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Chapter 62: The Frozen Field
"No king can rule forever..."
– Prince Darion Stark
The winds blew colder tonight. It near threatened to freeze his feathers, each beat of great white wings shook off the freeze, out from and under the clouds bringing talons to bare; diving from above onto prey to rib and tear with practice precision. The foe bore great blue-grey wings – he could sense its pride and panic – blue-grey against snow-white to be painted crimson, his prey struggled and shrieked to no avail until he tasted the jelly of its golden eye.
Its strings cut, the proud one floated lazily from the sky unto the land below them. He beat his wings in triumph. It was all but a moment, tucking snow-white wings back and souring to eye new prey. The land below was vast and rolling, valleys in blankets of white beneath a starry sky.
He dare not sour too low, nor need bother. The host of men stretched far across the valleys and fields.
A sprawling city with white walls laid southward, the echo of bells ringing in defiance of the cold.
The smallfolk of White Harbor lived richer lives than their more northern counterparts, with comparably vast farmland that stretched across the hills and rills that rippled down from the highlands to the north; where the Manderly's found their fortune of silver and iron. Yet the farm and mining homesteads that dwelt there had long since abandoned home for the supposed safely of the White Walls of House Manderly, for White Harbor was clean and well-ordered with its wide streets and solid walls.
Lord Manderly's heir ruled the city while his father feasted at Winterfell. He'd given a decree: to enter the city and seek shelter from the coming Winter.
It was no new thing, truth be told. It was in fact ancient tradition for Northern Lords to offer shelter to their people behind high walls at the coming of Winter. An old Stark tradition that House Manderly had adopted upon their arrival in the North in an effort to embrace their new Northern lives.
"We were on our knees," Wylis Manderly had explained it. "It was Winterfell that lifted us back up, making us forever Stark men."
And what a mix of men the Manderly lands boasted. Southern, Northern, Essosi, the port city had grown fat and forged together.
White Harbor was a strong city indeed, once upon a time it was little more than the Wolf's Den, an ancient fortress of the First Men built up by one King Jon Stark to defend the mouth of the White Knife against raiders from the sea; before the Manderly's came and made something more – it was oft the seat of Winterfell's kin – the hall of second sons and cousin from House Greystark before pride and ambition turned them against their own pack so very long ago.
In the present the Den was a mere prison for the damned. A fitting legacy for the Greystark name, in Edward's humble opinion.
His father and grandfather and his father before them had lived in exile, it was true, though imposed by royal decree contrary to the history books. There was no treason in his blood to be found. The name Vosstark held little renown to anyone except themselves, truth be told, but it was his own. And others…
"How many of the fuckers you think there is eh? Forty Thousand? Fifty?"
Edward eyed his brother for but a moment before turning his gaze back to the horizon.
The sky held so many shining stars, each boasting names his father once taught them as boys. Ice Dragon, the Shadowcat, the Moonmaid, and the Sword of the Morning all shun alongside the wanderers – though different peoples gave them different names. What the Faith of the Seven named Smith the Old Tongue named Thief while others named it Lady, March, Arean or simply the Red Moon by those Dothraki savages in the east… though only a fool listened to such people…
"How many," he was nudged from thought. "No time for daydreaming now brother…"
Edward supposed not. "Forty at least," he eyed the hills beyond the city. "Maybe more, I don't know Rich."
The rumours spoke of a host numbering in the hundreds of thousands.
"We've had worse," Richard hummed after a moment's peace.
"Remember the horde at Darkwash?"
"Hard to forget the smell of those fucking-"
"-horses," Edward smirked, recalling past glories.
Neither brother mentioned the losses they'd suffered that day.
In the present they'd been roused by the sound of bells and the flickering of candles lit within the modest chambers Manderly had afford them, if only on account of the Stark blood that had to vouched for before they'd been taken seriously by the fat lord. Moonlight had been creeping through the windows and the air was heavy.
They'd been escorted away from their slumber quickly enough, dressed hastily and marched down cold stone corridors to the door of the Merman's Court.
And there Wylis Manderly sat upon his father's great cushioned throne looking forlorn and absent any cheer.
"Fat bugger," Richard reckoned as his eyes lingered about the hall of gathered nobles, eyes narrowed too obviously.
"Quiet," Edward had hissed at his brother. Manderly may have been cold towards them at first, but the man – whatever his faults – had housed and fed them well.
They and the Company of Rose had been quickly ordered and armoured in fresh attire, all blue cloth and silvery steel. Few of the company's number had opted to maintain their own steel; but most had accepted quality over sentiment. Years in exile had not made the Rose the richest nor most numerous of sellswords after all.
And now Edward stood atop the battlements clad in silver under a thick black cloak, his sword in a sheath of black and silver.
One of the city guardsmen spoke from across the span of wall.
"They're here," their voice was low and daunted. "By the Seven…"
Looking out over the battlements one laid eyes upon the enemy and their great host of countless ants, crawling ever closer as if the white walls ahead were made of sugar; beckoning them onward – they came like shadows and a sense of dread seemed to grip the ringing of Manderly's fresh guardsmen. The fat lord had been wise to call upon so many fresh souls from those who sought refuge within his walls. White Harbour had offered all safety from the approaching horde… but every man of age to hold a spear, sword or shoot a bow had been forced to take up the defence of these walls. Prince Rodrik had tasked even women to fight, though Manderly had ignored him.
Edward had seen the looks before, darting eyes and the shifting of worried feet that fought to take flight.
One hand on the nearest man's shoulder practically caused him to leap from his boots.
"Peace friend," Edward smiled warmly against the cold.
"M'lord," the guard gulped. "There is-"
"Many of them, aye, you got family in the city?"
The guard gave a stiff nod. "F- From the hills m'lord…"
The same hills where the enemy had passed, no doubt his village was a ruin now.
"I've seen ten thousand Dothraki riders try and fail to take walls," Edward eyed the enemy drawing closer.
"Pardon m'lord, tis more than ten thousand out there, no? Lordship said-"
"True enough, and we've higher stringer walls to throw them back. Do we not?"
The guardsmen muttered "there's hope then?" muttering prayers to his false Seven.
"Always a fools hope," Richard replied unhelpfully, though the guardsman chuckled half-hearted.
It was difficult to count their numbers in the dark, though they were vast; torches flickering in the thousands as the enemy halted safely out of the reach of their archers – against a city prepared for an endless siege – the sea was their own and supplies flowed freely. White Harbour's fate was not to starve. In the dark the enemy gathered as torches burnt and campfires were lit. Time pasted at a great crawl for the defenders, huddled beside their braziers for what felt like an eternity.
As the dawn threatened the night a lone rider closed the distance as the shout of "Archers!" rang out and men snapped to attention.
Edward's hands rested on the stone battlements, squinting at the approaching foe as a white cloth fluttered in the wind.
"They want to talk?" Richard wondered aloud beside his brother.
"Oi!" The rider shouted with a booming voice.
No reply was given, the bows knocked and ready.
"Oi you Cunts!" Again the lone rider shouted, throwing his white cloth forward.
It landed with a thud in the fallen snows, crudely made, more torn shirt on a stick than flag.
"Mance says talk! Come talk!" The rider proclaimed, oblivious to the arrows – or entirely uncaring.
"It appears so," Edward mumbled to his brother's question.
"Since when do bloody Wildlings want to negotiate with us?"
Edward hadn't an answer for that. Said wildling sat atop his horse impatiently.
"Shut the gate behind me," he blurted out as the wildling yelled more complaints.
"Aye-" Richard blinked. "Wait- what are you talking abou-"
His brother was already down the steps, wandering to the gatehouse.
"Hold up," Richard grabbed his shoulder halfway there. "This is fucking stupid!"
Edward scoffed. "If he tries anything, fill him full of arrows – no harm done. You've the wall."
The Wolf's Gate creaked open slowly on its iron hinges as Edward stood in silence alongside a handful of men in Manderly and Stark colours, counting the Captain of the Wolf's Gate among their number, one Bennard Harstark, some ancient relation to the Stark's of Winterfell born of a Manderly bastard son finding his way into the bed of some bastard Stark princess; theirs was a house of no note besides old bastard blood. House Manderly had not cast them aside, however, blood was blood.
Ser Marlon Manderly had insisted on accompanying them as well, alongside several of his knights and swords of the Rose.
The distance between them and the lone rider diminished as Edward got a proper look at the wildling who'd ridden so brazenly to their walls.
He was broad chested, with a massive bellow and beard of white snow. On his arms benthe a brown bear cloak he wore golden bands engraved with runes of the First Men. This wildling was armoured with heavy black ringmail, no doubt taken from some unfortunate Night's Watch ranger. No wildling forged ringmail north of the Wall.
"Cunt," Edward spoke first with a nod as they halted some few steps away from the wildling.
"Har!" He boomed. "You've balls on you, lad, took your time though!"
"White Harbour does not jump at the beck and call of savages," Ser Marlon glared at the man.
"He always this friendly?"
"You've come to treat," Harstark ignored the question. "So speak now, Widlling…"
"Treat?" The Wildling laughed. "Now there's a word. Har! Mance wants to talk, true enough!"
"What's to talk about?" Edward raised a brow.
"Gods know," the Wildling shrugged. "I didn't ask."
"Your name?" Harstark pried. "It's considered proper to-"
"Proper," again the Wildling laughed. "Kneelers and your words! Har!"
"My name is Edward Vosstark," Edward began with a sigh, eyes darting to his company.
"Ser Bennard Harstark," the Captain said oh so proudly.
"Ser Marlon Manderly," the Commander of the Garrison grumbled.
"Tormund!" The Wildling bellowed. "Tormund Giantsbane! Thunderfist! Horn-blower!"
"Giantsbane?" Edward wondered aloud as the snows drifting down steadily, melting in his hair.
"A giantess mistake me for a babe," Tormund claimed. "Suckled me for three whole moons before I could get away. Har!"
"By the Mother," Harstark humbled a pleading curse to his gods.
"Enough," Ser Marlon snapped. "Tell your King to come forward and-"
"You come with me," Tormund huffed, puffing out his chest and great belly.
"We meet in the open," Edward waved a lazy hand onward. "Far enough from either side – if you wish to talk, that's the place…"
"No more than ten men aside," Marlon added quickly with a growl.
"And if there's any trickery-"
The Giantsbane scoffed at Harstarks words.
"The Freefolk ain't fancy like you southerners. We say talk, we'll talk."
At that the self-styled bane of giants rode away to fetch his self-styled King.
It was Ser Wylis Manderly's wish – despite his cousin Marlon's protest – that he be present for the talks.
The Heir was bald besides his bushy walrus moustache, like his father and brother Wendel he was an immense fat man, quiet and formal, his cloak clasped with a silver-and-sapphire trident; to his credit seeming unphased by the cold. Edward and the others lingered behind him as the walrus assumed command of them all.
Lord Ryder had accepted his command rather begrudgingly, muttering in his harsh tongue words that none besides his own men understood.
Captain Harstark had brought his best men as had Ser Marlon, all clad in silver plate and knightly cloaks meant to send a message.
Mance Rayder had brought a message of his own, however….
"Seven save us," Edward heard the walrus swear at the sight of it.
Ahead stood the King Beyond the Wall, alongside his agreed upon numbers.
One such stood at least fourteen feet tall. In the old stories giants were said to live in colossal castles, to fight with huge swords and walked in boots that young boys could hide within. In reality it seemed, this one was, more bear than human, woolly with great arms hanging too far down; its lower torso looked half as wide as its upper and its legs were short yet thick – wearing no boots at all – feet hard and black. Its face was squashed and brutal with rat's eyes no larger than beads almost lost within flesh.
A great shaggy pelt covered its body, thick below the waist, sparser above. And the stink that came off it was choking.
Edward looked for a sword ten feet long but saw only a great club; the limb of some dead tree still trailing shattered branches.
And Joramun blew the Horn of Winter and woke giants from the earth.
The song never did say if the horn would put them back to sleep…
It spoke as the Manderly Knight's drew their steel in fright, the giant's lips split apart to reveal a mouth full of huge square teeth, and it made a sound half belch and half rumble until after a moment Edward realized it was laughing at them. The King-beyond-the-Wall was smirking at the sight of frightened Knights.
"Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun." The giant's voice rumbled like a boulder crashing down a mountainside.
Lord Ryder was smiling like a demon half possessed, resting hands on his greataxe.
"Kveoja," the grey-haired Ryder spoke in the same harsh tone and earned himself some stares.
"You understands this monster Ryder!?" Ser Wylis blurted out.
"Feitur maour," the giant rumbled as another belch of laughter.
Lord Ryder merely chuckled, eyeing the Heir to White Harbour and speaking "Alveg maltio?"
The giant seemed to suddenly grimace in disgusting at whatever Lord Ryder had asked of him.
"Wun Wun prefers his fruits to meat," Mance eyed Ryder suspiciously. "You speak the Old Tongue?"
"Aye," Lord Ragnar Ryder's andal was course as stone. "You?"
"I learnt quickly," Mance said simply, eyes darting to Manderly.
"You wished to speak," Ser Wylis did his best to retain some sense of control.
"We're speaking," Tourmund stood beside his king. "Ain't we? Tell em Mance!"
"Open your gates to us," the King-beyond-the-Wall began and immediately earned scoff.
"And why in sevens name would we do that Wildling?"
Ser Wylis made no effort to argue his cousin's outburst.
"Because," Mance frowned. "My army outnumbers your five to one…"
"Raymun Redbeard, Bael the Bard, Gendel and Gorne, the Horned Lord," Harstark began listing of the names.
"Those men came south to conquer," Mance declared.
Lord Ryder huffed. "And I suppose this army of yours is here to host a feast?"
"I came south with my tail between my legs to hide behind the Wall," came the answer.
"Wall's back that way," Edward offered, pointing lazily northern. "You've missed it I'm afraid."
"It's only ice now, not fit for purpose," the King-beyond-the-Wall declared with a forlorn look.
"The Wall has kept your kind out for thousands of years," Ser Marlon argued as his knuckled gripped his steels handle.
"Your Crows failed in that," Tormund spat at the snows.
"And who's fault is that," Edward hummed. "I wonder?"
"You expect us to open our gates," Ser Wylis would've laughed if it wasn't so absurd. "To let you pass? And what might follow? Giants eating my people? Your wildlings raping our women? Stealing our daughters and riches? Why in the seven hells would I allow such a thing!?"
"We've no desire to stay," the King declared low.
"Nott Kognar," the Giant rumbled, seemingly almost sorrowful.
"Vetur er Kemur," Lord Ryder all but growled with a look to the wildling King.
Edward didn't know the man well, truth me told, he'd been left behind by Prince Darion to command what few men he'd left behind at White Harbour to fulfil some unknown tasks; yet Lord Ryder was an old man in his twilight years – he was no less strong or proud for that – his great axe of black steel engraved with a silvery horse.
In a moment, for an instance, Ryder's eyed had flashed with something too close to fear at hearing the giant's words.
"You run," Ryder's andal was harsh, blunt, he'd barely bothered learning in truth.
"We run," Mance agreed after a moment. "Let us enter, give us your ships; we'll sail and never return."
The idea was absurd. "And if we refuse you?"
Ser Wylis would no doubt refuse. Why wouldn't he?
"If you refuse," Mance Rayer said, "we'll take your city by force and kill everyone inside…"
"As we did the Crows," Tormund added helpfully.
All of them? Ryder once more looked phased by such news.
There was power in powers, the First Men knew this; etching runes into stone to guard or protect or empower – it was said that the very stones of Winterfell were each engraved with such words – the Wall was no different, yet few magics were so strong as those bound in blood or life or oath.
There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, the saying went; had these fools masquerading as northmen forgotten so much?
"Skitt," Lord Ryder cursed, leaning against his great axe.
"Dainn," once more the Giant grumbled. Edward eyed the two strangely.
Ser Wylis was scowling. "We have terms of our own savage," he declared loudly.
Mance remained silent, no doubt not expecting anything he could possibly agree with.
"Turn yourselves back North, harm no one, flee back beyond the Wall and we shall not run you down."
As expected, the King-beyond-the-Wall only frowned and shook his head in disappointment.
"We can't do that," Tormund was suddenly all too serious.
"North is only death," Mance agreed. "Open your gates – you've my word there will-"
"The word of a Wildling," Ser Marlon nearly laughed. "It's worthless…"
"Hvao eltir pu?"
Mance regarded Ryder but for a moment.
"Dauoi," the Gaint grumbled helpfully, his words short.
"Death," Mance spoke in the common tongue. "They grow stronger as the days grow shorter and the nights colder. First, they kill you, then they send your dead against you. The giants have not been able to stand against them, nor the Thenns, the ice river clans or the Hornfoots. Nor us…"
"Superstitious nonsense," Ser Wylis declared as Edward and Harstark chuckled at the madness of it all.
"Open your gates," Mance said once again. "I give you until the sun is highest to decide."
Ser Wylis had turned away in a heartbeat, waddling through the snow muttering curses about wasting time.
"Magnar!" Lord Ryder had not moved, still holding over hands on his axe as if it were a walking stick. He waited for the King to halt his retreat.
"Fuck you want," Tormund snapped back across the snow between them.
Ryder spoke the Old Tongue, low and harsh yet far smoother than his andal could ever become.
"When the hour comes," he told them, hauling his axe up over shoulder. "Kneel in the snow or die to the last."
Negotiations had been dreadfully short lived and even less fruitful. Manderly raged about wasted effort and wildling superstitious nonsense backed up by his cousin and Harstark who was all too eager to echo his lord's heir regardless of whatever his own thoughts were. Edward kept his silence, watching a forlorn Lord of Ryder.
It was night. Their host was moving silently, down the road passing about the skirts of the White Knife turning south. Far away and straight ahead came the distant hills and moors of the Mandervale; once among the richest lands in the North now trailing smoke and littered with the burnt ruined husks of once thriving villages – the foe ahead seemed to bleed heavier as they travelled, slacked in discipline, what they'd mistaken for outriders had turned out under knife and hot iron to be little but deserters.
A hundred thousand the rumours told, yet it seemed the enemy had lost sore after sore of their number the further South they ventured.
Steel and Cold and Greed had chipped away at the hundred thousand foes and even that number counted women and old men among them.
They were drawing near the mouth of the Knife soon enough, down from Winterfell the snows lessened only slightly as the cold seemed to crawl behind their every step to nip at their heels. The men whispered at night, huddled around fires, of how never before had they seen Winter come so furiously. Some blamed the gods, some the Lannisters for angering them, others named it an omen of Stark victory and a soon to be golden age. Jon Snow name it as foul weather and left it at that.
He was comforted by the heavy Stark fur cloak his brother had gifted, naming him Prince Jon and forgoing a surname to go with it. Stark. Targaryen. Something else…
Robb had insisted that he to be called a Prince, one way or another. It had a certain ring to it. Lord Umber had named him Dragonknight in one of his more drunken states and Robb had laughed, hailing him as Dragonwolf instead, a nod to both sides of the family. Jon had been given little choice but supposed there were worse titles.
The two brothers of Winterfell rode in the midst of the leading company, with Robb's household-men about him alongside Prince Darion and his own closest banners of Ryder, Umber, Fisher, Wright and Greystark fluttering in the winter winds as snows shadowed their every movement and all but slowed them to a steady crawl.
Bolvar Ryder held out his arm atop his satin horse as Jon eyed the coming of a giant bird.
The eagle, snowy feathers a splatter of red, landed on Ryder's arm with a flap of its great wings.
"Fires your Grace," Bolvar shared with a frown. "They've breached the outer wall and set the buildings alight, though the fields are still full of the bastards, they're a mess though; far as Winter could see – no wargs left in the sky and chaos throughout – there are few left on the outer wall and they are doomed men…"
"We're too late," Robb mumbled hopelessly.
"What else," Prince Darion pried further of his man.
"They hold the city still my Prince, no threat on that; as planned…"
"Planned?" Jon scowled, looking to his brother suddenly for answers.
"Something my father taught me," Darion explained with a grin. "Always have a second plan."
"And a third and fourth if you're smart," Trian Greystark added from beside his Prince.
Talk however was cheap and time was fading. "We ride now or never Robb," Darion said finally.
"Aye," the King in the North agreed, drawing his steel and raising it up. He bellowed "Friends! Brothers! For the North!"
The men chanted be they from Fell or Hold as the calling "King in the North!" rang out among the banks of the White Knife, the winter air turning a faint taste of salt about it – closer to the sea and closer still to the fray – as the rode Robb barked orders as naturally as they came to him.
"Darion," he'd yell. "You go behind my banner in the centre!"
"Ryder!" Darion gave his own command. "The rills, flank the bastards!"
"Strike wherever they gather! Join again in the centre! Come now, on my signal!"
They came upon the sight in what seemed like a heartbeat, their host of Northmen moving forward into the fields of the Mandervale, pouring in slowly but steadily like the rising tide. The mind of the enemy, undisciplined and joyful in their sacking, seemed oblivious to the approaching waves. Robb led his company eastward and still they were unchallenged, and still the King in the North gave no signal, until at last he halted. The City was before him now in full view over the horizon.
A smell of burning was in the air. The horses were uneasy. The King sat atop his white stallion, motionless, gazing upon White Harbour.
Jon's heart seemed to beat slower. Time was paused in uncertainty. He'd felt it before, in the south against the Lannisters before every battle he'd ever fought. Nd Stark had taught him once that no man could be truly brave without first being afraid. Courage was, he'd been taught, not the absence of fear but the presence of it.
It was to be afraid, but to act in spite of it. A lesson that Ned Stark had taught all his sons…
In a brief moment they were away, the wind in their faces and sound of hooves thundering onward.
King Robb was rising in his stirrups as he cried in a loud voice, loud enough to wake the dead he cried "King in the North!"
With that all the horns in the host were lifted up like a storm upon the plain and thunder in the mountains. Suddenly the King's horse sprang and beind him his banner blew in the wind, a field of ice-white and a running black direwolf; with Greywind bounding at his side – the wolf at a size with its master's own horse.
After him thundered the North, but he was before them, first into the flash of song and steel as the enemy were trodden underhoof in a great wave.
Warhorns were blowing all around, loud and brazen. The sound alone sent the enemy running in confusion, some toward the fighting, others away. The fools ran to form squares and lines, but they were too late, too disorganized, too slow. The riders came from the west, from the east, the northeast, the north; great columns of heavy horse, all dark glinting steel. Jon brought himself to a halt beside his brother, eyeing Greywind and Ghost as the two ripped and tore at the enemy with abandon and sending most sane men fleeing for their lives. Ahead nearer the walls Prince Darion's men were slaying, driving the enemy away and cutting them down like so many blades of grass in a field suddenly overrun. Torches were thrown onto the camps of the enemy, and it was all Jon could do to not dwell on who might've been within as they burnt to ashes.
Across the field one column of riders had washed over a line of wildlings. Another smashed into the flank of some spears as leaders among them desperately tried to turn. They were herding the wildlings like sheep, Jon thought, sword red from the slaughter. Most of the foe held rusted iron and bronze or wooden clubs…
Some were women as well, he'd seen – one had clutched a babe to her chest and tried to flee only to be ridden over by so many Ryder hooves until her trampled remains scarcely looked human in the snow and the crimson hue. This victory that once seemed so far away now tasted bitter on his tongue.
The white-hot fury of Northmen burned brightly against the cold, more skilled and equipped and experienced than their foes. One column of riders clashed a centre another two closed in like pincers to finish the task, and as all seemed won Jon heard the screams of men and saw one rider plucked from his saddle and flung forty feet – the man's horse swooped up in another hand and swung about by a monster as tall and hairy as it was ugly.
"A giant," Jon's mind whispered in awe of the creature. Not as tall as the stories, but none the less frightening.
The creature roared suddenly as Jon witnessed it showered in bolts and spears. It only seemed to enrage the creature.
"Bring it down!" Robb snapped of it before his brother thought to act alone.
Men fell in behind the King of the North in an instant, whipped from their awe and fright.
He held a banner in hand, seized from the fallen in his gallop and put under arm like a lance, Jon watched as his brother thundered recklessly against the giant as it roared and bellowed; waving about a crippled horse like a child might a toy – throwing a bloody tantrum and littered with shafts.
The banner struck the giants chest with a storm of splinters that sent the beast stumbling and the King's horse rearing in panic.
In an instant the King in the North was batted away like a fly, the giant throwing away its plaything with ease and a great angry roar.
"Robb!" Jon screamed as he watched the giant try to pull Greywind off its back, gnawing with fang and claw.
"To the King!" so many shouts joined him from this way and that.
Jon saw none of them as he leapt from his saddle and hooves thundered past.
He stumbled through the snows, the ground frozen and bloody, falling to his knees at the king's side.
"Brother," Jon said in barely a whisper. The air was cold. Robb was hunched over, groaning but alive – that was good…
"Jon," Robb had the nerve to smirk. "I thought-"
"Idiot," his eyes darted away. The giant was on its knees, roaring curses at them.
Prince Darion's banner was among the riders circling the beast, throwing spears at its flesh as it struggled.
"What were you thinking!?" Jon briefly glanced at the still form of the King's horse, then back to the man himself with a scowl.
"Someone had to do something," Robb argued with a grunt.
"Anyone could've done that you fool! Anyone else!"
"Anyone else isn't King," the King in the North dismissed.
"Idiot," Jon hardly agreed. The giant was quiet now, knelt and bleeding.
"Help me to my feet," Robb asked. "Think it broke my leg…"
"Least you deserve for that stupidity… you could've fucking died!"
"Your Grace," Robb grunted as his brother lifted him up.
Jon rolled his eyes. "It's the least you deserve, Your Grace…"
"That's better," Robb chuckled and grimaced at the pain of it.
"Stark!" Lord Umber was the first over – hard to mistake his bellowing roar it was.
The man was coated head to toe in a layer of blood as he vaulted off his horse and stormed over.
"The king will live my Lord," Jon told him, said royalty leaning on his shoulder with smirk as if he weren't just tossed aside by a giant.
"He damn well better Snow!" The Greatjon roared half anger half joyful.
The giant let out a groan and Prince Darion stood before it with a black blade.
Jon saw beyond him as the out from the city came all the strength White Harbour held left to sally as the silver and blue of Manderly tridents held the van, driving the enemy from the streets and the city; what wildlings remained were fleeing or throwing down their swords.
Prince Darion had given his men orders – contrary to Robb's wishes – to spare none who surrendered.
That had been a point of heated disagreement between the two back at Winterfell.
"Well then," Darion had said. "They best hope its Your men they surrender to, and not Mine."
In the present the man stood before the dying giant. He was dressed in his silvers and black furs, standing silently with his wolf sat in quiet vigil and that unnaturally void-black sword on his hip. Its surface was gleaming, almost oily, wielding an unsettling aura.
The Prince had taken to naming it Lightsbane and Jon thought that rather fitting.
"Sioustu oro," Darion was speaking to the creature, sword at his side. "Tala…"
On its knees and hands, panting like a dog and stuck with so many bolts, Jon almost pitied it.
"Kognar," the wounded giant rumbled and stank of death.
"Taka ungi," at that the Prince sheathed his blade and looked to them.
"What does he say?" Robb asked, still leaning on his brother, one arm over his shoulders.
"They submit," Darion explained, giving a nod to his people as they seemed to relax somewhat.
In the distant northeast Jon saw bands of wildlings trying to stand and fight, but riders rode right over them. The enemy had numbers, but they'd proven little match for steel armour and heavy horses. All around men on horses were cheering as some wept over the dead or went about cutting the throats of the wounded. Jon's eyes focused on the last of the fray. There a man was standing tall in his stirrups with a red-and-black cloak and his sword raised, rallying what few to him he could it seemed, with a raven-winged helm… until a wedge of knights from the city smashed into them with lance and sword. The tide of steel washed over them.
"It's done," Jon thought aloud. The wildlings were all fleeing now, throwing down their weapons and wholly broken.
"It surrenders?" Robb asked of the giant, his chest burning. "I wasn't expecting giants to be so forthcoming…"
Darion accepted a spear from Trian Greystark's outstretched arm.
"Eldur," the Giant grumbled, looking at the human with beady little eyes.
"Sverji vel," the Prince replied and drove the spear into the creature's skull with one great jerk.
"What'd you do that for!" Robb exclaimed immediately as the giant went limp in the snow and breathed its last.
"It was helpless," Jon argued with a scowl. "It had surrendered…"
"She was dying," Darion frowned as he handed the spear back to his shadow.
"It begged for an end," Trian added. "The Prince gave them peace. It was a good end."
"A good end!?" Robb disagreed, groaning as the weight on his leg bit something fierce.
Greywind was there, the direwolf practically the size of a horse; Robb leaned against its fur.
"Lord Umber," the Prince turned to Robb's lord instead of replying to the man himself.
"Princeling," the Greatjons arms were crossed and his expression stony.
"See to your King, he requires aid. I'd not have my cousin bleed out here."
Umber scoffed and obeyed, if only because he agreed with the sentiment in his loyalty.
King Robb limped away with his most loyal bannerman and brother at his side, as the latter held him up and the Direwolves trailed at the flank.
When they were alone, except for the sounds of dying men's groans and final breathes, it was Greystark who dared to speak in their own tongue as few if any of the Norths folk could grasp it. "Fire," Trian pondered aloud, eyeing the still form of the fallen giant as its blood seeped out onto the frozen snows to turn it a dark crimson. They'd never seen its like before, truth be told, yet it spoke a language they'd known all their lives even if the dialect was strange. "Why'd you reckon it asked that my Prince?"
"A custom of theirs?" Darion supposed, half-interested. It was an ugly beast, and it had felled scores of men before the end.
"Perhaps," Trian hummed quietly.
"You've doubts old friend?"
"It looked afraid," he shrugged lazily.
"Dying puts fear into most things, doesn't it?"
In beast or men to be sure. A horse, dog, cat, bird; no creature living wishes to cease at life.
Giants. They'd fought a giant – more than one in fact – the enemy had numerous of the things. Not entirely unexpected as the wargs had reported on such creatures, but no bird could fly close enough to them without being swatting away. It was almost as if the beasts knew that another pair of eyes dwelled within.
"No matter now," Darion's hand rested on the pommel of Lightsbane.
"Do we burn it?" Trian asked plainly.
"Aye," the Prince said. "I gave my word."
His word to an enemy, however strange, was to be kept when circumstance allowed.
Bolvar Ryder made his triumphant return at the head of some hundred knights, riding beside his father and so many Manderly knights – their silvers bloodied red – behind Ryder's horse a man was dragged along, barely keeping his footing, black-and-red cloak tattered.
The riders were cheering "Here comes the King of the Wall! Here comes the King of the Wall!"
An inaccurate title, but Darion was grinning like a cat who'd caught the mouse within its claws.
"Prince!" Lord Ryder came to a halt atop his steed and yanked the rope that bound his catch. "I give you the King-beyond-the-Wall!"
Another pull of the rope and His Grace fell to his knees, crunching onto the frozen ground. He made to rise, only to meet a blade at his neck.
"The King-beyond-the-Wall," Darion's black blade held up his enemy's chin. "You're on the wrong side Your Grace..."
"Still beyond it though," Bolvar added with a smirk, bloodied longsword at his side.
"Kill me and be done with it boy," Mance snarled.
"So eager to die Wildling? Why's that, mmm?"
"Burn me after," he answered. "You'd be wise to burn us all, or we'll come back to haunt you..."
Bolvar scoffed at his words. "We don't fear the dead, Wildling."
Mange's eyes bore into him fiercely.
"You will," he said, turned back to the Prince. "Burn me, boy…"
Darion flicked his blade away from the man's neck in a flash.
"The giantess asked the same of me before it breathed its last..."
Mance got to his feet uneasily, rubbing his wrists. "Smarter than most give them credit for," he eyed the dead giantess. "Too few left to show it..."
"Less now," Lord Ryder said. "Tall and strong I'll give them that, but not so wise as you claim – bolts and spears felled enough..."
Others had run and no doubt lingered, but most had fallen to the steel tide.
"We'll hunt them down," Bolvar vowed it.
They'd killed enough men to warrant as much.
"Prince," Lord Ryder spoke, and when the Reaper spoke men listened. "I spoke to this dog before; tell the Prince what you told me Rayder..."
Mance frowned. "My people..."
"If they surrender, they'll be spared," Darion vowed, negating that most had been slaughtered regardless of such. Robb would want to spare those that remained within reason. It would be foolhardy to argue with him further on that point.
The King-beyond-the-Wall spoke as he'd done before, and the Prince listened, to a tale of magic horns left unfound in the mountains - a great runed giants horn in its place - the Wildling King spoke of men rising from the dead. The Others had returned, he claimed, even as Manderly scoffed in protest and the Prince listened. "Burn us," Mance finally repeated. "The dead, those yet to join them, burn them all or they'll rise – each is a corpse for the true enemy, Stark..."
"Fear has turned his mind to mud," Ser Marlon Manderly declared. "Don't listen to-"
"Silence!" Darion snapped at the knight, his wolf snarling. Greywind nor Ghost paid their small cousin any notice.
He could see no lie in the King's eyes, nor fear either. This fable was true to the man no matter how tall it seemed.
And yet the Manderly knight was none too obvious where his own opinion stood.
"You can't seriously believe his story of dead men young Prince? It's utter madness!"
"He believes it Andal," Darion said. "That much is clear... if he that makes him mad, I couldn't say..."
"Well then?" Mance pried boldly and unafraid of dying here with his people. "How am I to die, Stark?"
"Some way no doubt," the Prince sheathed his blade. "We all die eventually, Your Grace. No king can rule forever..."
"Darion," Trian frowned at that, daring to question his charges intentions with the prisoner.
"Were it my land you pillaged through Mance Rayder," he ignored Greystark's doubt. "Were it my people yours had made to suffer then my sword would free that ugly head from its shoulders. As your luck would have it however... that is not the case..."
"I'm to live then boy?"
"For now," Darion revealed.
"Ser," Trian was quick to act.
"Greystark," Marlon muttered, waiting.
"Find this dog a cell, you've one to spare..."
"The Wolf's Den will do," Manderly smirked something fierce even as Trian scowled. That his ancestral home had become a jail remained a sour thing. "Come along savage!" The Knight pulled at his ropes and all but dragged him away to a chorus of cheers.
"Here comes the King of the Wall! Here come the King of the Wall! Here comes the King of the Wall!"
Darion watched the man led away with a sombre look. "You believe him Ryder, about the dead men?"
Lord Ragnar hummed a moment. His great axe was heaved from his shoulder to thud at the frozen ground. "He believes it, as you say lad, and there was a giant among them that named a King of Night and spoke of death. The beast was afraid."
"The dead one as well," Darion admitted, eyeing the slain creature as Bolvar's great eagle picked at its tiny beady eyes, giant features pale from the cold and coasted with a fresh layer of snow. "I thought it fear of the end... but it spoke of burning..."
"Foul omens lad," Lord Ryder called it.
Bolvar asked simply, "What of their leader?"
"These are King Robb's lands," Darion declared. "We are kin, but here as guests – the fate of the invader is his to choose by rights..."
"Aye," Lord Ryder seemed to agree, and there was a mumbling of agreement among the men present.
"He can't mean to spare them," Trian doubted aloud.
Wouldn't he? Robb still cling to a sense of honor that although admirable was often too zealous. There were those among the islanders who whispered of how the King in the North took more after is andal mother than he did his departed father... but those men hadn't known Ned Stark. The likes of Arthur Wright and Qrow Ryder had shed Darion some light on that matter. Robb was indeed his father's son, yet his father had been more Arryn than Stark. A second son never meant to rule Winterfell.
He'd been the spare son, who'd admirably risen to task, but was in truth raised by falcons instead of wolves.
"The North is his," Darion declared uncaringly. "Invaders are his responsibility, let him hear and decide - it's what a king must do Trian..."
"As you say, my Prince..."
He found himself missing Varin in the moment, his brother always had a way of lightening the mood or at least simplifying things. "Lord Ryder," he turned to the old Reaper. "You've the field – see to the dead, and do with the living as you see fit..."
Lord Ragnar huffed at that. "Burn them lad?"
Wargs, Griffins, Giants, Shapeshifting Aunts...
Was it such a stretch to believe that the old tales held some grain of truth to them? His ancestor Brandon the Builder raised up a Great Wall of ice and weaved magic into its foundation not to guard against moral men, but things far worse. Darion recalled in the moment the old stories of House Frost. They'd been descendants of the very nightmares The Builder wished to keep at bay, hasn't they? And if so... there was some lingering Frost blood in his own veins as well, going far back enough...
What would that make him, exactly?
"Burn them," the Prince decided after a moment.
The fields of the Mandervale beyond White Harbors walls were slick with the spray of blood, so many lives cut down; trampled into the snow - their lives frozen in the cold - snows painted every shade of red and black and pink. The air felt colder by the hour, thick and heavy, the breath of the living growing laboured. The choice seemed an obvious one in all truth. The warmth of fire seemed oddly inviting given the chill of winter.
"Aye lad," Lord Ryder hummed, resting the greataxe up on his shoulder as his cloak fluttered in the winds.
"Prince," Bolvar gave a nod as he too departed.
"Darion," Trian stood at his charges side in the snow and the blood. "We should enter the city, and send word to the King...
"Aye," he supposed. "Father should hear of our victory here." Among other things, it seemed, perhaps aunt Lyarra knew something of these fables? With luck they'd reunite soon, so that father could witness the North with his own two eyes, to see how much his sons had accomplished.
"We've done it father," Darion thought. "We've won the North for you..."
In his heart, the words tasted false. He'd count his victory only when his father was home... only when his brother returned safe and eager to share his own tales of the Ironborn he'd slain. Darion longed to sit with his kin within warm halls and drink to such stories. It felt like a dream though.
It was a distant dream indeed, but one he'd fight to make reality.
"I'm sure Manderly will throw a great feast," Trian said, sensing his Princes apparent unease. "We've best drink our fill before my brother and Prince Varin return, eh? You know how they are... if we're not quick they'll return and drink the city dry…"
"Aye," Darion cracked a smile. That they'd do and more once they returned home.
A drink to warm their hearts seemed as fine a plan as any. His brother would've made short work of the Ironborn by now, the Motte would be secured, and he'd be well on his way gathering the Mountain Clansmen by now; they'd catch any Wildlings between Here and the Last Hearth. Varin would return gloating of his own victories and they'd drink till father came to take them home back across the sea... to see their family... Darion had a wife to return to, oddly enough, he'd not gotten to know her well before sailing away but she'd been a sweet thing – if not shy – he'd begun to enjoy her company. The idea of seeing her again brought some joy to his doubts.
All would be well, he decided, cracking at smile at one of Trian's jests as they rode back to the city alongside a gathering crowed of cheering men, women and children from the harbor city. With the enemy repelled and the fires fought, the folk chanted the name "Stark! Stark! Stark!"
The day was won. The night, however, would seem to be another matter entirely.
My Note(s): Merry Christmas :) I wanted to get this chapter out as a gift of sorts and hopefully it doesn't feel too rushed, but I didn't really want to do into much depth during this battle – large as it was – the Wildlings hardly put up much of a challenge to an army as large, trained, equipped and experienced as Darion/Robb's all atop heavy horse with lances and castle-forged steel. Writing battles can be challenging to do in all honestly as it's difficult to make them interesting without making them too long and/or boring. Giants gave them most of the trouble in the end and gave Robb a good whack as well. Getting hurt is becoming a bad habit for the King in the North.
At any rate here we learn the fate of the Night's Watch and get some not-so-subtle hints at why it may be that the Wall hasn't stopped the Others. We'll explore more as things progress (there's several "theories" about how the magic of the Wall works exactly) but the next chapter should be Suko/Cregans arrival in Volantis for good or ill.
I'll keep writing and updating slowly in the year to come! I can't promise weekly updates as I'd managed before (I'm simply too busy) but I'll do my best as always.
Adam5424: The Night's Watch has, as Mance revealed here, been wiped out more or less to the last man. Those who haven't been slaughtered have deserted their post by now if they managed to run at all. This happens because without Jon's presence at the Wall the wildlings would've taken Castle Black and without Stannis there's nobody to show up and save them either. It's also revealed (accordingly to Mance) that the Horn he has isn't actually the real Horn of Joramun. He may well have been lying, but Mance knew the Others were coming and would've never blown the horn as the Wall was the only thing, he believed could've held them back etc. Why/How exactly the Others are getting/got through the Wall is up to the reader to decide for certain. Readers can come to their own conclusions based on the various hints throughout.
Hulkbuster97: Varin is a decent swordsman (far from the best) but the Others int eh books are next level and are practically unstoppable to the point I don't doubt even Arthur Dayne would've had a challenge fighting them if they were taking things seriously – that they don't always, when they fight Royce beyond the Wall they seem to actively toy with him and show great arrogance/pride in believing themselves untouchable; that is likely the only reason Varin survived… plus his sword as well…
The Others are certainly 100% not the pushovers they were in HBO's finale. Here there be monsters, and Darion/Robb just lost themselves most of the Wildlings.
Adam5424: The Living will certainly struggle, and I indeed can't promise they'll even win; things will get desperate. The North cannot hope to fight alone forever.
246vili: Varin was basically saved by his unique sword yeah, he's not a terrible swordsman by any stretch but the Others are inhumanly strong.
Dave: I'm not going anywhere :D Just super busy with life so writing is slow, but I'll continue updating slow n steady :)