The Stand at the Fist
''MEN OF WINTERFELL! FORM UP!''
Darkness cloaked the Fist of the First Men as a winter storm raged, the wind smashing through the ancient stones. Snow swirled in vicious currents, stinging eyes and biting through the thick cloaks men wore, turning the world into a whirling chaos of white. Then it came—the long, mournful blast of the horn, slicing through the storm's violent winds. Once, twice, and a third time. Three blasts: the signal for the others. The sound sent a jolt of terror through the camp, freezing men in place for a heartbeat. Silence followed a tense, breathless moment before chaos erupted.
''MEN OF THE WATCH! WITH ME!''
The ravens were flapping and screaming, flying about their cages and banging off the bars, while the dogs were barking as all about the camp, the brothers of the Night's Watch and men sworn to Winterfell were rising, donning their armour, buckling on sword belts, and reaching for battle axes and bows. Jon Snow was running with all the might his mortal body could muster. He was tired, and the fatigue of the earlier ambush and the march back were still a fresh memory for his muscles. His heart was beating heavily.
"TO ARMS!" A shout rang out, lost in the roar of the wind, as Jon made it halfway towards the command tent. Steel scraped against leather as swords were drawn, the ring of metal sharp and desperate. Men scrambled to their positions, stumbling over the uneven ground, their breath coming in ragged bursts.
''Three,'' Edd squealed to Lophand. ''That was three; I heard three. They never blow three. Not for hundreds and thousands of years. Three means...''
''...Others.'' Lophand muttered. Addam made a sound that was half a laugh and half a sob, and suddenly his small clothes were wet, and Addam could feel the liquid running down his leg and see the steam rising off the front of his breeches. It took some moments for the three black brothers to register what was truly happening before they realised Jon Snow was already on his way to the Stark men.
''Have you all grown bloody deaf!?'' Ottyn Wythers howled to make them hear through the barking of men and the howling storm. ''To the Lord Commander!'' He demanded. And all three black brothers snapped out of their trance and rushed to their Lord Commander.
Men jostled into formation, the line shifting and shuddering as fear took its toll. The green boys stumbled, slipping on the ice-slick ground, while the graybeards gripped their shields and weapons with white-knuckled determination. Cries of ''Make way!'' and ''Hold the line!'' mingled with curses to the others and prayers to the Mother and the Warrior. The air was thick with the smell of cold, fear, and death.
''The slope! They are coming up the slope!'' A ranger screamed.
Boys and men made the line behind the half-ruined stone wall atop the steep slope, with bowmen on the front and the infantry at the back. Some were strong, others were more clever. But all of them, boys and men of Westeros alike, paled as they heard the distant, inhuman shriek cut through the storm, sending a shiver down every spine. The sound was unnatural, a herald of the Stranger drawing closer. Thousands of them, their skeletal limbs and milky skin clawed up the steep incline, dark shapes against the snow, their eyes glowing an eerie blue through the storm.
Jory Cassel, who had taken command of the two hundred men of The Wall and Winterfell, paled as well. But the captain of the guard quickly composed himself. ''Archers! Draw!'' He commanded, and the archers struggled to follow the order as the noise of death crept up the slope. A boy of five and ten dressed in black wept silently, muttering cries out for his mother as he accidentally dropped the bow and scuffled to pick it back up and draw his arrow.
''Hold!'' Cassel's voice cut through the wind, though it trembled with the cold. He stood at the forefront, his breath misting as he raised his sword. The newly forged steel blade his father, Ser Rodrik, had given him when they departed his home was reflecting the little light the storm allowed. Ghost, Jon Snow's direwolf, was a ghostly figure beside him, a low growling that was barely heard in the chaotic night. Archers squinted their eyes against the storm, waiting for the signal. When the cry finally came, ''Loose!'' a flurry of arrows arced into the darkness, vanishing into the blizzard. Their flight was blind, guided more by hope than sight. Seconds later, the dull thud of impact came. Men cheered at the sound, a desperate cry of joy echoing throughout the camp. The cheer was short-lived, however.
''They're not stopping!'' A Winterfell man cried out.
''Gods have mercy...'' A ranger muttered.
The wights did not fall; they did not even slow. Arrows jutted from dead flesh and shattered bone, useless against the unnatural force driving them forward. Panic rippled through the ranks. Men clutched their swords with trembling hands, their faces pale under their helms. Some cursed, others muttered prayers to their gods. A few sank to their knees, overcome by the rising tide of fear, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. Jory Cassel was speechless, overcome by the unnatural morale of the enemy.
''Fire! Bring them fire!'' As men turned around to spot the voice, they all saw the strong build of Jeor Mormont and Qhorin Halfhand. Archers quickly obeyed his orders and began to rain fire upon the enemy.
Yards away from the fighting, inside the command tent, dimly lit by a sputtering oil lamp, chaos reigned in a different form. A steward, Arron, and Jon Snow were hunched over the makeshift table, their hands shaking uncontrollably. The tent's canvas walls flapped wildly, the wind's roar seeping through every seam, and the cold gnawed at him, seeping into his bones despite the heavy cloak wrapped around his shoulders. Quill in hand, he fumbled as he tried to steady his breathing. His fingers were numb, and the ink was freezing almost as soon as it touched the parchment. He said a silent curse as blots of ink spread across the paper. Arron and Jon had been given an order from Lord Commander Mormont and Jory Cassel to send new messages on top of the already-written ones. Arron could not say he blamed his Lord Commander. The pre-written messages that were already sent when the second horn could be heard spoke of an attack; the new ones he was writing to Castle Black and Shadow Tower and Jon Snow was writing to Winterfell spoke of another thing entirely.
''Seven hells…'' Arron cried out as the letters he wrote became uneven, and he could not control his shaking.
Outside by the outer stonewall that was half a ruin, men fumbled with flint and steel, sparks flaring briefly in the dark before catching on oil-soaked rags. Torches flared to life, casting long, flickering shadows over the churned snow. The light revealed the enemy at last—a mass of pale figures with black hands and eyes glowing like two blue stars, moving up the slope with an eerie purpose. Many fell down the pits that the Lord Commander and Cassel had ordered their men to build, and the archers' stakes looked formidable. But they did not stop; they kept coming. The sight drove some to madness; a few broke ranks, staggering back into the night behind them, to be swallowed by the storm that was upon them and never to be seen again.
''Hold the line!'' Jeor Mormont commanded. The infantry atop the Fist of the First Men clung to their positions as archers desperately rained fire on them. Teeth chattering and limbs numbed by the cold as the wights advanced in an unstoppable tide. Ser Arthur Dayne reached Jory Cassel, and a rare panic could be easily spotted in his violet eyes. He could not find his nephew, Jon Snow.
''Where is Jon?! Have you seen him?'' Dayne asked loudly to be heard against the violent winds.
''Inside the command tent, writing to Winterf-...'' Cassel shouted.
A bone-chilling shriek rose above the storm's fury and interrupted them as the first of the wights clambered over the wall, black hands clutching at the stones, pale faces contorted in mindless rage. Qhorin Halfhand raised his sword and shouted, ''To me! Hold them here!''
The defenders surged forward, swords and axes at their ready. The clash was immediate and brutal. Steel met bone with a sickening crunch, the dead piling against and over the wall in a chaotic frenzy. The defenders were doing well; they held a great defensive advantage, and any other army would have failed miserably to breach them. This was no living army; however, this was death. At the front line, Thoren Smallwood and Qhorin Halfhand were fighting valiantly, their capability bringing hope to the men.
''There's too many!'' Smallwood shouted, his voice raw with exertion. Qhorin hacked at a wight's arm, severing it, but the creature kept coming, its grip still strong despite the loss. The Halfhand stumbled and fell over, and three wights were immediately upon him, tearing him apart furiously. Crimson painted his neck and mouth as he tried to scream a command but fell on deaf ears. More dead men kept climbing or squeezing through the stone wall, and Smallwood noticed a one-handed ranger stumbling to one knee as a dead man lifted his sword to finish the ranger off. Smallwood leaped towards them, dropping his sword as he threw himself at the wight, finishing him off with a dagger. But only when he had killed the wight did he notice another dead man already upon the one-handed ranger, stabbing him on his bowel in hysteria. Smallwood then felt a sharp pain in his back and did not have the time to turn back and find the source of the pain before darkness overcame him.
Jon Snow burst from the command tent, clutching the urgent letter in his gloved hand. The cold air bit at his face, but he hardly noticed; his mind was focused on the desperate need to get their messages out. Behind him was Arron, with two more letters clasped tightly against his chest.
''Where are the ravens?'' Jon asked, distressed.
''They are at the edge of camp, northside.'' Arron answered.
''We need to send the messages; make for the ravens as quick as you can!'' Jon shouted over his shoulder as he ran to the northern side of the camp inside the ringfort.
Jon looked over to the eastern side of the ringfort, the dead men overwhelming the rangers and northern soldiers. He saw Jory Cassel atop a horse, swinging his sword wildly at the wights as he galloped through the line. They were almost at the crowcages when a shriek went up. Four wights, pale skin as the snows below them, with black hands with frostbite, broke through the ranks. Hunger drove them forward as they charged straight for Jon and Arron.
''Arron!'' Jon tried to warn, but it was too late. Arron turned, eyes wide with terror, just as the first wight crashed into him, claws raking across his face. He screamed, stumbling back as the second wight tackled him to the ground. Crimson spurted as the undead creatures tore into him, his cries of agony shortly after being replaced with a gurgling choke. The letters he had been carrying were scattered and trampled underfoot. Jon's heart clenched at the gruesome sight, bile rising and threatening to make its way out to the snow as he ran away from Arron and the wights.
When he arrived at the edge of the camp, his face fell. The cages were already open, and no raven could be seen anywhere. He dropped the scroll, the reality of the situation kicking in.
''Fuck...'' he murmured.
When he turned around, he saw two pale men clumsily rushing towards him. He drew Longclaw from his back scabbard as one of the wights lunged at him, their hands going for his throat. Jon swung Longclaw with desperate fury, the Valyrian steel slicing through the wight's neck and severing its head. He did not have time to adjust his stance before another wight leaped on him. He was about to swing once more, but he hesitated once he recognised the face.
''Edd.'' Jon murmured. Edd punched him in the bowel, sending a shot of pain throughout his body. Jon lost his balance as Edd began to claw at his face wildly. He felt a searing pain as his filthy nails cut into his face, warm blood running down his face and eyes. Jon stumbled to the ground as crimson filled his vision. He could feel another wight dragging him by the leg. Jon cried out as he used all the strength remaining to try to hold the dead man that had been Dolorous Edd off.
Suddenly, with a frenzied fluttering of wings, Mormont's raven swooped down, cawing wildly. The black bird dove at Edd's pale face, pecking and clawing with a savage fury. Edd recoiled, momentarily distracted, his hands batting at the raven as it shrieked and flapped around its head.
''Burn! Burn!'' the raven cawed, its beak snapping at Edd's blue eyes.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Jon gritted his teeth and wrestled free, grabbing Longclaw with an awkward motion. With a fierce cry, he plunged the dark blade into his friend's chest, twisting as he drove it deeper. The raven once more took it to the sky as Edd spasmed, the blue in his eyes leaving as its body convulsed before it finally collapsed in a heap, lifeless once more. Jon lay there, panting, the adrenaline still coursing through him. He cleared his eyes of his own blood, wincing at the sting. He looked down and noticed the dagger that was stuck deep inside his bowel. He gritted his teeth and pulled himself up, fighting his instincts that told him to keep lying down and rest. Only then did he notice his direwolf savagely tearing through the other wights throat.
Jon squinted his eyes, trying to spot anyone, but he saw only white. He heard screams of men dying and horses panicking. He pushed himself up, once more having to clear his face of crimson as he made his way to the noise, Longclaw in hand.
''Uncle!'' He screamed desperately, his voice cracking as he did not know if to grieve him or not. He stopped to catch his breath as he noticed a horse galloping wildly. The battle was lost, if it was ever a battle, and no ravens would reach The Wall and Winterfell about what had happened here or what had attacked need to know, or we will be gazed at the horse and back towards the noise of men screaming behind the whiteness of nothingness. He took a deep breath and made his choice. ''Come on, Ghost!'' He managed.
In the middle of the ringford, Ser Arthur Dayne was slashing Dawn with grace. He cut through dead men as he made his way from the command tent to the faint screams of men. He found Jon's friend Addam trying and struggling to command several archers.
''Seven hells! Make every arrow count!'' Jon Snow's friend told the desperate men, their arrows disappearing into the white void while wights closed in from all sides.
''Addam! Have you seen Jon?!'' Dayne howled to make himself heard.
''Ser Arthur,'' Addam said with his eyes widening. ''It's good to see you; I have not seen him.''
Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo. Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo. Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
''Mormont!'' Addam howled with joy. ''To the horn! Retreat!''
Ser Arthur Dayne, Addam, and three archers forged through the howling blizzard, drawn by the distant sound of the horn blaring through the wind. They emerged from the swirling snow to find Ser Ottyn Wythers atop his horse at the makeshift stables, rallying a cluster of numerous weary men; some wore grey, most wore black. Crimson ran down holes in Ser Ottyn's shoulder and chest.
''Ser Ottyn!'' Ser Arthur shouted.
''Ser Arthur!'' Wythers acknowledged it with relief.
''Jory Cassel? Mormont?'' Ser Arthur asked.
''No time to mourn,'' Wythers declared, his face grim. ''We need to form a wedge; we ride south down the slope. Then turn east towards the woods.''
''I won't leave without Jon!'' Ser Arthur growled.
Before Ottyn Wythers could respond, a massive, spectral snowbear burst through the storm with a deafening roar. Its eyes glowed with an unnatural blue light, and its massive paws crushed the snow beneath them. The bear lunged straight for Ser Ottyn Wythers, who turned just in time to see the monstrous beast upon him.
''Ottyn, look out!'' Arthur shouted, but his warning came too late. The snowbear launched at him, throwing him off his horse and making the horse shriek a sad and horrifying tune before jaws clamped down on Ser Ottyn's head, wrenching it from his shoulders in a spray of crimson. The men recoiled in horror as the beast tossed the severed head aside like a rag doll, its roar echoing across the battlefield.
''Ser! We need to go!'' Addam roared at the dornish knight as the undead snowbear attacked one of Wythers' archers, tearing off the poor man's hand. Ser Arthur jumped atop an empty horse and grated his teeth.
''RETREAT!'' Ser Arthur Dayne screamed as he held a hand out for Addam to take. ''MEN! RIDE!''
Addam grabbed his hand and got atop his horse, settling behind him. ''Hold on! Wait for me!'' An archer screamed, desperate for salvation, before the snowbear tore him apart. Five and ten horses rode down the southern slope, forming a wedge. Ser Arthur looked back at the top of the slope as they made their way down. A chill ran down his spine as he saw nothing but violent winds and heard nothing but unnatural shrieks.