Tyrion's voice cracked with urgency as he cried out, "There's more people coming!" His plea was met with a wall of noise from the ongoing battle, drowning his words in the chaos. Panic clenched at his chest as he watched Ser Barristan and the other soldiers engaged in combat, oblivious to his warning.
Gritting his teeth and fighting back the fear that clawed at him, Tyrion quickly scanned the area for an alternative course of action. Rushing to Ser Barristan's side was out of the question; the intruders would spot and kill him within seconds.
His gaze landed on one of the archers positioned atop a tower, and a spark of an idea ignited in Tyrion's mind. He steeled himself and took a deep breath, preparing to take action.
Tyrion sprinted toward the tower, his legs carrying him as fast as his determination propelled him. However, just as he was about to reach the tower's base, a lurking figure emerged from the shadows, evidently searching for a way inside.
Tyrion cursed under his breath. His path was obstructed, but he couldn't afford to hesitate. As he approached the intruder, he relied on his agility and cunning, both of which had been honed through years of surviving in a world that often underestimated him.
The Lannister's steps remained light and silent as he closed in on the unsuspecting attacker. He knew he lacked the height or strength to deal a fatal blow, so he focused on the man's vulnerability. With a swift, calculated motion, Tyrion swung his small axe at the back of the intruder's knees, targeting a sensitive joint.
The axe struck its mark with a meaty thud, and the attacker cried out in pain, crumpling to the ground.
Without a moment's hesitation, Tyrion delivered several blows to the attacker's head with his small axe, ensuring that the intruder would pose no further threat. He didn't pause to check whether the man was dead or unconscious; instead, he swiftly continued his mission by ascending the tower.
Climbing the spiraling stairs to the top, he reached the two archers stationed there. They were alert and armed, and upon seeing Tyrion's unexpected presence, they tensed, ready to defend their post.
"Lord Tyrion? What are you doing here?" one of the archers asked, immediately resuming his steady stream of arrows, not bothering to wait for an answer.
With urgency in his voice, Tyrion wasted no time with explanations. "There's no time to explain! I found someone trying to get into this tower," he hurriedly relayed. "Light up the bases of the other towers and take out anyone trying to infiltrate!" he added, his words spoken in rapid succession.
The archer's eyes widened as he comprehended the gravity of the situation, but he promptly obeyed Tyrion's orders. Dipping his arrow into the nearby torch, he sent a flaming missile toward the base of the nearest tower, and then another, and a third.
The flames illuminated the area, exposing the stealthy figures of several intruders attempting to infiltrate the towers. The archers took aim and swiftly dispatched the would-be infiltrators.
Tyrion watched with a grim determination, knowing that the threat had not yet passed. "There's more people coming from the Northeast. Ring the alarm and light up the area!" he instructed.
The archer promptly followed his directives, ensuring that the defenders remained alert and prepared to face the impending danger.
...
Reaching a slightly elevated hill that overlooked the frozen wasteland stretching before them, Gale and his companions came to a halt. The stranger joined them, and as the group surveyed the desolate landscape, the stranger began to speak.
"The Night King still resides within the depths of the lands of Always Winter," he remarked, gesturing towards the barren expanse. "However, he's been sending white walkers to scout the lands south of here for some time now. They always pass through this area," he added.
Gale, his mind working through the information, responded thoughtfully, rubbing his chin as he considered their options. "So, if we wait here long enough, we're bound to find a White Walker or two," he concluded.
The stranger, with an amused tone in his voice, chimed in, "More or less, but with the freezing wind coming from the north, you're more likely to freeze to death before that happens."
Gale surveyed his companions and could feel their collective discomfort due to the harsh, freezing conditions. Tormund was the first to voice his concerns. "It doesn't look like we'll be able to start a fire either..." he grumbled, giving the stranger a suspicious look. "I still think we should just kill this thing and get on with our lives," he added, clearly distrusting the undead creature.
Gale, growing weary of Tormund's hostility towards the stranger, responded, rolling his eyes. "What reason do we have for killing this guy, and for what purpose?" he asked, dismissively waving his hand. "Whatever it is, it's clearly not a White Walker or a Wight. Its eyes aren't blue, and it's speaking in the common tongue," he added.
The stranger chimed in, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "I appreciate your ability to distinguish the difference, but I'd appreciate it even more if you stopped calling me 'it,'" the stranger calmly said, to which Gale simply shrugged.
Gale stubbornly stood his ground. "You look like an 'it,' so I'll continue to address you as such," he retorted, giving the stranger a dismissive look.
"As for the fire..." Gale continued, his gaze turning towards the snowy landscape. An idea began to form in his mind. "Let me try something," he said, stomping the snow and concentrating his powers.
After a brief moment, he kneeled and began digging into the snow, eventually retrieving a compressed snow block.
He held it up for his companions to see. "You think we can use this to build a shelter – something to ward off the wind and make a fire?" Gale asked, alternating his gaze between them.
...
Ser Barristan, having dispatched the last of the attackers with his blade, was ready to sheath his sword and take a moment to breathe. However, the urgent peal of alarm bells pierced the air, and he immediately halted his actions. His gaze shot upwards, finding Tyrion standing alongside the archers atop the tower.
Tyrion pointed urgently to the Northeast, where another force of armed men was approaching, his voice carrying down to Ser Barristan.
"There's too many to face head-on. You see that arch behind you?!" Tyrion's voice was laced with urgency, and Ser Barristan quickly turned, spotting the arch he mentioned.
"It will serve as an excellent choke point! I can see it from here!" Tyrion continued a hint of determination in his voice. "Take your men there and wait for the attackers!" Tyrion's instructions were clear, and Ser Barristan nodded in agreement.
"Right, to the arch! Form up!" Ser Barristan shouted, rallying his men with swift, authoritative commands. They immediately began moving to the arch, taking up positions to prepare for the oncoming attackers.
Tyrion nodded in satisfaction at Ser Barristan's swift response. It was a rare occurrence for someone to heed his advice without questioning his competence due to his dwarfism. While the validation was gratifying, there was no time to revel in it.
He turned to the archers at his side, who were in the process of preparing their bows.
"With this horde of attackers, and there appear to be at least fifty of them, you can expect more to make attempts on our towers," Tyrion warned the archers. "I trust you two to pick off anyone who even so much as glances at the towers. Leave the task of safeguarding Ser Barristan and the troops below to the other archers," he instructed.
The two archers exchanged a quick, knowing look, their expressions filled with determination as the enemy forces drew closer. They then redirected their attention toward the approaching threat, nodding in agreement.
"Good lads. Do as I say, and I'll make sure you enjoy the finest brothels within Winterfell once we emerge from this ordeal," Tyrion added with his trademark wit, motivating the archers to stand resolute.
In the dim, frigid interior of an improvised snow-block igloo, Threya cast a critical gaze at the makeshift shelter. "This shelter of yours is as ugly as giant shit, but it works," she commented, extending her hand to touch the inner walls cautiously.
Gale couldn't help but respond with a warning, "Careful. It's barely holding against the wind," causing Threya to withdraw her hand with a grimace.
He shifted his attention to the enigmatic stranger, who had settled quietly alongside them. "So... what's your story anyway?" he inquired, his curiosity piqued.
The stranger regarded him with a blank look and inquired, "Why do you ask?"
Gale leaned back against the snowblock walls and shrugged, offering a casual smile. "Just trying to make conversation," he explained. "I'm bored out of my mind, and I don't imagine you've had many chances to speak with other people in this place. I don't reckon you'll get many more either," he added with a chuckle.
The stranger nodded slowly. "I was... am a priest of R'hllor, the Lord of Light and Flames," he admitted with a sigh.
The stranger nodded slowly. "I was... am a priest of R'hllor, the Lord of Light and Flames," he admitted with a sigh. "I've forgotten many things over the years, but my name is Melorian... I think," He added.
Gale couldn't help but furrow his brow at those words. The fact that the stranger wasn't even sure of his own name meant he had likely lived for a considerably long time with no one to call him by that name, signifying a lonely existence. Still, there was something else that piqued Gale's curiosity.
"A priest of R'hllor? You, an undead creature associated with cold and death, are a priest of R'hllor?" Gale asked, giving Melorian a puzzled look.
Before Melorian could answer, Threya chimed in. "What in the hell is R'hllor?" She asked, clearly confused. Normally, it was Tormund's duty to ask such questions, but he was on lookout duty, so Threya took it upon herself.
Gale turned to her. "R'hllor is a god widely worshipped in Essos, beyond the Narrow Sea and far to the East," He explained. "He's considered the lord of light, the heart of flames, and the embodiment of all that is good, according to his followers," He added, turning back to Melorian. "As far as I know, R'hllor and his devotees tend to despise the undead."
Melorian gave a slow nod. "Indeed, the Lord's grace does not extend to the abominable undead. However, I am not among them," he clarified. "My continued existence, despite my unsightly state, is a divine blessing granted to me by the Lord to fulfill a sacred duty."
Gale pondered this revelation, casting an appraising gaze over Melorian's otherworldly appearance. "I've heard that R'hllor's priests can resurrect the dead, but I expected a more... pristine outcome," he commented, his frown deepening as he examined Melorian's unique condition. Melorian appeared taken aback by Gale's awareness.
"You seem well-versed in our faith," he said, his eyes filled with hope. "Has the reach of the Lord's glory extended to these distant lands?"
Gale shook his head with a wry smile. "Not really. No," he admitted. "The worship of R'hllor is primarily concentrated in Essos. My knowledge comes from too much reading."
Melorian's shoulders slumped with a hint of disappointment. "A pity," he mused. "Nevertheless, my current state is a result of a delayed ritual. My body had suffered severe damage, and the priests were not swift enough to retrieve it."
Melorian's words sparked a recognition in Gale's memory. He hadn't personally read the books, but a friend once mentioned how a priest of R'hllor resurrected Caitlyin Stark after her death, similar to how Melissandre resurrected Jon Snow.
Apparently, she still looked like a corpse because of the horrid state her corpse was found in weeks after her death, though she still maintained her intelligence. Her personality, however, seemed to have changed.
"I see..." Gale acknowledged with a thoughtful nod. "And I presume your sacred duty is connected to what you're guarding?" He inquired, his curiosity piqued.
"Indeed. But I've spoken too much already, so I'll-" Melorian began, seemingly ready to conclude the conversation. However, he was interrupted by Tormund's urgent voice from outside the shelter.
"Look sharp! We've got guests!"
Tormund's words carried a sense of immediate danger, and Gale, Threya, and Melorian exchanged quick glances before scrambling to their feet, ready to face the visitors.
...
As the battle raged on at Moat Cailin, the tide was rapidly shifting against Ser Barristan and his dwindling forces. They fought bravely and fiercely, but the attackers kept pouring in, increasing in numbers.
Meanwhile, Tyrion observed the battlefield from his vantage point, acting as an impromptu strategist. His keen eyes scanned the area for any flanking forces and alerted Ser Barristan to their advances.
He would ring the alarm bell, signaling the archers to light up the areas where the enemy approached, and he even attempted to throw rocks at the attackers whenever he could.
However, despite the archers' determined defense, they were slowly running out of arrows. On the ground, more than half of the men who had initially fought alongside Ser Barristan had already fallen, leaving only six men, including the seasoned knight himself.
The situation looked dire, and they were faced with a daunting challenge.
Tyrion's mind raced as he desperately tried to find a solution to their perilous situation. He carefully analyzed every detail around him, hoping to uncover a way out of this dire circumstance. Yet, no matter how frantically he looked around or squeezed his brain, there was no clear way out of this mess he found himself in.
The soldiers closing in on them were clearly no mere bandits; they moved with discipline and were well-armed. They were clearly sent by someone with a specific purpose: to eliminate someone within their party or perhaps the entire group.
The pressing question was who would orchestrate such a dangerous operation and for what reason?
Tyrion's initial suspicion naturally fell on his father, Tywin Lannister, as he considered the possibility of familial treachery. However, he swiftly dismissed the notion.
Tywin thought too little of his own son to orchestrate such a complex plot and waste so many resources to eliminate him. If the old Lannister wanted to kill Tyrion, he would have employed simpler, more direct methods.
Additionally, Tywin was far too astute to target Ser Barristan, who was a beloved and respected figure throughout Westeros. Any suspicion falling on Tywin would have far-reaching consequences, and he was too shrewd to risk such fallout.
Tyrion's mind continued to race, his thoughts swirling as he attempted to unravel the enigma before him. It was clear that this was no ordinary assassination attempt; the perpetrators sought not just to eliminate their targets but to broadcast their actions to the world. The question that loomed, however, was the why and what for.
As Tyrion pieced together the clues in his mind, strange animal calls pierced the air, creating a disorienting symphony of sound. Suddenly, their assailants began dropping one by one with arrows and darts stuck to their backs.
Confusion washed over Ser Barristan and his companions. Yet, they wasted no time in seizing the opportunity to strike back.
From the depths of the surrounding forest, a band of enigmatic figures emerged, their forms deceptively small, obscured by the verdant foliage that camouflaged their movements.
Clad in garments that harmonized flawlessly with the lush greenery of the woods, they seemed like an extension of the very bogs from which they hailed.
Their attire, a mosaic of earthy greens and browns, allowed them to slip through the undergrowth like spirits of the forest, unseen and unheard.
These bog-dwellers wielded an array of arms that appeared alien to the traditional weaponry used on the battlefield. Short swords, their blades honed to a gleaming edge, hung at their sides.
Their skill with these unusual weapons was undeniable, as they deftly struck down their foes with grace and precision. In addition to the short swords, they brandished throwing blades with lethal accuracy, launching them like furtive flashes of silver through the air, each one finding its mark.
The sudden and unexpected arrival of these forest guardians shifted the course of the battle in an instant. With the unyielding determination of those who fought to protect their homeland, the newcomers unleashed a storm of swift, coordinated attacks upon the bewildered assailants.
A battle cry, both primal and resolute, reverberated through the forest, invigorating the spirits of Ser Barristan and his fellow defenders.
With this formidable assistance, the combined might of Ser Barristan and his newfound allies proved insurmountable, allowing them to ultimately drive away their adversaries and secure their position within the ancient fortress of Moat Cailin.
Emerging from the shelter into the biting cold, Gale and Threya couldn't help but notice Tormund's uncharacteristic grin as he gazed out over the snow-covered expanse. Even the towering giant, typically lost in its own world, fixated its attention on the distant, eerie figures. These were no living beings but wights, grotesque, animated corpses, their rotted forms a terrifying sight.
Among the lifeless horde, a chilling figure rode atop a wight steed, a White Walker, distinguishable by its frosty blue eyes and ethereal aura. Those frigid eyes locked onto Gale, and a predatory grin curled on the young man's lips.
"It seems we've found our quarry," Gale declared with impatience, his footsteps quickening as he descended the snowy slope. "Keep the wights off my back, and I'll handle the walker," he instructed, a surge of excitement pushing him forward to confront the ancient menace.
Threya and Tormund exchanged knowing glances, gripped their weapons, and followed behind their leader. The towering giant, unwilling to be left behind, lumbered along.
Meanwhile, Melorian, perched on the hill, found himself at a crossroads. Whether Gale and his group emerged victorious or perished, they would leave, or so he believed. However, curiosity tugged at him, compelling him to witness the imminent confrontation.
Although he harbored doubts about the odds Gale's group faced against a White Walker, his intrigue overcame his reservations, and he remained on the hill to observe the impending clash.
...
In Moat Cailin, Ser Barristan sheathed his blade and surveyed the scene with mixed emotions. The sight of his fallen comrades on the ground weighed heavily on him, but as he turned his gaze towards the living members of his party, a sense of gratitude washed over him.
There were still survivors among them, thanks to the unexpected saviors who had arrived in the nick of time.
Before him stood a group of short-statured men clad in ragged green and yellow camouflage attire, blending into the swampy surroundings of the Neck.
Leading them was a man who, despite sharing their stature, appeared refined and dressed in finer clothing. He was Howland Reed, the head of House Reed and the lord of Greywatch, a vassal sworn to serve House Stark, the Wardens of the North.
Overwhelmed by relief and gratitude, Ser Barristan barely had a chance to speak before Lord Reed addressed him. "I didn't think we'd reach you in time when my scouts told me your party was under attack," Lord Reed confessed, a respectful nod accompanying his words. "You've shown great resilience, Ser Barristan. As expected of you, I should think."
Modest in his response, Ser Barristan acknowledged, "I can't take all the credit for this one." His attention shifted as he noticed Tyrion Lannister approaching from the corner of his vision.
With a gesture, he introduced the diminutive noble. "Allow me to introduce Lord Tyrion Lannister. He played a significant role in our survival."
Tyrion felt a surge of satisfaction at finally receiving recognition, yet he maintained his composure, offering a gracious smile. "Well, I suppose being at this altitude grants a unique perspective," he quipped with a chuckle. "That's all there is to it."
Expressing his gratitude to Lord Reed, Tyrion continued, "In any case, it's an honor to meet you, Lord Reed. I owe you my life, and as a Lannister, I'm bound to uphold our house's motto – 'A Lannister always pays his debts.'" He extended his hand toward the lord.
Lord Reed was momentarily taken aback by Tyrion's apparent respect and politeness. As a Crannogman, he was accustomed to the condescending attitude of southern nobles who often looked down on his people as frog eaters and madmen.
However, he quickly overcame his surprise and shook Tyrion's hand.
"I'm merely carrying out my duty by protecting Lord Stark's guests," Lord Reed humbly responded. "You owe me nothing."
Tyrion, displaying his characteristic determination, replied, "Regardless, you've saved my life, but we'll have more time to discuss this later." With a firm nod, he continued, "These were no ordinary bandits, and I fear that whoever is behind them might attempt something again. We need to find a safe place after we tend to the injured and give the fallen a proper burial."
...
Threya's eyes widened in amazement as she observed Gale's lightning-fast sprint through the snow, moving effortlessly as if gliding across its surface without leaving a trace.
His speed surpassed anything she had ever witnessed, and his hands moved with astonishing agility, dispatching obsidian daggers with remarkable accuracy to eliminate any wight that crossed his path.
Yet, her focus was abruptly shattered by the thunderous roar of the giant charging from behind. She watched in awe as the massive creature seized the nearest wight, repeatedly slamming it into the ground until it was reduced to a pile of lifeless bones. The giant wasted no time and hurled the remains at the other approaching wights.
Shaking off her initial shock, Threya swiftly drew the dragon glass dagger that Gale had provided her and lunged at the first white walker in sight, with Tormund closely following her lead.
Meanwhile, Gale had already closed the distance between himself and the white walker.
The white walker, seated atop its eerie wight steed, regarded Gale with confusion and shock etched across its otherworldly features. However, as Gale reached for one of his obsidian daggers and prepared to strike, the white walker reacted swiftly, raising its ice blade and spurring its wight steed to charge at the young man.
Standing his ground, Gale hurled his dagger at the white walker, but the undead creature swiftly deflected it with a deft wave of its ice blade. As the wight steed closed in on him, Gale had no choice but to dive aside to narrowly evade its oncoming charge.
The white walker attempted to cleave him in two with its long, icy blade, but Gale rolled away just in the nick of time, making the undead creature's weapon cleave the snow instead.
Undaunted, the white walker compelled its wight steed to halt, pivoting it to charge Gale once more. Gale swiftly reached into his cloak, retrieving the last of his obsidian throwing daggers.
With only five of these precious weapons in his possession, he understood the necessity of making every throw count as he braced for the oncoming charge of the wight steed.
Bolting towards his impending adversary, Gale expertly hurled the daggers, one after the other, at the charging foe. The white walker, proficient with its icy blade, deflected the first three projectiles with calculated precision.
Yet, the speed and unexpected angles of Gale's throws rendered it unable to intercept the fourth and final dagger, which found its mark, burying itself into the wight steed's neck.
The wight horse collapsed abruptly, taking the white walker down with it, both figures tumbling into the frigid snow.
Without hesitation, Gale leaped into the air, his obsidian dagger firmly grasped as he aimed to plunge it into the chest of the fallen white walker.
Gale's dagger had been on course to strike the white walker's heart, poised to end its life. Yet, the white walker astounded him by suddenly opening its frigid mouth, releasing a cacophony of chilling sounds that resembled the cracking of ice.
Before Gale could fathom the situation, a wight lunged from the periphery, crashing into him with force, sending both tumbling through the snow for a brief, chaotic moment.
With a grunt of irritation, Gale fought to regain his footing and swiftly drove his obsidian dagger into the wight's skull as he clambered back to his feet.
"Damn it!" Gale couldn't help but curse as he turned his attention back to the white walker, who had already risen to its feet, resolute in its intent to continue the battle.
"I thought I told you fuckers to keep those damned things off my back!" Gale exclaimed, briefly diverting his gaze to Threya and Tormund, who were entangled in their own clashes with wights.
"Don't ask for the impossible, you southern cunt!" Threya retorted, her voice strained from the combat. "Just finish off the bloody thing!"
Gale clenched his jaw in irritation before shifting his focus to the looming white walker. Inhaling deeply, he took a moment to collect himself.
Though frustrated by the situation, he still had other tricks up his sleeves to take the white walker by surprise and end the fight quickly.
The wildlings duo, predictably unreliable allies forced upon Gale by the circumstances, were of little use, but he had never intended to rely on them in the first place.
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