A/N: And we are back! I have just fallen behind posting but it should be back to normal now. KTB will be updated in a few days. Hope you enjoy the chapter!
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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Green Fork, The Riverlands
From a rise above the center of the line on the Greek Fork, Ned watched his host emerge from the river mist. Below him, the unfaltering toil of war began with the rattle of tightened shield straps and the heavy sound of men stamping life into cold feet as they gathered beneath the banners of Stark, Manderly, and Hornwood.
Opposite them, Tywin had drawn his army into ordered ranks of red and gold, pikemen planted forward while swordmen and cavalry waited in reserve to be spent at the proper moment. Ned marked the burning tree of Marbrand, the boar of Crakehall, and the golden sun of Lefford, old houses built on western gold and discipline.
Jaime held the vanguard, the gold of his armor a fixed point even across the distance. Tywin kept farther back behind the reserve, where a commander could watch the line break and measure the cost before committing his own men to the breach.
Once, in a throne room heavy with smoke and roasted flesh, he had looked on Jaime Lannister and felt only contempt. The knight had worn the white cloak and kept his place beside a king who burned men alive. Ned had judged him for it then, and the judgment did not soften.
Ned looked to the pale sky and found the black fleck turning a slow circle high above.
He looked away from the sky to the men who would soon die in the dirt, certain that victory was found in the blood and mud of the vanguard rather than the air. Fire would be his last resort.
Halys Hornwood rode up first, the river mist clinging to his beard and his helm held tight beneath his arm. "My lord," he said. "Give the word."
"You and your men are in charge of driving the center in," Ned said. "Hit hard and keep your ranks close to pin Jaime where he stands."
Hornwood gave a brisk nod. "They will know the Northmen are here to stay."
Wylis Manderly came after, the heavy horse straining under a weight that would have folded a lesser mount and asked, "Do I proceed as planned?"
"Aye," Ned said. "Hold the bank, and send word the moment your line falters if they drive you back."
Wylis rested his hand on the pommel of his sword and gave a firm nod. "I shall hold, my lord. White Harbor has weathered worse than westermen."
Galbart Glover and Cerwyn followed, both men ready for the battle ahead. Glover looked upon the field as a woodsman might measure forest to cut down. Beside him, Cerwyn was a like blade drawn, his gaze locked on the Lannister lines as he waited for the signal to charge.
"Cross at the shallows where the alders grow," Ned said. "Stay low beneath the riverbank. Once Hornwood has engaged them, strike their rear with everything you have. You are the hammer, and I expect you to fall heavy."
Glover grunted in agreement. Cerwyn said, "Their resolve will shatter when they feel the bite of our blades on their backs."
"If Tywin gives you trouble sooner, fall back to Wylis," Ned said.
Cerwyn nodded stiffly. "Aye."
Ser Andar Royce sat his destrier, the bronze runes on his armor dulled by the morning light. "I will abide by your command, my lord."
"You hold the reserve until I call," Ned said. "If the center opens, you close it. If the right buckles, you shore it up. I want fresh men at hand when the field turns."
Royce inclined his head. "As you command."
The lords dispersed to their positions, and Ned remained where the standard-bearers and hornmen waited, surrounded by runners and a handful of mounted guards. A commander who chased every clash soon ceased to command anything. He had learned that lesson through all his battles and carried it still, though every part of him wanted steel in his hand at the front where Jaime Lannister rode.
The line steadied, a horses sidestepping and snorting in the quiet. Far across the field, a Lannister horn rang out in a single drawn-out cry.
Ned looked once more to the black shape above. Steel first, he told himself, and fire when the line calls for it.
Ned lifted his hand, and the horns of the North answered.
The host broke forward as the sound rolled along the river. Hornwood's van took the advance. They raised their shields and leveled their spears while boots drove through the wet turf. The two centers met and the crash carried up to the rise. Iron struck iron and timber cracked over the heavy thud of bodies breaking. The shouting came a breath later.
He walked down from the rise to gauge the fighting front, where the Kingslayer drove hard exactly as expected. The golden knight stood where the press ran thickest, sword rising and falling while his cloak snapped in the wind. Robert's old claim that the man valued glory above all else proved true enough to pin Tywin's vanguard firm.
A Hornwood rider pushed back through the kicked dust and broken soil. "The center is joined, my lord. The lions hold deep."
"He knows the ground, if he holds them fast," Ned said. "Tell Hornwood to keep pressing."
The man wheeled away.
The ground hid the long curve of Glover and Cerwyn's flankers as they slipped toward the shallows on the left, while Manderly's blue-green banner pushed along the river edge to his right. The Lannister host saw neither. If the northern pincers struck the rear before Jaime broke the center the field would fall to them hard and swift. The dragon would hold its silence overhead.
That hope lasted only until Hornwood drove into the center. There, Jaime's cold fury met them head on. The lines clamped together, and men crumpled beneath boots and steel. A northern shield broke free, spinning into the churn as the wind brought the stench of opened bowels.
Another messenger galloped in from the right. "Ser Wylis asks for more archers on the bank. Lannister crossbowmen have taken the willow rise."
"Send fifty from the rear line," Ned said. "And tell him I have Royce ready if the weight grows worse."
From the river bend came Cerwyn's horn, two quick blasts. He'd had successfully made the crossing. Ned turned his horse, squinting for a better view across the field.
But then the first Lannister volley rose from a place where no Lannister volley should have been.
The snap of arrows cutting through the battle roar. Bolts shooting from the alders, slamming into the flankers below. A heartbeat later, pikes bristled through the reeds, blocking the path Glover had picked. Men and horses went over. One rider cartwheeled from the saddle, pierced through. Lannister heavy horse poured from the ridge, driving Cerwyn's men into the killing ground.
Ned's horse sidled beneath him. He reined it hard, his eyes fixed on the second volley as it tore into the crossing.
"They were waiting!" Royce shouted.
A mud-splashed rider burst from the riverbank, driving his horse at a wild pace toward them. The animal was lathered and limping, the man on its back nearly falling from the saddle as he reached Ned. A gash at his brow had split the skin to the hairline, blood running down his cheek.
"Lord Glover reports pikes manning the ford, crossbows hidden in the trees, with horses held in reserve. They knew, my lord. They knew."
For a single moment, the field narrowed to that singular truth. Tywin had not merely guarded the route and the crossing, but positioned his forces to meet Ned's strategy with one of his own, a direct response to the Northern Lord's plans.
"Tell Glover to break free of the trap if he can," Ned ordered. "Instruct Cerwyn to shield the retreat and stop his men from clustering tightly."
The rider drew a sleeve across his mouth, spitting out dust. "Lord Cerwyn, he's already amongst them, my lord."
"Then go!"
Spurring his mount, the rider veered sharply and set off in a dead run toward the river.
The trap had spread its jaws wider than the river bend, and Ned knew it the moment he saw it. Hornwood's men counted on the push from behind. With that gone, Jaime's forces could dig in and press. Worse still, the broken flank left a gaping seam, one Tywin could drive a lance through and roll upon Hornwood's side.
A cry went up from the right, Manderly's banner plummeting and vanishing in the crush. Then it reappeared lower, as a rider broke through from that quarter painted in blood.
"Ser Wylis is struck, my lord! A spear went through the shoulder, under the plate. But he keeps to the saddle and calls for aid. The lions have pushed fresh men against the bank."
Fresh men. Of course, Tywin still had depth.
Ned forced a steady breath to master his anger while he turned his mind to the battle. If he did not act now he would lose the field.
"Ser Andar, take the reserve to Manderly," Ned said. "Seal the gap Glover left and hold his flank. We cannot allow Jaime to drive through that seam or the field is lost."
Andar gave a single nod and spurred his horse. "With me," he shouted, and the riders turned as one while the footmen broke into a run to follow them into the gap.
The rise had served its purpose and Ned left it behind. With Royce holding the right and the flankers gone, the center needed a Stark at its heart. He had watched others bleed for long enough and now it was time for him to join them.
Ned drew Ice and felt the familiar cold weight of the steel as he shouldered his way through the Hornwood men.
The roar of the battle took him. He planted his feet in the bloody slush of the line among the cursing Hornwood men and held his ground. A skull shattered nearby but Ned only focused ahead, keeping his place while the shields groaned and the maces did their wet, heavy work.
He cut through a Lefford soldier who ran straight for him and moved to the next Lannister. Ice made short work of the man's sword and sliced through his armor. Lord Hornwood found him within minutes with blood caking his beard and his shield arm hanging low. "My lord, you shouldn't—"
"Jamie is moving forward. Pin him!" Ned shouted.
Lord Hornwood's eyes flashed wide, then his voice boomed out, "Forward!"
A messenger with a torn surcoat fought through the press to reach his side. "Lord Cerwyn is trapped at the crossing," he cried out. "The horses are breaking their legs on stakes hidden in the rushes."
Ned saw the trap for what it was, a strategy executed with the Lord of Casterly Rock's own ruthlessness. Tywin had invited this very blow to ensure Ned could do nothing for Cerwyn from across the field. A Crakehall man swung a mace that would have crushed Ned's skull had he not stepped inside the arc to end him. The press of bodies bore down then, a sea of steel and meat shoving them all sideways, and Ned braced his weight to hold the line.
A ripple ran through the line, and Ned knew Royce had reached Manderly.
The men saw the direwolf and stood their ground as Ned braced himself against the press. They could hold for a time, yet Tywin had the depth to grind them to nothing. Every moment brought the center closer to buckling under the sheer weight of the Lannister host.
Amidst the chaos, Ned grabbed hold of a boy reeling from the chaos, the boy's lost spear now replaced by a borrowed shield and the wounded archer it protected. Crimson dripped from a cut above the boy's ear, the clash's toll on full display.
"Boy, get to the rise and inform the captain to send the signal for the Queen!"
The boy tripped over the leg of a dead man and staggered, then found his footing again to scramble up the slope.
Ned pivoted to face the press, his sword a blur of steel as he parried a spear thrust and sank his blade into the westerman's neck. Another assailant met his end on a Stark guardsman's blade, but Ned's mind flashed to the dead infants in the Throne room. The same call for vengeance now fell to Ned. He shoved a dying man aside and kept his weapon raised, determined to see this through.
From the rise, three long notes rang across the Green Fork followed by two shorter blasts.
Heads turned on both sides of the line.
A black speck fell from the clouds in a hunter's stoop. Then the mist tore open and Morghaes was there, a shadow reaching for the ground.
The roaring of the dragon swallowed the sound of clashing metal as a river of black fire broke across the Lannister lines, consuming horse and wagon in a single stroke.
A wall of flame, orange and black, rose behind the Lannister lines as the fire spread and heat pressed against Ned's face. Canvas flashed as grain wagons burst into flame. Mad with terror, some destriers tore loose from their tethers, burning and trampling the reserve cavalry before the riders could mount. Men ran from the wagons with cloaks ablaze, others fell where they stood.
On a single pass, Morghaes soared and banked away from the field, with Daenerys keeping the dragon to a steady pace.
The dragon's flames raged like a beast, devouring flesh and wood. Men were tossed aside like dolls, trampled by maddened steeds. A foul stink of scorched hair and pitch reached the center, but the dragon's flames had only singed the rear. The front still held, blades and spears untouched by the inferno.
Then Tywin showed why men feared him, new horn calls cutting across the uproar to spur the standards into reforming and the reserve into drawing back in orderly files. Rear guards coalesced around the road south, the Westermen's lion still holding its head high despite its bloodied and scorched state. Harrenhal had once melted beneath dragonfire, and Tywin was heading for those walls again.
The battlefield changed swiftly around Ned. Westermen who had held their ground began to pull back, turning their faces from the bitter smoke that drifted over the lines. Hornwood pushed forward, and those who had been fighting to survive now found themselves facing fleeing men.
"Press them, Hornwood!" Ned roared the order. "Keep the order! Take prisoners if you can!"
Jaime, however, remained resolute in the midst of the chaos.
The gold knight had hacked his way within ten yards of the direwolf standard when the Lannister rear went up in flames. Smoke billowed and men around him broke, but Jaime refused to flee. He pressed on through the smoke, his cloak aflame at one edge.
"There you are," Jaime said through the roar.
A lone Stark guard charged at Jaime, but the gold knight ended him with a single stroke. Jaime pressed on, his stride unbroken, as if the fallen guard were merely a pebble in the road to be stepped over.
Jaime's first strike came hard and high, its force reverberating through Ned's arms to his shoulders as he parried. The second blow aimed low. Ned barely leapt clear. But Jaime never slowed, pressing relentlessly as he always did, his speed unmatched.
Ned's blade met Jaime's in a clash that jarred his arm to the bone. Jaime's riposte glanced off his sword and opened a wound across his forearm. Ned reeled back into the Hornwood man behind him, using the man's support to gather himself and swing low. Jaime deflected the blow, but the press of men closed in from all sides.
A Hornwood man seized Jaime's sword arm, but he broke free, opening the man from shoulder to sternum. A second northman grabbed his cloak from behind, while a third hooked his leg. Jaime cut the cloak free and crushed the third man's nose with an elbow, but now he fought the crowd, not the swordsman. A shield rim struck his temple as he killed the man on his cloak, and the gold helm spun into the mud, the clang of metal on stone echoing through the melee.
Jaime went down thrashing, four men pinning him. Despite that, he nearly rose to his feet.
Ned stood over Jaime, his lungs burning and arms trembling. Tywin's son was trapped in the heart of the enemy lines, but he could not guess if the Lord of Casterly Rock even knew. A lord might order a retreat, but a father would suffocate on it.
Jaime looked up, mud and blood obscuring his face, to find a smirk that held no true amusement.
"So the wolf lord calls dragonfire now. Your best friend would have loved you for it."
Even from the battlefield, the stench of death from wildfire and war was undeniable. Jaime knew it, just as he knew he would always have the last word.
"Take him," Ned ordered the guards, ignoring Jaime's taunts.
Jaime was hauled upright and forced away from the field, to march through the muck.
A shout rose from the southern edge of the field as heads turned to see Morghaes descend.
The dragon came down beyond the baggage wreck, landing on ground open enough to spare the horses a full panic. Men scattered from the landing place as the dragon's wings stirred up ash and sent scraps of burned canvas tumbling across the field. The winged beast settled in stages, smoke billowing from its maw, surveying the wary men who backed away.
First to arrive was Jorah Mormont, the two sellswords fast on his heels. The old exile approached the dragon warily, like a man bracing for the edge of a blade. Beskha shouted to those at a distance, while Asher Forrester, his appearance ragged but himself very much alive, chased off two fools who had strayed too near.
Daenerys's landing was far from graceful, her feet scrambling for purchase as she touched the ground. She rose slowly, one hand reaching for the dragon's neck as she steadied herself. A smudge of soot marred her cheek, damp, pale strands of hair clinging to her brow. Whatever she had been in Braavos, she had set it down somewhere on the road south, that much was clear.
A sentry brought a horse from the northern encampment Ned mounted and rode to the landing site, dismounting as he neared.
As he approached on foot, the weight of stares from every direction pressed upon him—from Northern warriors, prisoners, and those wounded who had dragged themselves to their elbows in the grass.
As their eyes met, an unspoken understanding passed between Ned and Daenerys. His nod acknowledged it, and her posture shifted, the tension between them easing for a moment.
Ned addressed the men briskly. "Attend to the wounded and get them water. Separate the prisoners by their rank and realm. Inspect every wagon still on its wheels from first to last. I expect tallies by the time the sun sinks."
Hornwood limped through the smoke, his approach towards Ned accompanied by the curses of Manderly, whose horse jolted him with each step as he approached from the river side, arm bound in a bloodied sling. Glover and Cerwyn were somewhere beyond, rounding up the remnants of their flank from the reeds. Names would need learning, graves marking, and Tywin Lannister remained alive.
But the first battle was won.
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The crimson walls of Tywin's command tent stood streaked with brown smoke and river damp, a stark contrast to the orderly war he ran. Inside, the packed earth was trampled by boots, ash, and a thin smear of blood left by a wounded westerman dragged clear. The dragonfire had forced a hastier retreat than any plan could allow, yet maps remained pinned under daggers and brass weights.
Ink and blood, both tell a tale of war, a truth Ned had long ago learned.
The tent's interior spread a broad table, its surface dominated by a detailed map of the Trident, roads traced in crimson ink and fordings in earth-brown marking its surface. As men moved in and out behind him, carrying chests, casks of wine, and two ironbound strongboxes, Ned read through the nearest stack of ledgers. They gave what he expected: supply routes from the west, gold promised to freeriders, and a note on remounts for the reserve cavalry. All was useful, yet the river kept pulling at him. The alder bend, the hidden pikes, the crossbows in the trees—this trap was too precise to be the work of the enemy.
Ser Andar Royce entered, an ironbound chest in his arms, and laid it on the table near Ned's elbow. The lock had been shattered by a warhammer, leaving splintered wood and bent iron clinging to the hasp. Without a word, he returned to his work, leaving the chest and its contents for Ned to examine. Papers filled the chest to the brim, tied in bundles with dyed cord, some sealed, others opened and shoved back in haste.
Pink wax caught Ned's gaze, drawing the light. The flayed man stared up from three separate seals, his twisted features a silent accusation.
Bolton.
The first letter laid out the strength of the northern host in neat columns, detailing the van, center, right, and reserve by count, with archers, horses, and wagons listed separately. The second outlined roads, halt points, and the day of march, while a third described the dragons in detail, from their size and scale colors to their fire reach and the proposed countermeasures of massed crossbow volleys. Bolton had taken careful note of Daenerys's landing at the Twins and recorded all he witnessed.
Bolton's meticulous detail in the first three letters won Tywin command of the river.
A small map was folded inside, inked with the Green Fork, the alder stand, the shallows, and the long sweep Glover and Cerwyn were to make under cover of the bank. Crosses marked the places for the pikes and the trees for the crossbowmen.
Ned read every line, his eyes searching the parchment for any trace of falsehood.
He had divided Bolton's forces, kept him from the dragons, and waited for irrefutable proof. The proof came, but in a Lannister tent and a day too late.
North men lay dead in the reeds because Ned had held to proof.
Bolton's letters left no doubt of his betrayal. He had sworn to serve Winterfell, yet for Lannister gold or favor, or perhaps some darker purpose, he broke his oath. Whether gold, favor, or a secret pact, it changed nothing. Oathbreaking and treason demanded the same consequence.
All that remained was the sword.
He tucked the letters inside his surcoat and gathered the rest of the correspondence into a neat stack for later sorting.
The camp had transformed from a battlefield into a laboring encampment, with men dragging the wounded toward makeshift infirmaries around the cookfires. Dead horses were hauled from the lanes between tents, and a ring of empty ground surrounded Morghaes, who crouched low against the earth.
Ned walked past the blackened wagons and stopped at the camp's northern edge, where the ground fell away toward the river road. Beyond those fields, Bolton rode with Maege, the Greatjon, and the rest, still secure in his own lie.
Messengers would ride tonight, swift men on fresh horses. Before the camp retired, orders would be sealed. Either Bolton would be brought to heel and brought north, or Ned would ride to him when the host could spare the time.
Either way, the road had narrowed to one end.
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Shadow Tower, The Wall
By the time Shadow Tower came into view, the column had lost its earlier cohesion.
The column meandered through the trees in untidy lines, bunching up where the path pinched and then fanning out around obstacles. Spearwives and black brothers in tattered cloaks trudged along side by side, while Thenns in bronze armor wove through the women carrying children bundled in furs. A few northern riders kept a wary eye on the woods from the edges, and every so often, someone glanced back over their shoulder.
Luke tracked the numbers, noting the wounded first, then the children, and finally the wagons, if any still had a wheel worth the name. He marked who could march under their own power and who would need a horse, cart, or stronger shoulder. The rearguard fight had bought them time, and nothing else.
Ahead, the Wall's pale face bisected the morning sky, its vast expanse looming over the land. At its base, Shadow Tower clung like a dark silhouette against the ice.
Luke glanced up briefly.
The ice hummed with a low vibration, like a damaged power cell. Luke pushed the notion aside and turned his attention to the column ahead.
"Tormund," Benjen called out as he reined his horse closer. "Keep your people from crowding the gate."
Tormund Giantsbane's gruff voice carried over the crowd, ordering the Wildlings into formation. "HAR! You heard the magic man! Form up like decent folk, or by my member, I'll plant my boot so far up the arse of the first bugger who pushes that he'll be chewing on my toes for a week!"
Robb rode up to Luke's left, Grey Wind keeping pace. The young lord sat rigid, shoulders hunched as he bore the weight of leading men twice his age through this frozen wasteland.
"You see them?" Robb asked, nodding toward the Wall.
"More or less," Luke said.
Above the gate, black-cloaked figures lined the heights, their bows ready and appearing small from this distance. One figure stood apart, motionless as a carved figurehead on a ship's prow. Benjen had identified him as Denys Mallister, the commander of this post, a man old enough to honor an oath and stubborn enough to keep it.
"Think they will lets us through without trouble?"
"They'll understand the choice in front of him. Whether they accept it, I can't say."
Amidala's paw brushed Luke's leg as she passed, her once-white fur now grayed with slush and blood. She paused, ears twitching as she glanced up at the Wall give Luke the chance to give her a few good scratches, then she quickly rejoined the marching line.
A horn blared from Shadow Tower's peak, its sound rolling over the snow-blanketed land. The black-garbed guards atop the tower shifted, lowering their bows for a heartbeat, then lifting them to point once more. The gate had stood against the wildlings since time immemorial, at least as far as Luke could grasp, and now a sea of living bodies stretched before it.
The persistent tremors in the Wall grew bolder and more insistent. Luke drew a deep breath, letting it steady his focus as he kept walking.
From the parapet, Denys Mallister looked down and saw his problem. Duty on one side, survival on the other. Mallister's voice carried down to them. "Hold where you stand! Do not move any further!"
They halted a bowshot from the gate.
Tormund cursed as Mance Rayder rode forth, his patched cloak whipping in the wind. Qhorin Halfhand strode alongside, fingers resting on his blade, prepared for a clash. Benjen marched to the front, and Robb passed his reins to Smalljon, positioning himself beside his uncle. Luke came after, aware he must speak of what lay beyond mortal understanding, and that the injured lingered behind, frost seeping deeper into their bones.
"Benjen," he called, "I never thought to see you bring at the head if a wilding host."
"By nightfall, the dead will take these people if you leave them here," Benjen warned.
"They are raiders, oathbreakers, murderers, and the Watch's sworn foes. Details you seemed to have overlooked, First Ranger."
A mirthless smile split Mance's face. "Mallister, we're freezing, starving, and fleeing for our lives. I've worn the black before, so spare me any lectures."
The men lining the Wall shifted at Mance's words, a few muttering curses and one spitting over the edge.
Mallister's eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare speak of the Watch. You who abandoned your own brothers."
"And lived long enough to see what lurks in the shadows of the trees," Mance said, "A skill well worth keeping."
A murmur of unease rippled through the men above. Some had glimpsed the snarling shapes in the trees, others had heard only rumors. Now they all faced the fact of the dead, a fact made all the more disturbing by the wildlings on their heels. A few looked to Benjen for reassurance, but most eyes darted nervously between the unfamiliar faces behind him and the strange shadows growing long.
Mallister's voice rang out clear and firm, "The gate's stay shut."
Tormund surged forward, his voice booming out, "HAR! Then we crash through, Crow! You think you can hold us all back?"
The cry of bowstrings and the creaking of bows stretched taut mingled overhead. At the murder holes above the tunnel, black brothers materialized with spears leveled. The front lines of the Free Folk contracted as axes and shields rose to mirror their stance, the air thick with tension.
Luke's voice caught in his throat, his gaze drawn upward as the shifting ice sent vibrations through the ground. The deepening pull caused him to track the ancient seams of the Wall, their weathering etched in a fading blue, before his focus snapped back to the crisis at hand.
"Commander," Luke said, his tone clipped. "Each moment here only strengthens the hunter tracking them. You need to see the danger waiting out there."
Qhorin's words cut off Luke's response. "You cannot imagine the horrors that await beyond this gate. I have seen the Fist overwhelmed by the dead, their eyes glowing blue. And there are more of them out there, fresh from the battlefield just waiting to strike again. You must open this gate, Mallister, or we are all doomed."
Mallister was silent for a long breath. "You ask me to break my oath in every way that matters. I cannot in good conscience allow all the wildlings to enter, no matter what pursues you."
"No," Benjen said.
He stepped farther out into the open space before the gate, where every bow above had a clear line on him.
"You ask me to break my vows if you leave these people unguarded," Benjen said. "I swore to guard the realms of men. Those realms reach beyond your hatred for wildlings, Denys. Mine do too."
A brother near the gate tunnel barked, "They have killed us for generations."
"And we have killed them," Benjen snapped. "You want an old tally while the dead stack new corpses at the door?"
Luke felt his hand drift toward the gate, sensing how a simple nudge of the Force could lift it, Mallister's stubborn will be damned. The wounded, so many of them, could not afford to wait on the old men's pointless squabbling.
But before Luke could continue, Benjen words stopped everyone. "If blood is the price here, take mine first. I am your brother, and I am responsible for their presence."
Time seemed to slow.
Qhorin arrived at Benjen's side, a mirror of him. "My role, my fate, are now both tied to his."
The line broke there, men on the Wall shifting their gaze from Benjen to Qhorin and back to the crowd of noncombatants. A few lowered their weapons, and Mallister tracked the movement, his eyes darting from his brother to the civilians as if assessing a new threat.
Then Mallister leaned over the parapet's edge, his call ringing out clear and strong. "Raise the gate! Brothers, take the tunnel, but keep your order or I'll seal it shut on every last one of you!"
Like a landslide, relief surged through the front ranks, men shouting, cursing, and laughing briefly and hard. Tormund roared for his people to move, and Mance exhaled, turning towards the next problem. Meanwhile, Benjen bowed his head for a moment before straightening.
The great gate began to rise.
As chains clanked deep in the ice and timber groaned, the first wave of Free Folk surged toward the tunnel. Tormund and Sigorn began striking them with their axes and staffs to halt the rush.
"Move!" Tormund roared. "Women and children first. Wounded right behind. The rest of you lot, hold fast!"
Luke stayed back from the tunnel entrance, ushering forward the most dire cases. A pony carried an elderly woman with a shredded calf, while two spearwives supported a man between them. A Night's Watchman with two fingers missing stared blankly at the opening gate, as if his legs had forgotten their purpose.
The Free Folk's line snaked into the tunnel, guided by Tormund and the giants, Benjen's brothers barring any retreat at the gate, as Amidala drifted to the fringes to kneel beside a child swathed in furs. The moment was calm, and Luke realized he had a few precious minutes before he was called upon again.
As the vibration within the Wall intensified, a tightness formed behind Luke's eyes. He retrieved the comlink, flipped the switch, and heard a wash of static before the reply came.
"Master Luke, sir?"
A little boy walking nearby suddenly froze, his gaze snapping to the voice emanating from Luke's comm. He pointed urgently at Luke, drawing his mother's attention. Her eyes widened, but Luke's reassuring smile and wave calmed her. She quickly ushered her son away.
"Threepio, bring the Falcon over. Land in the clearing south of the gate."
"At once, Master Luke."
The Falcon arrived swiftly enough to be seen, yet slowly enough to avoid causing a stampede, its shadow crossing the ground first, followed by the engine note rolling over the Wall.
The Night's Watch brothers who had battled wights and wildlings lost what little composure they had left. Some abandoned their weapons and knelt in fear, while others gripped their swords, pressing against the walls and staring up at the sky. A third stood motionless at the parapet, mouthing the same words over and over. Two men deserting the winch were called back by Mallister's angry bellow.
Even as they stared in awe, the Free Folk kept walking. Tormund waved his people on as if metal ships came down from the sky every winter.
The Falcon's engines roared as it dropped below the Wall, then fell silent as it touched down.
Instead of walking to the ship, he set a course for the ice.
As he approached the Wall, the sounds of the passage faded with each step, peeled away by the sheer expanse of ice and snow. The Wall's surface, stratified with bubbles, cracks, and mended seams, consumed his gaze. Up close, it almost looked like an artwork.
Luke opened his gloves and set his palm against the ice. Frost bit his skin first, then the Wall answered.
The Wall thrummed with power, layered in bands and fields, a testament to centuries of craft and care. Someone had woven its strands, reinforced its structure, tended its upkeep, and expanded its reach. Luke's palms had felt this hum before, on Yavin and in Coruscant's ancient halls - the same energy, expressed in a different way.
As Brandon Stark's name rose to Luke's awareness, a reply echoed from the far side of the Wall.
Rhythmic bursts of the Force struck the Wall, each blow matching its internal pattern to shake the structure loose. The matrix trembled, small failures flashing through the web, healing, then reopening along the line. A defense built for ages was tested, its worn state grated.
Luke pulled his hand back.
His fingers had gone numb to the wrist, and flexing them yielded little response. The timeline in his head, the one that allowed for marches, councils, and careful politics, was shredded. Beyond the North, an immense force pushed relentlessly against the Wall, testing its structure like deep water against a hull. Time was no longer a luxury.
"Master."
There Robb was, shoulder to shoulder with him, that great wolf of his a pace behind with ears pinned back. Luke spun from the Wall and took in the boy's face. There was a patience there now, and it unsettled him.
Robb paused, then spoke with firm resolve, "I have unfinished business north of here before we head south." Anger simmered in his voice as he drew a breath.
"There's a wildling called Craster north of the Wall. The demon... breeds his daughters and gives his sons to the Others." Robb's mouth twisted in disgust. "One of them, Gilly, told me the truth of it. And I gave my word I'd come back for her if I lived, and for the rest if they'll come."
Luke's lips pressed together in disgust at the news. "To his own daughters? How could some--"
"You see, Master, why I must go."
"No, you needn't tell me more, but I'm not letting you go out there alone. We leave now," Luke said, walking for the Falcon.
Robb nodded and matched his pace, falling into step beside him.
After entrusting Benjen with the gate and Tormund with the line, Luke strode across the clearing with purpose, Robb, Smalljon, and Karstark in his wake. Robb's direwolf loped alongside, and Amidala stayed close to Luke's side. The Falcon waited where Threepio had left her, a welcome sight against the snowy backdrop. Its squat, ugly form provided a reassuring contrast to anything that might appear more elegant.
The ramp lowered, and Karstark paused at its base, caught between his oath to Robb and his own stubborn pride. In the end, pride carried the day, and he climbed aboard, joining Robb inside.
Luke slid into the pilot's seat as Threepio vacated the co-pilot's chair with a worried mutter about frost in his joints. The hold sealed with a heavy clang. Luke guided the Falcon into a smooth ascent, banking northward and leveling off above the treetops.
In the hold, Karstark gripped the bench with white-knuckled hands, staring rigidly at the opposite bulkhead as lights blinked overhead. Each bank sent him lunging off his seat.
Smalljon sat across from Karstark, arms folded tight, mouth twisted in a crooked line. He averted his gaze, glancing away whenever Karstark looked at him. The man's evasive posture did not fool anyone. After a few more turns, Smalljon reached for his knife and drew a whetstone from his pouch. The rasp of stone on steel echoed through the hold, a steady, grim accompaniment to the engines' hum.
Robb sat with his elbows on his knees and his head bent, one hand resting on the hilt Luke had given him in the Frostfangs. Silence settled over him.
As Luke left the Shadow Tower behind, Craster's Keep emerged before him, a jumble of roofs and palisades that made his Force-senses prickle with alarm. The foul stench of the slave camps on Tatooine clung to this place, a fear carved deep by years of hardship and neglect. As they got closer, he was able to see the women huddled together in crowded quarters, most hardly more than girls.
The Falcon touched down with a hiss, its ramp lowering to expose the churned snow beyond Craster's gate.
The shutters burst open with a bang, and there they were — a girl with a baby tucked under her chin, and a woman beside her, cheek bruised and eyes wide. They froze, staring into the blinding floodlights. The front door flew open, and out strode Craster, axe in hand, fur cloak flapping around his bulk. He took three paces into the churned snow, then stopped dead, gaze locked on the Falcon.
Grey Wind landed first in a controlled descent while Amidala followed cautiously. Robb and smalljon touched down next, with Karstark bringing up the rear and landing unevenly.
Craster's eyes widened as he took in the unfamiliar sight before him. "What in the hells is that thing?"
Robb ignored him. "Gilly! Where are you?!"
A stir came from behind the door as the name carried through the yard. Then Gilly stepped into view—thinner than Luke expected, a blanket around her shoulders, both hands locked around the babe at her breast. She looked from Robb to Grey Wind to the ship, and her mouth opened.
"You came back," a girl, most likely Gilly, said with tears in her eyes.
"As I promised," Robb affirmed.
Craster lurched toward her, but Smalljon stepped in front of him with a hand on his sword. That gave Gilly enough time to turn and shout toward the hall.
"He's here, the wolf lord. He's come back on a dragon!" Gilly shouted from inside.
After that the yard filled in pieces. Women at the doorway, then girls, then children stopping cold at the ship and the wolves. Fear in every face, every flinch, every pair of eyes that wouldn't meet his. Familiar.
Before the crowd could thicken and delay, he started doling out jobs.
"Smalljon, get the bundles and children loaded first. Karstark, assist Smalljon. Robb, take care of those who are wounded or ill."
Robb gave a brief nod and crossed to the woman in the doorway, her two small daughters clutching at her skirts. He knelt, met their eyes, spoke softly, then gestured to the ramp. She nodded once and set off.
Gilly was the best kind of speech. She moved through the crowd, calling out Robb's name, as if that one act alone could bridge the chasm between fear and action.
"The lord brought a dragon to fight the shadows! He said he'd be here, and here he is. Gather the little ones, and let us flee this place!"
That got the first cluster moving. Some hurried off at once, while others stood rooted to the spot until a sister dragged them by the wrist. When the wolves passed nearby, children cried out, and Luke sent Amidala and Grey Wind to the edges of the yard. There, they could watch the treeline instead of the loading line.
An older woman stood in the doorway, exhausted and hollow-cheeked, a toddler clutched to her hip. Her eyes fixed longingly on the Falcon as if she was trying to muster the courage to move. When she looked down at the child in her arms her resolve solidified. Luke angled his body to show it was safe to board and she walked toward the ship, climbed the ramp, her back rigid.
A girl of perhaps fourteen reached the foot of the ramp and balked. Her eyes fixed on the strips of light running along the hold and she flinched back, one arm rising to shield her face. The overhead glow was steady and white and nothing like fire.
Luke stepped down beside her, took the bundle from her arms before she could drop it, and angled his body to block the worst of the light.
"The brightness fades once you're through," he told her quietly.
She shifted her gaze from him to the bundle cradled in his arms, her eyes narrowing in the harsh light. Squinting, she reached out to steady herself against the wall as she climbed.
Craster's shock gave way to a roar, its fury lashing at Smalljon, then Gilly, then the women in turn.
"You ungrateful whores! After all I have done for you lot! Back in the hall. Back, I said!"
Only a few obeyed. He felt their choice as pain. This shelter, crude as it was, was all they had known.
Gilly had reached the bottom of the ramp with the baby when Craster caught her arm and yanked her around, jolting the child in its blanket. She cried out and the babe wailed as Craster drew back his free hand.
But his arm stopped mid-swing becauseLuke's palm was raised, fingers splayed.
Rage twisted Craster's face as he strained against something he could not see. His fist hung two feet from Gilly's face, boots churning snow that gave no purchase. The veins in his forearm stood out like cords, but he could not move. Only an animal sound escaped his throat—fury and confusion tangled into one raw noise.
Then the yard went blue, and Craster's profanities died in his throat.
Robb ignited his lightsaber in a single fluid motion. In the blink of an eye, the blade flashed and Craster's head separated from his body, leaving the man unaware of his fate. The corpse crumpled to the ground, leaving the would-be assailant's fist hanging mid-air, frozen in futility.
Robb killed the blade and clipped the hilt to his belt, his eyes already on Gilly.
The women and the two heirs halted their frantic movement.
Long-ingrained dread kept the women rooted at the door, their eyes caught between Craster and the snow where his head looked at them lifeless. Like rabbits frozen between a predator and the edge of a clearing.
"You cannot tell me that was wrong," Robb said.
Luke lowered his arm, meeting Robb's eyes for a long moment before a slow nod of assent.
"No, Robb. I can't honestly say I disagree."
A woman squeezed her eyes shut as another spat on the dead man in the snow. The one with the boy shoved him toward the ramp, sending him stumbling. The oldest of the holdouts, a heavy woman with grey streaks in her hair, fixed her stare on me. After a long, tense moment, she gave a curt nod and disappeared inside. She returned with a bundled blanket and a small sack, her eyes never once flickering to Craster's body as she passed it. Her back rigid, she marched to the ramp.
After that, the last of them moved.
As the final minutes ticked by, the loading process grew chaotic. More people pressed in, yet the hold was quickly filling. Luke moved swiftly, passing infants up the ramp, catching a woman as she stumbled, and helping to load the few possessions they had managed to gather: sacks, cloaks, a carved spoon, and a rag doll made of wool scraps.
Threepio descended the ramp with both hands raised and his polished face catching every lamp flame in the yard.
"Please, if you would be so kind as to proceed in an orderly fashion," he said.
A child shrieked and buried her face in her mother's skirts. One woman reached out as she passed, touching the droid's arm and tracing the metal with her fingers as if checking whether it was real.
"He's a friend," Luke said, trying to ease thier fears. "Threepio, go help them buckle in."
"Of course, Master Luke."
Karstark carried a sack of turnips under one arm and a sleeping boy under the other, watching the gold droid sidle down the aisle. "I'm surprised they're not more scared," he said. "Though I suppose after a day like this, nothing much would surprise them."
Smalljon barked a laugh before he could stop himself.
"Talking about these women or yourself, Karstark?" The silence was answer enough, and Smalljon just laughed harder.
At last the yard stood empty save for Craster's body, Luke faced north.
A black wall rose along the horizon, spreading across the sky as it drove south beyond the dark cut of the mountains. The snow's current fed toward it, pushed by the same presence that strained against the Wall.
The ramp sealed behind Luke as he stepped inside, his gaze lingering one final moment before the hatch shut.
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