A biting wind suddenly rose. Beneath his tangled hair, Gryn narrowed his eyes. He could feel the temperature dropping.
"Kh—heh—hah—"
The strange throat sounds were like a rusty bellows being worked, accompanied by the cracking grind of bones. The corpses in the clearing began to heave themselves up, their movements slow and clumsy.
"How is this possible?!"
"Oh!"
"How can the dead move?!"
"The Gods!"
"White Walkers!"
The Reach lords and knights around them were all horrified. Only King Gryn and Hand of the King Mace remained composed.
Crack, crack, crack. Its neck vertebrae gave off a teeth-grating series of pops.
The Wight's swollen, blackened head twisted stiffly toward the platform. Everyone clearly saw its shining eyes, like two blue flames.
"Hiss—heh—"
The Wight moved quickly, like a beast that had spotted prey, stumbling as it lunged toward the steps.
Gryn raised his right hand slightly. At his signal, Ser Anguy, clad in a fur-collared cloak, smoothly nocked an arrow and drew his bow. From the corner of his eye, he disdainfully glanced at the people terrified by the Wight, though he himself had nearly pissed his pants the first time he saw one.
Whoosh! The sharp whistle of an arrow tearing through the air split the cold wind as it buried itself in the Wight's chest.
Yet the Wight merely staggered. Not a drop of blood flowed from the wound, and it continued charging forward on unsteady steps.
Whoosh, whoosh! Two arrows forcibly tore off the Wight's right arm.
"Oh, Gods!"
The moonlight tonight was bright and serene. The severed arm on the ground was still moving. This sight, which overturned the boundary between life and death, was more chilling than flashing blades on a battlefield.
At the same time.
Several Blue Cloaks guarding beneath the platform had already