Imry

The voyage from Maidenpool to Ramsgate had taken longer than expected. Contrary winds had stalled the fleet in the Narrow Sea for several weeks until at last the fleet had pushed its way through and entered the Shivering Sea. From those frozen waters they travelled north, towards the southern shores of the North. The Narrow Sea had been calm enough despite the bad winds but as the fleet turned around the island known as the Paps the weather turned foul. Storms raced from the northeast, carrying freezing water, and bone-chilling winds with them.

Imry spent most of the journey below decks in his cabin, struggling not to vomit as the roiling seas sent his stomach twisting upon itself. A particularly massive swell seemed to throw Fury into the air and then bring the massive war galley crashing into the freezing water fresh from the Shivering Sea. "Is the weather always this bad?" He asked of Maric Seaworth.

"It can be worse my lord," the Oarmaster of Fury replied. "I went north with my father and King Stannis once to deal with the Sistermen, they were wrecking ships and pirating outright on traders sailing the Bite, we had to spend a week docked in Old Anchor on account of the storms."

An errant wave sent the ship shuddering sideways and Imry's control finally slipped. He rushed to a nearby empty barrel and emptied his stomach into it.

Maric grimaced in sympathy. "But this far from good weather. It'll get better the farther north we go, my lord, the Widow's Watch peninsula will shelter us from the Shivering Sea."

"That can't happen soon enough," Imry muttered as he spat watery vomit out of his scorched mouth.

Days later the Royal Fleet passed through the waters west of Widow's Watch in the night. Had the night sky been clear the full moon would have silhouetted the easternmost castle in the North against a field of stars. As it was Imry saw nothing of the castle, though a few men reported seeing glances of it when the lightning flashed far away in the eastern sky.

Though the peninsula Widow's Watch controlled did provide some shelter from the storms of the Shivering Sea, it was not enough in Imry's estimation. Dark waves still sent the ships tumbling about and the harsh wind sent icy spray over the sides. Everything was wet, cold, miserable, and the temperature only dropped as they sailed further north. On the morning of the third day after passing Widow's Watch, Imry woke to see the entire fleet covered with a thin layer of ice like some icy armada of the Others out of a tale about the Long Night.

That day at noon was also when the Royal Fleet came in sight of Ramsgate, the seat of Lord Luton Woolfield. Imry tried not to let himself think that this was some kind of omen. The castle was made of grey stone and sat atop a low hill on the eastern side of Broken Branch river, a low curtain wall followed the edge of the sea and the river, a small town surrounded by a wooden palisade occupied the western side, and the two were connected by a small wooden bridge. Surrounding the town and the castle was an army.

The fleet anchored itself half a mile from the shore and Imry joined Lord Roose Bolton and Lord Harrion Karstark in going ashore in rowboats. They were accompanied by Ser Aenys Frey, a dozen or more Northern lordlings, and Rikuto, Imry's Beikango dragonmaster. The bay was calm enough so the rowboats made good time reaching the shore. When the boats rammed themselves onto the stony beach Imry clambered ashore immediately and was barely able to stop himself from kissing the ground as he stepped onto solid ground for the first time in weeks.

A welcoming party met them on the beach, in the lead were two men. The first was a stoop-shouldered, bent-backed, scrawny necked, old man, who seemed fit to disappear under the weight of his furs He introduced himself as Arnolf Karstark and immediately came forward to embrace Lord Harrion as soon as the introduction was done. The other man was fleshy, big boned, slope-shouldered man. His skin was pink and blotchy, his nose broad, his hair long and dark and dry. Fat, wormy lips surrounded a small mouth and he wore no coat of arms that Imry could see. He didn't introduce himself and nor was he introduced by any of the lords present. Lord Roose all but ignored the man as they came ashore. In the end, it was his eyes that gave the fleshy young man away. They were small, close-set, and oddly pale, like two chips of dirty ice, almost identical to Lord Roose's eyes.

So this is the Bastard of Bolton, Imry thought idly as Lord Harrion and his uncle chatted quietly for a minute. Little and less was known of Roose Bolton's bastard in the south. He doesn't look like much, Imry sniffed, he follows his father around like a loyal dog. If the bastard noticed Imry's appraising eye he gave no obvious sign that Imry could see.

Lord Harrion released his uncle and Arnolf Karstark took a step backwards and turned to face the Warden of the North. "Lord Roose," he bowed. "The gods are good to bring you back to the North, and in the service of His Good Grace, King Stannis."

"Long may he reign," Lord Roose responded in his queer and quiet voice. "How many men are here?"

"Near two thousand, my lord," Arnolf Karstark leaned forward on his cane and bobbed his head at Lord Harrion. "Four hundred of my nephew's own men, six hundred from the Dreadfort, three hundred from Hornwood, Lady Barbrey sent three hundred barrow knights and their men, and four hundred more from elsewhere."

"Deserters, bandits, sellswords, and broken men," Lord Roose said succinctly.

"Loyal men," Arnolf countered. "Men loyal to King Stannis and the rightful Warden of the North."

Lord Roose stared silently at the Lord of Karhold's uncle, causing the old man to slowly wilt. "Lead on my lord, let us be out of the wind."

"Of course Lord Bolton," Arnolf Karstark bowed again and turned to lead the shore party to the command tent.

As they passed through the army Imry kept an eye out for the banners and coats of arms present. As Arnolf Karstark had said, most wore the coat of arms of Houses Bolton, Hornwood, Karstark, and Dustin, or else their bannermen. Those that didn't, wore the remnants or scraps of the arms of Cerwyn and Tallhart, or other lesser northern houses. A few even wore the symbols of Ironmen houses or the merman of Manderly. Others wore only boiled leather, fur, and mail.

The command tent was made of thick wool and was lined with furs, a pair of braziers by the entrance worked tirelessly to hold back the northern chill. Servants pulled back chairs for all the lords and captains to sit. Lord Bolton sat first, flanked by the two Karstarks, with his bastard sitting opposite of Imry. Lord Harwood Stout, a grizzled man with one arm and the commander of the barrow knights, joined them as well. Rikuto, shivering beneath a fur cloak and muttering in his own tongue, sat beside Imry.

When all were seated Lord Roose began to speak in his typical cool quiet tone. "How many men lay within Ramsgate?"

"Two hundred in the castle," Lord Harwood spoke first, his voice gruff and precise. "A hundred more in the town, but with the bridge, they can reinforce either side within minutes"

"We could have stormed them both for you, father," Ramsay spoke slyly. "If we hadn't been kept waiting."

Lord Roose's expression remained unchanged, save that his ice like eyes shifted to look at Ramsay. "In polite company, you'll address me as my lord," he turned his attention to Arnolf Karstark and Lord Harwood. "I presume you both counselled caution."

"Yes my lord," Arnolf Karstark was quick to say.

"Good, it would not do well to lose half an army taking a single castle," Lord Roose pointedly ignored his bastard as he spoke. His gaze fell on Imry and Rikuto. "How soon can the dragons be in a position to breach the walls?"

Imry straightened. "It would take several hours to take them onto land and several more to put them into position, but they could be fired from the ships, though only the seaward walls would be able to be breached."

Lord Roose was silent for a moment. "How strong are the castle walls?"

Lord Harwood Stout answered. "Seven feet thick, fifteen feet tall, and a ditch six feet deep in front of them," he stopped to scratch the stump of his arm. "They're thinner on the seaward side maybe five feet thick at most. The mortar between the stones is starting to break down, particularly on the seaward side, they're in poor repair overall."

Roose Bolton thought for a moment. "How long will it take the dragons to breach the walls?" He asked of Rikuto.

The thin foreigner bowed his head in concentration. "Uhm," he muttered to himself in his native tongue while counting on his fingers. "Not long, few volleys at most," he replied after a minute. "If. If, the walls are as poor as you say."

Lord Harwood frowned at that but before he could speak Lord Roose gave his command to Imry and Rikuto. "Make a breach in the castle's seawalls and then wait for further orders. Let us pray that Lord Woolfield will see sense rather than continue in pointless defiance. See to your ships and dragons Lord Captain."

Imry stood immediately. "Yes my lord." Lord Roose ignored him in favour of continuing to question Arnolf Karstark, Lord Harwood, and his bastard son.

Imry and Rikuto left the command tent and walked quickly, hunching their shoulders against the cold north wind that had picked up while they were inside. Back to the ship and sea, Imry gagged reflexively at the mere memory of the storms and sickness. They made their way back to the beach and over the sea back to Fury.

Imry climbed up the side of Fury, the soaked ropes rubbing his hands raw, at the top he accepted a hand from a sailor as he scrambled over the edge. "Ser Durran," he called for his Flagmaster.

"Yes, mi'lord?" The muscular Stormlander asked.

"Signal Lord Steffon and Stag of the Sea to join Fury, we're to bombard the castle walls until a breach is made."

"Just one breach mi'lord?"

"Just one," Imry walked past him and shouted down at the lower deck. "Seaworth! Bring us just out of arrow range of the walls."

"Yes mi'lord," the Maric Seaworth answered from below.

Imry turned on his heel and made his way to the forecastle where Rikuto was already setting the mix of Westerosi and Beikango under his command to work loading the dragons. Flags were run up the ropes and the oars worked to bring the huge war galley around. Minutes later the drums of Fury were echoed by those of Lord Steffon and Stag of the Sea. All three ships were equipped with a pair of dragons placed in the forecastle, where most war galleys would have a catapult or scorpion. The three ships maneuvered clumsily in the cramped bay, slowly moving well into dragon range of the castle walls. They stopped just out of range of the archers now clustered on the salt speckled grey stone. There they stopped and waited, bobbing gently in the blue-grey water.

The dragons on Lord Steffon fired first, belching smoke and flame over the cold water, and sending death screaming at Ramsgate. Imry frowned slightly as he saw one of the dragonballs overshoot the wall and strike the keep instead. The other found its mark and was swiftly followed by those from Stag of the Sea and Fury. When the smoke cleared Imry saw and already considerable crater in the wall, though there was also a second hole in the keep.

Five volleys later and a ten foot wide breach had been made. Imry sent the order to end the bombardment. It reached Lord Steffon slightly late and the ship sent another volley of its own at the wall. With that done, Imry fought the urge to retire to his cabin as he watched the castle. An hour after the last shot had been fired the white and purple woolsack banners of Ramsgate fell, replaced by the red and pink of House Bolton.

Catelyn

Catelyn was seated in the back of a cart driven by an old man named Roose. Despite his namesake, and indeed a passing resemblance to the Lord of the Dreadfort, Roose the driver was a talkative and cheerful man, who had served Lord Cerwyn for years before being given over to Catelyn's service. Around her cart were a half-dozen guards, Winterfell men whom Catelyn had known for many years.

Catelyn gripped the tethers that fixed her in place fighting to stay upright as the cart bounced over the rough road between Moat Cailin and White Harbour. Around her marched Robb's army, newly swelled by the arrival of several hundred more soldiers. They were petty lords, landed knights, smallfolk even, and the remnants of those that had battled against the Ironmen in the west and the Bastard of Bolton, whose crimes were only now being fully revealed to Catelyn and her son. Robb, it seemed still valued her advice and sent messengers to keep her aware of the happenings in the North and the army. Though her son had not approached Catelyn for days, not since that night at Moat Cailin, she had seen him at a distance several times. Speaking with his scouts, his men, and his lords, but never with his mother. From Robb's messengers, she learned that the Bastard of Bolton had made common cause with Arnolf Karstark and together they had pushed Lord Manderly from the Hornwood. Lady Dustin and her Ryswell relatives had also seen fit to throw their lot in with House Bolton and they were now pressuring the Manderlys Tallharts, and Cerwyns. The Ironborn it seemed had seen fit to withdraw from the North, save for a few holdouts along the western coast, in particular, Deepwood Motte remained occupied. Lord Wyman Manderly himself seemed dismayed and had drawn most of his forces back to protect his own lands.

Four days after setting out from Moat Cailin the small army arrived at White Harbour. The long white walls swelled before them as the road led Catelyn and the northern host out of the plains north of the Neck and down to where the White Knife met the Bite, down to White Harbour, where Lord Wyman Manderly awaited his king. Half a mile from the gate a rider came to speak quietly with Roose, afterward Catelyn's driver urged the horse faster and brought the cart up to the front of the army, where Robb rode alongside Lady Maege Mormont, Ser Helman Tallhart, and Galbart Glover.

They were met at the city gates by a troop of trident armed Manderly guardsmen led by a very thin man with a trim blond beard, armoured in silver mail. At Robb's approach, the man knelt. "Your Grace, I am Ser Barth Whytepoole, my lord has sent me to escort you to the Merman's Court."

Robb smiled. "Well met Ser, I would meet with Lord Wyman as soon as possible."

Ser Barth grimaced slightly. "If you'd please follow me, Your Grace."

Robb nodded. "Very well Ser, lead on."

Ser Barth turned and led them through the city. They made good time through the clean and well-ordered town, it's wide, straight, and cobbled roads were flanked by houses built from whitewashed stone, with steeply pitched roofs of dark grey slate, and led the royal party directly to the New Castle, the seat of House Manderly, which stood atop a high hill overlooking the rest of White Harbour.

In the outer courtyard, Catelyn was lifted from her cart by a servant and seated in her wheeled chair. Without waiting the servant began to push the chair behind Robb and his lords as Ser Barth led them into the castle.

They entered the Merman's Court, the great hall of the New Castle of White Harbour. The walls, floor, and ceiling were made cunningly notched together wooden planks that were decorated with all the creatures of the sea. The floor was all painted with crabs, clams, and starfish. All half-hidden amongst twisting black fronds of seaweed and the bones of drowned sailors. On the walls, pale sharks prowled within the painted blue-green depths, whilst eels and octopods slithered among the rocks and sunken ships. Shoals of herring and great codfish swam between the tall, arched windows. Higher up, near where the old fishing nets drooped down from the rafters, the surface of the sea was painted. To the right a war galley rose serenely from the sea, silhouetted against the rising sun. On the left side, a battered old cog sank beneath the fury of a great storm, her sails in rags. A dais held an empty throne and two chairs, on the wall behind it, a kraken and a grey leviathan were locked in battle as a storm raged overhead.

As Catelyn examined the great piece of art she began to make out small points of black amongst the storm clouds. Crows, she realised as she looked more closely, crows flying in the storm. How odd. She shook her head slightly dismissing the oddity of art in the Merman's Court and instead focused on the man who sat beside the great cushioned throne that rested upon the dais. He was tall, stout man, with a neat grey beard and he sat on the right hand side of the empty throne, the left was as empty as the throne. Seated on a pair of large, cushioned stools below the dais were two women. The elder was Leona Woolfield, wife of the late Ser Wylis Manderly, the second was their daughter Wynafryd Manderly, now her grandfather's heir.

The tall man spoke first, standing up as King Robb and his entourage entered the hall. "Hail Robb the Young Wolf, the King In the North, the King of the Trident, and the Lord of Winterfell. You stand in the court of Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor, Warden of the White Knife, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed, Lord Marshal of the Mander, and a Knight of the Order of the Green Hand. Be welcome in White Harbour Your Grace, I am Ser Marlon Manderly, Commander of the Garrison of the New Castle."

"I had thought to meet Lord Wyman here," Robb said.

"I'm afraid my lord cousin is indisposed."

"He cannot make time to meet with his king?" Robb said suspiciously

"Lord Wyman is indisposed," Ser Marlon repeated.

Robb closed his eyes and breathed for a moment then spoke in a terse tone. "Fine. What news from the east? The last we heard was that Ramsgate had been put to siege."

"Ramsgate has fallen," Ser Marlon said, sparing a glance for lady Leona, whose brother was the Lord of Ramsgate. "Roose Bolton came by sea, at our last count he had over ten thousand men at Ramsgate, two hundred ships, and some of these new weapons from across the sea."

"Have any of these weapons come to White Harbour?"

Ser Marlon paused a moment, giving Lady Leona the chance to speak first. "They would not trade with us. They claimed that they had better offers for their weapons."

"I see," Robb was silent for a moment. "I need men, infantry, cavalry, as many as you can give me if I am to defeat these traitors."

"Absolutely not," Lady Leona said again, her fists clenched and knuckles white at her sides.

Robb stiffened and glared daggers at Lady Leona.

"Please Your Grace," Lady Wynafryd spoke up. "My lady mother's brother and her nephews are held prisoner by Lord Bolton. She cares for them deeply and cannot bear to see them harmed."

"Roose Bolton is no lord," Robb's gaze did not soften but he did turn his attention to Ser Marlon. "And what does the Commander of the Garrison say?"

"I say I cannot make a decision without the permission of Lord Manderly and he is-"

"Indisposed," Robb finished for him. "What can you do?"

Catelyn grimaced and forced herself to say nothing it would only anger Robb more. Stay calm my son, remember what your father would say.

"The best part of House Manderly's forces went south Your Grace," Lady Leona spoke again. "Sadly none of them have returned."

"Wynafryd, please escort your mother to her chambers." Ser Marlon commanded before his lord's good daughter could say anything more. The two women stood, blessedly without argument, and left the Merman's Court. "My apologies, Your Grace," he waited a moment for Robb to say something, but Catelyn's son remained silent. "She was not wrong to say that the best of House Manderly's forces went south, what remains are mostly levies and the dregs of White Harbour. Perhaps three or four thousand could join you in the field," he shook his head. "The rest are sufficient only to defend castle walls they would break against a mounted charge or battle-hardened foot."

"So Bolton would have twice my numbers in the field and that does not include what House Dustin and House Ryswell could put into the field."

"A few thousand each Your Grace," Ser Helman Tallhart interjected with information about his southern neighbours.

Robb thought for a moment. "Three or four thousand men would give me more than enough numbers to find victory in the west, raise those loyal to House Stark, and then move east and defeat Bolton and Karstark."

"That would leave White Harbour grossly under-defended and against these dragons Stannis has sent," Ser Marlon raised his concerns again.

"I would speak with Lord Manderly in person, be he indisposed or not," Robb said hotly.

Ser Marlon looked at his lap for a moment before looking at Robb. "Yes Your Grace, if you'd follow me." When Ser Helman, Lady Maege, and Galbart Glover made to follow Robb Ser Marlon raised a hand. "Just His Grace."

"And my lady mother," Robb said.

Ser Marlon thought for a moment and then nodded. "As His Grace wishes." The stout knight led Robb and Catelyn deeper and higher into the New Castle, to Lord Wyman Manderly's solar. The solar was sumptuously furnished, a massive tapestry showed an ancient battle between Manderly and Ironmen ships fighting on the Mander itself, a large stained glass window with a merman design looked over the harbour, and the ceiling was painted with all manner of sea life. Lord Wyman was abed being tended by a golden-haired maester nearly as fat as he was.

The first time Catelyn had met Lord Wyman she had named him the fattest man she had ever seen and in those fifteen years, he had only grown fatter. Like any fat man, he had had an air of joviality and humour around him as if life was some great joke. That air was gone now, instead, the Lord of White Harbour slumped listlessly on his large cushioned bed. Lord Wyman seemed to have aged decades since Catelyn had seen him when she was last in White Harbour. The fat lord's white hair was disheveled, his beard thick and ungroomed, and his massive blue-green doublet was stained and wrinkled. Half his face was slack and drooping as if all the muscles had been turned to water. Once he tried to speak but all that came out was meaningless blubbering as his tongue flopped around like a dying fish. One eye was hidden by a drooping eyelid while the other was unfocused and milky.

"Indisposed," Robb said quietly.

"An illness of the brain," the maester said. "Caused by bad blood and exacerbated by stress and ill health."

"Will Lord Wyman recover?" Robb asked.

"Were Lord Wyman a younger man and in better health, I would say it would be possible. As it is he has lost almost all physical function, the best I can do is prolong the inevitable."

Catelyn frowned at the maester's casual tone. He doesn't sound very distressed that his lord is dying.

Robb glared suspiciously at the maester. "What is your name?"

"I am Maester Theomore."

"Where are you from?" The tension in the solar could have been cut with a knife, even Lord Wyman seemed aware of it on some level. The Lord of White Harbour tried to raise a hand but lifted it a few inches before his arm collapsed. "Where are you from?" Robb repeated his question.

"Lannisport," Maester Theomore answered nervously.

Robb looked like he had smelled something foul. "Begone! I will not speak of matters concerning my kingdom in the presence of a southron rat."

Maester Theomore stiffened and seemed about to speak but a hand on the shoulder from Ser Marlon silenced him. With a toss of his golden curls, Maester Theomore left the solar. Robb's hand unclenched the hilt of the dagger at his side. He looked over Lord Wyman for a moment. "I'm not going to get three or four thousand infantry am I," it was a statement, not a question.

Ser Marlon shifted uncomfortably. "That's not for me to say."

Robb's eyes returned to the dying Lord of White Harbour. "No, it's Lady Wynafryd's decision."

"Though," Catelyn spoke. "Am I incorrect to presume that Lady Wynafryd has spoken with you about this?"

"Your not. Lord Wyman often kept me close in his confidence and Lady Wynafryd means to do the same."

"So?" Robb asked heatedly. "Will I have the support of White Harbour?"

"Yes," Ser Marlon said. "But on one condition."

Catelyn saw Robb's shoulders tense and his hand reach up to rub his throat.

"What would that be?" Catelyn asked.

"Marriage," Ser Marlon said simply. "Lady Wynafryd would have House Manderly and House Stark be joined in marriage."

Robb turned his back and paced to the other side of the room looking out the merman window, his hand clenched around the hilt of his dagger. "Why didn't she speak of this in the Merman's Court?" Robb spat at Ser Marlon.

"Wynafryd feared it would be crass to be so forward and with Lady Leona's present attitude it would not have been the best time."

"And it's not crass that I am forced to bargain for the support of my own vassal!"

Ser Marlon fell silent and shifted almost imperceptibly into a better stance from which to defend himself as Robb stalked back to the center of the room.

"Would the bride be Lady Wynafryd or her sister, Lady Wylla?" Catelyn asked hoping she could calm the situation.

"Lady Wylla," Ser Marlon said quickly.

"When would the marriage happen?" She asked again.

"As soon as is possible, a week, maybe two, from now at most," Ser Marlon answered.

Robb's hand was trembling as he rubbed a spot on his neck. Catelyn reached out and gently pulled his arm down to his side. "It's a good match," she said. "House Manderly has been loyal for centuries."

"Loyal," Robb whispered, his breath quick, his muscles tensed to the edge of action, and hand clenched into a fist, but at his mother's touch, he gradually relaxed. "Four days and no longer," Robb said. "I cannot afford to linger any longer than that."

"Of course Your Grace," Ser Marlon said quietly. "Quarters have been prepared for your army and chambers for your lords and yourself."

"Thank you," Catelyn said when Robb remained silent.

"Lady Wynafryd instructed me to invite Your Grace to dinner toni-"

"No," Robb said bitterly. "I will dine alone tonight," he glanced downward at Catelyn's comforting hand. "Please see my mother to her chambers." Robb shrugged her hand away and stalked out of the solar.

Servants escorted Catelyn to her borrowed chambers, they provided her with books, needlework, or anything else she asked for. When the hour came they brought food, simple fare, and Catelyn ate slowly in silence. When she finished she had the servants prepare her for sleep, removing her dress and undergarments and exchanging them for a nightclothes and a shift. Thankfully Lady Wynafryd had seen fit to order a servant to sleep in the same room lest Catelyn need help during the night. As night fell Catelyn began to drift to sleep.

She was more than half asleep when the door to her chamber creaked open. The servant sprang to her feet and quickly began speaking to the intruder in hushed tones that Catelyn couldn't make out followed. There were no candles and the torchlight in the corridor only served to leave the incomer a faceless silhouette. After a moment the servant left and closed the door behind her, leaving Catelyn in darkness.

"Mother," Robb's voice carried weakly through the darkness.

"Robb," Catelyn responded. He sounds drunk.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry about Moat Cailin, I'm sorry I hurt you."

"It's alright," she said consolingly.

"It's not," Robb's voice broke. "I shouldn't have done it. But it's like. Like there's a beast that takes control when I get angry... or scared or... It's like everything just blurs together and then I wake up and I've done something I barely remember."

"Robb."

"You're the only one… the only one who can make me… make me calm. If you hadn't been there today I might have… I would have..." Robb trailed off into silence.

"Robb, please listen to me please-"

"-I can remember it," he said suddenly.

"Remember what?"

"The sword, the sword in Grey Wind's neck, in my neck. The pain, the blood, Dacey Mormont with a dagger in her eye, and then nothingness."

Catelyn felt her blood chill. "You can't remember," Catelyn said. "You were unconscious."

"But I do remember. I... I try to push it away, to forget, but... there's nowhere to hide inside my mind," Robb's voice broke again. "There's something wrong with me, I thought it would pass, that I could trick everyone until I got better… but I'm not getting better."

Catelyn said nothing, what was there to say? Tears rolled down her cheeks. "Robb," she cried. "Robb come to me," but the door creaked opened again before she even finished speaking. Her son had left her.

Tyrion

Tyrion jumped out of fitful sleep as the sound of a horn filled the air. He grumbled pulling his fur cloak tighter around his shoulders. The horn blew a second time, filling the night air with its warning. Wildlings, they're here. Damn. He pulled himself upright and clambered atop of a stool to peak over the wooden railing on the fifth landing of the massive switchback stair. Not seeing anything he leaned farther over the rail trying to catch a look at the wildling horde that was descending upon Castle Black. Horde might not be the best word for them, Tyrion thought as he tried to count the shadows that moved between the light of the bonfires and torches. I don't think there's more than a few hundred down there. About how many Jon said there'd be. Tyrion spared a glance at the top of the King's Tower where Jon Snow was shooting a longbow at the wildlings. Half the brothers still thought Jon to be a deserter, an oathbreaker.

Tyrion knelt back down, grabbed his crossbow, and leaned back over the edge and aimed his weapon down at the courtyard. Bonfires had been spread around the towers to light up the invaders for the archers in the towers, but the darkness beyond the yards of Castle Black kept the wildlings hidden from sight. Tyrion waited and waited. There. A shadow in the darkness the glint of firelight on bronze. Tyrion pulled the trigger, the stubby, wooden props thrummed, and a quarrel was sent into the darkness. To his left Arron and Emrick, twins from Fair Isle, who reflexively referred to Tyrion as. "M'lord of Lannister." Shot crossbows of their own at the wildling attackers. To his right Owen the Oaf and Old Henly, a whitebeard of seventy, shot arrows from longbows into the courtyard.

Tyrion ducked down again without seeing if his quarrel had found its mark. He passed the crossbow back to an old man from Mole's Town called Skinny Will to reload. In turn, Skinny Will passed an already loaded crossbow back to Tyrion who stood up to aim again. The scene had changed abruptly in those few seconds. The wildlings had moved out of the darkness and into the light, storming towards the bases of the towers, the armoury, the stables, the shieldhall, and the crescent-shaped palisade of bags, barrels, and crates that surrounded the gate and the base of the stairs. Tyrion took aim at a band running to Hardin's Tower, a moment later the crossbow thrummed in his hands as the stiff wood bows straightened, sending the string racing up the stock, and the quarrel forward into the night. Tyrion saw a man tumble to the ground with a scream not long after but he couldn't be sure if it was his bolt that had sent a wildling tumbling to the ground, an arrow from one of the towers, or if the bastard had just tripped on a clump of dirt. Tyrion didn't stay up to see in any case, instead, he darted back down just in time to hear an arrow strike the barrel that sheltered him like the merlon of a proper wall. "Fuck!" Tyrion cursed as the first was swiftly followed by two others that struck the black cloaked scarecrows Maester Aemon had invented to disguise the Night's Watch's numbers.

Tyrion passed his spent crossbow back and grabbed another crossbow. A gurgle brought his attention to Owen the Oaf, whose blond beard was turning crimson as an arrow wound in his throat spurted blood. Tyrion grimaced, the man had been so dimwitted he'd forget that Robert Baratheon had been dead for nearly two years, but he'd been a good shot with a longbow and his sword arm would be sorely missed when the fighting moved beyond bows and arrows. Tyrion sent two bolts at wildlings beating down the door of the King's Tower with axes. Arron and Emrick loosed their bolts at a band battling around the timber keep below the rookery.

Tyrion shot twice more before shouting drew his attention to the armoury, where a knot of black brothers were fighting on the roof. Standing hard against a band of wildlings twice their number. Tyrion joined the other archers and crossbowmen in sending waves of missiles at the wildlings. Together they drove the wildlings back with a rain of arrows, but the invaders set fire to the armoury as they retreated. Tyrion cursed and shot a quarrel at the wildlings fleeing the burning building.

Warhorns drew his attention to the Kingsroad and a formation of wildlings charging into Castle Black in a column, their shields held high over their heads to make a roof of wood, leather, and bronze. Tyrion shot a quarrel at them but it skidded harmlessly over their shields. Fire and smoke were pouring from the stables, as hay and wood went up in flames. When the roof collapsed, flames rose up roaring, so loud they almost drowned out the enemy warhorns and battlecries. The Wall reflected the light and turned red and orange. More wildlings were swarming through the vegetable garden, across the flagstone yard, and around the old dry well. Tyrion sent a final quarrel at the figures rushing into Castle Black before turning his attention to the makeshift barricade below him.

Lancel stood on the barricade, armed with a longsword and a shield, and standing shoulder to shoulder with Sweet Donnel Hill. A yellow-haired Westerman who claimed to be a Lannister bastard and Tyrion had to admit he did have a passing resemblance to Tyrion's grandfather, Lord Tytos Lannister. Together with Ser Jarmen Buckwell, Black Jack Bulwer, Ketter, and at least two dozen more black brothers and Mole's Towners they were holding part of the barricade against the howling hordes of the wild north. A horde of jabbing spears, chopping axes, swinging clubs, and horrible screams of bloodlust. As he watched Lancel cut a wilding's hamstring and sent him tumbling down the stairs. Other black brothers were not so skilled and despite the fearsome shouts Ser Jarmen Buckwell was bellowing. Tyrion shot a quarrel into the neck of a wildling armed with a greataxe before the brute could split Red Alyn of the Rosewood in two. Only to watch as another speared the red-haired man through the gut so hard that he was thrown over the barricade into Young Henly, a greybeard of fifty.

Wildlings rushed the new gap pushing the Night's Watch back with shields and killing them with axes. It happened so quickly the wildling rush turned into a flood, soon only a bare dozen black brothers and a few Mole's Town men still stood atop the crates and barrels, but the wildlings were swarming over all along the crescent, pushing them back. Hairy Hal was dead with an axe in his head, Bearded Ben fought on but was surrounded by screeching wildlings. He could see Easy spinning and slashing, laughing like a loon, his cloak flapping as he leapt from cask to cask. A bronze axe caught him just below the knee and the laughter turned into a bubbling shriek.

Lancel and Sweet Donnel fell back, moving backwards up the stairs standing side by side, and swords in hand. Behind them Bass jabbed a spear into wildling faces, only to take one in turn and fall bleeding to the ground. Sweet Donnel Hill tripped over him and then the wildlings were upon them both cutting them apart with axes and knives in a savage fury. Lancel was luckier, or perhaps more skilled, he skipped over the kennelmaster's falling body and retreated up the stairs. Others were not so lucky, the defenders quickly turned into a herd of sheep ready for the slaughter. It was all too familiar to Tyrion, the breaking of the gold cloaks at King's Landing had looked much the same.

The battle quickly moved up and onto the steps. Donal Noye had put spearmen on the two lowest landings, but the headlong flight of the villagers panicked them and they had joined the flight, racing up toward the third landing with the wildlings killing anyone who fell behind. Tyrion joined the archers and crossbowmen on the higher landings in trying to shoot arrows and quarrels over their fleeing heat of the armoury and stable fires were making the Wall weep, and the flames danced and shimmered on the ice like dancers in a twisted mirror. The steps shook as men ran for their lives. The tide was briefly checked on the third landing by three black brothers but before long the savage tide overwhelmed them.

"Back," Tyrion shouted. "Pull back! To the top!" He fought to keep panic from his voice. He didn't think he succeeded as the archers of the fifth landing turned as one and fled up the stairs. Tyrion struggled to stay upright in the mass of pounding legs and kicking feet. Distantly he heard the sound of a warhorn from far above him. The plan, he remembered, his panic subsided for a moment only to return in double strength a second later. Oh gods the plan, Tyrion broke into a run clambering up the oversized stairs as fast as he could. An errant boot to the hip would have sent him tumbling over the edge, were it not for an armoured hand seizing his black cloak.

"Come on coz," Lancel huffed as he pulled Tyrion into his arms. "Now's no time to learn how to fly."

Lancel carried Tyrion up past the ninth landing where Donal Noye waited with half a dozen brothers armed with crackling torches. Below them, fire arrows flew from the towers, striking the oil-soaked bottom steps and setting them aflame. On the eleventh landing, Tyrion heard the woosh of suddenly spreading flame as the black brothers threw their torches onto the oil-soaked ninth landing.

They kept moving up till they reached the twentieth landing, there they turned to look upon the fire's grisly work. Where oil had failed the wind had done the rest. The wildlings were trapped between flames above and flames below. The burned to death or jumped to their deaths. Their screams echoing through the night. A thunderous crack filled the air as the heat melted the Wall and caused the lower third of the stair to break off and crash down upon the remaining wildlings.

"The Wall defends itself," Donal Noye said almost piously as he stepped onto the landing. "Come on, get going, the ice isn't going to stop breaking there."

With no other way to go but up Tyrion sighed and continued upwards this time with more exhaustion and less haste. Near a hundred black brothers and Mole's Towners gathered atop the Wall waiting their turn to ride the winch cage back to the ground. Tyrion joined Maester Aemon and Clydas in tending to the wounded. He wrapped wounds with bandages, applied salves, and other simple tasks. When the time came he was one of the first to ride the winch cage to the ground, so as to tend to the wounds of those below.

In the end his ministrations brought him to Jon Snow whose leg wound had pulled open during the fight and needed to be rebandaged. As he wound a bandage around the younger man's leg he caught Jon staring at the faces of the dead wildlings. "Do you know any of them?" Tyrion asked quietly.

"Yes," Jon answered tonelessly.

Tyrion had noted more than a few armed women amongst the dead asked another question. "Is your girl among the dead?"

Jon grunted as the bandage tightened around his leg. "No," he smiled. "She's alive."