Interlude: Andon.
The first snows of autumn descended gently; they seemed almost suspended in the air, like the dandelions Taby loved to blow in his face. Andon gawked at the sight, lifting up a hand and cupping one of the falling feathers with his hand. It melted to nothing in an instant, leaving him with nothing but wet disappointment.
His big brother chuckled, and Andon turned to face him at once. "This one's your first winter too!"
Bale lifted his hands innocently. "Come on, Ma' will tan our hides red if we take too long," he said, turning to the ground and poking the leaves again.
Andon shook his head before doing the same, searching under the bed of yellowed leaves that covered the ground. Hedgehogs within the forest loved to burrow under the leaves left by autumn storms, and made for a decent source of meat before the onset of 'true' winter. At least, that's what they've been told. "I think Old Tom had us in again," Andon said after a long while of flipping leaves with nothing to show for it except the odd worm.
"All the better if we come back with one at least. Then we can swing it in his face."
Andon sighed. He had to preempt his brother before he set into one of his stubborn moods, else he'd be tougher to move than Ma's donkey. "I'd love to know where these supposed hedgehogs have been living since we were old enough to walk," he said, "You ever actually seen one?" Bale shrugged, ducking under a low hanging branch and poking the leaves closer to the great oak's stem. It's starting, oh Gods. He could practically see it; the long hours wandering around the forest till nightfall, coming back to Groverick wet and tired with nothing to show for it. They'd been playing in and around Faldryn Forest since they'd been six, and Andon had never seen one of these mythical beasts.
"Just once. Tell me one time you've seen anything resembling a hedgehog. And Lord Dole's banner doesn't count."
"That's because they only come out around autumn's end. Old Tom said so."
"Old Tom also said he saw a dragon carrying the Mad Princess with the King on top, making love as they fought," Andon said.
Bale chuckled, "Point." Groverick was closer to the Neck than it was to Harrenhal; no way Old Tom ever saw a dragon, never mind the rest of the wild tale.
"This reeks of make-work," said Andon, trawling the surprisingly deep layer of leaves around a fallen tree. Predictably, there was not a hedgehog in sight. They walked across a sea of red and yellow, the trees around them bare like skeletons. They did little to stop the cold wind blowing from the north. "Before this it was repairing the old well. Then Goyle's missing sheep. And before that-"
"The hooch!" said Bale. Now he gets it, thought Andon. "It all started after Ma' found us with the hooch!"
"She still thinks we're kids," said Andon, biting his tongue before he could say anything more drastic about his Ma'. The Mother wouldn't approve. He kicked a sprawl of leaves asunder and watched them fly away with the wind. Every man in the village is drinking right now, every single one but us. There wasn't anything else to do anyhow; with the last harvest safely inside Castle Terrick, only the shepherds still had work to do. And they were likely drinking too.
The men were probably all in on it; more liquor for them. Fuckin' unfair, that's what it is. They'd worked as hard as anyone for that last, tightly timed harvest. Hells, without him, Old Tom might have cut his own fingers trying to decipher the workings of the King's seed drill. He stopped his hopeless search as he come upon a ledge, taking a deep breath and gazing at the valley below. The fertile but stony hills of Lord Terrick's lands held a commanding view of the Northern Riverlands, and counted Faldryn Forest, Groverick, and Castle Terrick itself within its purview. From there Andon looked upon the rugged hills and winding trails that spread out from the Kingsroad as it made its way north, entering steadily marshier terrain with every league. Sometimes, on sunny days, he could catch a glimpse of the Twins far to the west. He tried to do it now, but the task soon seemed as hopeless as finding a hedgehog napping by his feet. The overcast sky was like a grey hand reaching down, clouding his sight not far beyond the fork in the Kingsroad.
He frowned, narrowing his eyes at the figures riding through the trail. They were heading for Lord Terrick's lands as surely as bees heading back to the hive. "Who might those be?"
"Can't rightly tell," Bale said as he came to his side. "Don't look like peddlers though." No wagons behind them, only two men in plate atop good horses trotting briskly through the winding trail up the hill; one of them carried a banner with three red stripes and a silver fist. The last one ringed a bell in Andon's head. Weren't those the King's soldiers?
"We should get back to the village," he said. Bale gave an uneasy nod. They quickly made their way out of the forest, hedgehogs forgotten as they took shortcuts over worn trails and fallen trees with the ease of long practice. Faldryn Forest was an old friend, and Alfus -Lord Terrick's woodsman- had always been content to let them roam as long as they did not poach any deer. They reached Groverick just as the newcomers did, riding hard for the village square as if they owned the place.
They dismounted, one of them cupping his hands and shouting as harsh as Aldon had ever heard a man. "Gather around! Everyone!"
"Piss off!" shouted Old Tom as he limped out of his house, taking another swing from his bottle of hooch. Keeping the peace was about the only duty the aelderman enforced to the letter.
The armored soldier ignored him, walking around the village square as he bellowed, "All villagefolk are to gather around! Gather around in the name of the King!" That got everyone's attention. The men came out of Nettle's Barn and eyed the newcomers suspiciously. The women stared out the windows of their timbered houses, unwilling to leave the warmth of their hearths. The soldier didn't care, walking up to the houses and banging each door relentlessly with his steel gauntlet. "By Royal Decree, all villagefolk are to gather around!" He opened a shutter and jutted his head past the window, "That means you lot as well! Come on, move along!"
The other soldier -this one with two bronze strips hammered to his pauldrons- planted his banner on the ground. A mob formed around him soon enough, filled with scowling farmers and drunk shepherds. "Oy! You're disturbing the peace!" Kollin said as he shoved his way to the front of the crowd, a bottle of hooch in his hand, "Who the hells do you think you are!?" he shouted as he grabbed the man by the flag.
From one moment to the next Kollin was on the mud; he seemed as confused as the rest of the crowd, rubbing his arm and looking up at his vanquisher. The man who dropped him swept a jaundiced eye towards the crowd; most of the women and the other children had joined the circle by now, the other soldier returning to his side. "I'm Serjeant Knub," he said, pointing a thumb at himself, "First Cohort, Third Regiment of the Royal Guard." He nodded at his confederate, "Me and Guardsman Peyter have been detached from the Winterkillers to ensure…" he trailed off, taking a bit of folded not-parchment from the vest that hugged his armor, "Groverick," he read before looking at them, "This is the village of Groverick, is it not?"
Silence. Everyone knew someone who served with the Guard, but instincts honed through generations were not so easily forgotten. When armored men came asking questions you kept your mouth shut. Unless their tabards held the four hawks of House Terrick.
"It is," Andon called out from the middle of the crowd. Villagefolk turned to stare angrily at him. What the hells do you all want me to do? He thought as he returned the stares, lie to the King's own bloody Fists? It would be like lying to his own Father!
"Good," said Serjeant Knub, tucking the not-parchment away. He was built like a burly pig, one of the wild ones with tusks and a mean temper. "We've been given the honor" -he said it as if it were a fate worse than flogging- "of bringing the village of Groverick up to Code. We'll be starting in earnest the day past tomorrow, morning sharp."
"Excuse me, Ser-jeant," said Taby, "I didn't understand a word of that last you said."
"We're here for the C&R," he said, frowning.
"The see what-now?" asked Old Tom.
"The Codes and Regulations?" Nothing. "The King's Decree? The defense of the land?" Every question out of the Serjeant brought a wave of shrugs and shakes out of the villagefolk. Soon the man was scowling and pacing, making a racket with his helmet's flaps as he undid the string and took it off. He passed a hand through his smooth head, not a hair in sight though the gauntlet came out drenched with sweat. His wide pan-like ears were red, glowering at them. "The Others? The White Walker menace and the marching armies of the dead? Didn't Lord Terrick warn about any of this?!"
Oh, thought Andon. The villagefolk looked at each other, then paled. Oh, he thought again, the chill wind making him shiver. They'd been 'warned' alright. The people of Groverick had listened dutifully as Lord Terrick's son explained that the Others had risen from their ten-thousand year old slumber to invade the lands of the living and that soon the King's own army would march to Groverick and turn them all into soldiers in case the wights ever stormed past the Neck. After they'd watched him ride back to Castle Terrick, they'd gathered inside Nettle's Barn and closed the doors; they'd laughed so hard that Old Tom had fainted. Then the hooch had come out. And then Ma had fallen on him and Bale like the Smith's own Hammer.
But there was no good-natured gleam in Serjeant Knub's eyes. If anything he looked even somber than Lord Terrick's son, if such a thing was possible. They're serious, Andon realized, another chill wracking his spine. "Bloody hells," Serjeant Knub said as he turned to his companion, "We'll run it by the book then. Go."
"Aye, Serjeant." Guardsman Peyter slapped a fist against his chesplate with the easy discipline of worn machinery. He went to his horse and retrieved a long piece of canvas, like the side of a tent. He nodded at his superior before taking a few steps forward, "Where's the tavern?"
"We ain't got one!"
"Don't'ya get cheeky with me!" he said, "You lot have a hole to drink without the rain getting in the way. Now where is it?" He sneered, "Or do'yall use a trough?"
"It's that barn!" said Bale, and Andon never felt as proud for his brother than then. Revenge you hypocrites!
Spoiler: Music
Guardsman Peyter walked towards it as if the crowd did not exist, ignoring their grumbling. It had the curious effect of making people stumble out of his way, and Andon swallowed a gout of envy. If he'd tried that he would've bounced off Long Jon's belly like a thrown pebble, never mind the man rushing to get out if his way! He and Bale followed in Peyter's wake, curious as the circle turned into an oval of sorts and the crowd stretched to face both men. The soldier reached the barn's front wall and took out a hammer, nailing the wide piece of fabric across the stout planks. Andon frowned at the squiggles. "What does it say?" he asked Old Tom as the Guardsman made his way back.
"Codes and… Regulations," Old Tom read, blinking slowly, "for the Defense… of the Kingdom… of Westeros." Between the great letters and the mass of smaller ones was a big drawing; a wide landscape of people in all sorts of funny clothes. Some were clearly cattle-ranchers, at least going by the make of their leathers, and Andon also recognized the straw hats of farmers and sheep-herders. There were many more though; fishermen and blacksmiths, weavers and tough-looking woodsmen. Both men and women, they were all framed against a setting -or was it rising?- sun, standing in line and wielding some sort of short poleaxes against their shoulders. A silver lion lay triumphant atop the sun, but he was already entranced by the other, smaller drawings surrounding the mass of smaller text. Little diagrams of bells and signal-fires were drawn in luxurious detail, with little lines naming each part with squiggles. There were timbered earthworks and palisades, spike traps and watchtowers and strange machines of wood and rope that Andon had no name for. There were darker things as well; slack-jawed skeletons with arrows pointing at skulls and chests, burning septs with barred doors, and a blue smudge with white dots for eyes that sent shivers down his spine.
"Goodman- I mean- Serjeant Knub," said Long Jon, drawing Andon back to this world. The Serjeant was standing atop the wagon Tabby's Ma used to bring her wares to town, hefting a polished wooden case no longer than his forearm. "All that drivel 'bout the marching dead and the Othas…" Long Jon swallowed, "All that babble 'bout the War for Dawn we heard from the Young Hawk, it true?"
The Serjeant scowled at him, but for a moment Andon swore there was pity in the man's eyes. He cleared his voice and stretched a roll of parchment from the case, "People of Groverick! Listen now and listen well, for I speak the King's own words!" The Serjeant's chest puffed, his breathing deep as he licked his lips. The act of reading the King's words seemed to fill Serjeant Knub with some nameless majesty, and Andon's heart raced as he listened intently. The King himself was addressing him. A farmer's son out of a village he doubted was even on the map. Not even when Septon Marimar came to preach did Groverick held its breath so. "My people," said King Joffrey Baratheon, Dragonslayer and Silver Lion, "As you have no doubt learned from your lords or ladies, we find ourselves on the edge of a great storm fit to ravage our continent. The legions of the dead march upon our Kingdom with death and destruction as their goal, and though my lords and regiments stand ready to greet them with a field of fire and steel fit to shake the world, the dead are many and filled with unnatural resolve." His voice boomed, "The war to come will offer no place to hide, no lands to forage, and no quarter to the defeated. If we are to survive then we are to fight! And if we are to fight then we are to do so smartly! It is with that purpose in mind that I've created a set of Codes and Regulations, to be followed throughout the land with no exceptions. If you can read, you will find the contents of it written across the taverns, septs, and castles of the Seven Kingdoms. If no one in your village can read, you may ask any of my soldiers to recite them to you by memory, for they are oath-bound to carry its edict come Hell or Last Winter." A proud smile raked across Serjeant Knub's lips, gone in an instant as he took a breath of air, "Therein lie the lawful provisions to establish a Royal Militia, with the task of guarding your lands should the worst happen and the Wall were to fall." The words chilled Andon to the bone, The Wall? Fall?! "My people! Know that though the hour is dire, my leal lords and regiments stand ready to bring war to the White Walkers wherever they strike! Though the skies darken and the winter to come promises to bite deep, I have in my heart the utmost certainty that you will rise to the challenge with fire in your souls! If we have but the grit and bravery to triumph, I see beyond this war a future of peace and plenty, of halberds turned to sickles and summer without ending. If you but stand and bear the light with me, then I swear by all that is right and holy: We shall-prevail." Serjeant Knub came down of it with a heady breath, as if he'd taken a good hit from a long-pipe. The titles were a relief. "Signed, His Grace Joffrey of the House Baratheon, First of His Name. King of the Andals, the Rohynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Commander of the Royal Guard. The Silver Lion, Dragonslayer, and Stormking."
The cold wind blew little tufts of snow, the opened shutters banging against each other as the crowd stared at the Serjeant in numb shock. "What does it all mean?" someone asked.
"It means that the day after tomorrow, I start bringing the King's vision-" Serjeant Knub pointed at the fabric by the barn before stomping the little wagon -"into Groverick. I'll have you learning how to move without tripping all over each other. Nothing fancy; basic directions so you can move down a road as a block and not a mob." He jumped off the wagon, "Then you'll learn basic drill with a libard, if we ever get the damned shipment. You'll learn skirmishing order for moving in rough terrain, and then utility stuff; things like how to build wight piles or basic field fortifications. Theory too; what's a wight, what's a Walker, and how to kill 'em dead. After that," he shrugged, "Depends on how much time we've left. The Codes go all the way from white to red; we'll want to get Groverick as warm a color as possible."
"What'll that give us?" asked Old Tom, white eyebrows twisted into a fierce knot.
"Your lives," said Knub, unfazed as he strapped his helmet back on. "A red-colored Royal Militia can be armed and formed up in less than five minutes after someone has roused the alarm. They can march out of their town or village in good order and deploy in an advanced position, perhaps to buy time for an evacuation or to make use of better terrain. If it disengages successfully, it can quick march back to town without routing, man pre-built fortified positions, and hold them with some skill." Serjeant Knub enumerated the benefits with his fingers, "They can execute basic hammer and anvil tactics, dig a dead-trench in less than half an hour, and understand both smoke signals and bell-speak. Hells," he smiled grudgingly, "They'd make decent regimental auxiliaries. Orange too. Maybe." The smile evaporated, "Not that I expect you lot to even touch that. Ask me, anything below yellow's a waste of time. Aim below that and you might as well lock yourselves up in the sept and set the timbers on fire; save old wight the trouble."
A voice pipped up, "Good thing Regiment didn't ask you, ser."
"Guardsman Peyter," said Knub as he looked back, "Shut yer' trap."
"Yes, Serjeant!" said Peyter.
The corner of his mouth was twitching when he turned back to Andon's section of the crowd. "Weekdays will be divided into short days and long days. Short days we'll train one hour, long days two. Full day will be once a week, and yes, it's exactly what It sounds."
"How the bloody hells are we'supposed to find all that time?" said Long Jon.
"Last harvest's in," Knub said with an evil smirk, "Plenty of time between drinking and sleeping." The men ruffled awkwardly. That was a shitty first argument, thought Andon.
"That's not true for some of us!" said one of the shepherds. He had the decency to leave his bottle of hooch on the ground before voicing the challenge.
"I can adapt to local conditions," said Knub, "Sell me on it and we'll work something out. Don't even try to fully sneak your way out of it, my patience only goes so far."
"And thun' what? We gonna march all day like those guard-boys crossed the fork a week ago?" said Fat Gollys, "You'll run us all to the ground before them-" he struggled with the word "-wights coming barging down!" Things were moving so fast Andon hadn't really processed the fact that there was such a thing as a White Walker and that it was in fact marching towards the Wall right now. Already they'd moved on to how well they could be expected to fight it.
"An extra grain dole will be passed on from Castle Terrick. You'll work on full bellies."
"And what if he says he's got nothin' to give!" cried someone. A few nodded sagely; lords were a greedy lot, it was known.
"Then a King's Aide will ride to Castle Terrick and he'll argue with Lord Terrick's maester until they both go green. If your lord's telling the truth then the royal granaries will bring in the food. If he's not…" Knub smiled, "Well, then he'll certainly be marching on an empty stomach."
Strange was the King that could not protect his own subjects but could compel his lords to cough up precious grain. Then again, King Joffrey Baratheon was anything but ordinary. The man killed a dragon with his bare hands for Seven's sake.
"Anymore questions?" said Knub. The banging shutters were his answer, swinging faster now that the wind picked up. "Good. I'll want everyone over the age of twelve gathered here morning after tomorrow. In the meanwhile me and Guardsman Peyter will be asking questions 'round here and surveying the land. We'll-"
"Wait just a moment," said one of the farmers, face red, "The women too?!"
"Old wight doesn't care!" Knub's voice thundered across the square, "He doesn't care if you've a shaft or a cave, if you're old as stone or a babe in arms. He. Will. Kill. You. All!" His eyes were wide, his scowl deep and hateful. Andon was surprised by the sheer vehemence behind the man. "He'll seek to tear the guts out of you!" he said as he slashed his hand at Old Tom. "And you! And you! Even you!" he said as he pointed at pale-faced Taby and Andon scowled. Like hell they will! Knub was deadly serious, the enormity of his claims just now punching the village in the gut. The White Walkers, the Others, they were real, and they were coming. "And he will! Unless you lot put in the sweat, blood, and tears needed to stand to up to the fucker and say no!"
The resulting silence was heavy with the prospect of war against the undead. It was scarcely believable, but then again; why would the lords of the land, the King, and his own soldiers collude to make up such a wild tale? King Robert Baratheon had been no liar, and neither was his son. War, Andon thought, stunned. The Serjeant and the Guardsman took their silence as acquiescence, and they set off to walk the perimeter around the village, asking lots of questions and making squiggles on the short piece of not-parchment that the Serjeant carried. The day after tomorrow, their instruction began.
-: PD :-
The Serjeant was as good as his word. They marched up and down the trails of Groverick and the Kingsroad. They spent evenings in Nettle's Barn not drinking but listening to the Serjeant as he explained the mechanics of wight-fighting with haunted eyes. They dug trenches and built little palisades, and then they marched again. Most of all there was libard drill; soon enough Andon was going through the guards, stabs, and crushes in his sleep. No man could walk longer than a quarter league from the village square without carrying his weapon with him, and those that did were left in the stockade to soak in the rain for an afternoon. The libard was a mongrel aptly named. A 'little-halberd'; it was a two-handed short poelaxe of an exceedingly simple design. Little pikehead on one side, blade on the other. It was so simple to make that Long Jon did exactly that, his smithy filled with the villagefolk's scythes as he worked day and night; there were not enough libards coming out of the King's industries to satisfy demand. The design was so that you could ram it into the earth and use it as a half-baked shoved without dulling the blade, and it was to be cared and tended to as 'that other lover you hide from your spouse,' in Serjeant Knub's own words.
The months passed in a frenzy of work, autumn dying to winter day by day. Their valley began to be dotted with traps and simple watchtowers. Landslides were prepared with clever timberwork, pit traps were dug at choke points, and fortified palisades were raised at crests and hills near clusters of farms. Castle Terrick was expanded; timbered battlements and covered walkways were raised, and the approaches were filled with obstacles. Throughout it all Andon worked like never before, possessed with a communal zeal the likes of which he'd never before felt. He saw it reflected in the gazes of his neighbors; in Old Tom as he cooked big cauldrons of soup for Fulldays, in Ma as Bale corrected her posture with the libard, in Taby as they stole furious kisses behind Nettle's Barn. It seemed everyone had been swept along into one great struggle, everyone a part of one great giant readying for a terrible blow. Itinerant Septons visited the village often, mouths filled with fire and faith as they swept their hands with grand gestures in Groverick's square. They preached about the Sacrifice for Dawn, about the Promise of Summer and the Light of the Silver Lion. Lord Terrick bellowed with them as they raised the pillars of watchtower nine, and they cried with him when they found the Young Hawk hanged in his own room. It was a battle against terror, a war against despair waged before the first wight crossed blades with the King. They were interconnected, the whole land of one mind, everyone a soldier. Teamsters worked a path against storms and floods to bring helmets and libards to the surrounding villages. Messengers rode through day and night to deliver news to Serjeant Knub's Militia Command in Nettle's Barn. Work details from a hundred different settlements worked together to turn the Neck into a deathtrap fit to slow any army of the dead. Peddlers brought word of great ship convoys carrying steel and machinery to the North, of spontaneous vigils held at torchlight throughout King's Landing, Old Town, Lannisport, Maidepool. The 'Kingdom Spirit' Serjeant Knub called it, and it was as good a name as any. They left the ignominy of white and climbed to blue, and then to brown.
On a chill morning still blue under the cover of clouds, Andon blinked at the new 'poster' nailed on the front of Nettle's Barn. A regal lady sat on a tree branch, a sapphire crown on her head and a wolf's pelt on her shoulders. Below her were intrepid looking boys and young men, foxes between them and staring in the same direction. They were taking cover in the forest, shading their eyes or pointing at the columns of marching grey silhouettes on the valley below. "What's that all about?" he asked Guardsman Petyer after walking inside, rubbing his hands against the anemic fire by the hearth.
"Decree to establish the Queen's Foxes," said Peyter, passing a whetstone on the halberd that never left his side. "Arrived with that Raider over there." He pointed a chin at the corner of the Barn, where a sharp-eyed man in boiled leathers was busy ravaging a steaming bowl of chicken soup.
"The Queen's Foxes?" Andon said as he turned back to Peyter, scratching his struggling beard. It felt as anemic as the fire. The guardsman shrugged, standing so close to the fire Andon feared he'd burn. Thank the Seven today's a short day.
"The Queen's Foxes," echoed the Raider, suddenly standing right behind him. "I'm glad you asked." His smile was that of a killer's.
The Queen's Foxes were the scouting arm of a village's Royal Militia, made up of the boys and girls most intimate with the surrounding countryside. Andon, having played around Feldryn Forest throughout most of his childhood, was a natural fit, and the oldest of the lot trained under Raider Dalyn's command. They learned the basics of woodcraft and stealth, their newfound duties taking them away from militia drills. When the man left, hell-bent on training the next village on the map, Andon took command of their little force of foxes. Many were barely eleven namedays old, having the time of their lives by day and screaming with night terrors by night. The forage scraped and tore at his skin, and the cold left him so numb he sometimes took hours in front of a fire to feel his feet again, but he leveraged that hard-earned experience to the hilt. He trained the younger ones in turn, running them through multi-day exercises around the defense perimeters and camping out by frozen streams and pre-covered overhangs. He reported directly to Serjeant Knub as they coordinate defense drills and trained for surprise sightings. In time he came to consider the man a friend; they spent many a stormy afternoon with Guardsman Peyter and Old Tom by their little corner in Nettle's Barn, sketching out tactics and discussing rumors in hushed whispers as Mollie served them broth. And sometimes hooch.
One night, glued to Taby's back as he kissed her neck and they passed the storm under a deserted stable, he realized he'd grown into a man. "Alfus offered to hire me, after the war's over," he said.
Taby snorted hay, turning to look at him, "They'll keep you traipsing in the woods, even after it's all over?"
"He said I'd make a fine woodsman for Lord Terrick after he retires. Make good coin out of it." He kissed her slowly as the rain redoubled, pattering the thatched roof without end.
"Enough to buy that farm?" she asked when they broke. It was not only about buying a farm; it was about making it official.
Andon smiled, "I'll have to ask your Da' about that first. If he doesn't brain me first."
Taby sneaked an arm past the thick covers and grabbed her libard. She thwacked him gently on the forehead, "He'll have to get past me first!"
They laughed and made love. That night, a snowstorm knifed autumn like a thief in the dark, and Groverick's Royal Militia was mustered in earnest for the first time. Him and Taby worked with the rest of their section, shoveling snow and digging up the houses on the northern slopes of Koffer Hill. They found Taby's Ma and Da frozen in their sleep, her little brothers covered in a delicate layer of frost. The Walkers had delivered the first blow.
The onset of winter saw their preparations reach a fever pitch. They gathered great stockpiles of firewood and scoured the forests for beasts to make good cloaks and coats. They listened in dread as Knub explained the particulars of 'Last Defiance' and how to make sure their their bodies burned to a crisp, if the battle were ever to turn hopeless. News and rumors reached Groverick constantly on the voices of the septons and the peddlers, on the hushed whispers of royal messengers when plied with heat and ale. Grander happenings stormed the land; a response to the rising snow, each one bigger than the last. The Conclave gathered in the Starry Sept in Old Town and declared every man, woman, and child to die fighting the Others a martyr in the eyes of the Seven. First Swanlord Gerion Lannister and the might of the Summer Islands answered the King's call. Nature itself rebelled against the marching enemy; sparrows and ravens brought word of troop movements beyond the Wall.
War was on the horizon, creeping closer every night, frosting windows and smothering fires. Regimental dispatches told Knub of hushed skirmishes in the snow, the King's Raiders and the Free Folk Volunteers seeking to delay the marching Others as much as they could. The next one asked for their color readiness.
A grim smile had taken Knub, a single word his reply; Orange.
Perhaps grandest of them all was the rumor that the King and Queen were destined to battle winter's own general; the dread red light that had settled on the night sky like a second sun, glaring down on them all. The Crown had a plan, they said, a lethal strike against the enemy. Westeros had to hold though, hold at all costs. Hold and tie down the enemy for as long they could.
One afternoon after a fullday of work, he'd finally asked Knub if he'd ever killed a wight.
"Aye," he said after a long while, fortified by a tankard of ale. They were in their usual spot, the triangle of tables by the corner of Nettle's Barn, the hearth flickering softly. Groverick's Militia Command; the name was grander than reality. Great tempests of wind rattled awnings and shutters, cold and dry with not a flicker of snow in the air. The sun glowered cloudless and weary, accosted by the red light on its shoulder. "We were digging up barrows and dead mammoths when the Queen sounded the alarm. I was there when she stopped the beast with a single look." His eyes were hazy, his ears pale instead of their usual red. "Then the wights came storming out the forest like an avalanche. I'd never seen anything like it, they were so many."
Guardsman Peyter nodded solemnly, "It was madness after they breached the palisade. Me' squad barely made it to the second line."
"Mine didn't," said Knub. "We got cut off and made our stand in a barracks. Damn walls collapsed on us." He swallowed. "Too many," he whispered.
Old Tom looked at his fingers. He voiced the question that had prickled Groverick for months, his tone respectful; Serjeant Knub had earned that. "That why you scream so' at night, Serjeant?"
For a moment Andon thought he'd strike him, but they'd gone through too much for that. Too many months of training together, too many salutes by funeral pyres, too many words of strength for those that'd cried as the fires waned. Instead he shrunk unto himself, the fire in his eyes guttering for the first time. "Everyone had them night terrors," he said, loosing himself in the tankard, "Mine just didn't stop." He chuckled as a boar must've, if it'd been struck by a spear, "That's why Regiment sent me here."
A Fox stumbled through the door, all thirteen namedays huffing and puffing. Peyter was first with his halberd, but they all followed quickly, libards in hand. "Seh!" he said as he took big mouthfuls of air.
"Breathe Lein, breathe!" said Andon.
"Yes seh!" said Lein, massaging his throat.
Andon waited until he looked more than two seconds away from passing out, "Report."
He hyperventilated again, "There's soldiers on the Kingsroad, marching north! They cover the road as far as the eye can see!"
They exchanged quick looks before storming out of the Barn. They weren't the first to reach the Kingsroad; half of Groverick had gotten there first, and just in time to witness the man and woman at the head of the column.
"The King," whispered Andon. He rode a silver lion almost as large as the horses of the knights that covered his flanks, his armor as deep and mesmerizing as the night sky. Crowned in wickedly sharp antlers, his weighty gaze seemed to cup Andon with willpower alone. Then it skipped to Taby, to Old Tom, to Bale and Mollie and Long Jon and everyone standing as straight as soldiers, too shocked to kneel, libards in hand.
That gaze found Knub, and the King gave him a single nod. "Excellent work, Serjeant."
The guttering fire behind Knub's eyes roared into a second life, the Serjeant standing tall with squared shoulders as he slammed a fist against his chestplate.
"Keep your wits about you, my clever foxes," said a soothing voice, and Andon found himself looking at the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. "Cold days brave we must," she said with the Mother's own smile. Northern pelts covered chainmail armor, her easy grace carried by the enormous direwolf prowling by the King's side. The King and Queen passed him by too fast for him to react, and he tried to close his mouth as he gazed at the hundred knights in silver armor following in their wake. Grim-faced and armed with lances and maces, they made their way in solemn silence, and behind them… Behind them was the muster of the Seven Kingdoms.
Their marching steps made for a rumbling thunderstorm, a tempo fit to shake the world. Never before had Andon seen so many people in the same place. The lords rode their chargers with boisterous dignity, their lances held upright, the sky run amok with the banners of the west; beasts snarling to the wind, castles stout and strong, fields and flowers promising warmth and summer. Men-at-Arms and semi-professional levies filled the road from end to end, their complexions hailing from every corner of the land, their faces hiding the same fear and trepidation. They carried the panoply of war with them; mallets and hammers, longbows and spears, kite shields and crossbows. It sent a tingle down Andon's throat, the sight of his people marching for war.
Most fearsome of all were the singing regiments of the Royal Guard; one armored snake marching like a single man, halberds on shoulders and arms like pendulums. They sung of death and glory, at a rhythm with their stride. They sung of loves lost and last promises uttered before the dawn. Most of all they sung of summer; of children run amok and graves covered in grass. On and on they marched; crossbow cohorts with tower shields and heavy bolts, assault troops garbed in fullplate and armed with dragonglass, strike-companies hefting tripods and stagrams. Tall square-faced banners divided the segments of the snake, each section of it singing of past victories paid for in the blood of friends. The Mistwalkers, first of the first. The Nightsails, twin lines of coal beneath their eyes. The Winterkillers, bane of the Walkers. The Dragonslayers, chestplates winged and red. Andon didn't glimpse his Da within the ranks of the Second, his ship lost long ago after ramming a Volantene galleon, but he saluted his friends and comrades all the same. Knub slammed his chestplate as the Third Regiment marched by, and they returned the honor to their Serjeant.
They were people just like him, scared and shivering through the cold. Marching despite it all, unwilling to give up. Groverick didn't cheer as they say the lords did when they answered the call. They bared witness instead, giving out what food and clothes they could spare to those marching souls. "Give 'em hells, Your Grace," Knub whispered as the soldiers lost themselves on the horizon, the Neck swallowing them whole. Andon hoped it would be enough. He prayed to the Gods that all the might of Westeros would be enough. Taby hefted her libard against her shoulder and squeezed his hand. Bring us summer, King Joffrey, he thought before squeezing back. For Da sleeping with Blackfyre. For Taby's family coated in frost. For the Young Hawk hanged by despair.
"First Groverick!" said Serjeant Knub, tall and misty-eyed, "Form up! Let's march home." And so they did.
Weeks later, the Red Comet surged in the night sky. The cold wind shrieked down from the hilltops and the mountains, scything through naked trees and biting through hearth and fur. The people of Groverick held vigil under that scarlet light, fluttering torches in their hands. They didn't have to be told.
The war had begun.
-: PD :-
Last edited: Apr 27, 2020
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Apr 27, 2020
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Threadmarks Chapter 76: The Battle for the Wall.
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baurus
Special Circumstances Agent
Jul 14, 2020
#7,457
Chapter 76: The Battle for the Wall.
When the Red Comet first appeared in any of his lives it was as a dark red dagger, sailing across the night sky like an open wound. And in every life he could remember, he'd stare up that night and blink at its clear-cut silhouette, twinkling between silent stars. It was an amorphous herald, the Comet. Its face changed as the months flew by and the world kept spinning through the void, the intercept looming large. When he'd climbed up twisting trees and spied its form between the lush canopies of Sothorios, its tail had taken a sinuous form, its glow touched by bright scarlet. As realms fell and the world froze, from the beaches of sunny Jhalia its bulk had grown: a scaled beetle hung from the sun's neck. No longer a herald, but a harbinger.
Now it was a bloody ruby perched on clean blue horizons, a little moon haloed in a red mantle that waved to the ground, as if tugged by cosmic winds. Joffrey stared at his enemy in the sky, now close enough to the earth that its light casted a murky shadow on the Wall; a second sun quiet and gazing. He felt an uncertain familiarity, an echo of recognition as he strained to hear softly whirring clicks, the calculus of its crystalline mind. It's ready, Joffrey realized with bone deep certainty. Ready for its mission. Ready to bequeath the Silence. Cold wind tugged his hair. Did the Comet sense him as he sensed it? So many lives spent looking at it, so many lives immersed in the tug of war between Song and Silence. By now it was an old acquaintance; didn't it recognize him? Impossible, according to the Deep Ones.
And yet…
"Yes, serjeant?" he said, eyebrows knit together as he tried to make sense of the echo. The recognition.
"Your Grace," whispered the man, fear and awe in his voice. Joffrey took the message in his hands. "It arrived by raven ten minutes ago. From the Lord Commander's ranging party."
He rolled open the slip of parchment, reluctantly taking his eyes from the Comet. Castle Black had been holding its breath since dawn, the usual bustle subdued as levies and guardsmen alike looked up at the unusually clear skies with suspicion. They gathered around campfires, slips of bacon sizzling between bubbling pots of stew that stank of cabbage; a sea of tents in strained contemplation. Waiting for the word.
Found them. Blizzard hid the real numbers from the Queen. Must be at least half a million wights in the van, more behind them. Advancing on a broad front all along the Wall. Expect them by nightfall. It was signed in a shaky hand by the Lord Commander.
Joffrey felt a crackling cold envelop his bones, spreading from the inside out as he looked up at the Comet again, its mantle of light like fingers caressing the sky. He felt its attention centered on this place. On him. As calm as the breeze over the God's Eye. It was ready, and so was he.
"It's time."
"Your Grace?"
He crumpled the message, "Signal all castles; they're here. Man the Wall."
A second of choked silence passed before the serjeant nodded slowly. "Aye, sire," he said before taking off at a dead run, hollering and shoving men out of the way. Joffrey made his way to elevator four as bells began to toll; small ringing century-bells and deep clanging cohort ones, different pitches of the same cadence. Tents convulsed like raging beehives, spitting out soldiers busy donning furs and armor. Horns began to sound by the scores as knights and lords bellowed for squires, as armsmen congregated below banners filled with fierce beasts rattled by the cold wind. A vortex of will and manpower formed around Joffrey as if by the laws of nature, and he found himself bellowing orders and directing soldiers, the Song swelling with every passing minute. They would stand. They had to.
"We'll hold, Joffrey." Ned must have seen the simmering dread in his face; he placed an armored hand on his shoulder.
"We need a year. Five months at the very least," he said, "We have to get those reserves out of the Crystal Palace." If they resisted enough, they'd force the Comet to commit those reserves or else spend precious power in an escalation.
Elevator four was already winching up, powerful teams of oxen carrying aloft along with scores of knights and soldiers.
"We'll hold," Ned said again, a father reassuring a son in the midst of night; only now the monsters prowling in the dark were real. Ravens were everywhere, cawing as they avoided the ropes of the many elevators making their way up the Wall, whirling in a rain of dark feathers before spreading both east and west, bearing the call; Night comes, rouse the Wall.
The Silver Knights around him breathed slowly, a whisk of both dread and anticipation hanging in the air. Now came the time to fulfill in truth those righteous vows, uttered under the light of the Red Comet and the keen sheen of Brightroar. Their Lord Commander stood as still as a statue chiseled out of bronze and silver, tower shield in one hand and battleaxe in the other. Ser Samwell had placed his warhammer over his shoulder, holding it with one hand. With the other he held hefty tome, reading it intently as they kept rising through the air, the winds growing colder by the minute. Ser Brienne paced in front of the other knights, longsword nestled against her pauldron as she pitched her voice to carry, "If the knight in front of you is killed, then you will step forward and take his place! The man behind you will drag the knight back and sever his spine by the neck!" she said, the guardsmen standing straight but craning their necks so they could see her. "At all times we follow the banner of the Antlered Lion! We will form a silver wall around the King, and slay anything that tries to flank through!" The Silver Knights nodded in unison, proud and filled with a gritty, righteous chivalry so similar and yet so fundamentally different to those Summer Knights he'd seen so long ago, jousting by Renly's pavilion. Beyond Ser Brienne and the knights scores of elevators rose with them; stepped platforms climbing steadily up the Wall.
Joffrey used the time to sink through the eddies of the Purple, centering his mind in the instant. The moment between inhalation an exhalation. He surveyed the depths of the Purple and channeled its fractal power out of his soul, around his body. His armor of distant stars formed beneath his winter furs; a collage of deep space speckled with dots yellowed and white, blue and scarlet. His promise to protect the little flames cast adrift on a lonely dot, sailing through the void. When the elevator shuddered to a stop at the top of the Wall, Joffrey lay encased in plate thrumming with fractal strength, pauldrons of raw copper reflecting a dull green and giving weight to its ethereal form.
The few remaining Brothers of the Night's Watch would've been hard pressed to recognize the top of the Wall. It had been crowned in parapets of timber and stone; peppered with towers and bastions, dotted with murder holes and bonfires. Joffrey strode off the elevator surrounded by a racket of steel and mail as the Silver Knights followed, surveying the defenses with Ned at his side. Guardsmen, levies, armsmen; he'd drilled them well. They carried great racks of fuel and ammunition, manning defensive emplacements filled with all manner of heavy weaponry. Long nosed siege stagrams pointed at the sky in batteries of eight, engineers winding up cranks and aiming at pre-sighted positions. Soldiers spun trebuchet ropes with purposeful heaves, stabbing long rods of wood one after the other before pulling the axles another quarter-turn back. Northeners rammed wickedly serrated bolts into the ballistas peeking over the sheer drop, and crossbows were passed from hand to hand through human chains spanning entire sections.
He reached the bastion that had been built and expanded directly above Castle Black, the so-called Lion's Den, a strange reflection of the Dawn Fort's Stand which had stood upon the Outer Wall. From that raised platform he surveyed the length of the Wall as far as the eye could see, filled with activity as the sun made its way to the west. A secondary parapet had been built behind the main section where the fighting would take place, giving elevation to a second line of crossbowmen so they could loose into the melee without fear of hitting their allies.
"Castle Black manned and ready," said one of his aides. Behind him lay the nerve center from which Joffrey commanded his section of the Wall, from the Night Fort to Sable Hall. Ravens came and went through narrow windows, sending Handmaidens, maesters, and aides scrambling for records and ink.
Sandor had been waiting for him. He gave the big brazier by the middle of the room a healthy distance, circling around it before reaching his side. "The Raiders are ready. They're already armed with dragonglass and taking positions all around the Wall."
"Good," said Joffrey.
"Any sign of Lord Commander Mormont?" asked Ned.
"Not yet," said Sandor, "The ballsy bastard is probably seeing if he can creep in closer and count out the rearguard."
"Queensgate manned and ready!" one of the aides called out. On the walls of the Den were mounted wooden boards marked with the names of the Wall's nineteen castles, all with their troop formations and latest readiness reports tacked on. The most prominently displayed ones were those Joffrey had under his direct command; the seven castles comprising the center of the Wall.
Joffrey leaned on the balcony, "He better make it back soon. We haven't got much time."
"Woodswatch-by-the-Pool manned and ready!"
"Sable Hall manned and ready!"
Joffrey listened to the reports with one ear, watching the sun make its slow rendezvous with the west as the hours flew by. It eventually collided with those distant horizons, turning into a splotch of grey orange of equal intensity to the Red Comet staring from up north. Watching. Waiting.
Tyrion tugged his shoulder, "Message from the Shadowtower; Western Flank manned and ready.
"That's the Wall secured from the Shadowtower to Icemark. Tywin's doing good so far," said Joffrey.
"You were right to put him there," Tyrion said reluctantly.
"Hm." Joffrey blinked at his uncle, "What are you doing here?"
He waved the slip of parchment he'd taken from a raven, "Helping keep this whole thing from falling apart."
"Don't be obtuse, uncle. You know what's coming."
His eyes took a defiant glint, "I've got my armor on, as you can see. Oiled it just for the occasion."
Joffrey sighed, "Yes but-"
"But what?" said Tyrion, "What was that you said an hour ago? 'Every man must do his duty?'"
"I didn't say that-"
"You whispered it. Must have been Stannis' ghost."
"Uncle-"
"Uncle nothing!" he said, eyes blazing, "'If Westeros is to survive every man woman and child must do his part!' You've said it a hundred times! Well, you need me here to oversee this gaggle of failed acolytes, senile maesters, and fretting ladies still dreaming of true love! Else you'll say 'Oakenshield sally out' and instead the Nightfort will go Last Defiance."
This is important to him, Joffrey realized, before mentally slapping his face. He could almost hear Sansa's voice, You don't think?! He ran the gamut of possible retorts before slumping his shoulders with a huff, "Fine. Its just… If something happened…."
Tyrion smiled sadly, looking at the others, "What about Lord Stark?"
A long sigh, wish he was away too. "Half the North is manning the center; they'd rebel without him here. He better stay in the Den though."
Ned's icy facade took an amused glint. Not bloody likely…
"And Robar?"
"I need the Silver Knights organized from here-"
"And leave my King alone during the opening hours of the Second War for Dawn?" Ser Robar didn't look amused, he seemed downright insulted. Stupid Vale honor…
"Sandor?" said Tyrion.
"He's the only one the Raiders fear besides me, but he should still be-"
Tyrion shook his head, cutting him off. He took Joffrey's hand with his own, "Nephew- We're all in this together; need to be. You saw to that. We can't avoid the danger of what's coming anymore than you can snap your fingers and order the Comet begone." He smiled again, looking at Ned and Sandor and Robar, "We need to be here. We want to. Because-"
"You can't do it alone," said Sandor, smile grim under the light of the bonfires soaring higher with every log fed.
"Message from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea!" cried someone, "Eastern Flank manned and ready!"
"And that's Legate Snow supporting my point," said Tyrion.
Joffrey sighed, filled with silent companionship as the hour grew closer, tension filling the air bit by bit as the fires grew taller. He could feel the breathing of a hundred thousand souls with him, a chorus in the Song swelling in life with every soldier manning his post, with every Handmaiden reaching her aid station. He'd brought them here, he'd brought them all here on the promise of life and unity… and now the time came to defend that flame, to become the protectors, the watchers of stars.
We're ready, thought Joffrey, standing tall with pride but filled with dread, the light of the Red Comet patient, somber, constant. We're ready, he whispered, but so was the Cycle.
-: PD :-
When the Red Comet lay undiminished in the night sky, the sun long buried and the moon but a tiny sliver in the distance, the first White Walker emerged from the Haunted Forest. Even at such a distance, his eye was drawn to the glimmer of its crystalline sword and the smoky depths of its icy armor, hiding amorphous shapes. Joffrey felt as if it was looking right at him, unperturbed by the thousand bonfires lining the Wall in infernal splendor.
Whispers of Night King began to spread amongst the ranks as Joffrey locked eyes with the distant being, feeling for the solid Silence around it like a blind man groping for a nightstand. It felt slightly different from the other Walkers now emerging from the forest; a cavalcade of Winter's chivalry armed and armored in ice. The Silence in the Song threaded through it, a nexus among the other platforms.
"Joffrey," whispered Ned, leaning on the battlements, "Is that their leader? Perhaps if we…"
He shook his head, "I fought something similar, way back at the Dawn Fort. A Commander-Walker of some sort, carrying a big hammer. Its death might have slowed the others down a bit, I'm not sure. By then I was too far gone to really notice the difference."
Ned sighed, "A pity. Robert would've loved seeing you end things like that."
Joffrey grimaced, "If only it were that simple."
More Walkers made their way out of the forest, facing the entirety of the Wall as far the eye could see. A quick word was sent to 'Grandmaester Pycelle', but the old man that walked up the top of the tower lacked the Grandmaester's constant shaking for all that he bared his face. "It is indeed as you suspect, Your Grace," said Pycelle's voice and Marwyn's soul, eyes white and murky, "The dead face the Wall entire, their ranks so deep even I can't see beyond."
The banners atop the Wall fluttered under the increasingly heavy winds, red legion numerals and noble heraldry alike shivering under the deepening cold. "The entire Wall…" Joffrey whispered, "They won't try to crack a breach."
"Could they have the numbers to simply overwhelm us?" said Ned.
"We've more than' a hundred thousand men atop this hunk of ice," said Sandor, "Mormont said half a million wights. That's five to one odds, plenty goon enough for a siege."
"This isn't a normal siege. They've got wights and walkers," said Tyrion.
"And we've got the Wall," said Sandor.
Ned frowned, his grip bone-white on sheathed Ice, "That's just the van though. We don't know what strength they've got hidden behind those blizzards."
The discussion picked up in intensity. "Mormont must know, where the hells is he?"
"We should have the Maesters join forces and try to glimpse beyond-"
Joffrey clenched his teeth, tapping fingers at a beat with the Song, growing strained under the gathering silence within the edges of the Haunted Forest. The Red Comet shimmered softly, unperturbed as his inner circle kept arguing. Joffrey imagined its voice, a gravel of crushing and reforming crystal devoid of emotion and tunneled by Silence. 'Two can play the waiting game,' he imagined it saying, massing and reanimating troops with the calm confidence of a veteran cyvasse player. It had been busy, his ancient enemy. Just as busy as Joffrey, preparing for their destined clash.
Spoiler: Music
His voice cut through the noise, "It doesn't matter; whatever numbers they have, the Wall must stand," he said as they turned to look at him, "Lord Tarly and the Second Line can reinforce local breaches and cycle troops out of the front, but if the Wall outright falls even his host won't be enough to hold them back." Determined nods and deep sights gathered around him; they knew the stakes well. The North was garrisoned along three main lines holding the might of the Seven Kingdoms, with the first -and strongest- manning the Wall itself. Provided enough time, each line could send reinforcements north in exchange for the wounded, and absorb localized breaches or raids that pierced the line above it. Such an awesome defense couldn't make up for the brutal realities of geography though; the North was simply too big. If the Wall was outright taken by the enemy, the nearest choke point suitable enough for another stand worth taking would be the Neck.
If the Wall falls, the North falls with it, he thought, and shivered. He thought of the Umbers ale in hand. Of Wintefell's cooks always so frazzled by the King's arrival. Of the quays of White Harbor teeming with fishwives and laborers as they unloaded supplies. All those people, dead or turned refugees.
Joffrey took a deep breath, his starry plate crisscrossed by fractals. Over my dead body. He felt Sansa's hand caressing his cheek, leagues away overseeing politics and logistics from Winterfell, the knot tying the supply lines of the Seven Kingdoms into one. Together, he heard her whisper.
The Battle for the Wall began when the mass of the dead emerged from the Haunted Forest like an ocean swell, a horizon spanning tidal wave churning with bone and steel and bronze. They scuttled on stumps; rags of bone held together only by malignant Silence. They ran as tribes of dead hunters, walrus tusks gleaming on the ends of their spears. They charged like warriors of old, tall and straight, legends clad in bronze and gathered for one final war. All along the stretch of no-man's land they charged, and within that mighty swell of undeath rode giants with loping gaits, churning snow aside like runaway ships. Their frowning skulls still wore caps thick with mammoth fur, and within their rotten frames they carried wights like limpets clinging to a corpse. As that massive Army of Winter devoured the distance between Forest and Wall, they shrieked a horrible battlecry of the damned; a shrill note eerie with pain and despair, a gasping song of ending. The giants echoed with cries long and deep; choking bellows whose bass grasped forth like a physical hand and crushed the wind out of Joffrey's lungs.
All along the Wall men shuddered back under that terrifying blast, that song of despair. Their faces cringed with fear, pale and weak under the light of the bonfires, bleached of all color. The very will to live strained under that charge, a devouring emptiness that was all-encompassing Silence.
Joffrey stood atop the crenelations hefting a ray of shimmering Valyrian steel crossed by the Purple, antlers of stars pointing at the sky as a touch of the Silver Lion's roar tingled in his throat. "For the Living!!!" he bellowed, a fierce cry echoing all along the Wall and beyond, beyond the fabric and through the Song and the souls of men; a roar of life and love and pure unbridled savage defiance. Westeros roared with him, a hundred thousand voices screaming at the dark, and from that mighty challenge rained fire. Hard clinks of wood on iron heralded an orchestra of sizzling ropes, scores at first, then hundreds as enormous trebuchets waved their arms at the dark horizon. A thousand fireballs leapt from the towering heights of the Wall and joined the Comet up in the sky, a red constellation that hung from the void before falling like meteors within the sea of the dead. Their impact thundered against the earth, crushing through wights, tearing chunks off giants and leaving them aflame as they bellowed agony at the heavens now red with the fires of men.
Joffrey lowered Brightroar, "We are the Watchers of Stars," he whispered at the Comet, aglow with malignant scarlet, "We are the Masters of our Fate."
"Fire!!!" bellowed the Hound, his face disfigured by the red. Siege stagrams ignited, fizzling screams dominated the Wall before giving way to deep roars as they tore off their mounts with savage fury. They drew contrails of smoke between the stars, entire flights of them crossing the void in waves as their roars pitched to a fever high. They reached the heaving mass of the undead and through orange flashes transformed themselves into thundering fountains of dirt; huge plumes of fire that tore wights apart and rattled the chests of those watching above. The explosions swept away entire groups as if slapped by the hands of titanic gods, leaving gaping holes in the mass of grey that were quickly refilled.
That churning mass of screaming bone absorbed everything they threw at it, a holocaust of fire and steel devouring them for every step taken. The orgy of destruction intensified the closer they got to the Wall, fire and sweat against death and bone as ballistas added their cries to the battle and warhorns thundered across the castles of the Wall. A heady trance caressed Joffrey's mind as he found himself between his men, Ned at his side bellowing orders and Sandor tossing soldiers at jammed siege engines. This was the war he'd been made to fight. Not of man against man, but life against end. Song against Silence. He walked amidst snarling ballistas spewing flaming pots and serrated bolts, levies of a hundred noble houses working in unison as they cranked winches and pulled levers with strained huffs. He sidestepped sighing counterweights as trebuchets let loose, wood crackling wearily under the strain. Centurions bellowed for crossbows under the light of the bonfires tickling the darkness, eyes crazed and scared and righteous. Westeros had answered the call. The Night would not triumph. They would not give in.
He stared down the battlements as the sea of death reached the foot of the Wall and began its climb, covering its severe height inch by inch, a grey tide of climbing limbs devouring the distance in the span between breaths.
"Scythes!" he roared, Brightroar bright-red under the clash of Comet and fire, "Ready scythes!!!" he said as the damned shrieked again. "Now!!!"
With a deep and crackling rumble, the Wall let drop a score twin-bladed monsters made of wrought iron. Many of them were the huge anvils used by Ibbenese whaling ships, donated by the City so that all may live. They were propelled by gravity's harsh pull, their fall drawing pendulums on the Wall before swiping the climbing dead away. Their passage over the Wall's surface created an avalanche of ice and snow that rained down in their wake, a man made blizzard buffeting the wights caught below and making them loose their grip, burying them at the foot of the great structure. Besides Joffrey a dozen men heaved as one as they readied for another swing, twisting the great wooden crank that controlled but one of the scythes, but he knew with a glance that they wouldn't make it in time.
Snarling wights scuttled over the battlements as one, falling on the living as a raging swarm with no regard for itself. Clawed hands tore at throats and eyes, a tide of bone clashing against a wall of steel. Huge tower shields covered rows upon rows of halberds, the soldiers of the Seven Kingdoms bellowing back their own warcry as they sought to stand in the face of overwhelming ice. Joffrey would not see them fight alone.
Through the nonstop cackle of crossbows and the eye-watering stench of burnt firepowder, he emerged from the smoke of leaping stagrams a twin-wielded killer. Sword and hammer, his mind at ease with his soul, he lent his strength entire to the fight for the living. The ordered volleys of the beginning gave way to a disorganized stream of fire, and under their light Joffrey led one unending charge up and down the center, from Sable Hall to the Nightfort and back, tearing wights apart at the head of the Silver Knights. They were carried by a divine wind, their sight a surge of heart and strength for the fighting men, the many banners of the Antlered Lion snarling at the night sky and following in his wake. Joffrey's mind entered into a state akin to meditation, locked in a timeless dimension of his own as he parried and struck, dodged and maimed. Encased in his armor of distant stars, he was the tip of the spear that tore through wight-hordes frenzied by the blood of men, a juggernaut sailing through grey seas filled with teeth and bone. In his mind's eye he accounted casualties lost and replaced, breaches torn and plugged, orders given by runner and drummer. They lost towers and scythe-bastions, and they retook them, and then they lost them again. The tides of war swept them back and forth like a shadowcat shaking its prey, a tempest of sound and blood that would not relent as night gave to day. The fallen were dragged by their grim companions, stripped and tossed to the bonfires rattling under the wind. The wounded were carried away and tended by the Handmaidens, trains of sleds bearing them away and carrying forth replacements that were never enough. Flights of ravens sent couriers running, finding him amids his Knights, drinking water and munching down what hardtack he could before jumping back into the fray. Increasingly, they found him napping between skirmishes, bleary eyed and heavy-headed. Reports turned grimmer with every passing hour, the toil of a day unending hammering his wits as he tried to make sense of the news. All along the Wall battle raged without end, the wights piling up as fast as they could kill them. Oakenshield was buckling, Sable Hall was burning. From Tywin's command to the west the dead were trying to flank through the river, and from Jon's flank to the east the Wall had been breached at Torches. One of the sled trains carrying reinforcements had disappeared, and it wasn't the first.
They have to stop eventually, he thought as he tore a wight's head from its body, using hammer and sword like pliers. He struck the chest of another one, slipped on something and fell on one knee. The descending axe would've struck his head if Ser Robar hadn't covered him with his tower shield. Growing sloppy, he thought as his Lord Commander struck the offending wight down with tired efficiency. He accepted Ser Brienne's hand as she pulled him up, and blinked at the setting sun. Night again? The storm clouds that had been gathering to the North were now charging for the Wall; an armada of ships made of dense alabaster.
"Your Grace, you have to rest," she told him, her vambrace leaking blood from an earlier wound.
"No time. The Wall's nearing collapse," he told her after taking a gulp of air, the hair at the nape of his neck standing on edge.
She smacked him aside just in time to avoid a grasping thing emerging from the Wall's edge; a huge hand bigger than his chest. It grabbed her instead. The dead giant hefted her aloft, a misshapen head peaking from the Wall and leering at him with a half torn jaw. Robar and Samwell dragged him back as he screamed Brienne's name, another wave of wights surging from between the crenelations and slamming into the Knights protecting their retreat. Steel groaned within the giant's hand, Brienne giving out a shuddering scream as she was slowly crushed. It looked ready to jump from the battlements into the line of Silver Knights before Brienne hefted her longsword; a flick of silver illuminated by the setting sun. "Tarth!!!" she screamed with bloody lips, ramming her sword up the giant's torn jaw. They fell backwards as one, a blur swallowed by the crenelations.
He was carried back to the Den, filled with the crying wounded and the exhausted living. His standard bearers raced up the stairs to place the Antlered Lion atop the roof, Silver Knights securing the doors. "They're killing us," he whispered to Ser Robar, who had an ugly gash down his cheek.
His Lord Commander flinched as a Handmaiden stabbed him with a needle, brutally efficient. "How many more?" he asked between gritted teeth.
The Silence was thick over the Wall. In the Haunted Forest. Behind the blizzards. "Too many," Joffrey whispered, the Song rattling under the blows of winter, its melody growing distant with every death, every victory of silence.
He dozed off into a dark and deep slumber, until an insistent shaking brought him up wielding Brightroar, Tyrion's face desperate as he leaned close. His crimson plate had several dents in it, silvery wounds dotting the pauldrons. Had there been a fight in here without him waking up? A savage wind howled outside the Den, frost coating the shutters; the blizzard had arrived. "What's the good news?" he asked him, trying to smile but failing.
"The Eastern Flank is collapsing," said Tyrion, voice subdued, "Jon retook Torches, but the dead delayed him long enough to break through Rimegate in turn. No word from Oberyn yet."
Joffrey sighed, looking at the ceiling. "That'll put pressure on Sable Hall."
"And let loose more wights into our rear."
"Lord Tarly will have to deal with them. Any ravens from Sable Hall?" That castle was the next in line from Rimegate, and formally under Joffrey's responsibility at the center.
"The blizzard's done a number on our ravens, but we should- hold on." Tyrion nodded at the aide, receiving a slip of paper in return. He let out a long breath as he read it. "Its from them. They say Dornish wights are attacking their right flank, charging across the top of the Wall." A slow, pulsing shot of heat dragged itself through Joffrey's veins. Half of Sable Hall had caught fire yesterday; their defenses were already strained. If they fell apart and the wights struck Woodswatch-by-the-Pool in turn…
"Gods be damned; we could loose the entire Wall if they carry that momentum here," said Joffrey. Snowballing on Oakenshield and descending on Castle Black itself. With the center gone and the King dead or missing the entire defense would collapse before Oberyn's wight could whisper 'rout'. Think Joffrey, think. The thrumming pain covering his head made that hard. "What have we got in reserve down at Castle Black? The Fourth Cohort?"
"You sent them to Deep Lake five hours ago."
"Fuck, you're right." How could he forget such an important thing? "Lord Umber's men?"
Tyrion tilted his head left and right, "They're there alright, but they're shaken as all hell and not liable to move."
"What happened?"
"One of the wounded they were securing to a sled wasn't breathing after all. It tore the Smalljon's face out."
Great. The Smalljon flashed in Joffrey's mind, laughing riotously before he buried it in a box deep within, a keen pain in his chest. "And Lord Umber?"
"We don't know. If he's alive he's still somewhere around the Nightfort." He cracked a gallows-smile, "Probably dueling a giant or something."
Joffrey took a deep breath, "Alright, someone else needs to get them moving. Tell Ned-" he trailed off, where was he anyway?
"He's still at Queensgate. His runner said they were pushing the northmen there hard."
Old Gods give me strength. The Umbers needed a face they knew -and preferably respected- if they were going to race off to the east and through a blizzard no less. His eyes tore through the Den in search of another northern lord, any lord before settling on Tyrion's grim smile, waiting patiently. Oh no.
His uncle had always been faster than him.
"What about all that speech about needing you here?"
"Still true," said Tyrion, "But you need Sable Hall more."
"Uncle-"
He clasped Joffrey's arm, "I can move them. I know those men; I've drunk with well near half of them anyway." His smile turned determined, confident, "I can get them to Sable Hall in time. We'll hold the Wall."
Joffrey let out a pained sigh, clasping his shoulder in turn and embracing him. He'd never be like Tywin, denying Tyrion's will out of fear of loosing control. Joffrey sought to control as much as he humanly could, but this war was beyond even him. He had to let go. Let go and trust. "You get back here alive. You hear me?"
"A broken knight keeps his promises," he whispered back, tearing a sad smile out of Joffrey. It was only after Tyrion had left him that Joffrey realized he hadn't promised anything at all.
Cheeky bastard, he thought with a deep sigh. It wasn't enough to ward off the chill steadily taking over his heart.
-: PD :-
The siege of the Dawn Fort had been a calculated affair; a long duel of swarms, probes, heavy units and attrition expertly juggled by the Red Comet in order to minimize losses and maximize death. It had been a subtle and conniving endeavor, slowly choking the life out of the defenders over the course of months.
The Battle for the Wall made for a jarring contrast. For every hour the living stood there and fought, Joffrey felt the Comet gather its attention further still. Wave after wave of wights broke upon the armies of men, replaced by an endless reserve made up of generations of the dead. It wanted the Wall taken, and it wanted it taken now. Never in living memory or written history had there been a battle such as this, and never in his immortal lives had Joffrey seen the likes of this carnage. Heroes worthy of legend rose within the span of hours, and hours later their very memory was extinguished as armies were slaughtered to a man, leaving no witnesses behind. Time lost all meaning as there was only war, and still the Cycle threw everything it had at him; a brutal pounding relentless in its goal, a single minded butcher beyond mortal ken. Not only wights but Walkers began to join the assaults, each wave carrying more of them and reaping a bloody harvest with crystal swords and lances pale under moonlight. Each time Raiders and strike-cohorts fought them back with fire and dragonglass, and each time they paid a bloodier toll for it. Joffrey led the charge against every incursion, Stars roaring by his side as they slammed into the Comet's pawns, and the Silver Knights too payed the price.
"I see now its face. I begin to understand," said Marwyn, face slack as he gazed at the Comet from the top of the Den. He was sitting on a wooden chair, covered by a thick blanket. "Its scale. Its power. Its will," he said, dread choking the words out of him. "Its single minded will," he whispered. Never before had he seen Marwyn so terrified.
Joffrey took a long gulp from his waterskin, leaning on the balcony as he tried not to fall asleep, "You see now why I did what I did?"
"It won't be enough. You can lie to them but never to me," said Marwyn. He was shivering, worst than Pycelle ever had, "It's a hole in reality. A flimsy cover. Its quiet will spread," he said, voice turning to a whisper, "It will drown us all in silence."
"It will try," said Joffrey, gazing at his distant nemesis, undiminished under sunlight. Its aura had grown as the battle progressed, the cosmic winds now rattling it rather than tugging it. He took another long gulp, then frowned. "Archmaester?"
Pycelle was dead, face locked in a silent horror, his eyes glassy.
As night covered the sky for the third time and the battle kept raging over the Wall, Joffrey was wracked by shivers thick with the Comet's gaze; Ned didn't have to wake him up. His icy demeanor looked close to crumbling, a score Winterfell men checking their weapons obsessively. "Runner from Lord Terrick said there's spiders climbing the Wall to the west," he said, unsheathing Ice.
"Let's go," said Joffrey, a group of Silver Knights forming up around them as Sandor took the lead; Ser Robar was missing. A cold foreboding was filling his bones, a certainty of true death crystallizing in his breath. Outside the Den, the blizzard had hit the Wall at full tilt. The fighting was carried out under a grey, snowy veil, the sounds muffled and distant, the night sky oppressive. Crews reloaded their siege weapons amids the fighting, hammering at mechanisms to beat the frost away, and beating at the wights when they got too close. The bonfires shivered under gales thick with snow, carrying the stench of roasted flesh. The dead of Westeros were burning.
"Lord Hightower!" bellowed a knight as he crashed against Sandor, "Have you seen Lord Hightower?!"
"No!" he said, shouldering him aside, trying to make way as the line of guardsmen to their right surged backwards, almost crushing them against the stone parapet on the other side.
"Push them!" roared a serjeant, "Push them back!"
Joffrey let out long, steamy breaths as he tried to maintain the death grip on Sandor's arm, squeezing through gaps and over fallen men. His standard bearers followed behind, the Antlered Lion flying ragged as arrows zipped above them, warhorns echoing in the distance. "They're surging all along the line!" someone shouted, "They're coming in force!"
Sandor led him further into a secured section of the Wall, navigating around soldiers carrying empty stretchers slick with blood. Here the people plowed through their food with somnolent haste, clustering near covered fires as they tried to thaw out. Many had their eyes closed, and Joffrey wasn't sure some of them weren't dead. Grim-faced centurions oversaw the rotations, and more than one soldier cried out in panic as their turn came to jump back into the fray. The prospect had them shaking in fright; one of them was hyperventilating as he clutched the floor like a cat hanging from a ledge.
Joffrey pushed down the weariness and the despair into a tightly locked box, straightening his stride and pitching his voice to carry, "Stand tall, men! Stand tall for the land we call home!"
"The King!" they cried as they saw him, "The King!"
He waved with Brightroar, "Stand in fury! Stand in wrath!" he roared, "This storm is not the end, but our beginning!"
"Westeros!" shouted a gaunt-faced guardsman, his arm gone below the elbow. "Westeros!" shouted the soldiers in steel plate, the cooks by the fires and the levies with their longbows, "Westeros!!!" they called as they stood up, the sleepers opening their eyes and crying out.
"Summer will come again!" Joffrey roared, tears in his eyes, "I promise you! We will live to see the dawn again!!!"
A scythe rumbled somewhere below, the Wall trembling. "Here they come!"
"Crossbows! Crossbows!!!"
"Fight for your loved ones!" Joffrey bellowed as the cooks picked up mallets and the soldiers formed a shieldwall. "Fight for Summer's Kiss! Fight for all that we love on this green earth!!!"
"They're here!" someone screamed.
"Brace!!!" said Joffrey, slamming behind one of the shieldbearers as others slammed behind him in turn. The ravenous dead broke on the shieldwall like waves crashing against steel reefs; a swell of grey burying the first line and jumping atop each other. Sandor swung his two hander with a snarling heave, bisecting a wight in mid-air. Ned ripped one open with Ice, and another landed straight on Joffrey's blade, burying itself to the hilt. It shrieked and snarled as its bony claws drew a line of pain down his chin, blue eyes aglow with undeath. Joffrey gave out a desperate roar as he slammed his antlers into its skull, cracking it to pieces as he tore them out again. The whole line buckled back, straining under the onslaught of winter as Joffrey drew arcs of light with Brightroar, cutting and smashing left and right with hammer and sword. Each wight he brought down heralded two in return, the faces of the dead multiplying by the second. Hunters and cannibals, soldiers and fishermen, they formed a never ending menagerie of the slain that surged yet again; they were not even waves anymore, just a constant stream of undead that must have charged atop each other to reach the Wall at this rate. The Comet was throwing everything it had at them.
"We're cut off!" shouted a centurion before a blade of crystalline ice emerged from his chestplate and splattered blood on Joffrey's face. The man looked at it quizzically before collapsing forward and Joffrey blinked, the Walker that killed him taking a step forward and bringing down his blade again. He parried the blade as ice screeched, hefting it aside before slashing Brightroar down it's shoulder. The Walker exploded into a rain of glittering ice, revealing more of its brethren behind, marching in silent lockstep with easy strides. Obsidian tipped arrows left holes in their ranks, but more of them climbed the Wall in turn, their blades reaping the lives of his men like wheat.
"Attack them from two sides!" bellowed Joffrey, decapitating one before ducking below a blade and ramming Brightroar through the chest of another. It howled, its breath freezing Joffrey's eyebrows before turning into mist. "Pierce them with dragonglass! Don't let them mass together!"
"We have to push through to the rest of the Second Cohort!" said Sandor, working tirelessly with his longsword and a bevy obsidian daggers strapped to his belt, "Make for that tower!" He was right; they had to link up with the rest of the defense or they'd be defeated in detail.
"On me!" said Joffrey, splitting a wight with Brightroar, tearing the jaw off another with his mace, "On me, Westeros!!!" he bellowed as they tried to make way through the enemy, trying to reach the rest of the defenders. The blades of the Walkers worked up and down between the blizzard, flashing from within gales of snow and rending flesh with brutal precision. Lines of halberdiers were overwhelmed as the wights piled atop them, screeching and tearing with bony hands slick with blood. It was madness. Chaos. The prelude of Silence now approaching.
"Northmen!" bellowed Ned, "Protect the King!" he said, Ice splitting a Walker by the waist. He'd never seen Ned like this; Eddard the Warlord, protecting what was his with cold determination. The man that marched south to avenge his family. "Alyn! Line abreast! Cover our right flank!" he called, bringing down Ice and jamming it against a Walker's skull before it exploded into misty ice.
The Winterfell men with Ned formed a shield to their right, but it was up to Joffrey and the Silver Knights to make way, leading the limping soldiers and the ragged levies behind them. "To the tower!" bellowed Joffrey, "Slay everything in your way!"
"The Kingdom!" called the Silver Knights, clustering around him in a bevy of battleaxes and shields gleaming with the light of the bonfires, "The Song in the Kingdom!" They were like mountains of steel, making way through tempestuous tides crashing from every side, the dead now beyond numbers. That swarm was relentless, axes and spears denting plate and scratching mail, an unending tide of bone powered by End as they fell one by one. Even mountains can be ground down.
Their desperate charge slowed to a grind. More and more wights breached the wall formed my Winterfell's men, through the Silver Knights, ending on the tip of Joffrey's hammer as he batted them aside. Ned was back-to-back with him, Sandor growing distant as the tides of war separated them into two groups. "Sandor! Get back here!" he bellowed, stretching a hand out impotently as more wights got in the way and the Hound's face was buried by the tide of bone. They were split off further still as ordered ranks gave way to a generalized melee, command breaking down as the wights swarmed everywhere. Joffrey and Ned were twin rays of Valyrian steel shattering Walkers and sundering wights. They worked as one, Ice's longer reach creating circles of action where Joffrey struck like a shadowcat, Brightroar darting it to tear chunks out of the monsters trying to close the distance. Stars roared to the dark heavens as he slammed into groups of the dead; a whirlwind of claws and teeth renting them apart. More and more of their companions were replaced by blue-eyed corpses, the banner of the Antlered Lion torn and ragged as the standard bearer cried out, a wight running him through with a dagger from behind. There were too many of them. Too many.
The burly brother of the Night's Watch by their side stumbled, and Ned steadied him with a hand. "Lord Commander Mormont?" he said in stunned surprise.
He looked almost human. Black furs over armor. White beard speckled with frost. Eyes murky blue. Its mouth opened wide in a hideous snarl as it slipped Longclaw through Ned's armpit, right into his chest.
Joffrey gave a savage scream as he tore its head open with Brightroar, the former leader of the Night's Watch collapsing backwards with a sigh. He felt as if he'd just been hit by a stagram as Ned took Longclaw out of his chest, the Valyrian steel dull under the buffeting storm. The Lord of the North gave him a tired smile, blood trickling from his lips. Joffrey grabbed him by his furs with hysterical strength, and Ned grabbed him back, making silent noises with his mouth. They held each other for a timeless instant as war raged around them, the screams of men and the crash of rending ice growing muted, absent. Ned's knees gave out, and Joffrey accompanied him to the cold, cold ground. His vision turned into a pinprick, his chest crushed by an unstoppable weight. He couldn't think anymore. He was in a sort of distanced state, an automaton whose thoughts consisted of a single, droning timbre buzzing inside his skull. Dumb hands went up to Ned's face and then down to the hideous wound on his chest, not knowing what to do, fluttering to and fro, his heartbeat so loud it was like a gong slamming into his skull. He found himself cradling Ned's head, obsessively cleaning the snow out of his face.
"What? What was that?" he said as he leaned close.
Ned's mouth moved again, slowly, inaudible over the sounds of battle now reemerging from the void.
"Ned? What is it? What is it?" Joffrey whispered, leaning closer, placing his ear against his mouth.
"Son," whispered Ned. He blinked once, exhaling a final breath of steam before laying still. His echo in the Song spoke of Weirwood leaves and silent strength, fierce loyalty encased in honor. A stern leader, a reluctant warlord, a loving father.
Joffrey stumbled upright. He gritted his teeth, tears crawling down his cheeks and freezing in place as he hefted Ice. With a single, heart-rending scream he brought the blade down and severed Ned's spine, driving the blade through his neck. He would be no puppet of Winter. Son, he thought, looking at the wreck of his body. Son, he thought, stumbling through the battlefield. He cut a wight's arm with Ice, and sheared the top of another's skull with the back swing. Dazed, he parried a mace from a reanimated armsman, taking a step forward and slamming Ice's pommel through its eye socket. The wights swarmed every man still breathing, driving bone knives through necks or eye-slits, burying the heavily armored in a pile of undeath. There were too many of them. Far too many. Soon the wights were packed tight around him, choking him with their sheer weight. Joffrey's sight began to dim within that swirling mass, a chorus of decomposed skulls shrieking around him as they tried to grab his head with torn hands. An axe struck his helmet and left him dazed, gasping for breath, the banner of the Antlered Lion stomped on the ground, the fabric torn