But the reality was cruel. Two heartbeats later, no more wights fell, and the rotten tide continued surging out of the Gorge unimpeded. His men tried to reach him, yet the onslaught of corpses quickly blocked them. He tried getting up, but sharp pain cut through his side, where the cold was slowly spreading and quickly sapping whatever strength he had left. He took the last torch strapped on his back and, with gritted teeth, managed to use the stick to get up. He was tired and could scarcely move his limbs now, yet the end of the enemy was nowhere in sight, and snow continued to fall thicker and thicker. Greatjon could now scarcely see more than two dozen yards away. His hand weighed like it was made of stone, yet he stubbornly started searching in his pockets for those pieces of flint. He had to ignite his torch. Otherwise, he was doomed.