Chapter 54 - Chapter 54: Mormont Under Attack

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Crack.

A faint sound—bone twisting—shattered the terrible silence.

Mormont's eyes snapped open. I'm old, but decades as a ranger honed my instincts. That's not firewood.

He held his breath, straining to hear in the dim room.

Crack... crack...

Louder now. Clearer. From the center of the room. The table. Where Othor's corpse lies.

Cold dread seized Mormont's heart—colder than the fiercest winter wind, crawling from his feet to his skull.

Impossible. Absolutely impossible. I'm exhausted. Hallucinating.

But his pounding heartbeat betrayed his terror.

He sat up silently, fumbling for the oil lamp and flint at his bedside. His hands trembled. Several tries before the lamp lit.

Weak yellow light pushed back a corner of darkness.

Mormont raised the lamp, inching toward the table. Each step felt like walking on his own heartbeat.

As light approached, the scene clarified.

The cloak had slipped halfway off. And the corpse—cold, rigid—

Othor.

He sat up.

His stiff head turned slowly, unnaturally, toward Mormont. Those sapphire eyes locked onto him.

No human emotion. No anger. No sorrow. Only pure, cold death from the Lands of Always Winter.

The ropes binding him—brittle from ice—snapped strand by strand. Othor's body tumbled off the table.

"Ahhh—! Someone! Help!" Even battle-hardened Mormont couldn't suppress his shock.

The lamp slipped from his grip—CRASH—shattering. Oil spilled. Flames leapt, igniting scattered parchments.

Mormont scrambled backward, reaching for the longsword on the wall.

The wight was faster.

It lunged at him.

"Get back!" Mormont grabbed a chair and hurled it with all his strength.

The chair exploded against the wight's body—splinters everywhere. The wight was unharmed. Didn't even slow down.

It tackled Mormont, icy hands clamping around his throat. Suffocating cold flooded his limbs.

"Ghh... ghh..." Mormont's face turned purple. He thrashed, punching the wight's body.

Like hitting stone frozen for a thousand years. No reaction.

I'm finished.

Just as his vision darkened, about to suffocate—

BANG!

The door exploded inward, blasted open by unstoppable force. Wood splinters flew. A black figure charged in.

"My Lord!" Lynn.

Behind him: Jon Snow, torch in hand, face horrified. And his snow-white direwolf—Ghost.

"ROAR!" Ghost didn't hesitate. His powerful body launched at the wight strangling Mormont. Sharp fangs sank into the wight's arm.

CRUNCH! Not the sound of biting flesh. Like biting dry, hardened bone.

The wight's grip faltered for an instant.

That instant!

"Cough... cough!" Mormont's throat released. He gasped fresh air, scrambling backward, coughing violently, face flushed.

"Jon! Fire!" Lynn's voice thundered. "Burn it!"

Jon Snow's mind went blank. Everything I've known for sixteen years—shattered. The dead... truly rise. Those blue-flamed eyes. That inhuman strength. That bone-deep cold. The legends... are real.

Lynn's roar snapped him awake. He raised the torch instinctively.

The wight shook Ghost off its arm. It turned. Ice-blue eyes locked onto Lynn—the one charging ahead.

It knows. It senses the greatest threat.

"Come on!" Lynn's right hand moved to his inner calf. The dagger. Dragonbone hilt. Valyrian steel blade.

Lynn's eyes flashed with ferocity. His hand gripped the cold dragonbone hilt.

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