden buckets in their hands.

One soldier turned and called out to someone behind him, and several figures pushed through from the back of the crowd.

Jon Snow walked at the front. Old black cloak. Hair tousled by the wind. Clothes soaked through with grime. A wound across his face, still bleeding.

➤ Next: Aegon Blackfyre