Chapter 241: Bloody Stand Against the Wall
"Ser Jaime... the portcullis... it's been dropped!"
"I can see that!" Jaime snapped back. He turned to look at the swarming mass of over a thousand Wildlings crammed by the gate, understanding why Mormont had issued such an order. The renovated Castle Black, with its new curtain walls, was indeed much stronger, but the price was that its interior space had shrunk to a fraction of its original size. With over a thousand Night's Watchmen and Gift militia already stationed there, the castle was packed to capacity. If these Wildlings were allowed to cross the Wall without being disarmed, they would pose a massive threat to the castle itself, even if they didn't accidentally lead those ghostly things outside the stockade in with them.
Furthermore, the enemies of mankind outside the fence had already begun ramming the gates and scaling the timber walls. If the portcullis were raised to allow entry and no one stayed to fight those things...
Rather than opening the gate and letting a mob crush each other for a chance to get in only to be slaughtered from behind, it was better to let no one in and force everyone to pick up a weapon and fight!
Born of a Great House, Jaime could wrap his head around the grand strategy of the situation, but that didn't mean the other Watchmen who had accompanied him outside, or the refugees who had just fled in terror from the Haunted Forest, would understand. A huge crowd of Wildlings gathered before the fallen gate, roaring and protesting in the Common Tongue, the Old Tongue, and dialects Jaime didn't even recognize, calling for everyone to heave the gate open.
"Silence!" the Kingslayer roared, standing before the gate. "Even if you lift this gate, only a tenth of us at most would escape! Pick up your weapons and drive back the monsters chasing you—only then do we have a chance to live!"
"Who the hell are you to give us orders?"
"Just another damned crow! Get out of the way!"
Following the crisp sound of a blade leaving its sheath and a flash of steel, the Wildling who had raised a club at Jaime collapsed in a spray of blood. Jaime had killed the man with a single strike, realizing there was no reasoning with this mob. Holding his dripping castle-forged sword, he took a deep breath to find the words and then bellowed: "You sons of bitches! You have two choices: either pick up a weapon and drive those things back to the woods so you can cross the Wall in safety, or get cut down by me like this man on the ground!"
Jaime never imagined the day would come when he would shout such incredibly crude profanities, but the insults and threats worked wonders. Looking at his bloody sword and the other black-clad soldiers standing by with murderous intent, the tribes that understood the Common Tongue were the first to quiet down. They translated Jaime's words into the Old Tongue for the more remote folk and the last few giants. Slowly, the crowd turned around, weapons in hand, facing the wooden walls that were already swaying under the onslaught of the wights.
They weren't moved by Jaime's eloquence or a sudden change of heart; rather, the situation was starkly clear. The gate of Castle Black had been reinforced with extra iron plating and bars during the repairs; it was solid, heavy, and absolutely could not be forced open quickly, while the wights behind them were on the verge of breaking through. This battle wasn't about obeying a blonde crow or protecting humanity; it was a fight for their own survival and the lives of the kin standing beside them.
Amidst the biting chill and swirling snow, the Wildlings and the few dozen Watchmen huddled within the stockade grabbed the best weapons they could find and lit as many bonfires and torches as possible.
Before they could even finish their preparations, the main gate of the wooden fence gave way under the impact of hundreds of wights. With a thunderous crash, it slammed to the ground, and the enemy poured in.
"Jaime is trapped outside the Wall?" Egger felt a cold shiver go down his spine. "Why him?"
The soldier being questioned shook his head innocently. "No particular reason... today... today was just his turn on duty."
This was bad—incredibly bad. Egger grew tense. Jaime's identity was that of a Ranger Captain, a role he seemed quite happy to play. He was loyal, diligent, and fully obedient to superior orders; it was perfectly logical for him to be assigned the task of disarming Wildlings outside the Wall.
He might have seen himself as just another Ranger Captain, but if something happened to him, the cost to the Night's Watch—and the world—would be far greater than losing a mid-level officer. For starters, any hope of Western assistance for the Wall would be gone forever. Furthermore, if Tywin Lannister believed this was a story cooked up by Northerners after murdering his son, the Seven Kingdoms would descend into even greater chaos!
Mormont also realized the gravity of the situation. "We have to find a way to get him up."
"He won't come up alone," Egger said, shaking his head. He knew Jaime's temperament. "Bring all the oil barrels from the warehouse. We must repel this wave of wights at any cost." If only the wildfire from King's Landing were here! Nina had arranged for ships to deliver it to Eastwatch recently, but the Watch had been so busy processing Wildlings that they couldn't spare the manpower to transport those dangerous goods. "Find a way to surround the wooden fence with a wall of fire, and use that chance to cover our brothers below as they cross the Wall!"
As the site for disarming Wildlings, the stockade was filled with various tools and equipment. The last few giants, the Wildling warriors, and the spearwives quickly armed themselves, shielding the non-combatant boys and girls in an inner circle. Most didn't hold swords; instead, they lit torches in the bonfires to arm themselves with flame.
The wights swarmed through the fallen gate, staggering toward the cluster of people within the stockade.
"Don't bunch up!" Jaime roared. "Spread out and charge!"
If the crowd continued to huddle together, the wights could still threaten the protected inner circle even if they were set ablaze. The clearer-headed Wildlings reacted, roaring as they followed his lead.
"Kill them!"
"Taste the fire!"
"@[#]￥%&!"
Shouts in various languages and accents rang out, mingled with the neighing of garron ponies, the barking of hounds, and the thunderous voices of giants. People could no longer tell friend from foe. A wight-direwolf of medium size with tattered fur was the fastest, leading the charge toward the crowd. Its strength had increased after being turned, though its agility had dropped significantly. Jaime lunged aside, his arm muscles tensing beneath his armor until they were hard as iron; his steel sword bit into the side of the wolf's neck, nearly severing the head.
The wight-wolf crashed heavily to the ground and was immediately stabbed by dozens of torches from the Wildlings behind. It quickly transformed into a mass of moving flame, knocking over several people before falling silent forever.
The Kingslayer's extraordinary skill and bravery stemmed the tide of the rout, and the Wildling warriors and spearwives around him—scrambling to find their courage—provided some coordination. Driven by the instinct for self-preservation, the Wildlings began to spontaneously close ranks and protect the Kingslayer, gritting their teeth as they fought a bloody battle against their non-human opponents.
The roars and shouts of these warriors inspired those still cowering in fear. In a chain reaction, many young Wildlings huddled in the center also felt their blood boil, roaring as they joined the fray.
With a roar came a sword strike, a hammer blow, or a torch thrust. Those with quick reflexes could dodge a wight's counterattack to face the next foe; those who were slow were pounced upon, blood spraying everywhere. It was a massacre, but that was the only way untrained Wildlings knew how to fight.
Enemy reinforcements continued to pour through the broken gate, and the battle soon moved from the entrance into the heart of the camp. Several giants, too slow-witted to retreat, instantly became islands in a sea of wights and were eventually overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Every few seconds, a living person fell, and a wight erupted into a ball of flame. Alongside the battle cries and shrieks, the sounds of torches striking flesh, wight-fat exploding from the heat, and steel clashing with bone joined together to play a bizarre symphony.
Fortunately, no White Walkers had joined this particular fight. With the attackers being entirely wights, the living's stand with their backs to the wall—or rather, their counterattack against it—effectively checked the enemy's attempt to slaughter everyone who had rushed through the fallen gate.
The tragedy was that while they had briefly found their spirit, their situation remained unchanged: they had no path of retreat and nowhere to run. These brave souls could not carve a path through the sea of dead; they could only spend their blood and fervor in a hopeless war of attrition with the wights, hoping the commander of Castle Black would show mercy and raise the iron gate.
As the surrounding timber walls began to buckle and collapse, the lumbering silhouettes of wight-giants appeared at the edge of the Haunted Forest. The scales of victory were about to tip decisively toward the dead.
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