Rick opened his eyes to darkness, the only light coming from a few lonely torches lit by the barricades that spanned the caves' entrances. One entrance led to the wight infested shore, others deeper into the twisting tunnels that seemed to go on forever into the mountains, into which several free folk parties had entered to try their luck. Tormund's party had found a tunnel that emerged onto the beach further north of where they were, and quietly set up another barricade at its mouth, just out of sight of the few wights which roamed around that part of the beach. None of the other groups had returned.
His stomach grumbled almost immediately.
"Here," Michonne whispered from beside him. Rick gratefully accepted the biscuit she offered, cramming it into his mouth in one bite. Stale and tasteless, almost like eating cardboard, but it was food nevertheless.
Rick let out a satisfied grunt. Turning his back against the Free Folk nearby, he quietly unscrewed his water bottle and took a small sip. He had long since realised they would not die of hunger here… if only because thirst would get to them first. Three weeks without food, three days without water. And unlike the bags of food that the expedition had brought into the caves when they landed, the thousands trapped in these caves had one lone spring for water. Better than nothing, of course. But nowhere near enough.
"Our shift?" Rick croaked, his bad breath stenching the air. None of the Alexandrians had brushed their teeth since they were trapped here a week ago. Maybe they'd live long enough to start having rotten teeth.
"Yeah…" Michonne's bones creaked as she rose, herself unsteady on her feet as she helped Rick up in turn.
They made their way across the rocky caves, careful not to trip over the Free Folk who had fallen asleep. They huddled together in twos and three, even dozens together for larger families, around the remains of campfires whose last embers had long since burnt out. The caves kept out the worst of the cold and yet were nowhere near warm, nor did they have the Alexandrians' cozy sleeping bags and well-fitting parkas.
The other Alexandrians were waiting for him by the time he arrived at the cave-mouth.
Dwight rubbed his hands against each other to keep them warm. "Took you long enough," he muttered. "Have you made your decision yet?"
"You know we can't leave these Free Folk behind…" Rick started.
"Can't we?" Vincent whispered angrily. "We came here to save the Free Folk. We did. Many of them already made it to the Braavosi ships thanks to us. As for those trapped with us in the caves… they're dead men walking, Rick. Both you and I know it. Everyone seated here knows it. Even Mance himself probably knows it. Look out there, Rick. How do you think we can get thousands of women and children to even cross the frozen beach?"
Rick's gaze followed Vincent's finger. Dim specks of light flickered across the water, signal lamps of the few Braavosi galleys still in port after the fleet had dispersed. Some galleys were well on their way back to Braavos, loaded with the Free Folk they had managed to evacuate. Others were anchored near the coast, forming a line that extended out of Hardhome's harbour and around to the western cliffs of Storrhold's Point, ready to take away survivors at a moments' notice should they manage to find another way out of the caves. The rest were fishing in the Shivering Sea, and in the Bay of Seals. Even if the Alexandrians and Free Folk managed to break out, they would need all the food they could get for the long journey home.
So close, yet so far.
The shore was not particularly wide. A able-bodied man could reach the caves in less than three minutes, a small child in five. Yet only the blind could miss that dark horde that stretched from cliff to beach. And those ice-blue plumes with cold sapphire eyes that stared at the caves day and night alike.
The Free Folk called those creatures the Others. Rick had not seen the Others up close and hoped he never would, for they were fiercer than even a million walkers or wights. How could anyone fight the manifestation of Winter? The cold marched with them, steel froze and eventually shattered against their crystal swords. Dwight had tried shooting one with his AR-15. All they got was a dull metallic ping… and bone-chilling winds which whipped across the cave's mouth. Since then every night had been colder than the last.
"...Rick. Rick!" Dwight shook the leader out of his reverie. "We can't get everyone out of the caves. We just can't. We have nowhere near enough bullets to kill all those wights and we don't even have anything that can kill those icewalkers. Either the Free Folk die, or the Free Folk die and we die alongside them. Choose, Rick. Choose."
"We'll leave when the water runs out," Rick finally acquiesced.
"No we can't, it'll be too late. We're already on less than half-rations for water. Most of us can barely hold our guns by now, by then none of us will be strong enough to move!" Dwight argued.
"Tormund's passage might also have been sealed up by that time," Paula pointed out.
"One more day. Give me one more day. I'll make my decision tomorrow night. But first I need to talk to Mance."
The King Beyond the Wall had set up his camp near the cave mouth with his closest lieutenants, around the one campfire that still remained. His sharp face now seemed downright gaunt, his face laced with worry and grief. The Free Folk's leader still blamed himself for the hundreds of his people who died below the cliffs. Even more died at the beach, though the Braavosi had managed to save just over a thousand in the half-hour before the horde arrived, and even a few after the beach itself was overrun. Against all odds, some of the Free Folk had managed to swim out to sea, clambering onto nets dangling off the sides of Braavosi ships anchored so close to shore they nearly ran aground, or survived long enough in the chilling water to be picked up by rowboats.
"Rick Grimes. The man we rely on in these dark times." Mance Rayder patted at a spot on the ground. "Did you come to tell us you found a way to clear a path to the ships?"
"No." Many times Mance had asked the same question, but Rick could only give the same answer. Though not for much longer unless they somehow found water soon. "Our guns are powerful, but even they have their limits, and we had already fired off most of our bullets." The wights had never left the beach, content to starve their foes out, but they weren't clustered so closely together after a few well-thrown rocks from the Free Folk's rickety catapult. "Have your men found more water?"
Mance shook his head dejectedly. "Nothing. The Thenns could hear water dripping when he pressed his ear against the limestone wall deep within the caves, but-"
"Aye, we did," Sigorn confirmed. "Finding that spot cost us all but three of our remaining torches, and the branching caves ahead were darker than a crow's black cloak."
"Will we die here, da?" A small voice asked behind him. Carl! Rick spun around, but this time Rick's own son was safe and sound back in Braavos. The boy who spoke was chubbier, his thick hands grasping Tormund's own.
"No Dryn, we won't," Tormund attempted a smile as he ruffled his son's hair. "We're safe here. Be a good lad and tend to the flames."
Mance glanced back into the cave proper, at the thousands of Free Folk large and small. "I know what you came for, Lord Grimes, and you know my answer. We can't leave our women and children here," Mance insisted. "Not until the last moment when we have no other choice."
"We might not have enough strength to break out by then," Rick repeated Dwight's words minutes ago. "Your people are growing weaker by the day, and so are ours. Half of our soldiers are so dehydrated that they can barely hold their guns."
He heard soft sighs and saw worried faces all around the campfire, but Mance's face betrayed no expression. "And you mean to leave," stated the King Beyond the Wall.
"I never said we would…"
"And you never said you wouldn't," Tormund pointed out.
"I will not begrudge you for leaving," Mance sighed as if reading Rick's thoughts. "You have your duty to your own people, and you have done more than enough for us without gaining anything in return. Though if you are able to take any of the Free Folk along, so much the better. I will not leave without my people and neither will Tormund. Yet his children Dryn and Munda are swift on their feet, they should be able to keep pace with your soldiers with little trouble." Mance glanced down at the small bundle in his arms. "Alas, my son has yet to even walk. But he is not a heavy babe. I would be very grateful if you could also take him with you."
Rick held up three fingers on his lone hand. "Three days. If we don't have a water source in three days, we Alexandrians will be leaving. Those Free Folk who can keep up are welcome to come with us," he lied. In truth they would be leaving in two. On the second night they would quietly rouse a list of handpicked Free Folk who could run quickly enough to even attempt the crossing. Some would be those they wished to take along. Others would make for good ablative armour. As for those who would stay behind…
He made his way along the tunnel Tormund found, halting at the secluded exit that may soon prove to be their salvation. This time he looked up. The stars were beautiful tonight, yet it was the snow-packed cliffs above the cave mouths that caught Rick's interest. Snow which could be easily brought down by remaining rockets on Braavos' galleys. Dead or alive, those trapped in the caves would never turn into wights.
Rick looked around and made sure nobody else was there. It took less than five minutes to set up the glass candle gifted by the Hooded Man. With the candle he could see, clearer than any other man in the caves. A whole army of creatures crept under the snow, ready to pounce on any unwary traveller who stepped foot outside the caves.
Rick could hear, too.
Drip. Drip. Drip…
The sun's last rays bounced off the Wall and through the windows of Castle Black's sept, shining a rainbow over the hundred or so recruits which crowded within. From the Westerlands and Crownlands they came, losers of the War of the Five Kings who narrowly escaped the headsman's axe, save Negan the Outworlder who was defeated in another war of his own making.
Jon entered the sept, his officers following close behind. Black Jack Bulwer the First Ranger, Othell Yarwyck the First Builder, Bowen Marsh the Lord Steward, and septon Cellador who would take the vows. Grenn and Pyp too, ready to intervene in case trouble struck. It was a relief that Ser Allister was away at Eastwatch, yet Jon would rather have maester Aemon here, the blind maester who nevertheless saw better than anyone else.
"You come to us outlaws," Jon began, saying the words which Lord Commander Mormont had once uttered. Nearly the same, anyway. "Rapers, killers, tyrants and thieves. You came to us defeated, with neither friends nor honor. You came to us rich, and you came to us poor. Some bear the names of proud houses, others have bastards' names or no names at all. It makes no matter, for that was before. On the Wall, we are but one house. We take no wives and father no sons. Our wife is duty, our mistress is honor, and you are the only sons we shall ever know."
"A man of the Night's Watch lives his life for the realms of Men. Not for a king, nor a lord, nor the honor of this house or that house, not for gold nor glory nor a woman's love. But for the realms of men. Swords and guns will be placed in your hands again, to defend the beautiful lands and valiant peoples whom you had once sought to harm. Northmen, Southrons, Alexandrians-" Jon's speech was interrupted by a few pained chuckles. The Alexandrians need no protection, a Westerman shouted from his seat, and Jon found it difficult to disagree.
"From the moment you take your oath, you will be a Sworn Brother of the Night's Watch. Your crimes will be washed away, your debts forgiven. So too must you wash away your old loyalties, put aside your grudges and forget old wrongs and old loves alike. Tonight you begin anew."
Jon paused for a moment. Past Lord Commanders had given a choice to their recruits, but today nearly all of the recruits that stood in the sept were sentenced to death otherwise, only given a chance to save their life and honour because of the Night's Watch. Nevertheless it was fair to offer a choice. "Most of you would have heard of recent events north of the Wall. The dead rise again, wights and Others whom we only thought existed in myths of old. It pains me to say this as Lord Commander, but the Watch is facing its gravest danger in thousands of years and so are the realms whom we shield. Our mission is sacred, now more than ever."
"You have learned the words of the vow, but you will not be forced to say them. Any one of you who wishes to leave our company will be allowed to do so. We would give you ale laced with three doses of sweetsleep. You would die painlessly, having never seen the rotting hands of a wight, nor faced the cruel blade of an Other. Nor would you ever turn into one, for your remains shall be properly taken care of."
"For those who choose to take our oath, know that you will be fighting the dead. You will see fellow brothers die beside you, run through with ancient blades or torn apart from limb to limb. Or you may die yourself, spending the final moments of your life choking in your own blood, vision fading from your eyes which you know would soon turn wight-blue. If we are unlucky, we might even see our mission fail, see the realms of men fall apart one by one in the last days of Mankind, knowing that the best we gave was not good enough and that no living Man will follow us."
"I will also say this. We had won once before, when Man wielded clubs and wore bronze, and now we have iron swords and steel armour and Alexandria's guns. We may yet win again. If we do, you will be part of that victory, heroic deeds sung for many years to come. Choose carefully now, for once you have taken the black, there is no turning back. Anyone who does not wish to take the vow may step aside. You shall have one more day in the ice cells to prepare your last words and say your atonements before we serve you sweetsleep."
No one moved.
"Good," said Jon. It was just as well that the southrons followed the Faith, Negan the Outworlder also did not follow the Old Gods. It was too dangerous to venture north of the Wall, not even to the grove of heart trees where Jon had sworn his own oath what seemed like an eternity ago.
It was time to take the oath. Septon Celladar passed a copy of the Seven-Pointed Star to each recruit, a surprisingly large collection which the Night's Watch had amassed the centuries. Jon offered a copy of the Alexandrians' holy book to Negan, one that the Northmen had passed to the Night's Watch along with this batch of recruits. "I understand that Alexandria does not follow the teachings of the Seven-Pointed Star. You may swear your oath upon the Bible if you wish," he proposed.
"That will do," said Negan.
"Hear my words, and bear witness to my vow," the recruits spoke in one voice. "Night gathers and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory-"
"HALT!" Negan shouted from his seat, a wide smirk on his face as he pointed at the man sitting next to him. "Tywin's lips are moving, but no fucking words are coming from his mouth!"
Jon walked towards Tywin's seat, Grenn and Pyp following close behind. "My offer is clear," said Jon calmly. "Take the oath or die."
"I will do neither," Tywin said, the remnants of his hair bristling with rage. "You will take Joffrey and me to Eastwatch and allow us to go to exile in Braavos-"
"Ned Stark was not given that offer, nor even a chance to take the black" Jon pointed out as calmly as he could. "Why should you be offered exile?"
"Because it was my foolish daughter's doing, for which she had paid with her own life," said Tywin. "She had persuaded Joffrey to have Ned Stark killed at the last moment. And because our House had deposited gold with the Iron Bank, enough gold to hire another two hundred people to replace us two."
Jon shook his head. "It was still your House's doing. Were your story true, as the head of your house you did nothing to punish Cersei for her actions, you are just as guilty as she is. A Lannister always pays his debts, as the saying goes. And there are some debts which cannot be paid in gold." Longclaw slid cleanly out of Jon's scabbard, Valyrian steel rippling in the dim torchlight that lit the sept now that the sun had gone down. "I will give you a choice one last time. Swear the oath or die."
Tywin grumbled, Tywin cursed, Tywin even spat at Pyp when he got too close. But Tywin swore the oath just like every other recruit when Longclaw rested on his neck. "...I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch. For this night, and all the nights to come."
"I will not forget this," Tywin muttered when the oath was done.
"Good," said Jon, "For you will also remember the oath you took. The penalty for desertion is death."
"Lord Commander, you might want to read this." Othell Yarwyck handed Jon a small scroll, sealed with the Alexandrian eagle and Stark direwolf and Braavosi titan. Jon quickly scrambled to break the seals and unroll the scroll, immediately recognising Arya's handwriting as he read.
Jon. Lord Protector Rick Grimes trapped at Hardhome with his men and thousands of Free Folk. North Alexandria Crownlands Braavos planning rescue. Need as many gunmen as you can spare…
Guns. Some of the black brothers had complained about the new weapon at first. After all, a competent archer could loose nearly a dozen arrows before a gunman could fire one shot. But the arrow did scant damage to a wight, who cared little about bleeding out or having their innards pierced, while even a glancing blow from a musket ball was enough to tear through sinew and shatter bone. The gun could be used in close range against any enemies who escaped the hail of bullets, better than a bow or crossbow. Swing a gun around and it became a club, the heavy buttstock more than enough to break a foe's face. Mount a blade on top and it became a spear, jabbing at the foe to keep them away.
Guns and gunmen. Guns were of no use without gunmen, and gunmen without guns. They had a hundred guns here at Castle Black… and two hundred men trained to wield them, thanks to Black Jack Bulwer who drilled two groups of gunmen on alternating days. Another fifty guns were stockpiled at Eastwatch, awaiting transport to Castle Black along with other Kingslander supplies. "A hundred and fifty gunmen it is," Jon muttered. Gunmen who could barely complete their drills on the best of days. But they had no time, and they had no choice. They were the shield that guarded the realms of men, and now the realms of men called for the Watch's aid. The gunmen had to go.
"Lord Commander?" said Othell.
"The Alexandrian army is trapped by the dead." When all his council had read the parchment, Jon Snow rolled it up and tucked it in his sleeve. "Othell, you stay here and assign the new recruits their roles, best have a fellow Westerman settle them in."
"Put me in charge of the fifty best rangers," Negan proposed. "We'll fuck up the walkers so hard that they won't be walking straight-"
Jon shook his head. "I need you by my side, to advise me in battle on the arrangement of forces. Jack, assemble our best hundred and fifty gunmen in the courtyard and divide them into three lots. You will take command of one and Grenn another, take the guns along with you. Pyp will be in charge of the third group and collect their guns at Eastwatch. Bowen, send a message to Eastwatch and have them expect our arrival in a week's time. You will be castellan of Castle Black until my return. We march in two hours' time."
"Through the night?" Jack Belwas exclaimed. "But-"
"But we're south of the Wall. There is not much danger from the dead. If there is, we can make our way up the Wall from one of the abandoned castles on our route. The Long Night may soon fall upon us again. It would be best that our men can fight in the dark," insisted Jon.
Jon arrived at the courtyard an hour later, Ghost following close on his heels. His white direwolf may not be able to wield a gun or sword, but his teeth were sharp enough to tear through dead flesh and break wight bone, enough to save a Lord Commander's life.
The host was long since assembled, arrayed in three columns as they had trained to do for weeks. Under bright stars in the moonless night sky, grim men in ringed mail hefted their muskets and adjusted their helms. It was the second great ranging since Jon joined the watch. Jon could only hope that it did not end as badly as the first.
There's nothing to worry, Jon reassured himself. The Black Brothers will be on ships, easy to evacuate should the battle go south. And this time they would have guns, more than a hundred of them. Twenty Alexandrian gunmen defeated thousands of Lannister troops. The Watch's guns might not be as powerful as Alexandria's, but Jon would rather have twenty guns than a hundred spears.
Jon was about to signal the march when a lone figure darted out of the night. The Lord Commander scowled. With curly blond hair and emerald eyes, Jon knew who he was right away.
"Lord Commander. Lord Commander Jon," Joffrey shouted. "I wish to take part in this ranging."
"You?!" Jon couldn't believe his ears. Cackling laughter broke out from the columns. "You don't even know how to use a gun. You've just sworn your oath as a recruit, we need experienced men. And you-"
"And I was a king. Robbed of my chance to fight Stannis at the Blackwater and defend the realm. You will give me my chance to fight the Others."
Jon considered. It would be best to have Joffrey elsewhere, away from Tywin and the westermen when much of the Watch's strength was not in Castle Black, when Tywin had sworn his oath reluctantly and the Lannisters were all but oathbreakers themselves. And Joffrey deserved to see the sort of human suffering that he had wrought in his brief time on the Iron Throne. Finally he said, "You were a king in days long past. Now you're a black brother, nothing less and nothing more. If you want this Lord Commander to consider your request, you will have to ask nicely."
Joffrey's face turned various shades of red. He stomped away without saying a word.
"Shall we march?" Jack Belwas asked.
Jon shook his head. The former king would be back before long. He knew it.
Sure enough Joffrey returned. "I don't know how to use a gun because nobody taught me. I've seen how powerful these weapons are, I'm sure they can do much to destroy the dead. Prince Carl and your sister Queen Arya showed me mercy, and I wish to make the most of it. Let me join the ranging. Please."
"Fall in line next to Jack Belwas," Jon ordered. "You will march on your two feet." Jon gently patted Ghost on the side, then pulled himself up onto his horse, one of the privileges afforded to the Lord Commander. "Let's go."
Rain, rain, go away…
Come again another day…
The tune Ned quietly hummed was Alexandrian, as was the road Ned and his companions had been marching for days ever since they left the ferry at Harrenhal. It rivalled even the best sections of the Kingsroad that Ned had been on before. Paved with small loose stones, it was so wide that it could fit three oxcarts side by side. And the soldiers' feet were kept mostly dry. For the road surface was slightly curved, draining rainwater into ditches on each side that were now more like small streams.
Ned was riding on Craven, alongside the Hilltop cavalry. The palfrey mare was heading northwards too to reunite with its owner. Harrenhal's stablemaster had tasked Ned to take the horse upon learning he had won a prize riding at rings.
"How long till the next waystation?" Ned asked the horseman riding alongside him.
"Not long," said the Hilltopper named Dante. "We should see Mountainfall once we cross the next ridge."
At first glance, Mountainfall was set up just like any other waystation next to a ten-mile stone, half a day's journey apart from each other for travellers on foot. Each was built nearly the same as the next. Stables and mailrooms stood close to the main road, alongside a small tavern which sold cheap food and ale and even firewood, and expensive wines at double the prices of King's Landing. Behind the tavern were twin wooden pavilions on stone platforms, divided by a trail of pebbles which ran parallel to the main road, though for what purpose Ned did not know. The campsite lay further beyond, sturdy tents around fire pits which in turn surrounded a makeshift square.
Nights couldn't be any more different than with the Brotherhood without Banners. There was no need to set up camp at the end of a day's march, nor to cook food themselves when the taverns was so close. Though the Alexandrians often took meat and cabbage to the fire-pits, around which the tents were arranged in large semi-circles. A 'barbeque' they called it. Ned enjoyed those the most. Where the days were spent marching, the nights were devoted to feast and song.
But this waystation was different. Not only because the campsite was much bigger, or that there were eight wooden pavilions next to a bell tower instead of the typical two. For it stood on those very plains where hundreds of the Mountain's Men fell against Alexandria's black guns, their unmarked graves dotting the hill where the Alexandrian cavalry sprung their charge. Castle Darry loomed over the thousand campfires, its walls illumined by soft lamps shining from its parapets.
"There's a bathhouse!" Ned gasped in delight as they rode through the camp's dirt roads. The last bathhouse had been at Willowshead four days ago, roughly halfway between here and Harrenhal.
"Yeah. You go first, boy, you seem soaked to the bone," said Dante.
"All of us are," said another Hilltopper named Ken. "Besides, we can't attend the feast tonight in wet clothes."
"I thought we're having a barbeque," Ned said with a hint of disappointment in his voice.
"It's like a barbeque in all but name. Our feasts are… less formal," Ken explained. "This one will be held just outside the castle."
Ned emerged from the bathhouse half an hour later, in a dry uniform identical to the soaked clothes he had dropped in a basket before his bath.
Lyman's Square was a ten-minute walk away. Guests roamed around the square, picking up food from steel square pots before bringing them back to the long tables set up close to the castle itself. The captains were talking in hushed voices over a map of the camp, casting suspicious glances and falling silent whenever someone else came close. A few women placed flowers in front of Lord Lyman's grave, on a small circular plot in the middle of the square. Ned had no flowers to give, so he placed a hard-earned silver dollar instead.
Finally the crowd settled down at the tables and the toasts began.
Jesus led the first toast. "To Rick Grimes, the Leader of Alexandria, Lord Protector of the Realms south of the Trident!" The Hilltopper captain raised his cup and drank.
"RICK GRIMES!" Ned stood and toasted with the Alexandrians, the first cup already making him woozy. Rick, Rick, Rick, the Alexandrians cheered their leader. The Westerosi took it even further. Rickard the Conqueror some called him amidst drinks, others called him the Lionslayer.
But some did not toast to Rick Grimes' name. "Who are they?" Ned whispered, pointing at a group of men in bright red vests.'
"The Mountain's Men, taken prisoner by the Alexandrians and made to build Alexandria's roads," the Greatjon whispered back, glancing at a man who poured his cup of Dornish Red onto the floor. "What that man did was treason. He will pay for his spillage tonight."
"Not yet," Jesus warned. "Wait for them to make the first move."
"I won't bet on them surviving the night though," said Ken. "Not in those red shirts of theirs."
Ned was about to ask what Ken meant when Olyvar led the next toast. "To Her Grace Arya Stark, Queen in the North and of the Trident!"
"ARYA!" Ned toasted his friend and downed the next cup in her name. The Northmen howled like wolves. Once again the Mountains' Men poured their drinks away.
Toast after toast followed, until Olyvar pounded his fists on the table and stood up. "We save the best for last," he declared. "But our last man deserves more than a toast. A Hero's Hymn, to the MOUNTAINSLAYER from Alexandria!"
Tom O'Sevenstreams picked up his harp. "The false knight fell o' his saddle, the boy drew up by his side…"
"Louder!" the Greatjon shouted. Ned sung along with the tune, sipping his cup of wine between lines. Tom had been singing the Hero's Hymn ever since they left Harrenhal, yet nobody ever got bored of it.
"BOM-BOM-BOM the boy's gun rattled, GLUG-GLUG-GLUG THE MOUNTAIN DIED!" Tom roared.
"Even louder!" the Greatjon demanded again, wine dripping from his thick beard. Cups clanged against each other and slammed onto oaken tables, boom-boom-boom. No sooner had Ned set down his own cup did Olyvar pick up the nearest jug and overfill it with Dornish Red. "MORE!" the newly made Rosby shouted as a servant scurried over. "Not enough red in Darry tonight!"
Jesus frowned. "Just this one company in Darry for your pound of flesh, and no more," he reminded the Greatjon. "Even the Hilltop's tolerance has limits."
"Our Hero swept back his hair! Blue eye bright and young face fair!"
"When they faced another bout, the Mountain's Men were PUT TO ROUT-"
A thrown cup brought the music to an abrupt halt. The man who threw it stood up, red vest and all. "I'll put you to rout, wretched bard, and the one-eyed bitch boy too when I can find him!
"Rise in the name of Ser Gregor!" Another red-vested man shouted. "Give the Alexandrians a Red Feast to match the Starks' Red Wedding!" He picked up a knife and threw it as hard as he could. The knife sailed through the air and bounced off a Hilltop horseman's black armour.
"That's enough proof of their treason," the Greatjon rose, gun in one hand and whistle in the other, its shill scream piercing the night. As if on cue, a company of Northmen emerged from the castle gates, the slowmatches on their guns already lit. They leveled their guns at the Mountain's Men.
"FIRE!" the Greatjon roared.
One of the Mountain's Men lay sprawled on the table when the gunsmoke cleared, thick blood flowing from a small hole between his eyes to coat what remained of his face. Another choked to death from the wound in his neck. A third man tried to crawl, a pool of red beneath his broken leg, until his skull was shattered by another shot.
The rest of the Mountains' Men took to flee. It was too late. The gunmen charged, blades fixed upon the tip of their guns to run through their foes. Stark! Stark! The Northmen shouted as they slew. A couple of the Mountain's Men threw their hands up in surrender, only to be slain by sharp stabs to the gut.
A lone survivor with one arm tumbled from the tables… and rolled right under the barrel of the Greatjon's gun, its slowmatch burning bright.
"NO NO NO… anything but the gun…" the man's breeches went damp. A waft of urine followed. "I've been shot before It hurts it HURTS! Mercy PLEASE!"
"The sword it is then. You won't feel a thing. That's more than you deserve."
"Please Please please-" the survivor begged.
"Shame you won't hear the whole song," the Greatjon said in mock sympathy. "But you deserve to hear all of this stanza, so I'll give you that."
"HEROES RISE WHERE MOUNTAINS FALL!" The Greatjon's huge sword slid easily from its scabbard. He raised the sword high, ready to take the survivor's head. "JUSTICE FOR-"
Ned leapt. The Greatjon's sword clattered out of his hand, man and boy crashing into the dirt. Ned's head spun and he saw stars. "...the weak and small," he whispered.
Cursing, the Greatjon clambered onto his feet and picked up his sword, ready to finish off the survivor when an Alexandrian messenger barged into the square. "Rick Grimes is trapped at Hardhome with half the expedition," he huffed. "Dead things. Walkers, even icewalkers with blue eyes. Reinforcements are to leave Darry immediately and reach Harroway by tomorrow morning. A ship is waiting there to take you to Braavos."
Ned shouted as he tugged at the Greatjon's leg. "Lord Umber! Leave the man alone! We haven't got a moment to lose!"
The Greatjon sheathed his sword and helped Ned to his feet. "I'll spare this man for you. Let's go."
