If you're enjoying these stories, consider leaving a comment, review, or vote.
You can also visit the Pat** on at: CaveLeather
Stannis rose and paced the cramped stone hut, irritation plain on his face.
"Carter Pyke heard rumors of a dragon-tamer among the wildlings. None of us took it seriously. So tell me, my lady—why didn't your flames show us this?"
Melisandre met the king's eyes and answered quietly.
"This land is cursed, Your Grace. It is soaked in the power of ancient false gods. Sometimes even the Lord of Light cannot pierce the darkness here."
Stannis had no rebuttal. The red priestess had warned him the moment they met the Eastwatch ships: beyond the Wall her god's power was weak. He had ignored her, determined to copy his brother Robert and smash the enemy with a lightning march while they were unprepared.
Without the dragon, he would have won a crushing victory.
Night fell and the lords and knights packed into the hut again, arguing louder than before.
Some demanded they press the attack at once. A few even suggested trying to capture the small dragon. After all, House Baratheon carried Targaryen blood—perhaps the king could master it.
Most were not that reckless. They clung to Melisandre's counsel and wanted to leave this cursed ground as fast as possible, sail back south of the Wall, and regroup.
The experienced captains spoke from cold reason: the wildlings were now alert. Attacking the Wall from the north was pointless—like trying to take Moat Cailin from the south. It had never been done in ten thousand years.
Stannis agreed. It was why he had ordered the retreat at dusk.
What kept him here now was the shock of the dragon and the fact that his army had been harassed the entire march back. Men and horses needed rest and care.
Once they had rested and most voices favored withdrawal, Stannis sent for the Eastwatch ranger guides he had brought north.
He asked if a night march was possible. They had covered less than twenty miles since the battle. If they could not reach Hardhome quickly, supplies would become a crisis. He was also uneasy about Melisandre's warnings—his queen and only daughter waited at Hardhome with the fleet, and he did not trust the garrison he had left behind.
"I would not choose it, Your Grace," the old black-cloaked ranger said calmly under the stares of half a dozen lords. "The wildlings fought harder today than any I've seen. That's unusual. At night they can cause far more trouble than in daylight."
"They seem to have found themselves a decent king," Stannis said with a mocking snort.
The ranger waited a beat, then continued.
"Besides the wildlings, we've heard plenty of talk about the Cold Gods. Castle Black sent ravens. Lord Commander Mormont's force was attacked by an army of the dead at the Fist of the First Men."
"Whether you believe it or not, the brothers of the Watch do. Otherwise the wildlings would never have brought their women, children, and every scrap they own across a thousand miles just to attack the Wall. Something terrified them."
"And night belongs to the dead. Only sunlight and fire can drive them back."
Melisandre seized the moment.
"Those are the servants of the ancient enemy the king saw in the flames—creatures of darkness and cold."
"That is the true foe!" she declared, voice ringing. "Compared with the war that is coming, this squabble is children trading blows. The ancient false gods are gathering strength—terrible, evil, and almost impossible to defeat. The cold winds are rising. Soon the Long Night will fall and never end."
At her words the lords who followed the Lord of Light made the sign of the flaming heart.
"We must move with caution or all hope will be lost," she finished. "Righteous men must take courage and raise the red heart of R'hllor. Westeros must unite under the one true king—the prince of prophecy, Lord of Dragonstone, R'hllor's chosen champion—Stannis Baratheon!"
The room caught fire. Every man joined her in the familiar prayer.
"The night is dark and full of terrors…"
That same night Stannis ordered the huge weirwood felled. They stacked it into a bonfire that roared thirty feet high.
Soldiers ringed the village with campfires, cut wide firebreaks through the trees, and doubled the sentries.
They feared attacks from both the living and the dead.
Despite every precaution, trouble came in the second half of the night.
An unknown number of wildling archers opened fire from a hundred and fifty yards out. Their arrows found marks with murderous accuracy. In half an hour they dropped more than forty men.
The army's own longbowmen swore that fewer than a hundred men in all of Westeros could shoot like that in total darkness.
When torch-and-shield parties charged the treeline, the attackers vanished like ghosts. No footprints remained in the snow. Some pursuers went too deep and never came back.
The southerners finally ringed the entire village in bonfires bright as daylight. Only then did the phantom archers withdraw.
Dawn arrived and the exhausted men had barely closed their eyes when the dragon returned.
Weeping Blood did not dive or breathe fire this time. He knew the longbowmen were waiting. He simply circled just beyond arrow range and let out occasional chilling shrieks. That was enough. No one dared sleep.
The scarlet shape finally vanished when full daylight came.
Then shadowy figures appeared at the edge of the distant trees—short, barefoot men carrying short spears. The Hardfoots, the same clan the heavy cavalry had smashed the day before.
To the southern knights they looked like half-evolved apes. No one took them seriously.
But these "apes" had the nerve to sprint straight into longbow range, some charging to within a few dozen paces of the forming column before hurling their crude spears at the mounted men.
The insult burned. The sleepless night made it worse. Without waiting for orders, furious knights spurred into the woods after them.
They killed a few who couldn't run fast enough.
Their own losses were heavier. The wildlings had prepared pits and trip-ropes. Horses and riders went down screaming.
Stannis punished the surviving knights and their squires severely. Discipline held, but morale sank lower.
By then he and his captains knew they were in trouble.
Without open ground for their cavalry and after a night without sleep, the southern soldiers were far less effective. Constant harassment along the march meant the two-day ride back to Hardhome now looked impossibly far away.