Chapter 104: Heroes of Frost Station Seven
The war was over.
At least for now.
The dead had retreated.
The battlefield had fallen silent.
And for the first time in days, Frost Station Seven stood without the sound of battle.
Snow drifted slowly across the valley.
Covering broken weapons.
Covering shattered bodies.
Covering the scars left behind by war.
The station itself looked battered.
Large sections of the outer walls had collapsed.
One tower leaned dangerously to one side.
The main gate no longer existed.
Yet despite everything...
It still stood.
Just like its defenders.
Tormund walked through the station's gates.
Behind him marched thousands of Winter's Heaven soldiers.
No cheering.
No celebration.
Not yet.
First, they looked.
They looked at the battlefield.
And what they saw left many speechless.
Mountains of corpses.
Thousands upon thousands of dead.
Broken dragon glass arrows scattered everywhere.
Blood stained the snow black.
Entire sections of ground had become impossible to see beneath the bodies.
Several soldiers stopped walking.
Some stared.
Others simply shook their heads.
A veteran captain finally spoke.
"Twenty men?"
No one answered.
Because everyone already knew.
Twenty men.
One giant.
Two direwolves.
That was all Frost Station Seven had possessed.
And they had held for hours.
Against an entire army of the dead.
Commander Harl sat atop a broken section of wall.
His arm wrapped in bandages.
His face covered in cuts.
The moment he saw Tormund approaching, he tried standing.
Immediately, pain shot through his body.
He almost fell.
Tormund grabbed him before he could.
The commander laughed weakly.
"That was embarrassing."
Tormund snorted.
"You look terrible."
"I feel worse."
Several nearby soldiers laughed.
The tension immediately eased.
Tormund looked around.
The battlefield.
The station.
The surviving defenders.
Then he asked quietly:
"How many?"
Harl understood immediately.
"Twelve."
Silence followed.
Eight had fallen.
Eight brothers.
Eight sisters.
Eight soldiers.
Tormund nodded slowly.
The number could have been worse.
Much worse.
Yet every loss still hurt.
One by one, the surviving defenders gathered.
They stood before Tormund.
Dirty.
Exhausted.
Covered in blood.
Yet still standing.
Every one of them.
Heroes.
Though none would ever call themselves that.
Tormund turned.
Then climbed onto a section of broken stone.
Thousands of soldiers immediately stopped talking.
The entire station became quiet.
Everyone knew their commander was about to speak.
Tormund pointed toward Harl.
Then toward the survivors.
His voice carried across the station.
"Remember them."
Silence.
Thousands listened.
"When the dead came..."
He pointed toward the battlefield.
"When thousands of corpses marched against these walls..."
His voice hardened.
"They stood."
Every soldier looked toward the defenders.
Some lowered their heads respectfully.
Others stared openly.
"They were ordered to retreat."
Several soldiers blinked.
The defenders exchanged uncomfortable looks.
Harl suddenly wished he could disappear.
"They refused."
Laughter spread through the army.
Even Tormund smiled.
Then his expression became serious again.
"And because they refused..."
He pointed toward Winter's Heaven's flag still flying above the station.
"...that banner still flies."
The station erupted.
Cheers exploded from thousands of throats.
Weapons rose into the air.
The defenders immediately looked embarrassed.
Several wished they were fighting again instead.
"FROST SEVEN!"
One soldier shouted.
Thousands answered.
"FROST SEVEN!"
Again.
Louder.
"FROST SEVEN!"
The sound echoed across the frozen valley.
Even Othar woke up.
The giant blinked sleepily.
"What?"
A soldier laughed.
"They're cheering for you."
Othar frowned.
"Why?"
Nobody knew how to answer that.
The giant eventually shrugged.
Then went back to eating.
Later that evening.
The radio tower of Frost Station Seven became active once more.
Not for war.
Not for emergency.
For something else.
The entire kingdom listened.
Factories.
Schools.
Workshops.
Farms.
Construction sites.
Every district of Winter's Heaven.
Every citizen.
The radios carried a single broadcast.
The story of Frost Station Seven.
They heard how the dead had come.
How the station had refused retreat.
How they had fought for hours.
How they had bought time.
How they had survived.
Children listened with wide eyes.
Workers stopped what they were doing.
Teachers paused lessons.
Even giants gathered around radio stations.
The names of the fallen were read aloud.
One by one.
No one was forgotten.
No one would ever be forgotten.
Winter's Heaven was not Westeros.
A soldier was not just another number.
Every life mattered.
Every sacrifice mattered.
Then the radio crackled again.
The entire kingdom became silent.
Because everyone recognized the voice.
Jon Snow.
Their king.
"My people."
The words echoed across Winter's Heaven.
Across every city.
Every village.
Every station.
Every home.
"For days now, the kingdom has listened to the story of Frost Station Seven."
Silence followed.
Thousands listened.
"When the dead appeared..."
Jon continued.
"When danger came..."
"When fear should have ruled..."
"They stood."
The survivors listening from Frost Station Seven suddenly became very uncomfortable.
Tormund found their reactions amusing.
Then Jon said something unexpected.
"You were ordered to retreat."
The station defenders froze.
Several soldiers nearby tried not to laugh.
"You refused."
A pause.
Long enough for everyone to understand exactly what he meant.
"As your king..."
Jon continued.
"I should be angry."
The station became completely silent.
Then his voice softened.
Slightly.
Only slightly.
"Instead..."
Another pause.
"I am proud."
Silence.
Then the entire kingdom erupted.
Cheers.
Laughter.
Celebration.
The sound carried across Winter's Heaven.
Many soldiers at Frost Station Seven suddenly looked away.
A few wiped their eyes.
Pretending snow had gotten into them.
No one called them out.
That night.
Promotions were announced.
Honors awarded.
Families notified.
The names of the fallen entered the Kingdom Archives.
To remain forever.
The giant Othar received special recognition.
Though he remained confused by the entire process.
The surviving direwolf became famous throughout the kingdom.
Children immediately began arguing over what it should be called.
And as celebrations continued across Winter's Heaven...
Work also began.
Builders arrived.
Engineers arrived.
Supplies arrived.
The damaged station would not simply be repaired.
It would be improved.
Stronger walls.
More defenses.
Larger barracks.
More soldiers.
More supplies.
The frontier had learned valuable lessons.
And Winter's Heaven learned quickly.
Late that night.
Jon stood alone upon a balcony overlooking the city.
The lights of Winter's Heaven stretched across the darkness.
Peaceful.
Alive.
Safe.
For now.
He looked north.
Toward the frontier.
Toward Frost Stations Seven, Nine, and Twelve.
Toward the frozen wilderness beyond.
The dead had retreated.
The first campaign had ended in victory.
But Jon knew better than anyone else.
This was not the end.
The White Walkers had tested them.
Measured them.
Observed them.
And next time...
They would return better prepared.
A cold wind blew across the balcony.
Jon simply smiled.
Then quietly spoke to the darkness.
"Next time..."
His gaze remained fixed upon the north.
"...we'll be ready too."
And far away, upon the frontier, the flag of Winter's Heaven continued to fly proudly over Frost Station Seven.
The station had survived.
The kingdom had endured.
And the legend of its defenders had only just begun
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