The Battle of Hardhome
'Lord Commander!...Lord Commander!' A familiar voice echoed in the distance. 'What are your orders?' Jon lay stunned in the snow. Edd thundered over to aid his brother. 'Come on Jon, if you die I'm going to have to see Thorne wear that smug fucking smile for weeks. Get up, we have to leave. They're going to break through.'
Even disorientated, Jon couldn't help hatch a smirk. Ser Alliser would be pleased to see him dead. He coughed and wheezed before sitting up and taking a glance at the carnage around him. Men, women, crows and Freefolk alike fought with the undead. Dismantled, snarling and vicious, the horde of skeletons, led by The Others, fought relentlessly against the outnumbered living.
Using Longclaw as leverage, Jon Stark hauled himself to his feet. He oddly couldn't recall how he ended up to be in the dirt. 'What happened?'
'While you were taking a nap, the pricks sent more of those dead cunts and the Wildlings won't get on the boats because apparently we're going to kill them. Fucking Wildlings.'
'Where is Stannis? And Tormand? Take me to them,' he ordered.
'They're fighting at the gate. Come on, before more come. We've held the gate, just. The Wildlings claim they've been sending bigger and bigger waves each hour. We need to get everyone back to the ships…alive!' Edd tugged at Jon, roughly. Jon followed his brother in black. They scuttled across an open part of battlefield, towards the tall timber gate that fronted the Freefolk's sanctuary.
Hardhome was accurately named. Carved into an icy bay, it sat inside of sturdy cliffs, which from close up, looked almost as big as The Wall. What used to be a gathering of shanty huts, now we're just scorches on the earth, burned down to ash. The only thing that remained unburnt was its gate and the town hall, which wasn't remarkably larger than the latter of burning huts. It truly was the home of hard people.
Jon spotted Tormand Giantsbane as they got closer, dual wielding Wildling short-swords, cutting down a group of whites. The man was a capable fighter, and had impressive speed for his size. Jon was surprised to see how Tormand fought with such grace.
Another cluster burst through some vulnerable holes in the gate. Three of the latter honed down Jon and Edd. Jon gracefully danced into a right armed back slash, sending Longclaw through the walker's torso, cutting it down in two pieces. He stomped through its skull to make sure it was really dead. The second attacked more ruthlessly, rapidly swinging and clawing at where ever Jon was, not even a moment before. Jon had always been quick. He sliced through its neck after easily side stepping the incoming attacks, whilst Edd made short work of the third.
As the pair reached the gate, Tormand had already pressed on to another foe, Stannis at his back. Gods, a Wildling and a southern King fighting side by side…
'Glad you'd could join us, King Crow,' Tormand taunted, as he plunged his blades deep into his enemy. 'I thought you were dead,' he let out a mild chuckle.
'The pack are getting scarce,' his grace observed, struggling for breath as he said so. 'They'll likely rally again…' He chopped his way through another before continuing. 'We need to get as many men back to ships before they strike.'
The King was right. The attack had started long before they're men had even reached shore. Each time, more and more had come. Jon guessed Edd had been the one to save him, he wasn't sure. But he was still alive, and he'd fight till his last breath. But Jon knew heart alone wouldn't win this fight. He needed to get smart. Think, Jon. Think.
'Lord Stark…in the south, when men die, they stay dead.' Fighting this hard had taken its toll on the King. His breath grew heavier and heavier with each kill. Jon couldn't lose him here, not if he was to stay a Stark.
The last of the horde were crushed by one of the Freefolk's giants. He'd grown used to seeing them by now. He remembered the first time he'd laid eyes on one of the beasts…with Ygritte. A sadness struck his heart, all of a sudden.
'What about fire?' Stannis queried.
'Fucking hell, your fire God isn't real you know? Or does he throw you a pretty gold coin every time you burn something?' Tormand had always been sarcastic, and lacked any notion of being etiquette in the presence of a King. Or anyone for that matter.
'He's right.' Commander Mormont was almost murdered in his sleep to a resurrected white. Fire was enough to kill it. 'Is there any pitch can we use? We set the gate ablaze, they'll have to hold back. If they don't, they'll burn to ash.'
'That's madness. That gate is the only thing holding them off and you want to torch it,' Edd weighed in.
Jon had no other ideas. 'Ay, it won't stop them, but it might give us more time to escape. Tormand, the pitch?'
He tutted. Jon knew he was against the idea. He yielded all the same. 'Its stored near the dock. We'll need more men.' Tormand went off to recruit some fellow Freefolk.
'Your Grace, you must return to the ships. You cannot die here,' Jon pleaded.
'No. I have my part to play in this war…the real war. Go now, Lord Stark. Before they strike again. MEN! RALLY TO YOUR KING!' Stannis roared, as he pierced the sky with his sword. Men clad in boiled leather gathered around, ever ready to fight off whatever was to come next.
'MEN OF THE NIGHTS WATCH, WITH ME,' he ordered. His brothers in black scurried over, a few at a time. By the looks of it, Jon had lost no one, something Ser Alliser would loath. Jon had asked twenty men to step forth for this exhibition. Against his doubts, twenty men had stood forward. Thorne stated each loss would rest on his head, but so far, his conscience was clear.
The Lord Commander led his men across bay. The Wildlings were in a manic, all rushing to gather what they could, before crowding the dock and the longboats. Many were gathering back up in what looked to be some sort of formation, itching to fight back. So they won't just follow Mance. They will unite for a common cause. Children were screaming from inside the boats, scared and in need of comfort. Boats battled back and forth against the waves. Not enough of The Freefolk had left for the ship. If the wights broke through, in full force, the battle would surely be lost. Jon pressed on, brothers at his back.
As his posse neared the dock, a Thenn Elder emerged from the crowd to block the way, wielding a beastly axe. The fabled Lord of Bones and a few others joined him.
'King Crow…you think you can come here and destroy our home. I'll send your bones, in a box, back to Castle Black.' The scars across the top of his shiny head flushed red in the cold.
I fucking hate Thenns. 'We have no time to fight amongst ourselves. Those are your people we're trying to protect. They'll all die if we don't.' Jon readied his sword, swaying it loosely within his burnt hand.
The Lord of Bones strode forward. 'If you burn down that gate, this sacred place is lost to them.' His voice was rough and harsh. 'You think you're trying to help crow? Your men will slit our throats as soon as we're on deck. I should kill you now, so I can die with some joy in my heart.' He took a step closer and lightly jabbed his skull staff into Jon's shoulder; a taunt.
Tormand hurried over, in the nick of time, with the men he'd gathered. They were accompanied by one of the Giants. 'Let him through, or I'll fuck you with your own stick.' Tormand actually sounded serious. But the Lord of Bones did not flinch. He just squared up to Tormand, daring him to do it, almost. 'Well, I warned you.'
From nowhere, Giantsbane lashed him across the mouth, stripping the man of his teeth. He picked up the staff, and snapped it across the back of his head with a godawful CRACK. Jon wasn't sure if it was his skull that had made that sound. Tormand wasn't done, however. He kicked the downed Wildling, hard, to the ribs as he moaned in agony from the floor and Tormand kept kicking. The rest just watched, unphased. That's the Wildling way. Acting a hard man doesn't suffice. With the Freefolk, you must prove it.
Before Tormand could finish the job, an ear piercing screech hissed from atop the cliffs. Everyone looked up upon the source. A thick white fog sat still at the peak. Three shadows emerged from them, twice the size of normal men. Jon thought he knew…everyone thought they knew what was coming. He whispered, 'The gate, Tormand. Be quick about it.' Tormand just nodded as he stared up at The Others. He came back to life in an instant.
'Quickly men, unless you want to walk the snow, dead as an old mans cock,' Giantsbane roared as he led the Wildlings off.
'Lord Commander…' His brothers became boys once more, disarmed by shock. 'What are we to do? What are your orders?' Jon had nothing for them. He couldn't take his eyes off the icy figures in the fog. He remembered it…from Kraster's. It was an Other that had taken that crying babe, Jon was certain. Mormont had assured him he would not see another. Now I see three…
'Jon…' Edd prompted. He hadn't looked away either. 'Tell us something, anything.'
'Dragonglass. Go find the dragonglass and make sure Stannis is on one of those ships.' Edd nodded but he did not move. 'Go, Edd. Now!' Then he made haste, with a few of the brothers.
Jon had forgotten about the glass. Obsidian, Sam had called it. It was buried at The Fist of the First Men, dug up after thousands of years...and the self confessed coward had used a dragonglass dagger to slay one of the icy demons. Jon had brought some along, just in case the walkers came lurking at all. They would need it for sure now.
The Others remained atop the cliff, watching. The army of whites hadn't come back yet. Instead, these three had appeared. The one in the middle looked down at Jon, looking him straight in the eyes. Jon did not yield his glare. I mustn't show fear or weakness. It screeched; that horrid, ear bloodying screech. Jon turned to his men, donning a doomed man's confidence.
'You are sworn brothers of the Nights Watch. It took great sacrifice to come here and help the people you've known so long as your enemy.' Jon gestured to the walkers, still perched, watching, like a hawk eyeing its dinner. 'Up there, they are your true enemies. They are the real war. The dead, against the living, warmth against the cold. You are the swords in the darkness, the shields that guard the realms of men. You are the watchers on the fucking wall…and The Wall is the place you die…so let's give the fuckers a fight!' Jon raised his sword, as Stannis had. The men cheered and cooed, chanting to the song of 'Snow! Snow! Snow!' He didn't mind being called Snow then.
Jon cantered on towards the town hall, the centre piece of Hardhome, leading his small flock of crows. One of the Others had vanished from above, likely making its way to engage. The rest just studied him. Jon wasn't sure if he should be scared. Did that make him stupid? Kill the boy, Jon Snow.
All he longed for, in that moment, was a soothing word from father. Or Robb. He'd always imagined taking on a conquest like this with Robb at his back, standing side by side with his brother. They used to pretend together, sometimes, when they were as young as Bran and Rickon. He remembered duelling with sticks as swords in the courtyard of Winterfell and between the towering trees of the Wolfswood. I mustn't die here. I must live on to take back our home. Robb was gone now, but Bran, Rickon, Sansa…they were still out there. And Arya, gods he missed Arya. It was enough to spur him for the fight at hand.
They reached the hall, and from the depths of the seven hells, emerged an Other. Taller by a foot than any man Jon had ever witnessed. It's armour was pitch black, guarding its pale, pale icy body beneath. It marched towards them, wielding an icicle sceptre. It could smell the fear from his black brothers.
One engaged, without Jon's leave, yet he didn't say a word in protest. He swung a clumsy overhead chop...the walker parried and the man's steel shattered in his grasp with a piercing clang. Jon's flock scattered like his brothers sword in the wind. The Other leered Jon as he stabbed his sworn brother, deep in the heart. Jon knew the dead man. Some poacher sent from the Riverlands. He'd always seemed rash, and that was the death of him. Jon mustered a whisper, 'and now his watch has ended.'
Jon had decided to be rash, in that moment. He poised his sword and went in for the stab. The Walker stepped aside, Jon relayed and swung for its leg. But he missed again. It's sheer size had disguised its agility. Before Jon could chance another swing, the monster shunted the pummel of its sceptre, lashing it across Jon's temple. Dazed, head ringing like a bell, his vision blurred, Jon fell to the cold, hard ground.
He was deserted, his men had fled. Around him, all he could hear was muffled screaming and panic. A light caught his eye, bright and warm. Perhaps Tormand had the gate alight. Jon tried to call out…but he couldn't find his voice. The walker screeched once more, but with Jon's senses dulled, it's voice was not so piercing now.
It's ordered another attack. It will kill them all. It will kill me. Jon rolled onto his belly, whilst stones dug into his ribs. Longclaw! His Valyrian steel sword laid only feet away from him. He rose to his knees, only to stumble forward onto his face. He felt the blood rush to his nose and ooze into the dirt. Spitting grit out his mouth, Jon reached out for his blade…though he was met with a punt to the guts before it was within his clutches. With another cough and a wheeze, Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, rolled over to face his end. The Walker lowered his sceptre to Jon's heart. A coldness emanated from its tip. That's darker magic than I could ever know. Jon closed his eyes, trying to summon the courage he pictured his father having in his moment of death. An execution. Perhaps it's fitting, for a usurping bastard of a traitor.
Just as he went to take his last breath, Jon heard the battle cry of the one true king and his men, rallying into battle as the stags on their shields. He opened his eyes. The Walker backed off, glaring at Stannis's flaming sword. Lightbringer Jon had heard it been called. Had Stannis gone mad? He is no ordinary man. He is cold enough to take on the coldest.
The Other swung first, unusually, but Stannis made no attempt to block. He'd learned from the lessons of other dead men. His steel was worthless if it were to make contact. Instead Stannis lunged back, and poised himself for another strike. The walker went once more, biting his sceptre towards the southern King. Once more, Stannis evaded, not letting Lightbringer yield a scratch. Finally, His Grace engaged, yet outmatched by size and strength. The walker seemed to double his height, but the King could not lose here. His war was in the south, truly. Stannis couldn't land a single blow, however. His fight seemed futile.
Stannis feathered its head at one point, still though, his enemy had the upper hand. Neither had dealt the other a scratch until the King got sloppy with his footing and was forced into blocking. With an almighty swing, the walker shattered the legendary Lightbringer into dust. Stannis fell to his knees, exhausted and ready to die. Jon lunged over to Longclaw, scooping up the wolf head pummel into his clutches. He scraped himself up, and stumbled as far as his swirling head would get him. His ear stung, and the taste of blood tainted his tongue.
Jon dropped down into the grit to assist his King. Stannis's men charged down the Other, outnumbering it at least ten to one. But it made no matter, the first who attacked were butchered like cattle. It was distracted at least. Jon could see the gate, now completely ablaze. More had been sent, to clean up the many survivors so far. Tormand's men cut through the flaming skeletons that managed to break through easy enough, yet too many were still getting passed. Time was a necessity, soon a full force would rain down upon them. If that happened, they were truly lost.
'Your Grace, we must leave. Most of your men are already on board.' In truth, not many had made it on board. Thousands and thousands still crowded the docks, still all screaming and panicking. The mission had not gone to plan, they had arrived too late.
'Never! I will stand and fight until I cannot,' Stannis groaned as he got to his feet. He had been bloodied by the whites but still stood strong and stubborn. 'We still have one last trick.' Stannis rummaged beneath his cloak and pulled out a sharpened slab of glassy rock.
'You have the dragonglass?' Jon's burdens felt lifted, slightly.
Stannis put his hand on Jon's shoulder. He didn't seem as cold, now. 'The living won't lie down to these evil tormentors, and we need to be the ones to deliver that message, right now, with them in our faces. Kill him, and they might think differently about marching into the realms of men.'
Jon hadn't met many kings. He barely got a glimpse of Robert Baratheon when he'd visited Winterfell. And Mance Rayder was only a King to the Freefolk. Yet, this man had chosen the real war over the Iron Throne, and to Jon, that made him more a King than any of them.
'I am with you then, my King.' Jon patted the man's shoulder as they focused on the enemy once more.
The last of Stannis's men fought weakly. Three remained, battling over the bodies of their own fallen men. The White Walker plowed through the first, stabbing the man, deep in his guts. The next lunged in to meet a clout from the sceptres pommel. The third man thought to run, but only earned a stab in the back. Stannis boldly stepped forward, once more, arming himself with one of the fallen's sword and a dragonglass dagger.
The White Walker moved in, spinning and swirling its sceptre with each step. Stannis remained still as his opponent lifted up its weapon. The Other brought it down, as if to half his grace where he stood, but it only hit dirt. Stannis swiftly hopped to his left and swung his sword at its neck. The Walker smashed through the sword as if it were cutting a glass cake. Stannis leaped forward with the dagger, only to find himself in the clutches of the ice demon. It hoisted the King up by his throat, with one hand, hanging him without a noose. Stannis dangled there, struggling, trying to kick out. The blue frigid hand seemed to get paler...glowing eerily. It began to freeze around Stannis's throat.
As his life seemed to freeze away, Stannis groaned, he almost sounded scared. A sudden whistle hissed through the air…piercing straight into the back of the Walker, knocking it off guard. Stannis hit the floor like a sack of meat, but lived to fight another day. Tormand Giantsbane stormed into the fight, with a giant at his back. Edd came too, he'd fired the arrow. The Other tore the arrow from between it's shoulder blades. Edd quivered another…then sent it through the air, straight into its chest. The Walker lunged straight at Edd and Tormand, only to be intercepted by the Wildling giant, wielding a lit plank from the gate, knocking it off its feet. The Walker limply crashed into the ground, as Jon had done fighting it. Again, The Other screamed fiercely. A command? A surrender? Jon could not tell, but something was coming now. They could feel it in the ground…it began to quake slightly.
'We need to get the fuck out of here. That gate will be down in minutes and I don't like the sound of what's coming. Grognak, tear that snowflake apart.' Tormand scurried off with whatever men followed; some were in black, some in Freefolk shrouds, others donning the stag within a flaming heart.
Grognak pounded the plank down, snapping it in two and almost crushing the Other into shards, if it had hit. Jon darted to help Stannis up, but it came for him instead. It lunged in, swinging its sceptre, whiskers from Jon's face. Then it went for his head. Jon saw it all the way, his life flashing before his eyes. He didn't remember getting his sword up, but he parried the attack with a thunderous CLAAANGG…Longclaw remained intact, occupying that lethal sharpened icicle. Jon's breath fled from his lungs. The White Walker's face looked clueless. Before another moment passed, Jon knocked the sceptre up and sliced the unarmored throat of the legendary Other that had haunted his dreams when he was a boy. The sceptre dropped as the thing holding it shattered like oh so many swords. Jon was lost for words. What made Longclaw different from the rest, from Lightbringer even?
From atop the cliff side, the other Walkers watched, silently as whites marched behind them in the thousands. Jon ran over to Stannis and hoisted him up, putting an arm over his shoulder.
'Come on, your grace. Truly, we must leave, now.' Stannis was heavier than he seemed. His leg had been hurt, so he limped. They made haste towards one of the docks. Only a few longboats remained ashore, but if Jon and Stannis weren't at The Wall to let the Wildlings through, Ser Alliser could try anything. They needed to be present to enforce their orders.
'Your sword, Lord Stark. It did not break,' Stannis bluntly stated.
'I know,' Jon replied, solemnly. Now he truly owed his life to that blade.
'Lightbringer she called it. I pulled it from the flames of burned gods…my gods. She said it would destroy all my enemies, in the name of The Lord of Light. It shattered as easy a sparring sword.' Stannis limped on, grunting with every step.
They had almost got to the long boat Edd and Tormand had acquired. Crowds of Wildlings pushed and shoved their way into the cold ocean, desperate to climb aboard those boats.
'We're leaving too many behind. The ships can hold more.' Stannis didn't seem the sort to care at all for the Freefolk. 'They're going to die, aren't they?'
Jon's heart sunk. They had failed, really. He came to save all the Wildlings, not a fraction. He couldn't bare to speak, so simply, he nodded his head. They had landed at the boat.
Jon tossed Stannis across the water, as he was clutched into the boat by a sparse amount of his men. Jon climbed in as well. Tormand's face was enough to describe the failure. Jon looked back at the burning Hardhome, while his brothers paddled back to the ship. Some desperate Freefolk tried to pursue, but they couldn't swim far enough.
Only now, could Jon truly see how many remained. Thousands and thousands stretched across the entire bay, the gate burning to cinders to their east. It was almost breached, but that made no matter. The horde at the gates was minuscule compared to the one that lurked atop the cliffs.
One of the Wildling giants had joined them, fleeing to the sea. The other, that Tormand had named Grognak, stood and defended his people, when The White Walkers raised their sceptres, ordering a massacre from above. An avalanche of dead piled down the cliff side, summoning more screams of terror from the thousand still ashore. They wanted them to watch…as the dead overwhelmed the living.
Hours seemed to pass, as they watched from the boat. Stannis wore his ice cold expression, as always. Jon thought he even saw a tear in Tormand's eye. He looked back to shore. The sight was a grim one. The screams lasted a while…but eventually they died down, along with Wildling's who had screamed them. Grognak had defended them till his last breath, as gallant a knight in that moment. When the gate dropped, he fell with, swarmed. It took hundreds to bring him down, but he died all the same.
After a time, the town grew silent. Jon thought that was the end of it, but he'd been wrong before. And he was this time. On the long deck, an Other, taller than the rest trotted forward, atop his dead horse. The fighting had stopped with his arrival, with not a drop of warm blood at his back. Where the rest had snowy white wisps of hair, this Walker did not. Instead his head wore what looked liked horns…all in a circle around its head. It's a crown. He's their King…He's the one…That King put thousands to the sword, and would put thousands more to the sword before he was done. He was their true enemy; the King of Winter. He stopped at the edge, somehow he must of sensed Jon looking, because he glared straight back. He just looked…then began to raise his arms...and the dead raised with him. All of them…those poor, poor Wildlings. Butchered like animals…and now they have risen again…Jon's breath had left him again, his heart froze where he sat. The Other just smiled…as a dead giant stood up, behind him, another soldier loyal to the army of the dead.