Lord of the North (Commission) 1 (Patreon)

He’d had a name once, a very long time ago. He couldn’t remember what it was, it had faded with the passage of eons, along with most of his memories. It didn’t matter anymore, all that mattered was fulfilling his purpose, his duty: purging the warmth of Man from the world. A task made much more difficult in recent moons, since the strange Men appeared.

They were led by a Man in strange armor, wielding a sword that somehow both resisted the blades of magical ice his lessers carried and was capable of slaying them. While only a few such weapons, the rest were more than capable of decimating the animated corpses that formed the bulk of his legions, and a number of them also possessed strange magics that were unlike those practiced by the Men that resided in the North or the Enemy.

It was a most vexing problem, one that he was having difficulties in combating. His minions could slay these strange enemies, but they required far too many to do so successfully for the results to be worthwhile. Despite having had millennia to grow his legions, these strangers were eliminating them at unsustainable rates. The enemy was strong, and growing stronger by the day. They must be eliminated before they became too powerful.

That would not be easy. This new enemy fought like warriors, as if their lives depended upon victory. In truth, it did; this conflict was an existential struggle between the living and the dead for dominance over the planet, and victory meant survival. For now, though, they were weaker than he. Their numbers were fewer and he still needed to learn how to defeat them without losing significant amounts of his strength. That last point concerned him greatly, because even with the power he already held, he feared the loss of his forces might well mean his eventual extinction.

The solution? He needed more of his kind. More of his kin to raise larger legions of dead. More dead, of more kinds. He'd already raised a number of animals and the few giants his legions had been able to fall, but it wasn't enough. There weren't nearly enough to make up for the losses suffered.

A shadow passed overhead. He glanced up, then down. Nothing there, just another of his mindless thralls carrying something heavy on its back. The thing was a nuisance, always getting in the way when he wanted to move about freely. At least it served to remind him where he was. He needed to retrieve more infants, so they could be turned into more of his kind.

Something moved nearby. He looked around quickly, eyes narrowing as he focused on the source of the disturbance. Was someone else near him? There was nothing around him, nothing that stood out as having drawn his attention. Focusing on the bond with all that he'd created, all that he'd turned or raised, he cast his attention out, looking through the senses of his lesser kin and the endless legions of the risen dead. Still nothing…

Wait… he turned his attention to the birds he’d raised, flying overhead. He didn’t have many, even with the magic animating their bodies, they could only fly for so long before rot and decay robbed them of flight. Despite that, he made sure to keep a number of them around his fortress, in the center of the Eternal Winter.

A number of risen ravens were erased in a deluge of fire, but not before they saw what was eliminating them. The one leading the New Men, astride an enormous, winged and two headed beast. Eyes narrowing, his will was directed, his lesser kin and the mindless legions responding without words or orders. Bows, slings, and spears of ice were readied, before another force crashed into his legions at the outskirts of his fortress.

Then another force attacked, from a different direction. His eyes narrowed as he gazed through the eyes of the dead. Three angles of attack, one the Leader of the New Men, one composed of those that called themselves “free”, and a third from the New Men. This was planned, and from this level of coordination, it had been planned for many moons.

Directing his lessers to focus on the living attacking the fortress, he took one of the javelins that were prepared for when he needed to slay something out of reach. Narrowing his eyes, he filtered out the echoing calls from the New Men for blood and skulls, using his connection to the risen birds to spot and triangulate the flying beast.

Once he’d determined location, speed, and the likely path of the beast, he threw the javelin with more strength than ten Men. It soared through the air, cutting through wind, snow, and clouds. His entire focus was on the beast, eagerly anticipating the moment that his javelin would bring it down. The sheer potential that lay in the beast, it would allow his kin to bypass the Barrier that had been built when he had led his first assault on the living.

It wasn’t often that he was surprised, he’d existed for so long and seen so much that he felt he had seen everything that the living could offer. That expectation was why he was surprised when the beast rolled in mid flight, and its rider did not merely deflect or avoid the javelin he’d thrown, but caught it. Then, not satisfied with merely that, as his mount righted itself, the leader of the New Men threw the javelin back at him before leaping from his mount, sword and ax in hand.

He sidestepped the javelin, eyes narrowing as he realized he was dealing with something far greater than any Man. Taking up his frozen blade, he approached the attacker, even as they landed, the sheer force of their impact causing cracks in the magically reinforced ice. Chromatic, ever shifting eyes met deathly blue, and all was still. Stances shifted, fingers tightened their grip on weapons, as the two leaders stared each other down.

One held his single weapon by his chest, blade perpendicular to his body, his back ramrod straight, elbows held out. The other, clad in plate that hurt the eyes to look at, was crouched low, sword in left hand and battle ax in right. Neither moved, the only sign of motion being the plumes of breath visible from the helmet of the invader.

The man who wore armor looked down at the other, the man wearing black leather, a mask covering his face, both men breathing heavily, yet neither backing away. A sound rang out, a deep bellow that echoed through the area. Both warriors reacted to the sound, lunging forward. One slashed his blade across the other's shoulder, opening up a minute gash in the enchanted metal and eliciting a grunt. The other swung his ax in a horizontal arc, catching the armored warrior across the abdomen and driving him back, but not doing more than that.

Their initial clash a stalemate, the two broke apart, taking the measure of the other. The armored warrior let out an amused snort, throwing his ax and sword to the side, before reaching up and grabbing the hilt of another sword sheathed on his back.

“I hadn’t been expecting to find anything worthy of using this blade,” he said, almost mockingly. “I am so glad to have been proven wrong.”

He didn’t answer, merely preparing himself for the next clash. He ignored the scream that rang out as the sword was drawn, dismissing it as a trick used by his opponent to unnerve weaker willed foes. The cold, frozen part of his soul, a part that had been silent ever since the Enemy had pushed the obsidian blade into it, insisting the blade was wrong (wrong, wrong, w̨͢͢͏̵̡̕͢ŕ̨̡̕͟͟͢͞ò̡̡̀̕͞͞͝ǹ̷̶̕͘͘͜҉g͟͟͠҉̷̵̨̨!) was similarly ignored.

The two stood facing each other, before slowly walking to the side, encircling each other. Each time the swordsman tried to strike, the other easily blocked, moving to either side. When they were close enough to be able to swing at the other without fear of missing, they stopped circling. As if waiting for some signal, both lunged forward simultaneously.

The swordsman, seeing what was coming, parried the attack with ease, pushing off the ground and kicking his feet out, bringing them around and slamming into the armored man’s legs. He staggered back, and the swordsman followed, swinging his own blade down in a vicious overhead cut.

The cut was dodged, before an armored elbow slammed into his face, driving him back. He forced aside the brief moment of discombobulation, refocusing on… the spot his opponent had been standing. Before he could find where his foe had gone, there was a sensation in his chest, a sensation he hadn’t felt since…

His blade fell from fingers that had turned numb, and he looked down to see the end of his opponent’s sword piercing out of his chest. His bonds to his lessers and the dead that they’d raised began to splinter, moments before the blade was pulled out of him, and his vision spun, twirling end over end. The last thing he saw was a headless body collapsing to its knees… his body…

The fog that had clouded his mind for so long faded as his vision went black. Ragik… that was his name… Ragik… the Stark One… that… was what they called him…

[hr][/hr]

Drengyr Eriksson sneered as the Necromancer shattered into ice. Such a disappointment, how was he supposed to make a proper offering if the remains turned into ice and melted? Hopefully the battle itself would prove to be a satisfying offering. In any case, now that the largest threat of these lands had been dealt with, next came the long process of wrangling the locals into a proper kingdom and converting them from their tree hugging faith to the true gods.

He looked over the fortress, giving it a considering eye. It would take a lot of fixing up, but it could be made into a serviceable capital. Or he could just have Nidhoggr burn it to the ground and move his warband to the south. After thinking about it for a minute, he shrugged and let out a piercing whistle. The armies that had served as the primary distraction began to fall back, as Nidhoggr flew down and landed in front of him.

Climbing onto the dragon’s back, patting the base of the right neck as he did, Drengyr pulled on the reins, bidding Nidhoggr into the air. The mighty dragon gave a twin, echoing roar as he lifted into the air. His wings lifted dragon and rider into the sky, before they began to circle the fortress, gouts of eldritch fire lashing out from twin mouths and bringing the fortress that had stood for nearly ten thousand years down to nothing but ash and water.

Drengyr nodded, satisfied with the destruction, before turning Nidhoggr back to their camp. Gazing down at the warband’s numbers, he grinned under his helmet. Nearly the entirety of his warband had survived the battle, and from the looks of it, many of the natives were quite eager to…celebrate together.

Coming down to the main camp, which was more of a tent city than a camp, he patted the side of Nidhoggr’s neck before leaping off as the dragon swooped low. Rolling as he landed, Drengyr’s landing ended with him on one knee and a fist planted on the ground. Standing tall, towering over most of the people in the camp, Drengyr smiled under his helmet, and raised his arms.

“We return VICTORIOUS!” he bellowed, his voice projecting and carrying throughout the entire camp, as the returning warriors, cavalry, ogres, and the local fighters who had chosen to join him and his warband on this attack broke through the treeline. “The White Walkers are slain, the dead will remain so, and now it is time to build! The road ahead will be, in many ways, even more trying and difficult than the road that led us here. But as our victory has proven, the Gods watch over us, we have proven that we are worth their favor, and we shall continue to honor them through our actions!

“The Night King’s defeat was not just a triumph over the icy grip of death; it was a symbol of our fortitude, our unwavering spirit in the face of oblivion! But we cannot rest, for there is much work to be done. These lands have been broken, tormented for untold ages by the curse of the dead, and they cry out for renewal.

“No longer will the True North be divided by petty squabbles and ancient grudges. The time for unity has come, for only together can we overcome the challenges that lie ahead. Our strength lies not just in the might of our swords, but in the unity of our purpose and the bonds we forge with one another.

“We shall build a kingdom, the greatest the world has ever seen. The ghosts of Old Valyria will gaze upon our works and weep in envy, the kneelers of the south will flood the Wall, not to keep us trapped, but to beg passage so that they may join us, our kingdom.

“But building a kingdom is not just about bricks and mortar; it is about building strong foundations of justice, equality, and compassion. We must ensure that every citizen, be they noble or commoner, finds solace and purpose within our borders. Therefore, I call upon all those who have fought by my side, as well as those who have yet to join our cause. Let us rally together, shoulder to shoulder, and face the future with unwavering determination. Together, we shall forge a legacy that will echo through the ages.

“The Gods have smiled upon us, granting us this victory. Let us not squander their favor but strive to be worthy of it. We carry the hopes and dreams of generations to come. Our actions today will shape the destiny of our kingdoms, and the world beyond.

“So, my fellow warriors, my friends, let us embark on this grand endeavor. Let us build a kingdom that will inspire songs and legends for centuries to come. Together, we shall create a realm that stands as a beacon of faith in a world too often consumed by darkness.

“Now, let the hammers strike, the dragons soar, and the armies march, for our destiny awaits! United, we shall build a kingdom that will stand the test of time!”

The crowd cheered, the entirety of my warband, more than three thousand strong, alongside the Free Folk that had joined us. It was going to take time, but Drengyr could be patient. Breaking the Free Folk of their stubborn, arrogant independent streak would be challenging, but they’d fall into line, either by the sword or by being bred into extinction.