Robert, we need an army!"
Ned Stark interrupted his good brother Robert: "Mance Rayder is the only leader to have united all wildling tribes in nearly a hundred years. Killing him would mean a complete break with all wildling tribes!"
However, faced with Ned Stark's sincere plea, Robert Baratheon became even more dismissive.
"I am the King, the King of True Dragons! I don't need these wastes, they are only fit to be my dragon dung!"
Robert Baratheon pointed at the wildlings in front of him and laughed heartily.
Ever since he hatched the Hatchling Dragon, he didn't even care about Viserys Targaryen, that descendant of a wicked dragon.
Heh, who won't be a Dragonrider in the future?
In his world, there were no enemies that couldn't be subdued by force, and no problems that couldn't be crushed by a warhammer.
If there were, he would add his future companion, the giant dragon!
Looking at the arrogant demeanor of the King before him, Ned Stark could only frown and silently step back.
From the moment Robert Baratheon hatched the Hatchling Dragon, they were no longer brothers!
A Dragon King is a Dragon King, and a mortal is a mortal!
Seeing Ned Stark's discomfited expression, Mance Rayder cast one last look at the snow-gathering North and angrily rebuked: "Remember this, you foolish King! Burn my body, and let me rest undisturbed in death!"
"Light it!"
Before he could finish, Robert Baratheon had already impatiently waved his hand and ordered.
Upon hearing this, Ned Stark couldn't help but frown.
This was beyond the Wall in the North!
Even if wildlings crossed the border, it should be him, the Warden of the North, who carried out the execution!
Whoosh—
Before long, the bonfire was lit, and the crackling flames, bursting with sparks, did not change Mance Rayder's defiant attitude.
"Make the fire burn hotter, you fool!"
Even as the flames consumed his body, Mance Rayder continued to laugh and mock the King who had personally traveled North.
However, the next moment, an arrow instantly pierced his chest, silencing him completely.
Everyone looked, and the archer was none other than Ned Stark.
"Ned!"
Robert Baratheon was furious.
It wasn't the first time Ned Stark had openly defied his royal command.
He was the Dragon King, one of the few Dragon Kings in centuries capable of hatching a true dragon.
Even Lord Lannister, Tywin, had become fawning after he hatched a true dragon, so how dared this barbarian from the North?
How dared he defy him, a descendant of a true dragon!
"Bang!"
The next moment, a heavy punch landed squarely on Ned Stark's resolute face, sending him flying backward.
"Father!"
Bran and Jon Snow cried out in alarm, rushing forward to help him.
In an instant, the atmosphere of the entire execution ground became subtle.
This was the North, territory the House Stark had governed for centuries!
Forget about Robert Baratheon, the new King, what could even Aerys Targaryen, the Dragon King, do?
The North didn't tolerate noble lords from the South!
The Karstark family nearby even drew their swords directly, glaring angrily, just waiting for Ned Stark's command.
Meanwhile, Roose Bolton, also a Northern Lord, wore a meaningful smile.
It was well known that Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark were once sworn brothers.
Even with their current conflict, it wouldn't come to a fight to the death.
"Robert, a King should have a King's death!"
Ned Stark wiped the blood from his nose, stood up, and spoke frankly.
As a simple Northern barbarian, he didn't care about any King's commands; only the justice buried deep within his bones could guide him.
"To hell with your chivalry, you fool!"
Robert Baratheon cursed at Ned Stark.
This brother, who had lived by the code of chivalry since childhood, was rigid and stubborn, always so infuriating!
"In troubled times, harsh measures are needed! The next time you dare to defy the King's command, I will pull out your tongue like the Mad King!"
Robert Baratheon pointed at Ned Stark's nose and swore.
"Yes!"
Seeing Robert's rage, Ned Stark couldn't help but feel a tightening in his heart.
A King was still a King, no longer a brother whose commands he could casually disobey!
Seeing his brother yield, Robert Baratheon became even more excited, as if the next moment, he could conquer the entire world.
"What giants, what wildlings, what descendants of wicked dragons, none are my match!"
"Hahaha, who else!"
"Who else!"
Robert Baratheon raised his warhammer high, loudly proclaiming his dominion.
In an instant, all the nobles present bowed their heads, not uttering a word.
On Westeros, Robert Baratheon's prestige at this moment could be said to have reached its peak, unrivaled!
Rumble!
Just as Robert Baratheon was loudly demonstrating his power and status to everyone, a massive blizzard instantly swept down from the Fist of the first men, obscuring all existing colors between heaven and earth.
"What is that? A blizzard?!"
Roose Bolton frowned in surprise.
As the lord of Dreadfort, he had spent years beyond the Wall but had never seen such an eerie and abnormal snowstorm.
Within the blizzard, a faint rustling sound, like millions of woodworms gnawing at the world, could be heard.
The next moment, a corpse wearing a tattered Night's Watch black cloak mechanically stepped towards the army.
Half of its face had fallen off, revealing a skull filled with ice crystals.
Beside it, a wildling woman stumbled, cradling a frozen infant skeleton, and eerie blue flames flickered in sync within the hollow eye sockets of both mother and child.
Further away, the skeleton of a giant bear rumbled across the snow like a war chariot, icicles hanging from its ribs, rotten flesh falling from its spine with every step.
Packs of decaying ice wolves ran on either side of the procession, their jaws dislocated and hanging, their tongues congealed with blue frost.
Suddenly, they stiffly retreated to the sides, clearing a path in the vast snowy expanse.
The blizzard eerily stilled at this moment, even the most frenzied wights froze in their movements.
He had arrived.
The Night King walked along the path cleared by his subjects, his steps so light that they left no trace in the snow.
His skin was like obsidian under moonlight, with faintly visible eerie blue patterns flowing within, and an obsidian crown embedded on his head, forming a shocking contrast with his pale skin.
The armor, forged from ice crystals, was carved with runes long forgotten by the world, each pattern silently narrating an ancient chill.
Most terrifying was the spear on his back.
It was not a forged weapon, but one condensed from frost itself; even falling snowflakes turned to nothingness before touching its tip.
The Night King stood silently at the center of the wight tide, like Death himself descending to the mortal realm.
Behind him, a dozen Others stood solemnly like pale knights.
The blizzard howled again, but it could no longer conceal the encroaching advance of that realm of death.
"What is that thing?"
Robert Baratheon stood at the very front of the line, swallowing hard.
His heavy leather armor was now covered in a layer of white frost, and his tightly gripped warhammer, "Stormbreaker," was also strangely encrusted with ice.
A foul wind filled his nostrils, not the smell of decay, but a deeper chill belonging to eternal ice and absolute death, enough to freeze the soul.