Timett son of Timett's chest heaved like a wounded bear. He stood amidst the carnage of the failed raid, his breath rasping in the cold air.
"How many Burned Men are left?" he demanded. "How many in all the tribes?"
A warrior with a face charred into a mask of melted scar tissue bowed his head. "Timett son of Timett... we have barely a hundred Burned Men. All tribes together... less than six hundred."
"Six hundred!" Timett ground his teeth. Yesterday, they were over a thousand. The great coalition was breaking, but Timett could not fail. Not as the Red Hand. He had earned his name by gouging out his own eye with a white-hot knife; if he retreated now without plunder or the castle, his legend would die with him.
"Charge!" Timett growled. "Send everyone!"
"Timett son of Timett! What are you saying?" the warrior gasped.
Timett grabbed him by the throat, his single red eye burning with a frantic madness. "Do not make Timett son of Timett repeat himself! Everyone! Charge the walls! Take the stone house! Kill every Lowlander inside! Leave no one alive! KILL!!"
The tribes obeyed, surging toward the stone walls in a final, desperate wave. Timett didn't notice Shagga son of Dolf and the Stone Crows quietly slipping away into the woods, nor did he see Chella of the Black Ears watching him with a knowing, creepy smile.
On the walls of Deepden, Lord Lover stared with bloodshot eyes at the sea of wildlings. The corpses at the base of the wall were piled high enough to serve as a ramp, and the stench of rot was suffocating. His soldiers were exhausted, starving, and out of arrows. They had torn down the stables and the smithy for throwing stones, and now even the rubble was gone.
"They are coming again," Lord Lover croaked. He turned to his son, Ser Harrold. "Where is Solomon of Mirekeep? Where are the reinforcements?"
"That coward!" Ser Harrold spat over the battlement. "House Mirekeep has no honor! He's hiding in the woods with his three hundred peasants!"
Lord Lover laughed bitterly. "Lady Roslin sent him here to die. Three hundred farmers? It's a token gesture so she can say she tried. If we die, he dies too. I just hope he burns in the Seven Hells with us!"
"Father! Father! They're swarming the walls!!" Ser Harrold screamed.
The wildlings were charging in a human tsunami.
"Stations!" Lord Lover roared, drawing his chipped sword. "Fight! Fight or die! If anyone holds back, I will hang him! I will hang his whole family!!"
The assault began in earnest. Ladders slammed against stone, and wildlings swarmed up like ants. Without rocks or arrows to stop them, the defenders were forced into brutal hand-to-hand combat on the ramparts. Below, the main gate shook under the blows of a massive ram.
Suddenly, a Burned Man vaulted over the parapet. Lord Lover's heart turned to ice; once the wall was lost, his tired levies would be slaughtered. He saw his men falling, the breach widening.
Then, he froze.
The wildlings stopped climbing. The soldiers stopped stabbing. Everyone heard it—a horn. Long, clear, and piercing. It wasn't the crude bone horn of a savage; it was the brazen, metallic call of a war trumpet.
Boooo-oooo-oooo-m!
It cut through the screams of the dying like a knife.
Boooo-oooo-oooo-m!