Master Robb Stark
The cold had come, and with it death had come. The wall was shattering and crumbling around them, they were doing everything they could to ensure that they did not fall victim to some form of loose rock or ice statute. Robb knew that the men were scared, and hell who was he kidding, he was bloody terrified himself, but he knew that he could not display that. To do so would make the fear of the men much worse, and that was something that they could not allow. Greywind was at his side snarling and ripping into the wights, his sword glowed with fire, he held a Dragonglass sword in another hand, preparing to use it should the white walkers come near him.
His father was nearby fighting with as much energy as he could muster, his father had suffered a slight wound before, but now seemed okay. Robb hoped that things would end now, with the number of dead things approaching, Robb got the impression that this was the last attempt by the dead to come to them. The Wildlings had been destroyed during the night, Robb had heard their screams, the whole world seemed to be waiting for them to finish this fight, to see whether or not humanity could survive. Robb knew that perhaps that was slightly exaggerated but it did feel true at that moment in time. Robb took down some beast with fire, and watched as it dissolved. They were killing white walkers as well. A beast came toward him glowing white, and Robb swung his Dragonglass sword and watched it fall and shatter. Thousands of wights fell and shattered as he did that.
He barked out his commands to the men following him and as one they moved to take control of the situation. Snow was falling around them, twirling and swirling and generally making it hard for them to see. The only way to tell if there was an enemy before you was to keep breathing and if something staggered toward you, to move either sword. Flame or Dragonglass would remove the foe and ensure that things were settled. The fighting continued, the sun rose into its highest position and then lowered and rose again. He did not know how long they fought for, but they kept going. Robb knew that though he felt tired he could not stop, for to stop would be to admit to some form of weakness and these creatures fed on it. Robb pushed on, his men and Greywind followed as well, as he fought he thought of the son he would be meeting when he returned home. Myrcella, his beautiful wife had written and a letter had come some time before telling him that they had a son, named Cregan for the legendary Old Man of the North.
That he was a father was the main reason Robb kept fighting, he was young yes, but he had two people counting on him to return home. He could not let his tiredness take over, he needed to keep going and so he pushed his body passed what perhaps he should have done. He swung his swords, burning and destroying as he went. He smiled softly when the enemy fell and as more wights disappeared or as more white walkers died. There were a damned sight of them. Yet they were falling in greater and greater numbers. Robb found himself fighting and fighting with increased frequency whether he was actually having an impact or not, well the fewer numbers of White Walkers that were around told him that perhaps he was. He kept going, fighting, pushing and fighting back on the pain that threatened to engulf him. he knew he could not let that stop him. He stopped fighting when he came face to face with some sort of misshapen man, who had a face but no body. The thing wore a crown. "You have freed us. For that we thank you." The figure dissolved. The others dissolved, the men cheered, there was a crack of lightning in the sky, then the snow stopped and the sun popped through and the snow began to melt. Robb smiled.
King Viserys III Targaryen
He had left Storm's End, fleeing the castle after his host had nearly been destroyed. The Stormlords had died on their swords then against the host of Reachmen, he had fought his way through with the Unsullied and made his way northwards. Then he had discovered that his Dothraki had had the same idea. The city of King's Landing was before them. but there was an army protecting the city. Viserys knew that to win he would need to defeat the host, bigger than his though it was, and take the city itself. He was tired, the Dornish had refused to come to his aid, Robert Arryn had betrayed him and now here he was. He steeled himself, he gave a speech to his men, the unsullied, the Dothraki, the sellswords, and then the battle began.
Viserys dove right into the fighting, swinging his sword, watching as peasants died. They were worth nothing to him, these peasants who continued insisting on fighting for those who were less than them. He pushed himself as hard as he could and fought. His sword sang as it killed more and more men, sometimes even women, though how those women got there, he did not know. It did not matter, he pushed on, he fought and fought. His body took some blows, but he knew that every blow was worth it, if it meant that he could win and take what he was owed. He fought through it all, and fought and fought. Yet there were those who refused to die, those who refused to break when he killed them, they kept coming back and so he when he did kill them he was broken and wounded but when he saw Baratheon, wearing a stag helm he roared and charged.
They clashed, Viserys swore, his arms hurt, but Baratheon didn't seem to be managing any better than he was. That gave him some hope, and so he swallowed the pain and pushed on. They exchanged blows, he managed to cut a few times, whilst getting hit on the chest a few times. His eyes would water, and he would wonder whether he would be able to get back up should he falter now. He thought of Rhaegar, of Elia, of Aegon and Rhaenys and decided that he would not die now. He would fight on. Viserys roared and fought and fought. His sword clashed with the hammer that the brute who claimed his throne wielded. He kept going. Every time he landed a successful blow on the brute he smiled. His body was tiring though, he was not responding as quickly to attacks as he had done, mere moments ago. He started panicking. He started wondering whether things would be right. Whether he should slow down.
He did not see the hammer coming from the skies, he did not feel the blow. Until he did. Then his sword was out of his hand, his horse was dead, and falling, and he, he was somewhere in between. His body was breaking. He coughed, he struggled, but nothing he did could change the fact that he was indeed starting to falter. The horse crashed onto the ground. Time stopped. He struggled to get up, his horse was somewhere else, how he got up he did not now. His sword was in his hand, he charged. Baratheon knocked him down. He got back up, he got knocked back down. This kept happening until a blow hit his chest, and he could not move. He simply fell down. He stared at the sky and as he did so, Viserys whispered. "I am sorry I failed you." He wondered what they would do to Daenerys.