Chapter 21.
The first few days following after the Battle of Winterfell sped by rapidly.
(Of course, Winterfell had seen numerous other battles. But, this was the first one to involve Wights and White Walkers. So, all of the other historic moments were rather eclipsed.)
It was well known among Tyrion's men that the Giant was ready to listen to new ideas and would give gold for good ones.
On the third morning after the battle, Arrigo told Tyrion that one of the soldiers had come up with something interesting.
"The lad came in at the last moment with some villagers. We put him in with the rest of the spearmen and he fought well."
The new invention was a spearhead with a empty space at the base for holding oil. A wick ran from that to the midsection of the spearhead. The same clamp that held the wick in place also held a piece of flint.
"There's enough oil to last about two hours. Any fight that goes for longer than that with no let up, we're probably fucked anyway." Arrigo gestured at the tall young man, who obligingly struck the flat of the blade against the metal rim of a nearby shield.
Sparks flew off the flint and the wick lit on the second try. "If the flames go out, we can relight in moments."
Tyrion nodded. "Show the other blacksmiths how to make them and have detailed drawings sent by raven to other cities. Other blacksmiths can begin on them as well."
"Very good work...?" He let his voice trail off to prompt the dark-haired youth to supply his name.
"Gendry, M'lord."
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Father,
I once swore that I would never beg again. Particularly from you.
But, Fate and the Gods conspire to make fools and liars of us all.
As I write this, an army of the undead marches on Winterfell-
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Tywin waited in silence as the letter was passed around the Small Council.
The fact that he had dropped all pretense and directly invited the Queen of Thorns to be present underscored the importance of the situation.
Cersei read the letter and had the predictable reaction. "It's a trick! That little monster wants more troops to challenge us! He thinks we'll supply the swords that he'll use to cut our throats with!"
Tywin didn't reply. He just shifted his gaze to Grand Maester Pycelle.
"I must agree with the Queen. What Lord Tyrion speaks of cannot exist."
The Hand's expression did not change or show any emotion. Instead, his eyes flickered towards Varys.
"True, what Lord Tyrion writes of is the stuff of legend.", the eunuch said, slowly. "And, yes, he is not above lying to gain power."
"But, there are easier lies to tell. More believable for more gain. I am afraid, and I do mean that in all senses of the word, that your son is telling the truth."
Now, it was Mace Tyrell's turn and he scoffed. "The Walking Dead? Impossible! It sounds like something that actors would do to entertain the commoners."
But, at his side, Olenna looked pensive. And, underneath that, deeply worried. She addressed Varys, "Do you have any Little Birds in the North?"
"War has deeply cut into thier numbers, but I do have some. I will write to them, immediately."
She nodded and spoke to Tywin. "It will take time to gather forces. I suggest that we begin right away. However, we can wait until Varys gets a response before committing."
The last to speak was Kevan Lannister, sitting at his brother's right hand. With a somber expression, he said, "Lord Varys spoke of easier lies. This is true, but in another way as well."
"Tyrion hates you, brother. There are other lies that he could tell that would not involve humbling himself to you."
Slowly, Tywin refolded the letter and put it in his pocket, mentally chewing over everyone's responses.
"I will be leaving for the North within three days," he finally said. "Tyrion has never been able to lie to me directly. I will look him in the eye, ask him to repeat his tale and I will know the truth."
The rest of the table exploded in a gabble of protests, questions and cross-talk. Tywin cut it all short by standing out of his chair. "I will meet with you all individually with instructions on what to do while I am away."
It was a measure of how distracted Tywin was that, as he strode out the door, he didn't notice the plotting smile that spread across Cersei's face.
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After the battle, the Greatjon took the duty of going to the Karstarks and the other Northern Houses and rallying the forces. Whatever the trust (Or lack of) they might feel for a Lannister, Lord Umber was one of them and they would know that the threat was real.
Ravens were sent to other cities and to ports to be sent over by ship to Essos. Mercenaries were to be hired, armor and supplies to be ordered. And, Tyrion's latest preoccupation was to think of ways to pay for it all.
He actually had enough wealth to fund it all out of his own pocket. In addition to Tyrion's other enterprises, Kuroq ni Galare, the Meereen exile who owned a third interest in Tyrion's arena, had expanded upon the idea and opened three more football and horse racing arenas in Pentos, Myr and Tyrosh. More of his family had joined him from Meeren and, knowing that their future rested upon it, they did their best to make the ventures successful.
The Tyroshi especially loved the game. The Myrish liked the game, but greatly preferred to use the arena for a local game called volleyball.
The Iron Bank and Tyrion each went in for a third interest and fat profits were made off of food, drink and betting.
(There were a few problems where the betting was concerned. Sattas Mehmed was known as the Prince of Bones. Both because he began by running a dice game when he was younger and for the corpses that he created in his rise to the top.
The Mehmed Family controlled all the gambling in Myr and Pentos. When the Galare Family built their Arenas, a representative showed up and demanded the usual cut. The cut he got was not the expected one, right across the throat. And so, the Family War began.
But, that's another story.)
Tyrion explained that they had no idea on how long the war or the winter would last.
"It's best to have as many sources of wealth as possible. War, in particular, swallows gold like a pit in the earth." As soon as he said it, Tyrion got a troubled look on his face.
"What's wrong?", Sansa asked.
"For a moment there, I had the oddest feeling," said Tyrion. He shook his head. "Never mind. It's gone now."
Arya idly tapped the table and thought. Living in Tyrion's household had given her a crash course in economics and industry. "I can't think of anything that we can produce in winter." Judging from the looks on everyone else's faces, they shared the same quandry. "Mining, for example. Even if there is no war, we cannot scout digging locations. Everything's covered in snow."
"Can't mine anything, can't grow anything, can't raise livestock." Tyrion waved at the white landscape outside the window. "Ice and snow, ice and snow, everywhere you look, ice and snow."
Suddenly, he stopped.
"You have an idea?", Dell guessed.
"Yes. Yes, I do."
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Two months later, Ranulf, trailed by a few of his sailors, strode into Zulen the Bull's main hall on Walano, in the Summer Islands.
Zulen had been stolen as a child and sold into slavery. By the age of fourteen, he had gotten big enough to throttle his master and escape. Eventually, he became a mercenary and, during the fighting, had become friends with the Iron Islander.
Although he was shorter than Ranulf (Short being a relative term. Zulen was six-and-a-half feet tall.), he had even broader shoulders, arms like tree trunks and was one of the few people that could match Ranulf in appetite. Many times in many taverns, they had kicked everyone's asses in a barfight, ate the larder down to nothing and drank the place dry.
Despite the large tavern bills, Zulen earned enough to retire, return to the Summer Islands and become a merchant. Ironically, between jealous husbands, politics and business rivals, he saw just as much bloodshed as he ever did.
"One merchant actually hired a Faceless Man to kill me. Well, Faceless Woman. Posed as one of the assistant cooks."
Ranulf raised his eyebrows as he looked at the other man curiously. "How'd you know she wasn't really a cook?"
Zulen threw back his head and laughed. "They can change faces easily, but hands are another story. A real cook has knife and burn scars. This one did not."
"I stabbed her to death and did the same to my rival in the same night. Lucky for me, they do not hold a grudge. No further money from the client, no further attempts." He cocked his head at Ranulf. "It is strange to see you here, my friend. Have you become a merchant as well?"
"Just this once, as a favor to someone. And, I'm damn curious to see if this sells."
"What sells?", Zulen asked.
As the pair had been talking, one of Ranulf's men had set up a large bowl and had been deftly mixing wine, spices and fruit in it. As the final touch, he took a sawdust-covered foot-square block out of a large chest.
After brushing away most of the sawdust, he used some water to rinse away the rest, revealing that the block was ice. With a mallet, he crushed the ice and mixed it in the bowl as the final ingredient.
Two flagons were poured and the men drank without ceremony. Zulen savored the chill of the drink, delightfull against the perpetual heat of his homeland.
He gave Ranulf a shrewd glance over the rim of his drink. "What else did you bring?"
"This is it. Tons and tons of ice. A ship's hold worth."
"I'll buy it all."
Word spread and Zulen resold the ice in less than three days.
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To say that the Notherners were absolutely gobsmacked by this turn of events was an understatement.
Anyone who had ever chopped or sawn wood during winter knew that a covering of sawdust kept snow and ice from melting. And, enough of the nobles had a decent education from the Maesters so that they knew that places like Dorne and the Summer Isles were constantly warm.
But, they had never considered shipping and selling it. Why should they? Ice wasn't useful. It was the enemy that lay seige to your castle and killed your people. Also, how could it be worth anything? It was everywhere.
More than one Northern Lord heard about the wealth that the Imp was making, looked at the ice covering his ponds and rivers and cursed the Lannister. Even if they could try to sell ice on thier own, he had a massive lead with established warehouses and contacts.
Mixed in with the curses was reluctant admiration. Lord Harald Karstark said it was rumored that Lord Tywin shits gold.
"But, his son, the Imp? All he has to do is touch something and it turns to gold."
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Once Tywin was away, Cersei made her move.
First, she installed Aurane Waters as the new Captain of the Royal Flagship and Admiral of the Fleet.
Tall and silver-haired, Aurane was a bastard son of the House Velaryon. He resembled Rhaegar Targaryen, the Prince that she was promised and never received.
Only, in many ways, Aurane was better. Unlike Rhaegar, the bastard was in her power. He was forced to do her bidding and give his loyalty, including joining her in her bed whenever she willed it.
More ships arrived, bringing the total of the Royal Fleet in King's Landing to an even dozen. Their captains would be quietly replaced with men loyal to her.
Time for the next part of her plan. She sent a missive to Lancel telling him that she wished to meet with the High Sparrow.
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From his vantage point at a nearby inn, Bronn watched through the window as Cersei and the High Sparrow strolled along the street and spoke.
"Bugger me sideways." Hurredly, he tossed a coin to the innkeep and left. The sellsword did not know what the Queen was planning, but he'd wager his entire castle that it wasn't going to end well.
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Back up in Winterfell, Tyrion got sick.
No curses, no poison, nothing unusual. He just woke up one day with a bit of a fever.
And then, it got worse.
By nightfall, he was delerious, sweating like a waterfall and raving in a dozen languages.
Fortunately, the people of the North had plenty of experience with Winter Fevers. When the patient burns, sponge them down to cool them off. When they get the chills, warm them. It's best to do so with another warm body, since it was an easy way to get the correct temperature of what a healthy person should have. Repeat until the patient dies or the fever breaks.
Oddly, for all of Sansa's inexperience, being told that she would have to do this did not shock her. Winter Fever was part of the usual background of life, ingrained in her memory for as long as she could remember.
Of course, knowing how to do something is a far cry from actually doing it for the first time. Alone with him in his bedroom, she hesitantly touched his cheek.
"Shae?"
In response to Tyrion's murmured inquiry, a fuming Sansa narrowed her eyes, got over her trepidation and began wiping her husband down briskly. Then, she gave him sips of water mixed with honey and a few herbs that were supposed to help.
She knew that her maid and Tyrion had been lovers, that secret had gotten out a long time ago. But, blast it all, it had been ages since the Imp (Sansa mentally chose that nickname deliberately) had seen her. And, that was right after she had betrayed him.
The anger was a good thing. When it came time to warm him, her embarassment wasn't uppermost in her mind. Mostly, she wondered if he was going to ask for Shae again.
As she slipped naked under the blankets, Sansa vowed that, if he did say that again, she was going to make him healthy solely to tell him what an idiot he was.
"Sansa?"
Much better, she thought, as they nestled together.
As the night went on and the cycles of fever and chills waxed and waned, Tyrion called for Sansa, Shae and a name that Sansa did not recognize, Tysha.
Still, he asked for her the most.
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Tyrion woke and blearily opened his eyes.
His hangover felt odd. Instead of the usual sour taste, his mouth felt sweet. And, his body felt somewhat sore all over, instead of the standard throbbing behind his temples.
Whatever had been served, it must have been good. His thoughts were moving at only a fraction of their normal speed.
In the dim light coming from a few lamps, he saw that his dozing bed companion had a spill of glorious red hair. Lifting the covers, he saw the curve of an elegant back moving down to a pair of well-shaped buttocks.
Well now, this was more familiar. Hopefully, the rest of her would be just as fine.
Fate chose that moment to wake Sansa. She yawned, stretched and turned over to see that her husband was staring at her with a shocked expression.
Clutching the sheets to her chest, Sansa turned beet-red as Tyrion's memory came back in rush. Quickly, almost babbling, she explained recent events and how they ended up here.
Tyrion took in all of these facts and then asked, carefully, "Does this mean-?"
"What?"
"The whole night, I've been naked and in your power. I'm no longer a virgin, am I?"
Sansa just stared at Tyrion. His tone was so genuinely serious, it took a moment for the words to register with her.
Then, she began giggling and snorting. Finally, she gave up any attempt to hold it in and just lay back and laughed until her sides ached.
All of the romantic stories and ballads spoke about great passions, but very few spoke about laughter. However, Sansa decided as she wiped her eyes, sharing your life with a man who could make you laugh was a great thing.
Coming to a decision, she wordlessly dropped the sheet and opened her arms to her husband.
The stunned look on his face was most gratifying. Although, he recovered quickly.
And so, Tyrion and Sansa took the final step in a long journey and the first step in an even greater one.
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Events in King's Landing were moving sharply and suddenly, like glass shattering. The first few cracks appeared. Then, in a heartbeart, it was blood and debris everywhere.
The High Sparrow and his followers raided the whorehouse that had been taken over by Olyvar upon Littlefinger's death. They found the High Septon there with prostitutes and, stripping him of his clothes, paraded him through the streets while beating him.
At the Small Council, Cersei argued against punishing the High Sparrow. Instead, she proposed removing the High Septon of his office and installing the High Sparrow in his place.
"The people believe in this man," she said. "By aligning ourselves with him, we also gain the support of the commoners."
Unusually, Olenna agreed with the idea. "He feeds the poor and tends to the sick and we have plenty of both. It will be useful to have the church share the burden."
Less than a week later, when the Sparrows arrested Loras, she was forced to eat those words.
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When the Small Council next met (Minus Cersei and Pycelle. It didn't take a genius to see that she was behind this and the Grand Maester was her creature), King Tommen tried to placate his wife and his Grandmother-in-Law. "We need to wait for Grandfather to return," he insisted.
His uncle Kevan agreed and, surprisingly, so did Varys. The eunuch's reasoning had less to do with dependance on Tywin to save the day and more to do with the twisty nature of King's Landing politics.
"It's a trap, my Queen." Varys dropped his usual soft accents and spoke bluntly to Margaery, looking her right in the eye. "Cersei does not hate Ser Loras and would not go to this much trouble to destroy him. She hates you and knows that you will rush to defend him and place yourself in danger."
Mace Tyrell nodded wisely. "True. If they can seize Loras and make up lies about his so-called "sodomy", they can seize and lie about you as well."
In a rare moment of synchronicity, everybody (Even Tommen) squashed the urge to roll their eyes.
Despite Lord Tyrell's "contributions", the Small Council came to a decision. They would wait for the return of Tywin.
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At Midday, Tyrion entered into the Great Hall at Winterfell.
More Northern Lords had been convinced of the threat of the White Walkers and sent troops. Or, least they knew that Tyrion was going to feed them and arm them and they were not going to turn down anything free.
Additional soldiers arrived from Essos along with equipment and provisions. Ice and seaweed were departing, wagons were arriving and everything was a chaotic mess. The winter weather certainly didn't help matters either.
In the midst of trying to sort this all out, Tyrion got a message to return to the castle, immediately.
While he walked in, he wondered what was so fucking important that he had to drop everything.
A tall, lean figure stood at the fireplace, flanked by Dell, Brienne, Sansa and Arya. The man who had been warming his hands turned and Tywin looked down at his startled son.
"Ah, Tyrion. You're finally here." As curt as if he was in Casterly Rock and owned all that he surveyed, Tywin nodded towards the High Table and moved to take the chair at the head of it. "Now we can begin."
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Tyrion retold the tale of the battle with the Wights and the White Walkers.
When he finished, Tywin looked around the table at the rest of the people seated.
The more that are involved in a lie, the harder it is to maintain it. By the time it gets to be five or six, someone's expression will betray that they know it is not real. Tywin saw the looks on everybody's faces while Tyrion spoke.
Finally, he believed.
When he used his intelligence or became angry, Tyrion had an odd resemblance to Tywin.
Now, as he picked up his wine goblet and drained it like he desperately wanted to become shitfaced, Tywin had an odd resemblance to Tyrion.
Setting the goblet down, he pushed aside the urge and said, "The White Walkers are here and the Long Night is beginning." Tywin met the eyes of his son. "The Crown will give aid. But, there are some conditions that need to be met."
The world was ending and his father insisted on a negotiation, Tyrion thought tiredly. Of course.
"First, you must consummate your marriage to Sansa. The two of you have been wed for years and-" Tywin broke himself off.
Sansa was averting her eyes in embarassment, the others were slyly grinning in varying degrees and Tyrion was giving him a defiant look, daring him to say something.
"What is the second condition, my Lord?", Brienne asked, deliberately stepping into the awkward silence.
"Why are you building on that island, the one off of the coast of Lannisport? How do you expect to gain from it when it's nothing but barren rock?"
Because he needed help from his father, Tyrion tried to tamp down his usual smugness. But, some leaked out anyway as he asked, "Do you recall the discourses between Maester Thales and Maester Sawyl on the nature of the world?"
"Yes." You could almost see Tywin's mind racing as he considered this and all it's possible meanings. Then, he understood and nodded. "I see."
Arya couldn't stand it any longer. "See what? What do some dusty old Maesters have to do with it?"
"Among other things, Thales and Sawyl argued about whether the world was flat or round," Tywin said. "Thales said it was round and I agree with his theories."
In all honesty, Brienne didn't give a damn if the world was flat, round or shaped like a carrot. But, one question occurred to her. "If the world is round, then how do people on the other side keep from falling off?"
Tyrion gave her an ironic look. "What keep us from falling off? Why do we stay rooted to the ground?"
She opened her mouth, closed it again and felt utterly perplexed. Things stay on the ground because they just do. Despite living with gravity her entire life, Brienne had never given a thought to it.
"With the island established, ships can reprovision there and extend their range of exploration. Other islands can be found and stocked as well. With those as stepping stones, trade routes can be established." Tyrion's eyes grew unfocused as he pictured the future. "Lannisport will become the gateway to the East. To Yi Ti and other fabled lands."
"Even with the extended range, the distances may be too far for the ships." Tywin could not help but inject a note of sour reality into his son's vision. "Still, it is worth the gamble. Very clever," he added reluctantly.
Tywin hated saying the compliment and Tyrion hated the pleased feeling he got upon receiving it.
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Shortly before dinner, Tywin was handed a message that had just arrived via raven.
"Superb timing," Tyrion commented, as his father broke the seal. Even at a distance, he recognized Bronn's looping, scrawling handwriting.
A storm of emotions passed over Tywin's face as he read the letter. The expression that finally settled on his face was one that Tyrion was very familiar with: disgusted anger. Although, for once, it was not directed at him.
"I must leave tomorrow," he said to the shock of everyone present. "Cersei is making an alliance with the High Sparrow."
Off of the puzzled looks, he elaborated. "He is a radical Septon, preaching simplicity and humility."
Tyrion said, skeptically, "And, he's partnering with Cersei?"
For once, Tyrion wasn't trying to be funny. The words just burst out of him by reflex. Still, all the others had to bite their tongues to hold in their snickers.
Tywin chose to ignore this.
The evening meal went smoother than anyone had anticipated. The knowledge that he would be gone in the morning made the evening more bearable.
After everyone else went to bed, Tywin sat by the fire in his room and stared into the flames, unable to sleep.
A noise at the door made him glance over his shoulder. It was Arya, bearing a large steaming goblet. "Some mulled wine, my Lord. It will help you sleep."
Tywin raised an eyebrow at it. "Not poisoned, I hope?"
"Too risky, my Lord. If there's wine and Tyrion is within fifty miles, the odds are better than even that he'll drink it."
With quiet amusement, Tywin took the goblet. "Also, you need me to deal with the latest difficulty against the Iron Throne."
Arya was quiet for a very long moment. "We do," she finally admitted. "Tommen has the makings of a good King. Certainly better than Robert or Joffrey. Margaery can be a great Queen. The Seven Kingdoms needs them."
Two years ago, she would have killed Tywin and damned the consequences. The Hand of the King had arrived in secret and with only a small bodyguard. She could stab him in his sleep this very night and count on the rest of the North to support her against any retribution.
But, she had spent some time traveling among the smallfolk and had seen the slaughter and destruction that war had wrought upon them. A war that her mother had pointlessly started by kidnapping an innocent man. "The older I get, the more complicated vengence becomes."
Hearing a young Lady say "the older I get" made Tywin feel ancient. "Everything gets more complicated, not just vengence." He set the wine down and stood. "Here, girl. I intended to give this to you earlier."
Reaching into one of his traveling packs, Tywin pulled out a blade. "Now that you've grown, you've become stronger and your sword should reflect that." He handed it to Arya. "It is a bought blade, as I did not have time to have something crafted for you especially. My apologies."
Bigger and broader than her beloved Needle, the sword still felt light and well-balanced in her hand. Despite his excuses, the blade was elegantly engraved with the etching of a Direwolf.
Arya looked up from her examination of the blade and saw that Tywin was watching her with a trace of a smile. "If you're going to run me through one day, you'll need a sword appropriate to your age."
Unsure of what to do at first, Arya saluted Tywin with her new sword. Tywin's smile broadened as he returned the gesture with his wine cup.
"Goodnight, my Lord."
"Goodnight, girl."
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Two days after Tywin left, another raven arrived. This time, it was from Jon Snow, describing his activities of the last few months.
He had spent the time after leaving the Brotherhood in getting the Wildlings settled at various abandoned castles on the Wall.
News that Ramsay had marched on Winterfell with White Walkers had made him realize the vulnerability of the outposts. The tunnels of the unmanned castles were supposed to be sealed with ice.
But, like many other issues involving the Night's Watch, there was a large gap between "Supposed to" and "Actually was". At least four of the castles had unblocked tunnels and Jon saw to it that they properly filled in.
(The Wildlings were particularily pissed-off about this. The whole time, if anyone had bothered to look in the right place, they could have simply walked through the Wall and into the North.)
Of course, three castles, the ones still manned by the Brotherhood, still had unblocked tunnels. And, Winterfell was not the only place that got a raven from Jon.
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Allister Thorne set the letter down and restlessly began pacing the floor of his office.
The voice at the back of his mind that was telling him that Snow had been right and the White Walkers were coming was getting harder and harder to ignore. Despite the Wall's isolation, rumors about the Battle of Winterfell had circulated back to them and the men were worried.
Perhaps it was time to swallow his pride and suggest an alliance with-
"Lord Commander!" Olly came bursting through the door, looking utterly terrified. "Enemies are approaching!"
Thorne strode out the door, with the young boy following after. Soon, he stood on the edge of the Wall overlooking the icy plain that lay behind it.
Even at a distance, the decayed nature of their attackers revealed the nature of the army that marched upon them. Among them rode bluish figures carrying weapons that sparkled even in the pale winter sunlight.
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The response to the attack was simple. A small group of men would go to the end of the tunnel and buy time while it was sealed with ice.
Getting men to be a part of that group was harder. Thorne cut any debate short by volunteering himself, Olly and the rest of the mutineers for the duty. Whatever his other faults may be, Allister was no hypocrite.
When they replaced the gates from when the giant smashed them, Thorne had used the opportunity to put in another gate ten feet away from the outer one.
The inner gate sealed behind them, they doused the torches to keep the air from getting too close and huddled in the semi-darkness.
The noises of people working on the other side of the inner gate became muffled and faded away as ice was packed in. In counterpoint, the noise on the outside of the outer gate grew louder as undead hands relentlessly struck at the wood and steel.
Thorne heard Olly softly whimper next to him and he laid a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder.
"This is a good death. Snow would have been within his rights to hang us all. Instead, we get to die fulfilling our oath, guarding the realms of man."
They waited as long as they dared, to give the workers time to fill as much as they could.
Then, Allister Thorne stooped over a small brazier containing oil. With steel and flint, he set it alight and said, "Raise the gate!"
The men hoisted their shields, dipped their blades in the flaming oil and took their final deep breaths before battle.
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At first, it was easy. The dead caught fire like dry straw. Soon, because of the numbers clustered around the tunnel's mouth, the Wights were catching fire from their own kind.
The men took wounds. A stab here, a cut there. But, Thorne barked at them to hold the line. "You've been cut before! You can take it and keep fighting! Stay on your feet!"
Suddenly, all the flames guttered and died. All the fires on the swords and the fires on the Wights. Thorne risked a desperate glance at the brazier and even that had gone out.
Without their greatest weapon, the men died swiftly. Olly vanished under a dozen hacking rusty knife blades and died without a sound.
But, they ignored Allister Thorne.
The reason why became apparent when the dead stilled their slaughter and stepped away from the tunnel mouth. Into the gap of their ranks strode the Night King.
Thorne watched as the once-human monster stopped about five feet away.
With the utter clarity granted by finality, Thorne looked the Night King in the eye and told him, "You bring me back, cunt, and I'll just try to kill you again."
The Lord Commander then struck with all the strength and skill he possessed. The Night King's ice sword shattered Throrne's blade and the backhanded return cut took his head off.
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The new Lord Commander, Dolorous Edd, watched as the army of the undead began piling things against the Wall.
Snow, ice, boulders, dirt, trees and anything else that they could find were being dumped into a heap next to the entrance.
"They're makin' a ramp," he commented. "They won't have to go through the tunnel. That gets high enough, they'll just walk right up and over."
Beside him, one of the Rangers sputtered in disbelief. "That's impossible! D'you know how much that'll take?"
"Aye. And, they've got workers that don't need to eat, sleep or stop." Edd looked at the man that kept the ravens. "Send word to Winterfell and whatever Wildling castle that Jon Snow is at. Tell them that it's begun."
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Another long wait between updates.
This time, I've got a good excuse. I've been watching Game of Thrones. And, the new seasons always makes me want to binge watch old seasons or reread the books.
I'm still not sure about what to do with Bran. Plus, now I'm not sure what to do with the Hound. I could leave him alone and let him have a peaceful life. But, it's cool to see him back and kicking ass again, so I probably won't.
"You're shit at dying, you know that?" Great line.
Next update will be quicker. I know that I've said that before, but I've got a vacation coming up and that'll give me time to write. Plus, I've got a great scene planned. Tywin and the High Sparrow engaged in Snark-to-Snark combat.