Author's Note: Things are happening, kiddos. The story is picking up speed.

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I hope you enjoy!

"What?"

Alman spoke again, but his words were once more unintelligible. Anything can get lost in this wind, but the boy needs to learn to speak up. With a grunt against the cloth tied around his face—uncovered skin soon became dead skin out here—Lord Cregan Ironsmith began the treacherous task of heading towards his son without slipping down the slope of the hill. The boy was less than twenty feet from him, but between the howling wind and the covered mouths, Cregan knew he'd have to be right next to Allard to hear anything.

The boy, who wasn't a boy at all at twenty, had started moving towards him as well. When they came together, his heir leaned close to his ear to speak, and even then, it was hard to understand. "We won't be able to see anything anyway."

His son was right. The watchtower, one of a series built early in the siege at the Wall, was an exposed stack of wood on top of a high rocky ridge, the area around it cleared of the scant lumber it had held moons ago. On days when it didn't snow, the few of those that still came, you could see for miles upon miles to the west, towards the Bay of Ice. On a day like today, though, you'd barely see the bottom of the ridge.

Still, duty was duty. Lord Stark may have ridden south, ordered there by the Shadowskin, but he'd left the scouts in place, their service still vital. Once, Cregan and the other fifty or so men would range for days in both directions, but as the snows grew harder and the winds colder, they'd slowly been forced to shrink their circle of scouting closer and closer to the Wall. Now, this watchtower mere miles from the camps was one of the furthest observation posts they had.

Why we're still looking I don't know. No wildling army can survive out here save the one camping near us, and the dead are stuck on that side of the Wall.

But he couldn't tell his son that. Alman was a good boy, a good man. But young men still needed their father', their direction and example, or at least Cregan thought so. His own had died in the Stepstones when Cregan was five, and many had been the times he'd wished the man had still been around to offer guidance. Many the times still were, in fact. "The Shadowskin still wants these scouts done, son. You're likely right, but our duty is our duty, whether we agree with it or not."

Alman grunted, and Cregan knew the sardonic lip twist was making even if he couldn't see them. "I know you're right, but we're like to fall to our deaths from that ladder in this ice. If we're still to do it, I insist you let me be the one to climb, father."

He was a good boy. But his father isn't that old, at least not yet. "You'll insist on nothing, unless I died and made you Lord of Blackiron when I wasn't looking." Cregan exaggeratedly pated at his own fur-covered chest and belly. "No, it appears I still live."

Though Alman's eyes rolled, he heard the smile in his son's words. "You're an impossible man, father."

Cregan laughed. "Blame your mother. One must be to survive her."

A sudden sound cut through the howling wind, and both father and son looked up the slope to see a few small chunks of loose shale from an outcropping rolling to a stop uphill. Cregan squinted, confused. "What was that?"

Alman shrugged. "An animal maybe, trying to use the outcroppings as cover from the wind?"

Cregan wanted to believe that, but he knew better than to actually do it. There hadn't been an animal within leagues of the Wall since…by the Old Gods, I can't recall when. They'd all been either hunted for food for the thousands of men and women at the Wall or had fled the increasing storms. Even the birds had gone, save the few unhappy ravens the maesters had in cages at the camps.

Cregan felt a deep unease in his belly.

He clapped his son's shoulder firmly. "Something isn't—"

He got no further, for a flood of motion flooded down the hill from the outcroppings. A dead man was upon him before Cregan Ironsmith could react.

The wight—icy blue eyes peering out a jawless face—tackled him, crashing into the same spot Cregan had jokingly patted moments ago. The Lord of Blackiron was sent sprawling backwards, the dead man on his chest, and crashed to the snow of the hill. The slope did the rest, Cregan unable to find any purchase as he flipped and crashed and rolled down the hill he and his son had just climbed. A stone outcropping cut a gash in his cheek, his arm was dislocated when he landed on his shoulder, and he felt a finger smashed flat against the top of the same hand. By the time his fall was stopped at the bottom of the hill, Cregan was a snow-covered lump of broken bones and fur.

Even so, he immediately tried to find his son.

Through the snow and the pain, Cregan could see Alman's torch whipping back forth, in concert with the blade in his other hand. Fight them, son. Fight them. Alman did, like a man possessed, like he had at the Whispering Wood and dozens of battles since.

Cregan tried to gain his feet, but the pain was too great. At least one leg was broken, perhaps both. He'd lost his torch and blade in the fall, though the wight had also been dislodged and gone to who knew where. He couldn't speak, could hardly move. All he could do was watch as his son fought.

Alman died to a dead man only after his father had seen him fell at least four. Even as his heart broke into so many pieces that he knew it'd never recover, Cregan felt deep pride. He was a good son, in life and in death.

Cregan could not do his duty. He could not warn the Wall. That bothered a small part of him, but he did not dwell on it. He had not been a man of melancholy in life, and he refused to be one in death.

He stared at the spot his son had died as the wights—a few, then dozens—crested the hill and lumbered down it. Soon he could no longer see Alman's body, blocked by too many pairs of dead legs, but he kept his eyes focused on where it had been.

Sons need their fathers, Cregan Ironsmith thought, as a wight with an axe sent him to be with his own.

Things were going badly.

Aegon Targaryen observed his encamped army from the parapets of the Willow Wood, leaning on sore hands spread against the stone. They were not an inspiring sight, not as they had been before the Crossroads. Once, driven by the rigid discipline of the Golden Company, the camps had been orderly things with an odd beauty. Tents had been raised in sensible rows, privies dug efficiently, cookfires and stock barricades central to all. Now his camp was a maze of tents thrown up hastily wherever the men wanted. Aegon could see waste near everywhere, as his soldiers often forwent digging privies in the hard ground and some men didn't bother to find one when nature called. If it weren't so damnably cold, Aegon imagined the entire place would be rife with disease and insects. At least winter has brought that blessing among its many problems.

His campaign against his aunt had been marked by defeat after defeat. Ser Barristan and his army of Valemen and Essosi pursued relentlessly, driving Aegon and his own band of Golden Company and Dornishmen—most of the Crownlanders, never truly loyal, had long since deserted—farther and farther up the Green Fork. He'd fought them outright three more times, each time driven from the field by the Unsullied. One of those battles he supposed could be considered a victory on paper, when an ambush he'd engineered at Pennytree had seen several thousand Valemen surrounded far from the spiked caps of the Unsullied, but the Dothraki had fallen upon Aegon's own rear and allowed the Valemen to breakout. He'd held the field, but lost the opportunity to kill thousands of Daenerys' men. Paired with the never-ending retreat continuing that same night, it had seemed like a loss to Aegon, whatever the maesters might say about it in years to come.

They won't say much good about me. I'm losing. I've lost, and all I can do is fight it out until I'm dead.

Aegon straightened from his leaning, turning to continue his walk along the parapets.

"At least there are still no dragons," he said aloud, voice misting in the freezing air, and laughed bitterly.

Willow Wood was the seat of House Ryger, loyal to Edmure Tully and therefore Damon Baratheon. He and his scouts had found it like they had every castle and towerhouse from here back to the Crossroads, meaning it had been empty and stripped of supplies when they came upon it. He had not been forced to take it, just as he had not been forced to take Dry Ridge or Pinkton, just as Ser Symon hadn't been forced to take Briarwhite, Lakehaven, or even Harrenhal before the betrayal. Smallfolk were here, clinging to their homes and what livestock they still had, but the castles and noble families were gone, their retinues and supplies with them. Vanished, without a trace.

He'd made the turn to look north by then, and he did, into the daunting evergreens. Aegon and his advisors kept waiting for Tywin Lannister or Damon Baratheon to come pouring out of those woods and put them to route. Something was certainly there, for any scout who went more than a day's ride north of Aegon's army never returned, but so far he had seen nothing and no one. When he interrogated smallfolk, all they could tell them was that their lords and ladies had left. Aegon supposed he might get more out of them were he to use torture, but they were…well, they were innocents. Smallfolk, caught up in other men's wars. He had no doubt there were plenty of men both lowly and commanding who would do the task with relish, but Aegon had forbidden it, and for now they listened.

So I continue north, because at least I have a chance against the unknown.

Ser Daemon appeared at his side. "Your Grace, a courier with a flag of truce."

Aegon looked to him, a scowl creeping onto his face. "From Ser Barristan?" Why would he send a truce, when he knows he has us beaten?

Daemon Sand shook his head, then swallowed. "From Tywin Lannister. She is with your wife now."

She?

Aegon found Arianne in the main hall of the Willow Wood, her arms around a figure with long golden hair. A tall man in white armor—Kingsguard armor—stood by her, hand on his blade, staring at Ser Garibald, who mirrored the pose somewhat comically. Arianne, belly growing ever bigger, was sobbing into the girl's shoulder.

"Is all well, my queen?" Aegon asked as he approached, then immediately felt the fool. Clearly it was not.

Arianne, trying to compose herself, pulled her face up from the figure's tear-stained shoulder, though she kept her hands on their upper arms. "I…I worried you.."

The girl, no more than five and ten, smiled a knowing smile that near blinded him. "I know what you worried, and know what you intended, Princess Arianne, and why. All is well between you and I, for what that may be worth."

His queen broke back into sobs, though she released the young woman and waved her hand vaguely at Aegon. The girl, still smiling, looked to him, though she did not bow and did not call him king. "You must be Aegon Targaryen. I come with an offer from my grandfather." She smiled the broader. "Though he doesn't actually know it is I who carry it. I am more like my older brother than he would like."

Aegon didn't know what that meant, exactly, but he knew who she was at once. "You must be Myrcella Baratheon."

Screams filled the air.

Cersei Lannister would not say she empathized with Margaery Tyrell. Empathy was a weakness, an emotion that could drive you to relent on a foe when you should instead redouble your efforts and wear them down. But Cersei did feel the girl's pain, almost literally. As another birthing cry rattled off the walls of the Twins, Cersei could almost feel those pains in her own womb, and could still remember how overwhelming the first had been. The others had been no better, of course—nothing made that pain any less—but she had been prepared for those. This was the Tyrell girl's first, and the first was always the scariest.

And it comes a full moon earlier than it should. Were I her, I would be scared as well.

That was why Cersei was here. Births a moon early happened from time , and the child was often no worse for wear once they made it through their first few days, but the fear was always there. The child Margaery Tyrell was fighting to deliver was her grandchild. Hers, Cersei's own. And Jaimes's, though none here can ever know the truth of that. It was concern for that child that found Cersei Lannister at her gooddaughter's side, her golden hand being crushed in Margaery's own pale one.

The queen—she refused to think of herself as queen dowager—wasn't sure how it had gotten there. She wasn't sure how she had come to be beside the bed. She did not like Margaery Tyrell, and Margaery certainly did not like her. They shared no kinship, no relationship, no love. The only thing they had in common was Damon, though neither of them had seen him for many moons now. Even then, she had stolen him from Cersei, seducing him and convincing him to wed when Cersei was not there to caution her son against the girls honeyed words.

Yet when that Frey buffon had taken too long following Maester Kerwin's command, Cersei had found herself at the bedside, demanding the girl be replaced with someone competent. She had remained afterwards, though she did not know why, and Margaery's hand had found hers amidst the young woman's labor pains. Cersei did not think Margaery even knew whose hand she held, and likely would be appalled when she learned, but Cersei had gripped it back. Not for Margaery's sake, but for the sake of the babe she was birthing.

When cries filled the chamber, Cersei Lannister had no words for the feeling in her chest. The only thing she had ever experienced that even rivaled it was when she had first held Joffrey and Damon.

Cersei slipped her hand free from Margaery Tyrell's as Maester Kerwin inspected the babe. Bella—her son's former whore had taken the Frey midwifes place when Cersei commanded someone do so, though just how she had known about birthing the queen could not say—took her place at her new mistress' side, slipping her own hand into Tyrell's. Cersei fell back against the wall, and stared at the red squalling babe the big maester held, as a midwife coached Margaery through the afterbirth.

"A son, Your Grace!" Maester Kerwin said elatedly a few moments later, a broad smile on a broad face. He held the boy, the new heir to the Seven Kingdoms, high into the air and laughed. "And healthy, despite his small size!"

Cersei ignored the elated cries and congratulations thrown around the room, both the Tyrell handmaidens—here throughout the birth—holding to their lady with barely contained excitement as the midwife cleaned her. Cersei only had eyes on the babe. Damon's child. My grandchild.

If the maester did not lower him down, Cersei would kill the man and take him safely into her own arms in an instant.

She opened her mouth to say that very thing, but another voice cut through. Genna Lannister Frey, Cersei's own aunt, had taken an intense liking to Margaery Tyrell, and Tyrell to her. It had hurt Cersei's inner child, for she'd never gotten on well with her aunt, but the queen had forgiven the older woman. She had been as protective of the baby in Margaery's belly as Cersei had been, and much more vocal about it since the moment Tywin had brought them from Moat Cailin to the Twins. "What shall you name him, love?"

Margaery was worn, a sweaty, pale mess. Cersei could not deny that the girl glowed. "His Grace and I have not discussed names. I left the Wall in a rush, and we've had no word since the command to flee south."

At once, the ladies in the room began throwing names about as Maester Kerwin lowered the child, handing him to another midwife to clean him and turning to Margaery to ensure all had gone well with the afterbirth. Cersei started that way at once.

Jaime. His name should be Jaime. Cersei wanted that desperately, needed that, but she knew it could not be the case. Word of her and Jaime's love, though refuted by the crown always, was too well spread. Naming Damon's son after his true father would be a mistake, perhaps a catastrophic one. A younger Cersei would not have cared, just as she had not cared when she named her own children after House Lannister, but she had learned during the last few wars. A concession must be made. She did not like that much, but she knew her father would approve. Though I will not see him named Robert.

Gently, she bodily took the babe from the midwife the moment he was swaddled. He was perfect, small but perfect, a few wisps of golden hair upon his head. The babe nuzzled into her chest at once, causing her heart to swell so full it may well burst.

She turned to face them, the others stopping mid-sentence to stare in wonder at the babe in the queen's arms.

Cersei knew who should be the one holding him, and fought her own instinct to hold onto the child until the end of time. She brought him to Margaery, stepping up beside her aunt and helping ease the babe to his mother's chest. At once, the little thing began to root around.

Genna laughed her booming, merry laugh. "That'd be quick for even a baby of full term," she said with a wide grin, as the child began trying to latch to Margaery's breast. "He's a hungry one, this boy."

It came to Cersei in a flash of memory, seeing a little blonde-haired boy with a wooden sword. "Boremund," she said quietly. The others looked to her, though Margaery did not. "Damon always loved to hear the story of Boremund Stormbreaker." Robert loved to tell him of it, when I couldn't stop him. It's one of the few stories of House Baratheon I let Damon hear, and he loved it more than life itself when he was small. I doubt even he remembers that now. I do, though. Jaime and I do.

Margaery looked up at her, finally, and an…understanding passed between the two women.

The Tyrell queen smiled down at her son, nodding once. "Prince Boremund Baratheon, heir to the Seven Kingdoms."

The child opened two emerald eyes.

Two emerald eyes watched the treeline, weary and tired.

"I almost wish we'd lose, sometimes," a dulcet voice said from beside him. "That way it would at least be over."

Jaime turned to the woman in white beside him and gave a short laugh. "Sometimes, Lady Val, I do too."

The wildling princess—who isn't a princess at all, though Edmund and Andrus believe her a goddess—looked to the dark below, covered in dead corpses re-killed. As if on cue, both his squires woke from their slumber and gained their feet, standing close beside Jaime and trying to appear like something other than two young boys with sleep-tousled hair. Val ignored them, though she surely knew of both of their infatuations. "Do you think we will win, Jaime?"

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard shrugged. "If we don't within the next four or five moons, it won't matter. By then, Damon will have worn himself into the grave and we'll all be starving."

Val shook her head, snorting lightly. "You paint a pretty—"

Three blasts of a horn cut her off.

But they were wrong, somehow.

When they sounded again, and then a different horn did the same, he understood why.

With a growing sense of dread, Jaime turned to the south, as did Val and others atop the Wall who had puzzled it out. Jaime leaned against that parapet of ice, squinting towards the mass of furs and campfires that was the wildling camp.

The panicked screams were just reaching his ears when the horn nearest him—the one that usually went off, the one he had expected—also blasted three long calls. Jaime rushed back to where he had been, staring towards the line of trees.

And the hundreds—thousands—of dead bodies pouring out of it.

"We spoke too soon, Lady Val," Jaime told her, and began to shout commands.

A/N: *tease* The Wall.

I will explain how the wights got where they got, but it may not be next chapter. Have patience.