Chapter 1. Wolves at the doorstep.

Jaime had come out of the cold to the shelter of the private study. The cold had been steadily seeping in from the north. In a way unlike any in previously recorded history. The study has a warm glow from the hearth located to the left of the doorway and the air is heavy with the smell of burning cedar. He unfastens the various buckles on his greatcoat and hangs it up. Then adjust his false hand, before moving to sit beside Cersei. She sat in a great chair warming herself by the fire. He notices her provocative outfit and has to divert his lustful eyes. She is wearing a thin silk nightshirt that left nothing to the imagination, hugging every sensual curve and accentuating her breast. Her nipples were hard from the chill in the air.

She notices his reaction and grabs her breast. "Don't divert your eyes. You have done more than just look at them."

He ignores her lustful invitation and tries to remain on topic, dreading discussing the thoughts that weigh on him. The cause is a waking curse. There has always been a cycle of death and rebirth in Westeros. The first men used to worship the old gods, but now they languished in the north, almost forgotten. Religion in the south had entered a state of rebirth, becoming the seven. Yet his sister rejected this rebirth. But also rejected the traditions that founded the old religion. In her words, there is no need for religion in this new world. The new world is the death of traditions. In the raging torrent that personifies change, he would be the rock that the waves break against. He holds on to his faith while everyone else slowly succumbs to the sickness of cynicism.

He strives to be a deeply pious man. But he held no reservations that he isn't an honorable and just man. "There needs to be a crusade."

"You hold onto your superstitions. There are no gods in Westeros. You would be wasting what's left of our forces fighting these undead heathens."

He frowns upon her words. The creases of his brow were like the slashes of her daggers. "What if you're wrong?"

She strikes down the notion. "The Wall traps them beyond its borders. Even if they escape into Westeros, let them have the North. Those people have been nothing, but trouble. We should have exterminated their entire population and settled it with the proper people. I attended to correct that mistake." She gazes into fire seeking meaning in its destructive depths.

"You would break our truce with the North?" His surprise is a feint. Although his assessment of the situation leads to a difference in opinion, her fate would ultimately betray any truce or trust.

She breaks her gaze with the fire and focuses on him. The fire casting reflections in her eyes. An ominous premonition of what's to come. "The purpose of the truce is to buy us time to rebuild our armies."

"We still have to deal with Queen Daenerys." He points out. "She tried to sack Casterly Rock."

"Attacking Casterly Rock was a tactical gambit. She sails up many nautical leagues of coastline, past coastal batteries, in a foolhardy attempt to plunder our home. Decimating her fleets on the attempt. Only to sail into a trap set by Euron Greyjoy."

"She still has most of her army, while ours is in tatters." He elaborates on the current situation.

"We still have the entirety of Casterly Rock's town watch and garrison forces. Plus Tywin had his army. They fall to me. Whether they like it or not. I'm also enacting mandatory service and inscription laws in the coming days. We'll have uncountable legions of peasants conscripts. I'm working on a deal with the Golden Company to train them. Besides, you defeated Daenerys at the ambush at the Golden Road."

"Barely he stresses. Our men were weary from fighting at the Highgarden. We lost most of our army."

"But," she says, restoring his confidence. "You drove the dragons away and managed to wound one of them. She thinks charging in with her dragons is an acceptable strategy. But in reality, she is overconfident. The mistake you made is aiming for the dragon."

The implication hit him like a stone.

"Without her, the dragons will rampage." His eyes widen as knowledge dawns upon him.

"She won because she caught us unaware. Let her stand tall against us. Our ancestors beat the Targaryens in the past."

"This is our kingdom." He says in agreement.

"We shall focus on you becoming king."

He found the implication of her words equally terrifying and revolting. "How would I be king?"

"When our marriage is made official, the title will also be made

official," Cersei says, rising from her seat. "Servant girl." There is commotion beyond the door.

A nubile servant girl accented with far-south features enters the room. "Strip," Cersei orders with a commanding tone. The servant obeys. "Bend over."

"Enough," Jaime says, quietly turning her down. "I didn't come here to play games."

"We need heirs." She is quick to point out. "They won't make themselves."

"What if I get her pregnant," he asks.

"You think I would have you fornicate with some

lower-born peasant? She has good features." She says d

dismissively.

He changes the topic. "What if the church refuses?"

"Will burn the church to the ground." Her words brought a creeping sense of dread. The firelight reflecting off of her pale features made her words even more sinister. "Enough, girl. Stop displaying yourself. Dress and leave." The girl dresses herself and leaves.

"I can't believe…" you would be so heretical. He was going to say, but she cut him off.

"How wonderful it is? I know. All these years skulking around like a commoner, hiding like frightened rabbits. Now we're finally free."

Freedom sounds horrifying. The idea of taking these feelings and bringing them out into the light; had to be the most gut-wrenching thing he could imagine. But he loves her. There is no denying being with her. But he didn't feel like a king. "I'm no king." He confides with trembling lips.

"Don't be a peasant. No one is more deserving." She put a venomous inference in the next part. "King Jaime. Ruler of Seven Kingdoms."

For one moment, he sees the grandeur of the title and then decides to claim it. "Then we will be together."

"Forever," she adds. "Once we marry, we will be done with this antiquated form of ruling. No more great houses and various kings and tributes. We will own all the seven kingdoms and beyond."

He stands, holds her hand, and kisses her cheek. "Yes, my queen." Jaime leaves the room with a new holy divine determination.

Three days later, Cersei is walking through the Hall of Lamps into Sept Baelor. Her outfit more closely guards her intimacy and displays her reckless royalty. The dress is cut off the shoulder with a low décolletage, exposed arms, and a long bouffant style skirt. Multiple layers of the rarest bird plumage from all over Westeros, start from around the collar and descend to the skirt. Her footsteps on the marble tiles echo throughout the cavernous cathedral. Seven imposing statues loom over her. As if the statues were questioning her arrival and judging her intentions. The High Septon is in a state of deeply religious contemplation by one of the seven altars. The Sept courteously acknowledges her presence and slowly rises to his feet. The man's aging limbs hinder his progress.

"My Queen, how can I help you," He calls out, masking his face with a smile.

"We will be having a wedding and announcing a new king." She states excitedly.

"This is good. The throne has been empty for too long. Who is the lucky man?"

"Jaime," she says cheerfully

The High Septon's smile melts away. "Jaime is your brother. Furthermore, he has no legitimate claim to the throne."

"That's none of your business,'' she tells him. "Your job is to crown him King."

"The Gods refuse such a request. You think you can come in here, abandon your sacrosanct, and profane the gods?"

She gets in his face and grins deeply, stretching the creases of her face. "He is your king. If you refuse, I'll have the Town Watch burn this building to the ground."

"You wouldn't dare," he growls.

"Look into my eyes, Septon. Tell me I wouldn't." She looks him in the eye. What he saw makes him cower. "I make demands. You obey."

"I'll make preparations immediately." He states, backing away slowly. The man had become just another whipped dog. She smiles to herself, basking in the fear and control she had over him. Then she walks out. The midday sun kissed her skin and reflected all the horrific and wicked thoughts within her. Her plan is in motion. Now all she needs is time.

The sun has set in the skies above the northern moors, south of the wall. Shadows are cast to the south. The metal rivets of Jon's armor are painful to the touch. Bitter cold is encroaching on the survivors of the Night's Watch. There is a terrible howl echoing throughout the moors. Jon stops to listen and stares out into the Northwest marshes and deep craggy terrain. "I heard it again. It sounds like wolves."

"There has never been a wolf this close to the wall. There isn't enough game." Eddison Tollett tells him. "Those howls have followed us for weeks." He stares out into northern marshes and deep, craggy terrain. There are black silhouettes against the horizon.

"Gather some men," Jon orders.

"What's your plan?" Tollett asks.

"Bait," Jon says flatly.

Tollett leaves and returns ten minutes later with a group of twelve stout volunteers.

Jon addresses the rest of the group. "We have to protect the wounded. There is a ravine not far from here. The Night's Watch hid supplies there. Head towards it. Hopefully, we will lose our pursuers. Tollett knows the way."

"I should stay here and fight." Tollett tries to argue.

Jon rests his hand on the man's shoulder. A fatherly gesture. "You and I are the only ones who know the way to Winterfell. If I don't make it, you must get these people home safely."

"Ahhhgg," Tollett screams. "Fine, but I hate this." Then the man motions to the group to pick up the wounded and follow him.

The bulk of survivors starts moving away as fast as the men can pull the laden carts. The moment the main group separates from their defenders, something starts moving in the distance.

Tormund, Grey Worm, and Tollett all turn to stare out at the movement. "Well, fuck me." Tormund angrily tells them. "They're ignoring the bait. Gather the lads."

"We need to protect the wounded. We don't have time to reach Scar's Hollow." Tollett says to the three of them.

"Shield wall." Grey Worm orders his men. before taking his place amongst the Unsullied.

Night's Watch and Bannerfolk form the left half of the encircle around the wounded. The other half by the Unsullied's shield wall. The wolves came from both sides. Even from a distance, it's obvious something is wrong. The fresh ones, of which there were few, had grievous wounds. Most were boney constructs with patchwork flesh.

"Archers," Tormund orders. But the wolves' speed left little time to notch and light arrows. They only manage to fire a handful of arrows before the wolves are on their doorstep.

They slam into the left side with unnatural speed, lunging for their throats. They got none. Even Tormund nearly had a gory end but manages to roll out of the way of snapping fanged jaws. His torch comes up, banishing the wolf into ash and smoke. On the right side, the wolves were impaling themselves upon the spears. They attempt to shake themselves free until the bones fall apart.

Behind them, Tormund could see Jon charging into the wolves from behind. The second group of men crashes into the wolves from behind. Then the armies utterly smash the wolves between them. The last of the wolves ran burning into the night, lighting up the terrain.

Jon stares at the carnage. By some grace of the Old Gods, there were no casualties. But many men were suffering some form of injury. He stoops near one of the injured, observing the wound closely. "These wounds are unnatural. These bites look like frostbite."

Tollett kneels next to him. Someone taps Jon on his shoulder. Tormund is pointing up at the sky. There is a flock of crows, many leagues in size, following them.

"They have been following us since the fall of the Night's Watch," Tollett tells them. "More unnatural machinations from the King-Beyond-the-Wall."

"These wolves have been dead for weeks, some decades. These crows are alive." He deduces, pondering out loud on the thoughts in his head.

"We have been going for three weeks and we have three more to go. That's without the wounded or this battle. The men need to rest." Tollett's voice is urgent but commanding.

"This area has no game, not even berries. There ain't even water. Except for the snowfall." Jon points out. "You think the dead will wait? The dead don't sleep or tire. They will not stop until we're dead. Who knows what else is waiting for us beyond the wall."

"It won't matter if we're dead. These men can't go any further." Tollett's voice is firm on this decision. The man stands back up next to Tormund.

"Fine," Jon says, giving into the man's line of reason, with a sigh. He stands up and stretches. The armor ruffles and creaks with effort. Sitting on the ground for as long as he did, makes the bitter cold's bite so much worse. He instinctively pulls his furs tight against his body. Then he looks toward Tollett. "We head towards Scar's Hollow. There is some protection from the elements. Plus it's near the Maiden's Woods."

"That's a bad plan," Tollett laments. "Those woods are haunted."

"I would say that's children's tales." Jon jests. "But we were just attacked by undead wolves. Nothing in those woods is worse than what's behind us. We make for Scar's Hollow."

The ground to the south steadily rose, cresting in the distance, into a mighty hill covered in a woodland row. The hollow lies to the southwest, between the mighty hill and craggy terrain that surrounds it. The surrounding terrain is impassable, except for a cleft formed millennia ago by a tiny stream running east to west. The inside of the hollow had been turned into a redoubt by the first men in the unaccountable ages past.

The cleft forms a tunnel that ends in a wide, unlocked gate. Their boots find no footing because the tunnel is slick with moisture. As soon as they enter, the crunching of the snow stops. The only sound is the echoing of their footsteps chasing after them. The redoubt is crumbling with age. But you could still see the glory underneath the crumbling stone. The ancient furniture remains like a monument to the men who built it. The bitter cold keeps the place free of pests better than any cat. Jon orders the men. "Set up camp. Start gathering wood for a fire." Most of the men went inside and slept. Very few men had the strength to set up camp. Fewer men, still, were able to gather firewood. But soon the hearth is alive with a blazing fire.

The sun had set hours ago, daylight but a distant memory. The only warmth coming from the crackling hearth. Men cling to the hearth like babies to their mother's bosom and dote upon the fire like midwives. Jon stood silent as the mountain's bones, watching his men by firelight. Worry and grief-stricken his face like a plague. Another shadow joins him in the firelight.

Jon made no response to the newcomers; he fell into a deep pondering. Even with Jon seemingly ignoring Tollett; the man never left, hoping beyond hope for a way out. Tollett follows John down a path to his left, through a winding hallway, to the top of the redoubt. There they gaze at the southern horizon. "To the south is Myrsköll. Or the Maiden's Woodland." He tells Tollett, after a few minutes of observation. "We will tear down the trees and build a massive platform to hold the wounded. Then bore them away on great wings. But, it will take time." Another long pause.

"I don't speak Dothraki. They must ride ahead as fast as the winds of the mountains. May their steeds bore them away. Tell Grey Worm to unload several of their riders at Winterfell. Bring the horses back unburdened." Tollett nods in acknowledgment, happy that Jon had found a solution. Load the rest of the wounded by horse and swift them away from this dread. For now, Gather the men." Tollett slips into the shadows and disappears down the stairs. Only his echoing footsteps remain. Tollett returns an indeterminate amount of minutes later. Then the man motions for Jon to go down the stairs and address the men. Tollett remains behind, staring into the distance.

The men were clamoring, becoming restless with anticipation. They were awaiting the announcement. "I don't ask this lightly," Jon says, coming from out of the hallway. The dancing firelight cast shadows that mask his pain. Pain is brought on by the guilt of his decision and the understanding of the consequences. He is sentencing these men to death. Something he is fully aware of. His words were too quiet and he had to speak over the clamor of the gathered assembly. "We won't survive. The hardiest of us might make the journey. But the sick, the weary, and the wounded would surely die. I can't put them down or leave them to the dead. So I'm asking for volunteers. They will entrench in the haunted woodlands, draw in the dead and then burn the accursed forest to the ground. Who has the courage?"

The men murmur amongst themselves. He could sense their apprehension and didn't take it lightly. A few minutes pass and nobody raises their hands. Jon didn't think fear made the men cowards. They were dying with honors but were also freely giving up their life. Some had families, some were important noblemen with famous houses. Some of them were the last of their lineage. They all share a need to live. Now he had to contemplate ordering them to their untimely ends. He would be the one to contact their families if they succeed.

Beric Dondarrion raises his hand, then elbows a man standing beside him. Jon couldn't find the heart to smile at his friend. "Always seeking death?" Jon asks.

"Long ago, I served your father. For the longest time, I've been a knight without a cause. This is my chance to redeem myself. Besides, this is a cause greater than mine. This is a divine mission."

Jon steps forward and shakes his hand. "You've been a good friend to me. I'm sorry this is to be your end."

"Nothing to be sorry for." He points to the man standing to his right. "This is Luthwyn Dondarrion. My adopted brother. He was my squire before the Hound killed me."

"It's my pleasure,'' Jons says, shaking Luthwyn's hand.

Beric could see the nervousness in his squire and brother. The man slaps his brother's shoulder. "You're ready. You're a knight of the house Dondarrion and we don't answer to anyone."

Jons turns to the gathering of men. "Those that die here will have the eternal gratitude of the North. Your families will never know hardship. Sir. Tollett will entomb your names in the volumes of the North. So that history will never forget your name. Sir. knight Beric, step forth and be recognized." Courage spread forth like wildfire, more men began to raise their hands. "Beric, I would speak with you."

The old man approaches, looking at him with his good eye. Jon tells him, "Gather these men under your banner. We must fell trees and build a platform. Then entrench and build traps, leading the dead into the heart of the forest. Then free the spirits of the restless dead with fire and ash. Sleep for a couple of hours, time is short."

He nods to his volunteer. "Will set up camp tomorrow by the woodland's edge. For now, get some sleep." Beric finds what space he could. He found an unoccupied table and set up his bedroll. It's better than sleeping on the floor.

Beric didn't know how long he had been staring at the ceiling. What he did know is that his back hurts. As his eyes gaze around the room, he notices that sleep eludes other people. Luthwyn is also staring at the ceiling.

"Can't sleep, boy?" Beric asks.

"Nightmares, '' Luthwyn tells him. I keep seeing the dead. I see my mother and father. I keep seeing their faces in the hoard."

"I know how you feel. Every time I close my eyes, I see my death. I fear I will become a wite if I keep dying. The images haunt my closed eyes. I fear I'm losing myself."

Luthwyn sits up. "You have always been the honorable man. If things would have been different, you would have made a noble lord with a banner house of your own. Even being a wight won't stay your heart."

"I hope he says," he replies, getting comfortable. Then Beric closes his eyes and stares into the hoard. Pale face and empty eyes stare back and beg him to join them. His pale face and empty eyes. Then blackness takes him. He sees no more in the morning light.

Horn sounds inside the redoubt stirred Beric; who slept little and rose in the early morning gloom. A red sun rises on the horizon. Blood had been spilled this day.

Beric gathers his belongings. A small locket with a picture of his mother and sister. A rough leather pack with camping goods. A cantina and a quiver, worn and cracking from both age and days in freezing temperatures. He swallows his reservation and slings his pack over his shoulders.

"You had to choose the Haunted Forest," Luthwyn says. They were walking out of the hill's cleft. Their boots were sinking into the snow. The morning chill is in the air and the sun has yet to partially melt the top layer of the snow. The forest is visible above them, like the Hill's hair.

"Why does it matter if the forest is haunted? You volunteered to die." Beric tells him.

"My nan used to tell me stories. Said if I'm bad, the Winter Maiden would steal me away in the night.

"See that can't be true, you're still here. You used to steal mead out of old Barkley's hands and from the homeless. You were still a boy back then."

"The walking dead are chasing us and you still don't believe in the children's stories?" Luthwyn says, keeping pace with his steps. They crest the hill and see the other volunteers. They take their place with them, brandishing axes. By the sun's zenith, many great trees were felled.

There is a strange movement out of Beric's peripheral vision.

"You see that?" he says. There is a strange movement outside of Beric's peripheral vision.

Luthwyn lowers his axe. "I see nothing." Then continues to keep swinging. The sound of each metal blow against wood could be heard.

His axe strikes the tree causing it to shake violently; the surprise gives him pause and drives him backward. The tree isn't shaking. The man rubs his eyes. Luthwyn slaps him on the shoulder, hard enough to stagger him.

"Why did you stop?" Luthwyn seems very annoyed. The man's brow furrows into a scowl.

"It's nothing," he says, shrugging off the man's concerns. He continues to chop away in long, strident swings

For an hour they worked in near silence. They cleared many of the outer ring's trees. Beric and the rest of his men were moving on chopping up the large trunks, splitting the wood. Other men were making twine and tying the trunks together. Most of the men were laboring outside of the forest. Beric remains behind trying to clear the woodland edge. Something moves in his peripheral vision, drawing his attention. He draws his sword and charges after the darting shadow.

He pursues through the woods, stumbling over rocks and roots. With every step losing all sense of direction. A strange weariness is creeping across his consciousness. His limbs felt heavy. Soon movement felt impossible, except deeper into the woods. Until he finds himself drawn towards a queer circle of violet and blue mushrooms. Floating fairy lights dance around him casting haunting shadows. Figures peek out from behind trees and disappear into the underbrush. Once there was an open field, now an ancient ruined stairway that descends into the heavens.

Beric awoke abruptly at the woodland's edge. The man's sense of time or place fled from reason. A man is approaching him, but his name remains elusive.

"Where have you been," the stranger says. Their anger is apparent. The man's name drifts toward his consciousness.

"Luthwyn," he says. "I chased shadows through the wood. There were these ancient ruins and lights."

"You just had a strange dream. When did you find the time to snooze?"

"I didn't," he protests. The defensiveness of his voice is becoming apparent. His voice takes a commanding quality. "When did you see me go into the woods?"

"I turn my back to you and the woods. Then you're gone. Not even a goodbye. Were you scouting?

"I wish," he says, standing up and looking for his pack. It's lying next to him. He notices the sun's position. It's setting. Not a cloud darkens the sky.

"Well get up. We're celebrating finishing the wooden platform. Not that you were much help." The last comment had a playful edge. Then the man walks away. He brushes the dirt off of his cloak and sits up. The birds were eerily silent. The only birds were flying over the main camp, leagues away. He walks towards the small camp set up by the receding woodland's edge. The air smells of roasting meat. Sounds of jovial comradery were being carried by the wind.

He sat with other men, eating salted pork and sharing the story of the first founder, Brandon Stark. The king who tracked the great white Wolf Fenwryr, to the haunted woodlands. Then slew the wolf and the frost maiden of the forest, Myrsköll, bringing the first summer to the north. Then the others brought back Myrsköll and her winter woe to the Northern realm. After the Battle of the Dawn, Myrsköll is banished, but the world is damaged. The season kept changing. Rumors persist that Eddard returned to slay Myrsköll, but this isn't sung in the Songs of Winter. The song ends with the god ödðryn, drunk on jealousy, slew the first king and entombed his spirit in the Weirwood in Winterfell's Godswood.

As the song is about to end, Beric takes a seat beside Luthwyn on a fell log and hands over a mead. "I thought Jon was crazy. Nobody thought we were going to war. So many of us aren't coming home. I don't regret coming."

"No," Luthwyn says, taking the mead, but not drinking it. "I came for the same reason. I wanted to see if the dead were real."

"Yet, you signed up for a suicide mission." Beric points out.

"Yeah, but I recognize the danger they pose. They'll be on our doorstep not too long from now."

"Brave man, when you have a warm bed waiting for you." Beric swigs his own drink.

"Why did you come?" Luthwyn asks.

"When I was tween, My father Berrick, the fifth Storm Lord of Blackhaven, put me in the service of Eddard as a Húskarl. It was meant as a gesture of good faith. It's the first time I met Lord Eddard. Late in life, Eddard called upon me to ride under his banner and end the reign of Gregor Clegane. My father died for House Stark, twelve reckonings ago. So when they were going to execute Eddard, such bonds of friendship couldn't be broken. I led the Brotherhood Without Banners to Winterfell. But Tywin intercepted us and took us to battle under a red moon. I took his honor, but he took my life. It's by fate that I live long enough to return to Winterfell. My shame at falling to protect Eddard." Beric explains at length.

"Tywin's mistake," Luthwyn says, slapping Beric on the shoulder. "You had the last laugh."

"Did I? I'm going to be torn apart by the dead. It looks like my death is long overdue. I've been dead for a long time. Enough crying like an old war widow. Let's get back to dying." Luthwyn nods in agreement.

The song ends, and the men finish their plates and slowly rise to their feet. The men move the wounded to the platform and gather together one last time, around a large wooden platform with a raised wooden cross beam. The ground began to reverberate. A giant shadow descends across the field. A massive draft rustles the leaves and cracks branches. Then the hulking form of Drogon blocks out the sun. His scales glittered in the sunlight. With a triumphant roar, it grabs the platform with claws the size of horses. Then, in an instant, the platform is gone. The men were left awestruck in the beast's wake.

Beric breaks from the group to talk with Jon, who barely registers his presence. The king of Winterfell is lost somewhere, in a time not yet coming to pass. "Come to speak plainly?"

"My tutelage thinks I had a bad dream, or worse, a bad bump on the head. But I tell you I saw something in the woods."

"Like what?" Jon asks. The man's eyes no longer were watching the skies but were staring off toward the departing Dothraki. The men were cheering, drowning out their conversation.

"I saw someone watching us. I chased them into the woods." He screams over the crowd.

Don't tell me you saw the maiden?" Jon says in a jest, teasing the man.

"I saw a wild hair child."

Jon's look turns serious. "I didn't take you as a drinker."

I've not been consuming, he says defensively. "I followed the child into a fairy circle, where a staircase appeared out of nowhere."

"I know this phrase has no meaning, but the children are a myth." He adds, " I hope never to be proven fact. The forest plays queer tricks on the unwary." Jon slaps himself on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it."

After a few minutes, the men return to normal. They say their goodbyes before going their separate ways. Jon's group set off, to much fanfare, for Winterfell. "

The dead men," Beric says, laughing with every word. He watches Jon's group leave.

"What do you mean?"

"The men under our banner," Beric tells him. "Alright dead men, let's build a defense. Work by torchlight and sleep only if you have to.

He leads the dead men in hammering away at the hard earth, splitting rocks. By mid-morning, they dug a trench across the birth of the woodland edge, filled with many sharpened stakes and dried tinder. The men place clay pots full of Dragon's Fire and torches along the trench in anticipation of the upcoming attack. Then they began raising a hasty palisade. The lack of iron fittings and hinges meant no gates or battlements. They prepare a hasty wall. By night's fall, Beric and The Dead Men were saying goodbye to each other. The last of the mead and wine is brought out. Then the men began to sing the stories of the Battle of the Dawn.

They were waiting, always looking to the horizon for the dead. But the dead would not arrive until mid-morning. They weren't certain why the dead were lingering or what slows them down. The first of the dead appears milling about on the horizon, far from the woods.

Beric holds back his notch arrow and waits for the dead to get closer. Then dips the arrow in the pot then holds it over the torch. Then gives the order to let fly. The dead were struck in the gap between the trench and the horizon. The dead return to death by the dozen. From this distance, the humanity of the dead is all but unrecognizable. They were just black shapes disappearing into the smoke. The second volley caught the dead just outside the trench.

The dead reach the trench and hundreds of them come tumbling down into the steep slopes and impale themselves on the wooden stakes. The dead gave pause for their numbers to swell. Arrows land throughout their rank and file. Then in mass, they swarm the trench forming a living bridge. The flaming arrows hit the bridge of dead bodies. The burning dead set the kindling and stakes ablaze. The almost instantaneous effect of fire on the dead sent a shiver up his spine. Hope began to poison his thoughts and delude him into thinking survival is a possibility. But the wall of fire did little to slow down their advance.

He dips arrow after arrow into the pitch, setting them ablaze and letting the arrows fly. Each arrow became subsequently less accurate. He reaches back one last time and finds his quiver empty.

He gives the order for the men to retreat behind the palisade and seal the wall. They move within the palisade, then form two groups around the two wooden beams and raise the wall. It would only hold a moment. He drops his bow and rucksack, grabs a pitch torch, and orders the men into the forest. As he runs, he hears heavy chopping sounds reverberating throughout the woods. Then there is a loud thud. As he ventures deeper, he hears the sound of trailing heavy-pace footsteps and snapping twigs. He becomes lost amongst the blackness and trees. The firelight could no longer be seen and all direction was lost. He stops and puts the lit torch on a tree. A strange breeze blows through the branches, sounding like the haunting cry of a spirited maiden, and blows out the torch. Fairy lights swarm the area. The trees were creaking in a way that resembles speech.

The dead were surrounding him. Black silhouettes amongst the trees. Then thorny vines were coming up and dragging the dead into the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, the ruined staircase appears, beckoning him inside. Fairy lights reckoning the path.