Chapter 36 - the 22nd day of September, 299 years after Aegon's Conquest (earlier that day…)

Mitch Fifield shut the door behind him and sank heavily into his chair. He sat there for a moment, wondering if he was getting too old for this job.

It had not been quite his most difficult conversation with King Stannis, but it had not been far off. The King's pavilion had been set up on a hill two miles east of Casterly Rock, with an excellent view of the burnt remains of Lannisport. He had caught a flight on the Queen Selyse – the king's new plane. After its stunning theft, a party had made it to Fair Isle within three days to retrieve the Fury, but the king had not been mollified until they had provided a second machine as well. He had even demanded to speak to the US president. That had been a particularly interesting conversation, the Zoom call escalating into a near shouting match between the two heads of state. Tempers had eventually cooled however, once Stannis had also extracted a promise from them to begin a training program for Westerosi pilots once suitable candidates had been found. So far, little progress had happened on this front, one thing for which Fifield felt oddly grateful.

His small entourage had entered the tent shortly before the evening meal, with the king surrounded by his knights and loyal bannerman. He had bowed, made his pardons and respectfully asked if he could talk with his grace in private. Stannis had simply nodded and the tent began to empty without another word. Only a trio of Kingsguard remained, and the king's squire, the twelve year old. Fifield approached the king's table while an aide opened a thick folder of photographs.

"I'm afraid I have urgent news your grace, which could affect the conduct of the war."

"No more of your pilots have been seduced by my enemies, I hope?"

"No your grace" Fifield replied, as the kingsguard chuckled dutifully. "I bring news from beyond the Wall."

For a moment the king had not replied. Fifield thought he even detected a flicker of recognition, little more than a slight tilting of the king's head, as if he had been expecting just such a report, though it was gone in a moment. "What news beyond the Wall concerns us here?"

"No doubt you are aware that some months ago, Lord Commander Mormont marched north on a large expedition with some three hundred men. He reported that many of his scouts have gone missing lately."

"I am aware."

"You may also be aware that some of our men visited Castle Black last year, and provided them with some of our beacons? We gave them to a Jon Snow actually, Eddard Stark's-"

"Bastard yes, I am aware of that as well."

"You are as well informed as ever, your grace" Fifield nodded. Almost too well informed. "A few days ago however we detected one of the beacons and dispatched one of our patrols. The same unit that escorted Eddard into the Red Keep, actually…" He had gone on to detail the events of the last few days. "We have not yet located the rest of Mormont's party, but these pictures were taken yesterday" he finished. An aide placed a number of images before the king.

"Wildlings?" the king asked, as if in sudden disbelief at his report. Fifield watched closely as Stannis leaned in and squinted at the images. What else was he expecting?

"Yes, your grace" he went on. "Under a former Night's Watch ranger named Mance Rayder, who some call the King Beyond the Wall. I am told there have been a number before him. We are still estimating the size of his host…" He began pointing to some of the annotations they had made. The pictures had been arranged into a sort of collage. "It probably ranks in the tens of thousands, though that may include woman and children. They are marching down this river, which I believe your people call the Milkwater. At their current pace they are still at least two months away from reaching the Wall, if that is their intended destination…"

Stannis sifted through the images, frowning. Suddenly he looked up. "Who else have you informed of this?"

"No one, your grace. Not even your Lord Hand. I thought it best we come to you first."

"You will inform no one else of it. Not at this time."

"As you say, your grace" Fifield replied. It was the answer he had expected. "Though I must impress on you that word will spread soon, no matter our silence. The Night's Watch will send their own ravens."

"Thank you for your report, ambassador" Stannis said stiffly. "Tell Mormont I am aware of the danger, and help will come in due course".

"As you say, your grace."

The flight back had been a bumpy one, shared with half a dozen moaning men on stretchers, wounded from some skirmish or another. A car had returned him to the embassy well after dark. He sat in his office for a while. The room was gloomier than it had been. Ever since Melbourne had gone into lockdown, supply runs through the Ring had been more sporadic. Of all the times to have a global pandemic. The generators had run low on fuel more than once, and they had even gone back to using candles. He lit half a dozen while booting up his laptop, typing up reports and replying to emails. It was his usual routine, though he was expecting a call later from his counterpart in Braavos.

As it was, the call came in close to local midnight. Bandwidth across the Narrow Sea was still limited, so he only heard his fellow ambassador's voice.

"Kevin? How are you?"

"Fine Mitch, how's King's Landing?"

"Slowly improving" he replied, looking around the room. "Two steps back for every three forward, you know."

"Same here." He heard the former Prime Minister sigh. "What's happening up Beyond the Wall? People are talking about giants riding mammoths?"

"Apparently. They look too big to be people, but the shots were taken from twenty thousand feet up, you know."

"I thought they went extinct?...The Giants I mean."

"So the maesters here said. That's gonna be the mother of all human rights cases. I mean, what do we do? Grant them citizenship? Or put them in a reserve?"

"Maybe. The mammoths are interesting too. We know they existed here. Didn't survive past the last ice age is all."

"They must have made their way here via a Ring at some point" Fifield replied. "This world gets curiouser and curiouser, doesn't it?"

"Ah…yes actually. I wanted to talk to you about that."

"Oh? What have you learned?"

"I've been getting more uh…magic lessons, from our new friends here."

"Braavos sounds like Hogwarts. I must visit. My kids loved those books."

"Yes, well. I may have an answer to one of our mysteries…although I'm not sure what you'll make of it."

"What?"

"Uh, about Renly."

"Renly?" Fifield thought back to the previous year, when the two ASIS agents had walked into his office, white-faced with shock. "What about him?" He cast a furtive glance around his office, checking for eavesdroppers. "The Invisible man?"

"Yes, uh. I talked to our friend here. He says it wasn't an invisible man."

"No?'

"No, he said it was a shadow."

"A what?"

"A shadow he said…it sounds like a shadow killed Renly, at least that's the way he described it."

Fifield was holding the phone to his ear. He didn't reply for a good ten seconds. For a moment the gears in his head seemed to have frozen up, as if suddenly shut down for maintenance. When they finally started turning again however, they spun along more swiftly than he would have believed. The wind. The fire. The city.

All at once, the pieces fell into place.

"Sunovabitch!" he cried. He stood up and went to the window, looking out on the city. He didn't have a good view here, of the Red Keep or the other two hills, but he could picture them clearly enough in his head.

"What?" Kevin Rudd asked, startled.

"The Red Woman" Fifield replied. "Oh Christ! Now it all makes sense…At least as far as anything here does. They called her a Shadowbinder. Damnit! We didn't know what that meant."

"You think it was her?"

Fifield looked back on the past year, mentally ticking off events in his head. "Oh yeah, she's our girl. Remember the day of the fire? When Tony…"

"Yeah."

"It was her. It must have been…you said these magicians demonstrated uh…elemental control? Water and fire and so on."

"Yep."

"Also wind?"

"Yes, so they say."

"Then it was her" Fifield said, with a certainty bordering on absolute. "There was a hurricane blowing that day. No one could explain it. The meteorologists said it might repeat, but it hasn't. It spread the fires totally out of control. Even we couldn't stop it. We lost ten men that day. The Great Sept burned down. There were hundreds inside. Their High Septon, the Faith Militant, probably Tommen as well, the heir…All of Stannis's enemies, gone in one stroke."

On the far end of the line, Fifield sensed doubt in his counterpart's voice. "But how could one woman do all that Mitch?"

"I don't know. There's still a lot we don't know, but she's gotta be the number one suspect now. A shadowbinder…what do they say about red priests in Braavos?"

He almost thought he heard the shrug in Kevin's shoulders. "A number of things. They light their fires each night and pray to their god to return the sun the next day. They are said to be skilled in sculpting fires into different shapes, or in casting disguises. Some say they can even see the future in their flames."

"Oh Christ!" Mitch said again, a palm smacking to his forehead. "Yeah, they can."

"They can?"

"Yep. I'm quite certain of that now too."

"How do you know?" Kevin asked, with genuine curiosity.

"I've been wondering all year to be honest. I keep telling things to Stannis, things he couldn't possibly know, and half the time he's barely surprised. Even today, when I told him about the wildlings…It was like he expected me to say that, or something like it. Jesus. I think this woman can see the future, or bits of it anyway."

He sensed Kevin mulling all this over. "We're going to have to consider very carefully what we do next. Stannis…I mean we thought him the best of a bad bunch, but if what you're thinking is true."

Fifield found himself nodding, phone still to his ear. "Yeah, I think I'm gonna have to call Canberra. Dutton's gotta blow his stack, when he finds out-"

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Fifield spun around. A solid fist had thumped on his door. A guard pushed through with uncharacteristic haste, looking worried. "Sorry to bother you sir."

"What?" Fifield asked, wondering what more revelations today could bring.

"A woman is at the gates sir…umm, it's the Red Woman."

"She's here?" Fifield asked. Outwardly, he knew he sounded shocked, but somewhere in his head a little voice was cackling. Well duh.

"Yes sir. She's asking to speak with you."

Fifield went over to the window. Without him noticing, the street had partly filled with figures. An orange glow lit the scene. There were at least fifty of them, all carrying burning torches. The Fiery Hand he knew at once. Loyal knights and men-at-arms Melisandre had been gathering to her cause. She was standing at the front, waiting patiently by the gates, an unmistakable figure all dressed in red. Fifield closed his eyes and muttered a quick prayer. I never used to do that he noted.

"Sorry Kevin…I'll have to call you back" he said simply, and hung up. He took a moment to compose himself. "Tell her to come in…alone would be best."

The guard nodded. Fifield heard his footfalls recede along the corridor and down the stairs. He glanced out the window, watching as the King's Mistress of Whisperers was escorted inside. She entered the room more gracefully, her footfalls light and sharp. Up close, alone, even in half darkness, he couldn't deny how striking her appearance was. As tall as he was, but with a waist twice as thin, one that flared into broad hips. She wore long robes of scarlet silk, showing what must have been more cleavage than the rest of the royal court combined. Her hair was a coppery mane that fell neatly to her waist. The ruby choker at her throat seemed to glow, as if battery powered. She smiled at him as she entered. Fifield kept his face neutral. Was I really so blind this whole time?

"Ambassador" she said, her voice throaty and pleasant.

"My lady."

She looked around the room curiously, a mix of old and new. The laptop on his desk glowed faintly. On the nearby windowsill a few of the candles had gone out. Melisandre took a few steps into the room. With a casual wave of her hand the candles promptly flared back to life. Fifield blinked. She stood before his desk.

"Apologies for the late hour. I thought perhaps we needed to talk."

"Yes, I think perhaps we need to as well."

"Your men are in grave danger."

The choice of topic threw him. "Which men?"

"Those that venture tonight beyond the Wall."

I told no one but the king Fifield thought. Even in the embassy only a very few had been informed of the patrol and what it had found so far. For a moment he thought of Varys and his little birds. Could some have been hiding in the depths of the embassy, even now? Listening to their every word? But he felt this was a last grasp at rationality. See the truth that is staring you in the face you fool. This woman does not obey the laws of physics.

"I am curious how you know where they venture" he replied evenly.

"The Lord does not show all to me, ser, but affords me many glimpses."

"In your flames?" he asked. Despite everything he was intensely curious. Melisandre nodded.

"What danger are they facing?" he asked.

"The one whose name may not be spoken is marshaling his power, Mitch Fifield, a power fell and evil and strong beyond measure. Soon comes the cold, and the night that never ends." She was looking at him now with utmost seriousness. Somehow, it seemed the temperature in the room was rising, as if she had lit two hundred candles rather than just two. He felt sweat breaking out on his brow. She leaned forward, until her silks were draping over the table. "I have seen a battle in the snow. A ring of torches atop a hill, surrounded by foes. Fire clashing with ice...and your flying machines falling from the sky."

"Falling?" With great effort of will he maintained eye contact with her. "How?"

"I'm afraid the Lord only grants me glimpses."

"So you do not know how?"

"They are going into danger. This you must know."

"Alright" he said, with practiced calm. "But you are unsure of the specifics?"

"Some things I know, and now you must as well." With a slender hand she reached into her robes. Fifield tensed, as if fearing some attack, but she merely retrieved a smallish glass gas, one that had been hidden about her waist. In the dim lighting, it took him a moment to recognize it. A human hand. A hand in a jar.

This threw him as much as anything had that day. Fifield felt a sudden urge to throw up his own hands, announce his immediate resignation and head on the next flight home. Some intense curiosity kept him in his seat however. Before he could do or say anything else, he saw movement. Some deep, intuitive part of his mind told him it was movement where movement could not possibly be and he flinched backwards. He stared at the jar in amazement, bordering on horror. The hand was moving.

He heard a faint clink clink sound as it rubbed against its little glass prison. It looked half rotted, to the point bones were sticking out, and yet, somehow, it was animate. Some still rational part of his mind started looking for strings or magnets or some mechanism by which she might be playing puppeteer, but he could see noting.

Jesus he thought again. "And what is that?" He asked politely. Does she have the rest of the Addams Family hidden up at the Red Keep?

"Don't fear it ambassador, you are quite safe. This was given to me by a man of the Night's Watch some time ago."

It took Fifield a moment to remember. A hand in a jar..."From Castle Black?" he asked.

"Yes. It was cut off from the body of a wight, a man who rose back from the dead. The rest of their remains were burned, and this is all that remains. You must understand, ambassador, what you see is but a servant of the Great Other. He murders the living, and revives them as his slaves. Cold men, dead men, with no more fire burning in their hearts."

Fifield took a few long seconds to think. "How long have you had this, my lady?"

Melisandre cocked her head slightly, as if in embarrassment. "Some time, after the battle in the city. I thought to come to you sooner, but I did not think trust had been built up between us, and the nature of the threat was not yet clear."

"That is disappointing, my lady" he said politely. He had recoiled away from the hand, but now made it look like he was merely leaning back in his chair, hands clasped together. "I must say, if you are to keep secrets of this…magnitude from us, that is not great for building trust."

"I confess, I was unsure of the proper moment, but now the hour grows late."

Wights? Fifield thought. He paused to consider the term. "Wights are like...zombies?"

"If that is what you call them, ambassador" Melisandre purred.

"Pardon my lady. I am learning a great many things today. As far as my people were concerned, bringing someone back from the dead should not be possible."

"Then you must broaden your concerns" she replied. "Perhaps the Great Other has no power in your world, for which you must find yourself thankful, but here it is very different. And you should understand, one cannot be brought back from the dead. A wight is still a dead man, just one that has been reanimated, a mere shell, a puppet of His designs."

"Ok…ok" Fifield said, still rapidly trying to make sense of things. "If these wights are real, how many are there? And where are they?"

"I confess again, I do not have all the answers" Melisandre replied, and now she sounded genuinely apologetic. "But their numbers are growing, and they are already many. The Great Other marshals his forces far to the north, in the frozen wastes where those with warm blood in their veins cannot survive. But soon the battle is begun. The sand is running through the glass more quickly now, unless his creations can be stopped."

"And our men are running into this danger?" Fifield frowned. "Then we should not sit here idle, should we? Something must be done."

"I fear it is already too late, ambassador. The images were crystal sharp."

"Sharp?"

"I fear no matter our intervention, the battle is already fated to occur."

A part of him was annoyed now. Magician or not, the woman was hardly talking sense. "Pardon my lady. You say you can see glimpses of the future, but what is the point of that if the future cannot then be altered?"

"Oh it can be, most certainly, ambassador" Melisandre said, smiling again. "But the clearer the image one sees, the more certainty it will occur. This I have learned after years of practice beyond count, and only rarely have I seen a vision such as this."

"But there is still a chance?"

"There is always hope, ambassador. Even the smallest of flames can bring light to a large room."

"Then excuse me" Fifield said, standing. With sudden resolve he strode from the room and down the hall, towards the embassy's little communications centre. He glanced at his watch as he did so, noting it was well after midnight. The moment he opened the door he saw something was happening. Two different operators were speaking into radio transmitters.

"What's going on?" he asked the Lieutenant in charge.

He looked surprised to see the ambassador up so late. He gave another double take when Melisandre entered the room behind him, though she'd at least put her jar away. "The other beacon's gone off sir, beyond the Wall."

"Where?" Fifield asked.

The lieutenant read out a short string of numbers. "Two hundred K's from their position. Findlay's headed there now."

"He's headed there?"

"Yes sir. He asked permission to leave immediately and Colonel Roberts approved it. He reports there might be some sort of danger."

Oh yeah. "Did he request support?"

"Yes sir, but they're four thousand K's from the Ring. We don't have anything with that range right away. We're getting tankers in the air but-"

"Then we need to call the Yanks" Fifield interrupted. He reached for his phone, but a sudden thought stopped him.

"My lady. The machine you saw falling from the sky?"

"Yes."

"Could you describe it? Was it a plane or a helicopter?"

The red woman titled her head, as if struggling to comprehend the question.

"Did it have wings?" Fifield specified. He spread his arms wide for a moment.

"No" Melisandre replied.

Fifield reached inside his pocket and brough up the appropriate contact. Moments later he heard a sleepy voice on the other end.

"Hello?"

"Sorry John, if I woke you, its Mitch."

"Yes?"

"One of our patrols is north of the Wall and we think maybe they're about to run into something nasty. Its two and a half thousand miles from the Ring. Do you have anything with that sort of range available?"

A moment's pause.

"We've got two BUFFs on one hour standby."

Buffs? Fifield thought. Oh right, B-52s

"Would they be available?"

"Yes, certainly, if you need them."

"Ah, perhaps we could get them in the air?"

"Yes, I can do that now."

"Thanks John. Thanks very much. Please tell your people to coordinate with ours, I think something's about to happen…I can't explain right now. You might want to wake some people up."

"Alright."

"Thanks John, I'll get back to you soon."

He hung up and turned back to Melisandre. He considered her a moment. Another thought had occurred to him. Skilled in casting disguises.

"If we are truly allies here, my lady, and you want to build trust. There is one other question I would like to ask of you tonight, and I would appreciate an honest answer."

"Yes, ambassador?" she replied, looking back at him.

"How old are you?"

For a moment Melisandre seemed to hesitate, as if mulling whether the truth would serve her purpose after all.

"If you mean in years? I am unsure of an honest answer, but…I do recall when the skies turned red." She gave him a weak sort of smile. "I was but a girl when Valyria met its doom."

######

Meeting Engagement – the Fist of the First Men

"Loose, loose, loose," a voice screamed in the night,

"Bloody huge" another shouted,

"A giant!" a third voice said, and a fourth insisted "A bear, a bear!"

A horse shrieked and the hounds began to bay, and there was so much shouting that Sam couldn't make out the voices anymore. It had taken him longer than usual to light his little fire and warm the frozen ink. He figured it was best to write the messages in advance.

Wights attacked us on the Fist, in snow, but we drove them off with fire.

He wrote faster, note after note.

Dead wildlings, and a giant, or maybe a bear, on us, all around.

He heard the crash of steel on wood, which could only mean one thing.

Wights over the ringwall. Fighting inside the camp.

A dozen mounted brothers pounded past him toward the east wall, burning brands streaming flames in each rider's hand. "Spears!" he heard a voice cry, and recognized it as Thoren Smallwood. "Spears and fire! Make a line! Make a line!"

Lord Commander Mormont is meeting them with fire. We've won. We're winning. We're holding our own. We're cutting our way free and retreating for the Wall.

One of the Shadow Tower men came staggering out of the darkness to fall at Sam's feet. He crawled within a foot of the fire before he died.

Lost Sam wrote. The battle's lost. We're all lost.

More mounted brothers rode past, but he could hear the battle closing in every direction now. Behind the spearmen lines of archers were loosing fire arrows at shadows in the dark. Sam saw one wight hit, saw the flames engulf it, but there were a dozen more behind it. Coming over the ringwall he saw a huge pale shape that must have been the bear. Sam did not even think of arming himself to fight. He was about to write another note when he heard the horns again.

Ahooo ahooo ahooooooooooooooooooo.

Two shorts blasts and one long – the call to mount up. But there was no reason to mount, unless to abandon the Fist, and that meant the battle was lost. The fear was biting at him so strong he froze for a moment.

The ravens he thought. I should at least let the ravens go.

He leapt up to open the cages. He was just fumbling with the lock when he heard another sound. A rumble so low and queer for a moment he didn't recognize it. He looked up into the snowstorm. He blinked, swirls of snowflakes falling from his lashes. He rubbed his eyes clear. For a long moment he saw nothing.

Then suddenly there was light.

Sam blinked again, almost blinded. Both arms flew to his face now. It took several long moments for his eyes to adjust. Somewhere high above them, light was shooting through the night. For a moment he thought it was more fire arrows, but they were arrows where no archer could possibly be. At first there were half a dozen, then a score, then too many to count. Below, the whole Fist was suddenly lit up like the dawn. He saw lines of black brothers turning to look.

What is happening? Sam managed to sneak a view through his fingers. The lights were falling to earth now, like a flock of lazy fireflies. For a moment, he glimpsed their origin. Above them were now hovering three deathly black machines…flying machines.

Oh right he a moment he had forgotten all about the beacon.

The lights were falling into the snow now, their glow fading. But around him Sam suddenly heard cheers. "Flying men!" A voice cried, and soon it was echoed up and down the Fist. "Flying men! Flying men!"

The closest of the machines was almost atop them already. Sam watched as it came to a hover by the huge campfire, its drone so loud as to almost howl down the battle around it. The light had faded, but in the glow that remained Sam faintly saw ropes dropping from its side.

######

The flares lit up the night only momentarily, but it was a sight Jon Snow would not forget.

Amidst the storm he could hardly recognize the Fist of the First Men, but he saw the shapes of hundreds of tents and black brothers true enough. Beyond them however, his heart skipped a beat. There were thousands, maybe tens of thousands of other figures. All around them, stretching back to the forest around the ancient ringfort, as far as the eye could see.

They can't possibly be wildlings Jon thought. Mance Rayder was days away, which means…

"Fucking hell!"

Beside him, Findlay was surveying the scene. The pilots were descending towards the central campfire, the only marker well visible. The captain turned to the black brothers, shouting to be heard over the rotors. "You three come with me! Let's find your lord commander and find out what's happening!"

The Black Hawk descended until they were mere feet from the ground. Underwood and Caulfield went first, shimmying down ropes in an instant. The rest of the commandoes followed. For a moment the machine hovered there, until what must have been some signal from the ground. Jon felt a solid bump as the machine touched the surface, though its rotors did not stop.

"Go, go, go!" Findlay yelled. He led the three black brothers out. Qhorin went first. He managed to land deftly. Jon was less steady on his feet however and smacked facefirst into the ground. Luckily the snow was soft. Nearby, he saw one commando still crouched down by some rocks, clutching his leg and swearing. Jon had no time to pay him any heed however. Behind him, he felt Stonesnake pulling him roughly from the ground. Qhorin was shouting for the Lord Commander, but in moments Mormont's huge form appeared atop his horse. Findlay strode right up to him.

"What's the situation?" the captain asked.

"Wights!" Mormont replied, without hesitation. "The dead walk! They surround us!"

"Right" Findlay said, looking around at the black brothers. As the flares had faded, the battle seemed to have immediately resumed. Fire arrows were hissing through the air. "How do we identify them?"

"The dead walk!" Mormont shouted again. "They have blue eyes!"

"Right, blue eyes. Are all your men up here?"

"Yes, within the ring of torches!" Mormont replied, gesturing with a hand.

"Right" Findlay repeated. He turned to an aide, whom Jon knew carried the radio. "All friendlies on top of the hill, within the ring of torches. Engage all targets beyond. Hostiles have blue eyes."

Jon heard the order repeated, and in a moment the Black Hawk soared back into the night sky. Behind them, the two other machines had also come in to land, disgorging their own cargo, and went to join their fellow. Jon watched as Findlay and Underwood ran towards the Ringwall with the first section. A few score black brothers had been running the other way, in the midst of abandoning the defence. They stopped when they saw the commandoes.

"Out of the way! Out of the way!" the captain ordered, as his men lined up to fire. Above them, the machines were dropping more flares, lighting up the night like it were day. Jon saw more figures crawling over the ringwall. Dozens, then hundreds. An army he thought. Not all were even human. A pair of them loomed large enough they might have been giants. Jon was well back in the centre of the camp, but he still unsheathed Longclaw. The Valyrian steel felt good in his hands.

"Fire!" Jon heard the captain's shout clearly over all else, yet it was drowned out in an instant as a dozen rifles answered the command. A few hundred feet away, Jon saw the wights stumble. A few fell, yet in moments they rose to their feet again and kept coming. Some were dragging broken limbs. Jon saw the captain take a step back. "Fuck!" was all he heard.

"Fire!" roared the Lord Commander in response, equal in volume but different in meaning. "Only fire kills them! Not steel, give them flame!"

"Fire?" Findlay repeated, looking back to the line of wights. For a moment Jon saw him hesitate, then he reached for some device on his chest. Jon thought he saw a shape flying through the air. It was no larger than an apple, though he saw the glint of metal.

For a few moments nothing happened. The wights pressed on relentlessly. They stumbled through the snow like an army of drunkards, yet there was such a mass of them this hardly seemed to matter. Many of them looked to be naked, others wore the garb of wildlings, and a few were even dressed in tattered black. Jon watched them close with the line of commandoes. Moments away now. Eyes glowing blue. He thought to shout out a warning.

BANG!

Jon watched as suddenly there was a blinding flash, and what looked like a great puff of snow erupted where Findlay had thrown. Jon saw wights catching fire even as they were tossed into the air. Some fell back onto their fellows, further spreading the flames, but a great mass of them was still coming on.

"Grenades!" Jon heard the captain yell. The other commandoes obeyed, reaching for their own devices. Soon a dozen more were flying through the air. More explosions. Dozens of wights fell writhing, great gaps opened in the mass of writhing bodies, yet hundreds more were coming.

"Back to the walls!" he heard Mormont shouting, as the rest of the commando platoon joined the fray. "Advance, men of the Watch! Spears and fire! Give them flame! Give them flame!"

Those men that were still mounted trotted forward, holding spears and burning brands. Jon found himself following Qhorin, who was following the Lord Commander. There was more shouting. More explosions up ahead. Above, the trio of Black Hawks had flown ahead to the edge of the ringwall where the wights were pouring over. Suddenly the light display returned, only now it was accompanied by a din so loud it pained Jon's ears.

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. BRRRRRRR. BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

He did not understand the mechanism by which the weapons worked. Somehow the sound reminded him of Mikken hammering at his forge, only there were a hundred Mikkens, every one hammering with a giant's strength. Weapons they were however. He saw daggers of light shoot through the air. Scores of wights burst into flames upon impact. He saw another huge shape that may have been a bear hit down the middle. Its great shaggy body looked almost to be cut in two.

Far from falling back, the thin line of commandoes moved forward into the mass of faltering dead. A thicker line of black brothers followed in their wake, screaming battle cries and lashing out with spears and torches. Jon followed the Lord Commander. In minutes they were at the ringwall. Up above the Black Hawks were moving ahead again and Jon soon saw them heading off to what must have been the west. They started circling the Fist, shooting their daggers of light at anything that moved. He saw more wights fell, hundreds even, but his new vantage point revealed the thousands more behind them. They're still coming Jon thought. Was this army numberless?

For the moment however, the black brothers around them were cheering again. He felt a twinge of what felt like relief. After months in the wilderness, it felt good to be with his brothers again. He even spied Edd and Grenn, clutching a torch and a spear respectively. Edd did a double take when he saw him.

"Jon, are you real?" he asked. "I'm having this terrible nightmare."

"I'm real" Jon reassured him "and you're awake!" He looked around a moment, concerned. "Where's Sam? I gave him the beacon."

"Over by the ravens" Edd said, with a wave. Jon looked around, but just at that moment he saw a wider shape hurrying through the snow.

"Jon, is that you?"

"Aye Sam, its me." In one arm he still held Longclaw. The other he used to embrace Sam's shoulder. "You called for help?"

"I lit the beacon, aye."

Nearby, brothers were still hacking and stabbing at writhing bodies. One half of the bear looked to still be twitching. Sam took a moment to look over the Ringwall. "Others, Jon! We're under attack by Others."

"Have you seen them?" he asked.

"They blew the horn three times. Three times means Others."

"But have you seen them?"

The Black Hawks flew by again, firing their weapons, though the bursts already seemed shorter now. In the glow Jon saw Sam shake his head. On the ringwall nearby another group of commandoes had brought forward some heavier weapons. Even as their fellows fell, a fresh mass of wights was climbing and crawling their way back up the slope. Jon heard more weapons firing, though he noticed they did not produce the same light display. He saw the wights stagger from the impacts sure enough. But then they would rise again. Jon held Longclaw aloft, in case any more foes should gain the heights. Behind the gunners, he heard Findlay's voice, this time screaming at the radioman.

"Shit, only the birds have tracer! Tell them bullets ineffective. We need incendiary weapons. I say again, incendiaries. Tracer rounds, high explosives, grenades, napalm! Let 'em burn!"

"Sir, they don't show up on infrared" he heard Underwood report, with almost unnerving calmless. The lieutenant was wearing some strange device on his head. His eyes were glowing a curious green.

"Right, hostiles don't show on infrared" Findlay acknowledged, and the radioman repeated it in turn.

"What do we do when the birds run out?" asked Caulfield, the sergeant's huge form with one foot on the ringwall. "That's most of our grenades already, and bullets are no good."

Findlay seemed to look around for a moment. Jon saw him frown at the mass of wights advancing back up the slope. "You got the flare gun?"

"Yes sir."

"Give it here."

Jon watched as the sergeant passed over a smaller device, no larger than a dagger. The captain fiddled with it briefly, then levelled it down the slope. There was a noise that was less a bang then a pop. Jon watched as a bright red light shot down the slope. It bounced off a wight, but made contact just long enough to spread its little flame. The light bounced further down the slope, setting two more wights on fire before disappearing into a drift of snow.

"Well we've got one useful gun" the captain said. "Gather up all the flares sergeant, pile them right here."

"Yes sir!"

There was further conversation as the commando captain and the Lord Commander quickly reorganized the defence. Despite its age, most of the ancient ringfort was still intact. Only at half a dozen points, where the wall had begun to crumble away, could any quick climb be attempted, even by a wight.

Qhorin and Stonesnake went to join some Shadow Tower men. Jon stayed where he was with Edd, Grenn and Sam. The commando platoon split up into half a dozen smaller groups also. Sections followed their corporals, and squads their lance corporals. Findlayand Mormont stayed at the north slope however. The wights seemed thickest here. Caulfield had soon managed to gather up a couple of dozen flares, and the captain used them sparingly while other commandos tossed their remaining grenades down the slope.

Archers of the Night's Watch loosed more arrows. Edd came back with some burning branches from the campfire and began tossing them down. Jon found himself hacking away with Longclaw. He sliced a wight's hands clean off when it got too close. Jon watched it fall backwards, stumps scrabbling uselessly at the rocky slope. Another time he drove the sword deep into a wight's skull, only for the blade to get stuck. It was nearly wrenched from his grip, before Grenn plunged a spear into the dead man's chest and Edd dropped another branch onto it. The burning body fell back into the darkness, but the flames only revealed a hundred more foes climbing up behind it. Despite the cold and snow, Jon felt sweat on his brow.

He hacked and stabbed, hardly exchanging a word with his brothers. Somehow there was a rhythm to the battle. What had his father said once? Five hundred men could hold Winterfell against ten thousand. Except they were not quite five hundred, even with the flying men. He was not so sure the Fist was near as strong, and he would wager far more then ten thousand foes assailed them now. But still, we must hold the wall.

He was not sure how long had passed when he heard heavy footfalls behind him again. Jon spun around in some alarm, but it was just Caulfield's big form emerging from the darkness.

"All sections out of grenades, sir" he heard the sergeant report.

"Birds low on fuel sir" reported the radioman in turn. "Have to leave soon to make it back to Castle Black."

"How long till the airstrike?"

"Forty minutes, sir."

"We're not bugging out" the captain replied. "Tell them to keep shooting 'til they're dry, then land on the hill and join us."

"What else do we fight with, sir? Our guns are no good" Caulfield asked, though he sounded far from despairing.

The captain put a hand to his head, almost smacking it, as if willing himself to come up with a better idea. "Alright, you got duct tape?" he demanded suddenly, looking around. "Who's got DUCT TAPE?"

"Here sir!" came a reply, and Jon spied a small roll of some black material being thrown over. Findlay turned to find Mormont again. "We need more torches and spears! The longest you can find!"

"Aye, torches and spears!" ordered the Lord Commander.

He hadn't directed the command at anyone in particular, but Jon hastened to obey all the same. He sheathed Longclaw and went hunting. It didn't take long to find the bodies of some fallen watchmen, one still clutching a spear that must have been twice Jon's height, a good ten or twelve feet long. He grabbed it and returned to the ringwall.

Several commandoes and black brothers quickly set up an impromptu assembly line. Jon watched as the roll of 'duct tape' was wrapped around speartips, which were attached to a torch or other flaming object. Even glowing branches from the fire would do. Other black brothers were taking down tents, tearing off strips of anything that would burn. The commandoes started passing around their 'firelighters' in turn. In the falling snow, they looked to be much more effective then a flint.

Jon resumed his position by the others. The spear was even heavier in his hands now with a burning branch at the end, but it felt comforting. For the first time that night, Jon dared to hope. Perhaps we will survive this after all.

"Cold" he heard someone say, and looking around he saw it was Sam, holding his own spear. "Why is it so cold Jon?"

Because its snowing Sam Jon was about to reply, but now he could feel it too. In a moment the temperature seemed to plunge, as if the entire Fist had been submerged into an icy lake without their noticing. Amid the battle he had felt his blood running hot, but now even that seemed no defence.

"It's them, look!" cried a voice.

"Others!"

Eyes turned back north, and Jon saw them. Even at a distance, somehow the Others were unmistakable. They walked with a grace uncommon to any man, let alone a shambling wight. They looked deathly pale, tall and thin, and Jon could have sworn they left no footprints. At first he saw only one, but several more emerged from the tree line. Four, five…eventually he counted seven. They strode forward, at a pace so slow it seemed a casual stroll.

"Others?" he heard Findlay ask uncertaintly.

"White Walkers!" Mormont replied at once, his voice booming. "Demons of ice and snow, from the dawn age. The Wights are their servants."

"Right" the captain replied. Beside him the radioman duly relayed the report. "Contact north. White Walkers. I repeat. Seven white walkers, closing with us. Range five hundred."

The Walkers were still too far away for an arrow, but already he saw some of the commandoes lining up their weapons again. He heard the sharp crack of their rifles. Far below them, Jon thought he saw one or two of the figures stumble, as if struck, but the impacts seemed to bother them no more than it had their servants. He heard Findlay curse again.

"Bravo Lima, five hundred north of my position. Engage hostiles, the white ones, confirm, over."

Jon watched as one of the Black Hawks veered off its circular path and flew to the north. It closed the distance in an instant. Jon watched as it steadied a moment in the air, then the machine opened up with its guns. Tracer fire ripped once more through the air. This time he was sure the bullets struck. Several of the White Walkers stumbled as if pummeled in a melee, though none fell to the ground. The line of Others paused. He saw them look up at the Black Hawk, as if in mere curiosity. The machine hovered a few hundred feet above, firing more spurts of its guns without apparent effect. Jon saw what looked like the leader of the group raise its hand.

All at once he felt a fresh chill down the back of his neck. He could not have believed it could get any colder. Torches and flares alike flickered. The snow had still been falling in lazy streams, but all of a sudden it was tossed into a whirlwind. From his right came a blast of icy air. Jon went to a kneel, clutching his spear for support. For a moment he was afraid he might actually be tossed off the ringwall. Beside him black brothers and commandos alike were bracing against the wind. Far ahead of him, almost level in height, he saw the machine rocking in the sudden gale. The figure of the White Walker seemed to tilt its head, as if observing the effect.

Then all at once the scene vanished.

For a moment Jon thought some sorcery had blinded him, but he could still see the torches burning nearby, including the branch glowing at the end of his own spear. Where the white walkers and the Black Hawk had been he saw nothing but a wall of grey. Mist he thought. Or fog. Had the Others summoned this darkness? The chill in his bones seemed to deepen further. It took him a moment to realize what had happened. A nugget of knowledge that may have come from some half remembered lesson of Maester Luwin's popped into his head. Fog. Fog appears on cold days.

Cold. They made it so cold the air turned into fog.

Nearby, he could still hear Findlay's voice, though it sounded oddly strangled. Could a man get so cold his voice would freeze? "Bravo Lima, come in? Sitrep? What's your status, over?"

For long moments they heard little, only the steady buzz of the machine and the bursts of its guns, now just a faint glimmer up ahead of them. The flickers seemed to grow wild, as if shifting their target. Then Jon head it, he almost felt it in fact. A crash so loud it shook the hill.

"Bravo Lima, where are you? We can't see you? Come in, over!"

The fog took some minutes to clear, the storm vanishing as quick as it had come. When it did, the White Walkers remained. The flying machine was gone.

"Bravo one, bravo two, get out of there now!" Findlay was screaming into the radio. The pilots didn't need to be told twice. The remaining pair of machines flew back and a minute later Jon saw them landing on the far side of the central campfire, firing the last spurts from their weapons. Far below them, the Wind Walkers had resumed their stroll. A thousand wights still swept before them, resuming their climb.

"Shit! Where's that airstrike?"

"Fifteen minutes sir."

Jon stabbed and stabbed again. Blue eyed faces clawed at him. In the flickering light he almost thought he recognized people. For one mad moment he imagined he was back at Winterfell. The wights climbing up were no longer anonymous foes. He thought he saw Robb and Bran, Sansa and Arya. He saw Vayon Poole and Rodrik Cassel. He hacked at a figure that might have been Septon Chayle, caught a glimpse of Farlen the kennelmaster, then Gage the cook. Finally, a woman's face, and he saw it was Lady Stark, scowling at him in that way she often did. The spear was growing heavy now, he could barely summon the strength to wield it.

Voices around him were shouting. Somewhere on his right he heard a yell, then a figure fell from the ringwall. He couldn't tell who it was, only that they were dressed in black. The mass of wights was unrelenting. Nearby other figures were screaming. He recognized the Lord Commander's voice, as well as captain Findlay.

"…must flee. We are overrun!"

"No no! We got two minutes! Airstrike is in two minutes!"

"What is that?"

"Some big fucking planes are gonna fly over and burn down this whole forest!" Findlay was gesturing now, hands spread wide. "We're not bugging out. Tell your men to find some cover. Behind a rock, anywhere they can! We're gonna burn these fuckers!"

"The west wall is falling!"

"Two minutes!"

To Jon the words seemed distant. He felt so tired now he hardly knew what he was doing. He stabbed and parried and stabbed some more. Dimly, he was aware of Grenn and Edd doing the same beside him. Even Sam had picked up a spear. The branch at the end of his own had just about gone out, down to a few dying embers. Still the wights were coming. The slope below looked like a solid mass of bodies. Wights were crawling on top of wights to reach them. What did it matter how high the wall was, when the dead could pile on each other so?

"Thirty seconds!"

Was this why the first men had built eight hundred feet high? Had Bran the Builder fought against wights?

"Everyone get down! Get down!"

Jon was hardly listening. It took him a moment to realize the earth had started to shake again, only this time it did not stop. He looked around. To the south now there was more light then ever, as if the sun was rising behind the Fist, but no...The whole world was rumbling.

And in ancient days Joramun, who blew the Horn of Winter and woke giants from the earth…

The rumbling grew closer. Then Jon heard another sound, a roar of wind and death so intense his ears were pained again. He looked up, and thought he spied two massive shapes, as large as dragons, though it was hard to see through the still falling snow. Something much deadlier was dropping from their bellies however. Jon thought he spied objects falling, and felt a sudden urge to fling himself to the ground. He did so, dropping the spear somewhere in the process. Around him the same primitive instinct seemed to seize everyone. Someone had summoned a pair of great orange curtains. To both east and west fire was falling like rain. Somehow they missed the Fist itself, but they swept right over its flanks, so close Jon felt the heat. For one delirious moment he was back in Mikken's forge, safe and warm, playing with Robb and Theon. They were just boys again. The thought made him happy. He couldn't quite hear it, but the movements in his throat told him he was laughing.

The world was full of sound, one unrelenting bass note that filled his ears and rattled around inside his skull. For long moments Jon lay their dazed. He tried to look around, but dust and debris was mixing with the snow, until it was hard to see more then ten feet in any direction. Far from being loud, the world had turned mute. Beside him he saw Edd's mouth opening and closing, but no sound seemed to be coming out. He was about to rise again when suddenly the rumbling resumed. He lay still as the curtains returned. This time they seemed to come from the west, and swept both to the north and the south.

For long minutes the ground shook and shook some more. This time he truly was dazed. He tried to come to a knee and realized the effort was beyond him. Eventually silence seemed to return, though it was only the lack of shaking in the ground that told him so. His fingers could hear better than his ears. He felt a hand patting his shoulder, oddly gentle. He turned over and saw they were dressed in green rather than black. He recognized Underwood's face. The Lieutenant was speaking to him, but the words were still dim, like they were separated by a thick pane of glass. He seemed to be asking if he was alright. Jon nodded and the commando moved on.

Jon made to look around, and realized he could see more clearly. To the east, the first glimmers of dawn were appearing, and this time it seemed real. He recognized more faces – Edd and Grenn and even Sam. Somehow, all of them lived. He saw lips moving, but could not make out the words well.

With great effort, he staggered over to the ringwall.

As far as the eye could see there were bodies - not animate ones, not wights, but a sea of blackened corpses. Truly corpses. He looked back towards the tree line…except there was no tree line. Where the edge of the haunted forest had been he saw only splintered stumps and broken branches. Great holes in the earth had appeared overnight, big enough to swallow a mammoth whole. The devastation stretched off into the distance, for miles and miles, as far as the eye could see. Everywhere everything was blackened and broken. What were those things? Jon found himself thinking, and it was the flying machines he thought of. It took him a full minute to even remember the white walkers.

He looked to where they had been, but in the dawn light he saw nothing but ash and snow. Beneath the Fist, not a thing was moving, living or dead.