Time for my second favorite battle of the entire show! Are you excited? I'm excited.
Also—putting a content warning here for descriptions of violence involving (undead) children. Nothing too graphic, but I think it deserves a mention.
Caitie had never been on a ship before, and if she had her way, she never would be again.
She hated everything about it—the way the cold sea spray would drench her hair and clothes, the way she constantly felt like she was walking on something unstable. She hated how she knew that if she fell in or the boat flooded, she'd be in waters thousands of feet deep, home to creatures large enough to eat her in one bite—if she didn't die of cold shock first, of course. Most of all, she hated how her stomach's objection to sailing kept her in a perpetual state of misery.
She hadn't even had the ability to go through Sam's songbook because of it. Her days comprised sitting on the deck of her ship with Jon at her side, breathing in the ocean air while she leaned over the railing, trying to ignore her stomach and the water underneath her. As much as she hated being above deck, being below it, underwater in a small windowless space, was much worse.
For his part, Edd avoided her all week, grumbling that her seasickness was rubbing off on him. But Tormund, oddly enough, had taken pity on Caitie. He joined her and Jon most evenings, telling outlandish stories and doing his best to help her take her mind off her predicament.
She supposed it was a strange sort of bonding experience, her seasickness.
"But you didn't really have sex with a bear, did you?" Caitie asked the day they were set to arrive. The three of them sat on crates next to the railings at the edge of the deck. The waves crashed against the side of the boat, so she hung onto Tormund's every word, desperately trying to forget the deep, dark depths below her.
"She wasn't just a bear," Tormund replied with feeling. "She was a goddess. A beauty. My Sheila."
Caitie and Jon exchanged a look. "I see," she said, not truly believing him, but still wanting to play along for amusement's sake alone. "And how drunk were you, exactly?"
"I'd had a bit," Tormund admitted. "Doesn't change that she was good. Fangs were sharp, but she knew how to use them. Nice and soft down below."
For a moment, Caitie couldn't possibly fathom what to say while the image he'd created took form in her head. And then she realized he was only saying it to get a reaction. Instead of giving him one, she simply laughed. "Well," she said cheerfully, "if I wasn't already about to retch, I would be now."
"Just wait 'til you meet our women. Then you'd understand." He nodded at Jon. "He's prettier than most of them combined."
"Somehow, I believe that."
Jon pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. As always, this only made her want to continue. "Did you know he fluffs his hair when he thinks no one is looking? I caught him using his sword as a mirror, once, back when we were recruits. He spent ten minutes just… admiring himself."
"You're exaggerating," said Jon.
"Oh, I'm not saying it's a bad thing. There was a reason I never let anyone else cut my hair but you. Except for that one awful time after Craster's when Grenn had to." The moment the words left her lips, Caitie halted, thrown off by what had just happened. She hadn't even thought before she'd said his name. It had been so easy, so mundane, when before she had always been aware before mentioning him, would have to work up to saying his name. This... this had never happened to her before. And it hurt. Similar to the raw, overwhelming grief she'd felt just after his death, but with shame and self-loathing intertwined.
Sensing she needed it, Jon moved closer to her for comfort.
Tormund cleared his throat, realizing something was amiss, but not entirely sure what it was. Luckily, before he could speak, Caitie's nausea hit a peak, and she emptied her breakfast into the Shivering Sea. It was the first time she could be grateful for her seasickness.
Jon rubbed her back in small, soothing circles as she retched. When it was over, the nausea subsided. She wiped her mouth with a rag she always kept nearby and sipped some water from her canister to get the taste out of her mouth.
"Kill me," she groaned. "Just kill me."
Jon chuckled. "You're so dramatic."
"You would be too if you were in my position."
"We'll reach Hardhome today, and you'll be off the ship."
"Yes, but then we have to sail back home."
"Unless the Free Folk kill us."
"At this point," she said, "I think I might prefer that."
Tormund shook his head. "No, you wouldn't."
Caitie threw him a glare, and he raised his hands in surrender.
She turned to Jon. "Speaking of Hardhome, I've been meaning to ask; could I have two of the dragonglass daggers?"
"Why?"
"I'm going to use them to carve my name into the ship so everyone will know the torture it inflicted upon me." She rolled her eyes. "What do you think I want them for?"
To his credit, Jon didn't react to the sarcasm. Instead, he nodded, grabbing the satchel he hadn't once let out of his sight and fishing out two black daggers. When he handed them over, Caitie took them one by one and attached them to her belt, beside Owen and Cerys.
And just in time, too, for no sooner had she finished, did Edd shout "Look!" from the bow of the ship.
Caitie almost denied herself hope, but when she looked up, she was glad she hadn't. Because they had reached land. "Oh thank the Gods," she breathed, craning her neck to take in the sight before her.
The beauty of it was astounding. Hardhome sat in the cove of a larger bay sheltered by cliffs and covered in a light dusting of snow. Caitie could see frozen waterfalls cascading down the cliffside. The four buildings in the cove were made of wood, as was a tall spiked fence to her right, starting from the base of the cliffs and ending at the sea. Beyond it, she could see scores of grimy-looking tents going for thousands of leagues down the rest of the bay, far out of sight.
As their ship drew closer to the shore, Caitie could make out finer details—specifically, hundreds of grey dots standing on the beach, watching their approach. She took a deep breath. "How likely do you think it is that they'll kill us on the spot?" she asked Tormund.
All Caitie got in response was a severe brow, furrowed in concentration and worry.
It did nothing to help her feel better.
Eventually, the water became too shallow for the ships to continue, and the Night's Watch had to switch to smaller rowboats to make it ashore. Caitie sat next to Tormund and Edd, trying not to vomit as the waves jostled the boat, unable to fathom how Jon could stand at the front, watching as they inched closer to the beach.
Caitie counted the seconds until the rowboats came to a halt. When it lurched to a stop, she stepped into the wet sand and kelp, and trudged up the beach between Jon and Edd, towards the village square where the Wildlings waited. All were white-faced with shock.
She eyed Tormund, standing on Jon's other side, and wondered if he might turn on them now. She hoped not. Even with all the history between their peoples, Caitie liked Tormund. He hadn't been wrong when he'd told her they could have been friends, were they born on the same side of the Wall.
If all went well, maybe they still could be.
The four of them stopped to take in the scene: hundreds of eyes watching their every move. Caitie was aware of her entire body; every blink of her eyes, every twitch of her hands. But at least she was back on solid ground. That was something to give her comfort, at least for the moment.
"You trust me, Jon Snow?" asked Tormund.
Like Caitie, Jon didn't take his eyes off the hundreds of Wildlings staring at them. "Does that make me a fool?"
"We're fools together, now."
Together, their party started forward on the path up to the town square. Tormund led the way, and the Wildlings parted for him, huddling together and whispering while they watched. As the Night's Watch marched up the beach, someone whistled, and a group—all from the same tribe, she thought, for they all dressed alike—of Wildlings intercepted them. Caitie had to bite back a gasp as they drew closer. Stitched to their furs were different kinds of bones—human bones. The leader's mask, which covered most of his face, he'd crafted from a man's skull.
Her fingers itched towards Owen and Cerys, but she held herself back. This was a diplomatic mission, and one wrong step—one wrong gesture or word or look—could get them all killed.
"Lord of Bones," Tormund greeted. "Been a long time."
The masked man—or the lord of bones, she supposed—didn't return the pleasantries. "Last time I saw you," he said, "the little crow was your prisoner. The other way around, now. What happened?"
"War," Tormund replied.
The lord of bones scoffed. "War? You call that war? The greatest army the north has ever seen, cut to pieces by some southern king."
Still, Tormund didn't rise to the bait, his voice calm as he answered. "We should gather the elders. Find somewhere quiet to talk."
"You don't give the orders here."
"I'm not giving an order."
The lord of bones looked him up and down, and realized: "Why aren't you in chains?"
"He's not my prisoner."
Every single eye in the vicinity turned to Jon.
"No?" asked the lord of bones. "What is he?"
Jon paused, debating his next step, and raised his voice. "We're allies."
For a moment, there was only shock, but anger soon followed. "You fucking traitor!" The lord of bones spat. "You fight for the crows now?"
Any thought of caution was wiped from Caitie's mind, and she wasn't alone. All hands in the square went to their weapons. The black brothers and Wildlings stared each other down, waiting for the other side to strike first.
But before they could, Tormund stepped closer, his steely blue eyes boring into the man in front of him, without fear or anger or any emotion at all. "I don't fight for the crows."
"We're not here to fight," Jon put in. "We're here to talk."
The lord of bones did not seem impressed by this. "Is that right? You and the pretty crow do a lot of talking, Tormund." He tapped his staff against Tormund's chest. "And when you're done talking—" another tap, this time using more force, "do you get down on your knees and suck his co—"
What happened next went so fast that Caitie almost missed it. As the lord of bones finished the sentence, he attempted to tap Tormund again. Tormund grabbed the staff away from its owner and swung, landing a blow to the lord of bones's head. As soon as he went down, Tormund beat him over and over again, bludgeoning the lord of bones until his head was an unrecognizable mess of blood, bone, and brain.
When it was over, Tormund threw the staff down and looked around at his kin. "Gather the elders," he said, "and let's talk."
No one dared to disobey.
As he brushed past his fellows, they all moved aside for him—and in that moment, Caitie decided that Jon was right; Tormund was the perfect leader for his people. She only hoped it would be enough.
Releasing a breath, Caitie and her friends cautiously followed towards one of the wooden buildings at the back of the cove.
She had almost made it to the entrance when she saw it.
The giant was so tall it blocked out the sun, and so large it could have crushed her with one fist. Its face was oddly distorted—almost human, but not quite there, and the sight of it soured her stomach. She'd never seen one up close before. This was the object of so many of her nightmares, standing in front of her. Her face must have been white as a sheet as she stopped in her tracks.
Jon had made it to the entrance, but sensing she had faltered, he turned back around to look at her. Striding over, he took her hand in his and followed her gaze to the giant in their midst.
"You don't have to do this," he murmured, low enough so that only she could hear. "You could go back to the ship."
A part of her wanted to, and desperately, but she couldn't. The only thing scarier than facing her fears was the idea of not facing her fears. Wildlings respected strength, and so she would have to show some. Emotion would only serve to get her killed. Besides, it would be a cold day in the hells before she left Jon to do this alone.
Caitie laughed shakily, standing up straight and readying herself for whatever came next. "And leave you to charm the Wildlings all by yourself? Never."
Black brothers and Wildling chieftains alike sat in a circle around the fire in the heart of the common hut. Light peeked through from the wooden slats of the exposed loft above them. Though the tension in the room was palpable, no one drew their weapons. It seemed the Wildlings were more curious than bloodthirsty—something for which Caitie was grateful.
Edd and Tormund flanked Jon's side, but she hung back in the shadows, close to the exit, watching the reactions of those around her. Caitie didn't know these people—didn't know their customs, their manners, what would persuade them and what wouldn't. It was Jon and Tormund's area of expertise, so she blended in with the darkness and merely watched.
The only place her eyes didn't wander was to where the giant stood at the very back of the room.
Instead, she noted how different all the Wildlings looked from one another. They dressed differently, articulated differently, some even painted their faces. The lone Thenn looked no different to all the others of his kind which Caitie had encountered: bald and scarred from his clan's rituals. Jon hadn't been joking when he'd told her no two Wildling tribes were alike.
The thing of which Caitie took the most note were the women in the room. She counted at least ten female chieftains in the hut, all openly holding weapons, with the same air of authority as their male counterparts. They were respected—as fighters, as leaders. And if Caitie were being completely honest, she would have to admit she was a little in awe of them because of it.
"My name's Jon Snow. I'm lord commander of the Night's Watch." The opening statement broke Caitie out of her reverie. She watched the expressions of the Wildlings as they listened.
"We're not friends. We've never been friends. We won't become friends today," Jon said. "This isn't about friendship. This is about survival. This is about putting a seven-hundred-foot wall between you and what's out there." He pointed to the hut's exit.
"You built that wall to keep us out," replied a female chieftain—or chieftainess, Caitie supposed—leaning up against the column opposite to where Jon stood.
"Since when do the crows give two shits if we live?" asked the Thenn.
"In normal times we wouldn't," Jon replied. "But these aren't normal times. The White Walkers don't care if a man's Free Folk or crow. We're all the same to them—meat for their army. But together we can beat them."
Caitie thought that was a bit too optimistic.
The chieftainess seemed to agree. "Beat the White Walkers," she said with a wry smile. "Good luck with that. Run from them, maybe."
Jon removed the satchel of dragonglass from his shoulder and walked towards her. Everyone in the room tensed up, but he didn't let it stop him.
"It's not a trick," he said as she accepted the satchel and looked inside. "It's a gift, for those who join us."
He backed away to stand again with Tormund and Edd. The chieftainess pulled out one of the dragonglass daggers and looked up at Jon for clarification.
"Dragonglass," he explained. "A man of the Night's Watch used one of these daggers to kill a walker."
As she passed the satchel around to the others, the Thenn asked, "You saw this?"
"No. But I trust the man."
The chieftainess didn't take her eyes off the dagger in her hand, admiring it as one would a piece of fine jewelry. "There are old stories about dragonglass."
"There are old stories about ice spiders as big as hounds," replied the Thenn.
She raised an eyebrow at him. "And with the things we've seen, you don't believe them?"
He had no answer for her, and the room quieted back into uneasy silence.
"Come with me," Jon said eventually, "and I'll share these weapons."
"Come with you… where?" The chieftainess asked.
"There are good lands south of the Wall. The Night's Watch will let you through the tunnel and allow your people to farm those lands."
This was the moment, Caitie knew; the moment which decided the fate of everyone in Hardhome and beyond. No one spoke, but the Wildlings in the room were all eyeing one another. Caitie couldn't decide whether the looks shared between them were positive or negative.
"I knew Mance Rayder," Jon added. "He never wanted a war with the Night's Watch. He wanted a new life for his people—for you. We're prepared to give you that new life."
Caitie almost laughed, stopping herself just in time. Mance Rayder wanted a new life, made from killing and raping and causing others pain, all because of some strange vendetta against the Night's Watch. Caitie may have come to terms with the Wildlings, but she didn't think she ever could with their leader. And perhaps it was unfair towards him—after all, she didn't know Mance like Jon had—but it was how she felt.
The chieftainess seemed skeptical of Jon's offer. "If?"
"If you swear you'll join us when the real war begins."
The Wildlings exchanged glances again, and for just a moment, Caitie thought their plan might work. Then the Thenn asked, "Where is Mance?" and it all came crashing down.
There was a heavy pause before the Wildlings got their answer. "He died," Jon rasped.
"How?"
Silently, Caitie begged Jon to think before he spoke. Briefly, his eyes met hers, as if he'd heard her silent plea. But they flickered back to the Wildlings not a moment later.
At last, he told them the truth. "I put an arrow through his heart."
Seven Hells. She was going to kill him—but only if someone else didn't get there first. The second he uttered the words, the room broke into shouting, and the Wildlings closed in around him.
"Hey," Tormund said. "Hey, hey, hey."
"I say we send the lord commander back to Castle Black with no eyes," the Thenn growled, unsheathing his knife. Caitie gripped Owen and Cerys, ready to intercept him at a moment's notice.
As it turned out, she didn't need to. Because when he tried to advance on Jon, Tormund pushed him back. "Hey—none of you saw Mance die. I did. The southern king who broke our army, Stannis, wanted to burn him alive to send us a message. Jon Snow defied that cunt's orders." He paused to let his words sink in before he went on. "His arrow was a mercy. What he did took courage. And that's what we need today. The courage to make peace with men we've been killing for generations."
Caitie watched Tormund with newfound respect. Because he wasn't lying, or even embellishing; this was what he truly thought about Jon and their truce.
"I lost my father, my uncle, and two brothers fighting the damn crows," the chieftainess argued.
"I'm not asking you to forget your dead!" Jon's cry was thick with frustration and grief. The words quieted everyone in the room. "I'll never forget mine. I lost fifty brothers the night that Mance attacked the Wall." He lowered his voice. "But I'm asking you to think about your children now. They'll never have children of their own if we don't band together.
"The Long Night is coming—and the dead come with it. No clan can stop them. The Free Folk can't stop them. The Night's Watch can't stop them, and all the southern kings can't stop them! Only together, all of us. And even then it may not be enough, but at least we'll give the fuckers a fight."
Caitie's eyes were already shining with tears and pride, but she had to stifle a laugh at Jon's use of language. In all the time she'd known him, she didn't think he had ever used the word "fuck" before.
The Wildlings were less amused, but the atmosphere shifted from hatred and distrust to… hope, Caitie thought. She took it as a good sign.
Finally, the chieftainess asked, "You vouch for this man, Tormund?"
He and Jon exchanged a look. "He's prettier than both my daughters," said Tormund with a nod. "But he knows how to fight. He's young, but he knows how to lead. He didn't have to come to Hardhome. He came because he needs us. And we need him."
"My ancestors would spit on me if I broke bread with a crow," the Thenn said.
The chieftainess shrugged. "So would mine, but fuck 'em, they're dead." She strode up to Jon, appraising him. "I'll never trust a man in black." After a beat of silence, she turned to Tormund. "But I trust you, Tormund. If you say this is the way, we're with you."
He paused. "This is the way."
Caitie let out a breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding. One step closer.
"I'm with Tormund," said another of the elders. He was an older man with unkempt hair and mud on his face. "We stay here, we're dead men. At least with King Crow, there's a chance."
From above, Caitie heard a growl come from the giant. She stilled, heart in her throat and her palms sweating, trying not to give in to the urge to flee or cry or attack.
But then, in a booming voice that reverberated through her skull and thick with an accent she couldn't place, the giant said, "Tormund."
Her muscles relaxed, though only slightly, and she still kept her hand close to Owen's hilt. The sound of its voice was too deep for a human; it was jarring and unnatural and just another reminder of the monster that had killed Grenn.
When the Thenn spoke, Caitie was glad she had kept her hand near her weapon. Even more so when she saw he wielded a battle-axe, like the Magnar who had nearly killed Jon in the battle at Castle Black. "Keep that new life you want to give us," he said. "And keep your glass, King Crow."
Jon closed his eyes, bowing his head as he tried to contain his disappointment, but the Thenn wasn't finished speaking, turning from Jon to face his fellow Wildlings. "As soon as you get on his ships, they're gonna slit your throats and dump your bodies to the bottom of the shivering sea."
Caitie wanted to speak out, to persuade him that he was wrong, but a look from Jon silenced her. She wasn't in charge, here—he was. If he needed her to stay quiet, then she would, even if it killed her.
She might not always have a good handle on her tongue, but she would now.
The Thenn pointed a finger at Jon and Edd. "That's our enemy. That has always been our enemy." He didn't wait for a reply before he stalked towards the exit, leaving everyone silent in his wake, and, in essence, concluding the meeting.
As he went to leave the hut, he bumped Caitie's shoulder—whether or not it was an accident, she couldn't be certain. He stopped, glaring, and the two sized each other up, until he mumbled something under his breath and went on his way.
The rest of the Wildlings shuffled out of the hut behind him, leaving only the Night's Watch, Tormund, the Giant, and the chieftainess.
"I fucking hate Thenns," she said, throwing a wry look at Tormund.
He nodded in agreement, blank-faced, while Caitie snorted a little too loudly, earning her a half-curious, half-wary glance from the other woman.
Jon drifted towards her. Caitie felt a little less on edge having him close. "Well," she sighed, "it could have been worse."
Jon eyed her. "Worse?"
"We could be dead," she told him. "Of course, then we wouldn't have to get back on the ship. I think I'd prefer death to sailing."
"Sometimes," Edd said, "I question your priorities."
None of the Wildlings in the room were quite so amused by the Southerners' bantering, but they seemed more at ease, less distrusting. It almost felt like the jokes had broken through some invisible barrier between them.
"I'll get the children onto the ships," said the chieftainess, after a pause. "But I'll need help."
"I can help you," Caitie volunteered.
The chieftainess gave her the same look of appraisal she'd given Jon earlier. "Good," she said. "I don't want your fellow crows scaring them."
Edd snorted. "Don't be fooled. She's the scariest of us all."
Caitie grinned. "Only to you, Edd. Only to you."
Herding hundreds of children—ones who had every reason to distrust someone dressed in black—to their proper rowboats proved more challenging than anything else Caitie had faced in the last three years.
Some were terrified by the colors she wore, some angry, and most confused. She did her best to ease their doubts and distract them from their fear; asking them questions about themselves, such as their favorite food or color or animal, or telling them silly stories Owen used to tell her as a child. It worked well enough; by the time she parted with them at the docks, most of the children would give her smiles and waves as they rode off to the big ships, and Caitie knew without a doubt that Jon had made the right choice.
At one point, she glanced up to see him watching her from a few docks away as she guided a few of the younger children and shot him a quizzical look.
He shook his head as if to say, I'll tell you later.
Her curiosity piqued, Caitie resolved to return to him and Tormund after situating the three children she was guiding onto their boats.
She waved goodbye to the three of them until they were too far away for her to see, and then turned around, only to be pushed out of the way by the Wildling chieftainess from the meeting. She had two little girls with her—one around the age of seven and the other around ten—each holding one of her hands. Judging by the same large blue eyes shared between the three of them, Caitie assumed the two girls were her daughters.
"Johnna is gonna look out for you. She's in charge," the chieftainess said, picking up the younger of the two girls and putting her into the rowboat beside her older sister. "You listen to her."
"I want to go with you," the little girl said.
The chieftainess smiled, her eyes softening with love. "I need to get the old folks on the boats," she said. "I'm right behind you, I promise." Neither of the two girls looked convinced by this, so their mother embraced them both, one after the other, and kissed the tops of their heads. "Go on," she added cheerfully, as two other Wildlings heaved the small boat out to the water.
Her cheerfulness ebbed as the boat bobbed further and further away.
"Your daughters?" Caitie asked, but it seemed a redundant question at this point.
The chieftainess nodded, though she didn't remove her eyes from their small forms, only a speck in the water, now. "The crows are really gonna let us through? Let us live?"
"Yes. I swear it on…" Caitie tried to think of something strong enough. "On the lives of everyone I love."
At last, the chieftainess dragged her eyes away from the spot where her daughters had disappeared. She glanced over to where Jon stood on the dock adjacent to theirs, deep in discussion with Tormund.
When her eyes landed on Caitie once more, there was a hardness to them. "Good." After a heartbeat, the chieftainess held out a hand and her lips curved into an almost-smile. "Karsi."
"Caitie," she replied, accepting the hand. "It's good to meet you."
To that, Karsi rolled her eyes, muttering, "Southerners."
It took Caitie a moment to realize that she had just been insulted, and another to realize why. Apparently, courtesy wasn't something the Wildlings valued. It was something Cerys would have loved. If he could have gotten over his initial prejudice, Caitie thought he would have gotten along with them quite well.
At the thought, she had to suppress a smile. "So. The old folks, now?"
Karsi nodded.
"Do you know how many we have coming back with us?"
"Five thousand, I thought I heard your lord commander say."
"It's not enough," Caitie sighed. "But at least we've got all the children on board."
"Not all," Karsi replied gravely. "See the gate? Outside of it, tents stretch on for days. Most of the army and their families are there. We got some of their children on board, but…"
"Not enough," Caitie finished.
"Aye. Not enough."
On that grim note, their conversation ended. The two women went back to work, helping the elderly onto the rowboats. But something in the winds had shifted. Caitie could feel a prickle on the back of her neck; like someone was right behind her, breathing in her ear, even though she knew if she turned, there would be no one there.
She tried to shrug it off by telling herself she was just on edge from her conversation with Karsi. Still, the feeling stayed, like a shadow hanging overhead. By the time Caitie and Karsi watched the third boat of elderly sail off, snow had started to fall. With every flake landing on her hair, Caitie looked over her shoulder.
Then, a dog barked.
It was such an innocuous sound that she almost laughed at herself for jumping. But then another dog barked, and another after that. Soon, Hardhome was drowning in a cacophony of terrified howls.
Something was wrong.
She and Karsi darted forward up the beach to get a better look at what was happening. Caitie's eyes scanned the beach for Jon. Before she found him, they landed on the cliffs above her, where a cloud of snow and ice was building into a swarm. And though she wanted to believe otherwise, she knew what it brought, because she had seen it before: death.
The whole beach stood watching, paralyzed with horror as the swarm of ice descended onto the bay—onto the tents outside the gates. People cried out—so many voices belonging to men, women, and children; a steady stream of noise as they ran towards the gate to escape the swarm. And Caitie might as well have been fifteen again—helpless and alone, unable to move or see or do anything.
But people were counting on her, so she pushed through and drew Owen and Cerys. Having them in her hands gave her strength. Out of the corner of her eye, Caitie saw Karsi draw her own weapons. They exchanged glances, but otherwise didn't move.
Nearer to her, sounds of "Close the gate!" rang out.
No, Caitie thought frantically. They had to keep it open for as long as possible. The gate wouldn't stop the wights, and they needed to prevent as many people from dying as they could.
A burst of desperate pleas now accompanied the shouts and screams. Wildlings from outside the gate screamed and sobbed, begging to be let through as they pounded on the wood. "We have to help them!" Caitie cried, trying to push her way through the crowd.
Karsi grabbed onto the back of her cloak. "There's no helping them now. It's over."
That was when Caitie realized the screams had stopped, as quick as they had begun. The silence was even more unbearable than the noise, for she knew what it meant: that almost a hundred thousand lives had been snuffed out in mere moments.
As the eerie quiet drew on, Caitie choked back a sob and looked around for her friends, but the storm was too strong to see far enough ahead of her to find them. "I have to find Jon."
Karsi nodded, but as she opened her mouth, the noise started up again. And this time, it wasn't the terrified cries of helpless people, but animalistic snarls.
Wights.
She could see them tearing at the gate with their bare hands, digging under, spilling over, not caring a jot about their own personal safety. They were vessels and nothing more. Not slaves, not animals—nothing at all.
Just like at the Fist.
"Ready your arrows!" she heard Tormund shout.
Remembering her dragonglass daggers, Caitie reluctantly sheathed Owen and Cerys and drew the others instead. She followed Karsi as she ran towards the place they'd last seen Jon. The smell of snow and ice, the sounds of so many voices crying or barking out orders, the blinding snowfall—all of it flooded her senses, dizzying her and making it difficult to think.
Wildlings ran, pushing each other over to get to the remaining ships and away from the horde. Caitie almost tripped on one who'd fallen to the ground, but Karsi grabbed her arm and steadied her. A wight snarled behind them, but the man she'd tripped on was too injured to stand on his own. Karsi and Caitie hauled him up and hobbled away as fast as they could towards the docks.
As they neared their destination, Karsi shouted, "Wait, wait!" trying to calm the screaming, sprinting Wildlings, but it was no use. She and Caitie had to muscle their way through to the water with the wights still on their tail. Just as they pushed the injured man into a rowboat, a wight from behind them grabbed onto Karsi's shoulders. She elbowed it in the face and Caitie kicked the carcass away from them.
Then, mercifully, she heard Jon's voice. "Get them to the ship and come back for me!" he shouted at one of his men—Duncan, Caitie thought it was—while Wildlings pushed past him to the sea.
"But you'll never make—"
"Now!"
She ran, with blood rushing in her ears and nothing but fear propelling her forward towards his voice, pushing past the crowd of terrified people in her way, Karsi hot on her heels. Halfway there, they intercepted a young woman. She struggled to stay on her feet, exhausted and afraid. Karsi propped her up before they continued onward.
Finally, they came face to face with the lord commander, standing in the shallow water. Jon's eyes first landed on Caitie, and he shot her a look of pure relief before they moved to Karsi a split second later. "You should be on one of those ships!" he shouted over the wind.
"So should you," Karsi replied. In her arms, the woman's head lolled. "My little girls got on. They're gonna let them pass the Wall even if you're not there?"
"You have my word. I've given my orders."
"Don't think you're gonna be there to enforce those orders."
Tormund appeared behind Jon just then, right as Caitie was about to ask where Edd was. "If they get through, everyone dies!" he hollered, pointing at the gate.
Jon didn't hesitate. He drew Longclaw, raising it high, and shouted, "Men of the Night's Watch! With me! Move. Move!"
Before Caitie could follow, Karsi grabbed her arm with a grip as strong as steel. "Keep him alive," she said. "And if something happens to me, you take care of them. My girls. On the lives of everyone you love. Promise."
Caitie wanted to tell her there was no need; that she was going to live to see her daughters have daughters of their own; that it was all going to be okay. But she couldn't. The only thing Caitie could say was: "I promise."
Karsi nodded. "Now, go. Keep him safe!"
Caitie understood. Jon needed to survive. No matter what it took, no matter who had to give their life in the process, he had to make it. Even if the rest of them didn't.
The two women gave each other one last heavy look and went their separate ways.
Caitie shot after Jon and Tormund. She shoved her way through the sea of shrieking Wildlings and snarling wights, back the way she'd come. Fear barely kept her moving, breath coming in short gasps, but as long as she had a goal, she could stay focused.
Keep Jon alive. Defend the gate. Buy the remaining Wildlings time. Then, get the hell out.
And no matter what, don't think about the alternative.
A wight blocked her path. She flung herself forward and plunged one of the obsidian daggers in its belly. It fell with a screech, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever magic dragonglass had on White Walker, it was shared with the wights. Fire still would have been better, she thought, as it would allow her to destroy more all at once, but unless she could spontaneously make flame burst from her hands, she was out of luck. The dragonglass would have to do.
Another wight jumped at her, snapping its teeth and snarling, but she hacked its head halfway off and ran forward before it could follow. By the time she came up behind Tormund and Jon at the gate, the wights had breached it, rushing towards the living through a hole clawed with their fingers.
Jon ran toward the breach. He plunged Longclaw into the wight's chest, pushing it back and using its body as a barrier to keep others out. "Tormund, the sleigh!"
After slicing apart yet anothr a decaying skeleton, she allowed herself a glance at Jon. Seeing he couldn't hold the wights back for much longer, she ran to help Tormund. While he and a few other men heaved the sleigh up, Caitie kept the wights away from them, cutting off limbs and heads when she couldn't get a direct blow through their chests, and hoping it would be enough, until out of the corner of her eye, Caitie saw the Wildlings lift the sleigh and place it against the breach.
In the split second it took for her to check on Tormund and Jon, a swarm of wights flanked her—too many for her to kill on her own. Cursing herself for her own stupidity, she readied her dragonglass daggers.
Then, with one swoop of his great-axe, the Thenn from the meeting cleaved the left side in half. Caitie didn't hesitate, dispatching the wights to her right. The last of them zeroed in on the Thenn, breaking through his guard before he could react, but Caitie decapitated it before it could harm him.
The two took a moment to acknowledge each other before they jumped back in, trying to beat back what they both knew to be an impossible enemy.
As wight after wight fell, the battle came to a brief pause, but instead of relief, Caitie's fear only deepened. The temperature had dropped, the stinging cold giving way to something darker, deeper, more deadly. She looked around, trying to find the source, until Jon caught her arm. She followed his and Tormund's gazes up to the top of the cliff, where the storm had originally begun. Now, there were five figures, all on horseback, cloaked by the snow and wind, so only their form was visible, watching their army of the dead massacre an entire people.
White Walkers.
"The dragonglass," Jon said, grabbing Tormund's arm.
Caitie cursed herself for forgetting about it. She should have grabbed it before going to help Karsi. She should have—
"You and me, then!" The Thenn shouted.
"Go!" Tormund cried.
Jon looked to Caitie, the mask of the Lord Commander in place. He didn't need words to convey his order.
She nodded. "We'll buy you as much time as we can. Now go."
He listened, wrenching his gaze away from her to follow the Thenn towards the hut. Vaguely, Caitie remembered Edd had stayed behind there to help pack things up.
Seven Hells, how had she forgotten about him?
Soon as the thought came, Caitie put it out of her mind. Worrying about Edd wouldn't keep her alive. And that was what mattered right now: survival.
She and Tormund nodded at each other, taking positions so they stood back to back, covering each other's weak points and raising their weapons. Fighting together fostered trust, she supposed, and this was the worst sort of fight. She trusted Tormund to watch her back.
Wights infested every part of Hardhome, now. They climbed over the fence and dug their way underneath it. They clawed at Caitie's feet and arms, and all she and Tormund could do was hack them to pieces, watching their disembodied limbs still crawling towards them. Sometimes she managed to get a direct angle on them and stab them through the heart, but it was difficult with so many.
It was a mindless dance. If Caitie saw bright blue eyes or sickly grey pallor, she attacked. She ignored the strain in her limbs and the fear in her heart—drowning out everything except the daggers in her hands and the dead men surrounding her.
Until the front of the hut exploded. Her heart leaped out of her chest as she watched the giant emerge from it. Two wights jumped onto his back, but he tossed them away like rag dolls, stomping on one when it fell.
Caitie searched the battlefield for Jon, just in time to see him and the Thenn running into the hut. She breathed a sigh of relief and returned to fighting side by side with Tormund.
But then the children came, and he lowered his sword.
She almost did the same, but stopped short. These weren't children, she reminded herself. No child could fight like these things could. No child could kill like these things could. Caitie had killed wights before, and she could do it again, no matter what they looked like.
"We have to fight them," she said.
Tormund nodded. "I know."
She might have done it before, but Gods Caitie wished she could close her eyes. She remembered fighting the not-children at the Fist, but her memory couldn't do the horror justice. Some were freshly deceased, while others were nothing more than bones and bright blue eyes. The largest looked as though they had been in their early teens, while the smallest looked no more than three, maybe even younger. Young enough to be her child.
That made them no less dangerous, so she pushed on. With bile rising in her throat, she cut off their limbs where she could, or their heads, and watched as the children's body parts still moved until she could get a dagger straight through where there hearts used to be.
But they weren't children, Caitie reminded herself. They were everything a child should never be. The White Walkers had seen to that; not her.
When she had a moment to breathe, she took a chance and glanced up, searching for Tormund, only to find him staring at a wight with tears streaming freely down his cheeks. The body looked fresh; it must have come from beyond the gate. In life, the wight had been a girl—only a year or so older than Caitie. Her eyes were the undead's signature bright crystalline blue—but her hair was red.
Tormund had said he had daughters.
Oh Gods.
Caitie watched as he dismembered his child with a look of pure fury on his face. She kept the wights around him at bay, but it didn't matter what she did, because Tormund was a vessel of death and destruction now, taking down every wight in his path. She'd never seen someone fight with so much rage and pain.
As the battle thinned out, Caitie saw a figure in black emerge from the hut and fall to his knees.
Something had happened to him. He was in danger. The thought wiped everything else away. Without a second thought, she flew, faster and faster, towards the hut.
Then she saw what followed Jon.
Instead of a loincloth like the last one she'd seen, it wore armor. But there was no mistaking the White Walker following Jon out of the hut. Every step Caitie took towards it, the colder the air grew. Like every step took her closer to death itself.
Its hair was long and white, its face ice blue and ridged. Its eyes were a cold crystalline blue that shone brightly despite the blinding conditions, matching the color of the wights. But unlike the eyes of the dead, the White Walker's held intelligence in them. Its gait was smooth, perfectly controlled—so close to human, but utterly unlike it. Caitie didn't need to see the Walker fight to know he had ten times the strength than that of a man. It was evident in his movements.
As it drew closer, her vision tunneled, and all she saw was Jon on his hands and knees, choking for breath, Longclaw barely in reach.
She didn't even give it a second thought. She sprinted forward to shield Jon from the Walker, wondering if she would have been half so brave without the dragonglass daggers. The White Walker's face didn't change. She didn't even know if he'd noticed her.
He swung a lance made from ice, and she readied herself for the impact. But then there was a cry, and someone—Jon, she realized vaguely—pushed her out of the way. She tumbled backward, but she still saw what happened next: Jon, using Longclaw to block the White Walker's lance. Time and space collapsed to a single point as he and the Walker stared at each other in shock. White Walker weapons destroyed regular ones. But not Longclaw.
Not… Valyrian steel.
Longclaw met the Walker's lance again. Jon deflected, and with all his might and swung Longclaw directly into the White Walker's middle. It shattered like glass into thousands—millions, even—of shards, leaving no other evidence it had existed. The only sound left was the wind.
As Jon fell to his knees, Caitie pushed herself up and rushed to his side. "Are you okay?" she asked, only just keeping a lid on the panic threatening to overwhelm her.
He couldn't answer her, still coughing. She didn't know what that meant or what to do to help him regain his breath.
Seven Hells, she needed Sam.
"Jon, please say something!"
Still coughing, he finally answered. "'M fine. Are... you... all right?"
Caitie gave a choked laugh of relief. If he was asking about her, he couldn't be too badly injured. "You just killed a White Walker and you want to know if I'm all right?"
He seemed to accept this point, going back to sputtering, still on his hands and knees. But his breaths came deeper and deeper each time, allowing Caitie to relax, reasonably sure he'd be okay.
Looking around, she could see the battle picking up again. Tormund still fought relentlessly over by the gate. He swung his sword wildly, tearing down the wights like they were made of butter.
One moment she and Jon stood alone outside the hut, and the next Edd came running towards them at lightning speeds. Her heart beat faster and faster until he finally made it over to them. Like a proper brother of the Night's Watch, Edd focused all of his attention on his lord commander, pulling Jon to his feet. Disoriented, Jon leveled his sword at Edd, until he realized it wasn't an enemy.
"Come on!" Edd shouted, unconcerned by the sword in his face.
"The dragonglass," Jon choked.
No, Caitie thought, horror gripping her by the throat. No way. He couldn't have lost it.
But Edd didn't seem to care. "Fuck the glass! We're gonna die out here!"
At that, her resolve strengthened to stone. He was right, and she hadn't fought this long and hard just to die now. "No, we're not. We're going to get back to the ships and sail home. Now, come on."
Before she could take even a step, there came a loud, eldritch screech from up above. The three of them looked up to the cliffs where the rest of the White Walkers were still watching them.
Caitie tried and failed to look for what had made that noise, until she saw the thousands of wights the White Walkers hadn't yet deployed. They launched themselves off the cliff side, not caring they were falling a hundred feet, and landed on the ground with a thud.
When the first lifted its head and snarled, she knew it was time to run.
"Oh, fuck!" Edd wailed, as he turned on his heel to flee along with her and Jon.
Caitie didn't dare look over her shoulder. She clutched Jon's hand in hers like a lifeline, praying he could keep up after being thrown around so much. They ran for ages, past the fallen gate—overrun by even more wights—and finally met up with Tormund and the giant.
"Wun-Wun!" Tormund shouted as he joined them in their sprint towards the docks. "To the sea!"
The giant—Wun-Wun—picked up one of the tall wooden spikes from the now-destroyed gate and swung it at the wights. Caitie thought he might be trying to slow them down, but she didn't dare look back to see if it worked.
They shot down the beachfront, ignoring all the dead Wildlings strewn across it, until finally their boots slapped against the wood of the docks, and they jumped into the first rowboat available, already filled with both Wildlings and black brothers.
"Quickly, row, row!" Jon yelled over the roaring winds. It only seemed to get louder with each second that passed.
Looking up, Caitie saw only a few Wildlings remaining on the beach. They fought with all the fire they were known for, but it was no use.
Gods, she really hoped Karsi had made it to one of the ships.
The giant fought tooth-and-nail with the wooden spike, but even a giant couldn't fight off that many at once. Finally, he gave up and started walking—albeit slowly—into the sea, throwing wights off of him left and right.
As soon as he passed by their rowboat, Jon shouted, "Let's go! Now!"
The black brothers working the oars rowed them out further into the sea, away from Hardhome, and away from everyone whom they'd failed. Jon stood at the edge of the boat with Caitie beside him, and Tormund and Edd just behind him, looking out at what had been only hours ago, the largest village beyond the Wall.
They could hear the sound of steel against steel and the screams from the Wildlings, still fighting with every ounce of strength they still possessed. But they were dead men walking, fighting against the inevitable.
Wights and White Walkers massacred whoever remained until the screams slowly quieted into the sort of silence only death could bring. Every Wildling on land lay still. The wights ceased moving entirely, unblinking, watching the rowboat sail away from the docks. Despite the storm, Caitie could see their blue eyes sparkling.
From the crowd of wights behind it, a White Walker emerged and stepped forward onto the docks.
This one was… different. His armor was finer than the Walker Jon had killed, and instead of wispy white hair, there was a horned crown made of ice melded with his skull. Power and magic radiated from his very being; even from far away, Caitie could feel it crackling in the air around her. He came to a halt at the edge of the dock, staring down their rowboat. His eyes met Jon's.
Slowly, he lifted his hands. And all across the bay, the dead rose.
I feel like I should give an explanation about Tormund's daughters. In the books, he has one daughter and four sons. One of the sons dies of sickness and rises as a wight. In the show, he says he has two daughters, and then it's promptly never brought up again. Part of me wanted to just ignore them like the show did because I've introduced a lot of OCs already. Part of me wanted to bring them in. In the end, I compromised and killed one of them off at Hardhome (I may still end up saying the other one died, too, and we just didn't see it, but I've left it open so I can decide later). Think of it as an homage to the books, where he has to kill his son. Plus, I like the parallel of Karsi's daughters losing their mother and Tormund losing his daughter. I'm sick like that.