Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

The Red Comet cast a murky red over the snow, violets singing in the night. Greens and reds shoved each other in a spectacular tug of war for a piece of the starry heavens, waving in long, sinuous forms.

"The aurora's growing restless," said Ross, shoving his hands between his armpits. The breastplate was as cold as a whore's kiss.

"Hm," said Ser Robar. The Red Comet had changed, after Wallfall. It was as if a facade had been torn; lines of impossible geometry anchored it to the night sky, concentric circles of perfect scarlet seared in place.

Their perch atop one of the village's few three story houses made for an excellent HQ; it commanded a view second only to the windmills near the outskirts, and was centrally located right beside the village square. It had a long gash through its northeastern corner, where unimaginably strong winds had torn a hole big enough to drive a wagon through. The night the Wall fell seemed to have echoed all throughout the North, if the village was any indication. It made for a handy lookout, though.

Something crashed below them, and Ross made use of the hole to look down on men cursing, angry oxen lowing right back, half a house tumbling to rubble behind them. It neatly blocked one of the square's streets, though the owner looked ready enough to tear the guardsmen's heads off. "Keep at it, lads!" he shouted, "You might finish sometime next month!"

"Aye, First Serjeant!" they hollered back, surly and mutinous. Ross didn't blame them… the numbers drove a harsh reality.

"How's Lord Tyrion?" he asked Royce. The Lord Commander looked pensive, even more so than when they found him.

"Samwell did his best," he said, voice clipped. "Infection's set in."

Ross cringed. The King was sure to have questions regarding how and why, exactly, they had mauled his favorite uncle. If he made it out at all. If they all made it out. "Will he live?"

"Maybe," said Royce. Discouraged from further talk. Ross forced himself to endure the wait in silence, bubbles of unease thrumming through his stomach, like a boiling soup full of rotten ingredients. He'd finished his rounds, and nothing he'd seen had discouraged him from the notion that the stand to come would be their last.

Some timeless, angst-ridden while later, Grip and the Centurion reached the third floor, the big man closing the hatch behind them. They'd been arguing about something before each apparently decided there were more pressing matters at hand. "Alright," said Donvan after taking a look through the missing corner. He took off his gauntlets and sat in front of a map of the village drawn with charcoal atop a table. He ordered a bunch of wooden splinters by the side of the map; allies ready to be placed in or around the village, as tactics dictated. Ross couldn't help but imagine them as the hordes of wights even now massing for an assault on the hapless defenders.

"Right. What have we got to defend this place?" said Donvan.

Ross saluted absentmindedly, "You'll get a kick out of this one, ser," he said, "The 73rd century has exactly 72 men still drawing breath."

"Hm. Let me guess, Martyn?"

"Aye, died last night."

Donvan took off his helmet, passing both hands over his short hair. "An omen, of course."

Ross smiled, "A bad one, according to the men."

"When is it not a bad one?"

"I doubt such a thing exists, ser."

He cleared his throat. "Alright. Break it down for me."

Ross took out a list and read it out loud, "We've got 46 healthy, flea-ridden guardsmen, none too happy to be here. 16 walking wounded of various stripes, and 10 gravely ill."

"What about the rest of the column?"

"We've got 41 Umber axemen grimly eager for another go at it—they're already fighting at their home's doorstep by anyone's guess—though they insist in dragging Lord Tyrion into whatever scrap they get up to. We've also 24 armored crazies from the 52nd Assault. They're still keeping their heads down after the, ah, incident by the waterfall."

Donvan's face turned stormy, "I bet they have. What else?"

"We've a 'quarter battery' of field stagrams—that's Guardsman Bogs' way of saying one, ser—and five stout lads to man it. Including Bogs. We've also an astonishing mix of halberds and crossbows from what seems to be the entire Regiment, and one man who swears he's actually from the First. 29 total, plus various bits of equipment; firespears, some dragonglass, shovels. Add in three brothers of the Night's Watch, two silver knights, and one, ah, incapacitated Lord Tyrion Lannister. 'Bout 13 wounded from all that lot."

"Adds up to 170 fighting men, or close enough," said Donvan, "If we hand crossbows to the wounded and prop them up like scarecrows behind a barricade." He shook his head, as if to say not good. Not good at all.

He turned to Grip, "How's your C&R?" All eyes turned to the alderman, and for the first time Ross saw him squirm.

"It's… green."

Donvan's face puckered like a duck tearing at a lemon, "Light Green?" he asked, half in hope, half in dread.

"Dark," said Donvan, looking at the floorboards. The indignant silence made him look up with a growl, "We haven't had a lot of time to train, what with giving the Wall a wooden crown! Add in all the work so the village doesn't freeze over—getting firewood and shoveling snow out—we've barely managed to stay alive!"

"Easy, Grip. Easy," said Ross, raising both hands, "No one here's questioning your will to fight," except Third Scout Maeber, but he's out with Ser Samwell, "those battlements saved a lot of lives." Before Wallfall at least.

"The Serjeant's right, you did good by us," said Donvan, frowning at the map. "How many warm bodies can you give us?"

"Those not busy with the sleds and with enough strength to shove a wight back… 200, maybe 250. Children too young to apprentice and woodsmen with no trees to cut... those that didn't march north at least. Its mostly women though, and the old." At the dubious looks he added, "They can hold a barricade, just don't ask them to move while a wight's chewing their ears off."

"We'll have them manning the last line of defense," said Donvan, pooling twenty wooden chips and arranging them in a top heavy rectangle covering the village square. He nodded to himself in a gesture familiar to Ross, working up to a plan in his head before debating it with the rest of the men. He was an officer in the Joffrian mold, laying down broad but adaptable plans using local geography, common sense, historical tactics, and leaning heavily on able subordinates. All based on achieving strategic goals. "The square below us is Harrenhal, connecting the entire village—and thus our defense. It's where we hold most of our supplies, and where the sleds are being built. Our rallying point. Behind it lies our line of retreat. We lose the square, we lose this battle, same as if the Mad Princess had killed the King back at the real Harrenhal. We must center our tactics on first delaying and then stopping an assault on that position. " He tapped a piece of charcoal against the roads leading to the square, "The village has two main roads, both crossing each other by the square: the one we used to march into town, going north to south—"

"Wallward," Grip got in.

"—and one that goes north-west to south-east."

"Fool's Walk."

Ross gave Grip a look. The man responded with another one of his rolling earthquake shrugs, "Something about a drunkard. Before my time."

By the quality of the local hooch, Ross was surprised they didn't call it Deadman's Walk. Donvan tapped the table for attention. "From what I saw outside, Line Nine already collapsed a house across the northern half of Wallward road," he said, crossing out the northern approach to the square—Harrenhal. "We'll want to do the same to the western side of Fool's Walk. These two barricades are sure to receive the brunt of the attack on Harrenhal, at least at first."

"Two gates for our castle, eh?" said Ser Robar, "We can call them Fool's Gate and Wallgate."

"Why not," said Donvan. "In any case, I want to soften the wights before they come barreling down Wallward road; so, we'll set up most of the Guard in an outer perimeter around the village outskirts. It's nice, clear terrain for the crossbows."

Ross hummed, picking another piece of charcoal and drawing crosses along the perimeter, "Put them from here to here, close enough to the village we can use the houses for cover in the retreat, close enough to the mills we can drag all those logs for a makeshift palisade."

"I like it," said Donvan, scratching below his eye. He'd done this before, the bouncing of ideas with the centurion before battle came calling. They were a well-oiled machine optimized in reaping lives… or unlife, as the case may be. The familiar back and forth set Ross' mind at ease, the acidic bubbles in his belly relegated to background noise.

"We can raise a small platform for Bogs and his stagram around here," he said, tapping the northern start of Wallward road, at the heart of the outer defensive line, "He could get a couple of shots off before high-tailing it back to Harrenhal."

"Get the stagram in play early. Might even catch a Walker. Do it," said Donvan.

"I'll tell the men to build a little ramp atop Wallgate, so they can roll the thing up quickly into its final position."

"A drawbridge for the gate!" said Ser Robar.

"… you're enjoying this," said Ross. "Ser."

"First Serjeant, I've been leading upwards of three thousand knights for years now. That is when I'm not discussing grand strategy with the King." He tossed out a boyish grin, at odds with his scarred, lugubrious face. "To be frank, being back in charge of a compliment of two is a great relief." He walked to the table and drew a line around the outer perimeter, "Though I can't help but notice you've a first line of defense, and then," he tapped Harrenhal, "A last stand. We're missing something to bleed them in between."

"What are you suggesting?" asked Donvan.

"A portcullis for our castle. Several, in fact," he said, grabbing Ross' charcoal and drawing lines of attack through the cabins.

Grip slapped his massive hand on the table, "Yes! Make use of the cluttered houses to ambush groups of 'em!"

Ross frowned, "Attack in between the houses? Alleyways?"

"No no, the snow already blocked those," said Grip, meaty fingers erasing charcoal lines as he snaked shapes through the map, "Through the cabins! Many of them are already connected—sometimes it's the only way to move around town when the snows set in. We could hack holes between conjoining houses, put up covered corridors where they're too far, turn it into a maze of sorts."

"Wights have all the common sense of a toddler," Ser Robar said, "Many might get hopelessly lost, chasing the battle's echoes unless a Walker is minding them at close range."

Donvan's eyes were glittering, "We'll mark the way to and out of Harrenhal with squiggles. And stack firewood around strategic junctures. We might burn off whole mobs if they chase us in."

Grip gave them a mighty frown, as befit a man thinking about burning his own village, "You think that's wise? If a blaze reaches Harrenhal we'll be as dead as if the wights took over."

At least we won't give them fresh bodies, then, Ross thought but did not say.

"Unlikely the fires will stretch that far," said Royce, "We'll be fighting under a blizzard, remember?"

Ross smirked, "High time we flipped their favorite card on its head."

"What you're all suggesting," said Donvan, "Is not a portcullis but a warren."

"Aye," said Ross, grinning evilly, "But in this warren the mice have castle forged steel."

-: PD :-

Ross ran through the forest as fast as he could, frigid air flooding his lungs and misting with every puff. Screams and shrieks echoed catastrophically close among the bearded fir trees, and he clipped one with his shoulder before tumbling on his face over the snow. He lost precious seconds recovering, axe in hand as a shriek drew in closer. He realized he'd just lost Maeber, the nimble fuck was probably already ahead of him. "Fuck," he whispered, struggling through knee high snow, "Fuck fuck fuck—"

He half turned to a wight drawing in close, sprinting diagonally and shrieking with a torn jaw. Ross swung and the axe caught it in the neck just as it reached him, cracking it in two. He kept running, green flares bursting beyond the treetops ahead of him: The wights had already reached the end of the forest.

"Fuck!" he screamed, running for all he was worth. They'd used a tiny lull in the storm to ambush the wights but good, smashing their staging area in the forest before Ross had gotten greedy and gave pursuit. Now the hunters had become the hunted. He burst out of some scrub bush right in the face of a wight. Not wasting a second, he tackled it and they both went down in the snow, rolling and rolling before Ross realized its chest had been hollowed out. He shook off the corpse to see Ser Samwell Tarly beset on all sides by a trio of wights, or perhaps more accurately, a trio of wights beset by the Knight Chronicler.

Ser Samwell gave a shrill roar as he smashed one of them against a thick tree trunk with all the force of a rampaging bull, splintering it to bits on impact. He whirled in a half circle and caught the other one with his hammer, sending it flying right next to Ross. The third charged with claws outstretched, but Samwell charged right back and ducked at the last second, leveraging his impressive weight right at the wight's knees. Something cracked and the wight cartwheeled in midair two times before landing in a heap of convulsing bones. Ser Samwell finished it off with a strangled huff, and Ross blinked. How could a man so large move that fast?

He stood up and finished the wight which had landed next to him. Ross was almost shamefully glad to see another living being, even one as daunting as the silver knight. Was this the same deep-thinker which had spoken of New Men and New Ways back in Line Six's tent? No time for that.

They ran off south with barely a word between them, shrieks behind them.

"Where to?!" asked Samwell.

"Rallying point near the forest's edge! Follow the flares!" said Ross.

The undead they ran across were practically plowed on by Ser Samwell, which tore through shrubs and wights with equal, demented zeal. Ross covered his flanks, following the path of destruction as fast as he could until they finally reached the banners of the 73rd. Various lines were forming up all over the edge of the forest, reconstituting themselves into fighting formations as more survivors reached the rallying point. Never once did he fear they'd break -not after Wallfall- but he'd been terrified of finding his lines decimated. "Who's in command here?!" he yelled, jogging to one of the more organized lines. Line Three.

"The Centurion!" said a guardsman, pointing him to Donvan.

"Ser!" he said as he got there.

"First Serjeant. Report." He sent the serjeant he'd been talking to running for the back lines, then turned to Ross.

"Ambush went off as planned," said Ross, taking a deep breath, "But I fucked up, gave up pursuit too late."

"Never mind that First Serjeant," he said, causally absolving his guilt, "Now it's time to get to the Outer Perimeter. Get the men moving."

Ross blinked, "Yes ser!" He turned to the line of ambling men and hollered with all his might, "Marching formation! By lines, move!"

"Line Three! Marching formation!" bellowed a serjeant.

This was his rightful place; not leading out the century but channeling Donvan's orders, a conduit of command. He arranged the lines into marching rectangles of men, moving south towards the village at a quick march. He jogged beside Donvan, echoing commands and making sure the serjeants kept the troops organized. Wights were already making it out of the treeline, sprinting out in ones and twos.

Donvan cursed; it'd be enough to slow them down. "Get back there and cover our rear!"

"Aye ser!" He rushed back to the last line in the retreat. Line Six. "Serjeant Jev! Skirmishing order, now! Fighting retreat!"

Jev echoed the cry, and with Ross lending his voice the change went over quickly, not that he expected anything less from veterans. Line Six's quick-marching block dispersed into a spread out double line, each halberd covering a crossbowman. The crossbows would reload, dash, and shoot, while the halberds spread out in a loose line covering their backs, dashing when crossbowmen shot their load. The halberd would smack down any wight who got close, then run while the crossbow covered him. They repeated the dance again and again, and soon the wights running across the open got bolts on chests and heads, tumbling in the snow with ululating shrieks.

Ross jogged in between the pairs, axe on his shoulder as he called out with a grave voice, "Aim low! Quick reloads!"

More of 'em started running from the treeline. They reached the skirmish line in one's and two's, the halberds angling to cut off their sprints with heavy blows that left them twitching on the snow. Ross smashed one on the head, Ser Samwell at his side stopping one cold on its feet and smashing it back three paces, its chest exploding in an arc. They dashed off together, bolts zipping past them. Stragglers had made it through though, forcing Line Four into the slower skirmishing formation as well. Beyond them, the rest of the century marched at a quick, efficient pace, blocks of steel singing marching songs in huffs and puffs, at a tempo with their gait. Groups of Umber axemen battled the wights on the flanks, falling back on all sides. The Outer Perimeter was growing tantalizingly close, crossbowmen already starting to line up on the crude log wall.

"Keep your spacing! Stay wide!" he shouted, "Halberds! Don't lose your partner!"

"They're starting to clutter up!" said Guardsman Ben, the once-fat distiller with a penchant for Arbor Brown. He rammed a wight through with the undead's own momentum, tossing it aside in the tried-and-proven guard toss, another one right behind it. A bolt got it in the skull, but a scuttling third jumped up from the snow and brought him down with a gurgled scream.

"Keep moving!" screamed Ross, running past Samwell and stopping some distance past him. Any more and they'd have to form up into a proper hedgehog… but then their speed would be reduced to a crawl. The Silver Knight swung wide and caught two at chest-height, batting a third down with a gauntleted slap to the skull. He ran towards him with two wights not ten paces away, dashing past Ross who now braced with his axe. A bolt missed the nearest one; an ugly guardsman missing an arm and half his brains. Always hard to shoot on one's comrades, he thought as the thing jumped him. He heaved high with his axe, aiming for the missing helmet and getting it right in the middle. It revealed another wight who'd been dashing right behind it, a blue-eyed Handmaiden with a tattered cloak. It tackled him to the ground, jabbing a dagger at his half-plate and somehow worming through to his leg, right on his old wound. Ross screamed against his will, grabbing a hold of its head even as it bit his thumbs. He twisted sharply, the head lolling sideways. She must have been a beauty when she was still alive. He shook off the dazed thought and stumbled upright, out of breath.

The skirmishing line was already forty paces ahead of him, and wights who'd been dashing all around him stopped on their tracks, turning to finish him off. Limping like he was, he'd never make it.

"HRRRYAAAA!!!" screamed the Knight Chronicler, sprinting right towards him. The madman ran down one of the wights, heavy stomps smashing its ribcage before he swung his hammer in a wide arc that sent two more flying. "Come on! Let's go!" he shouted as he pressed an arm under Ross' armpit, helping him along into a haunched half-sprint.

Most of the guardsmen were already lining the chest-high log wall, free-shooting bolts everywhere. Ross swallowed a scream with each step, Samwell's great strength almost lifting him from the ground. Shrieks grew close as wights sprinted sideways, their cries cut off closer and closer as bolts flew all around them, one of them ricocheting off his shoulder.

"Almost there! Come on!" said Samwell.

The guardsmen at the log wall made way just as they jumped through, reforming behind them. Ross lay there in the snow for a moment, panting his lungs out and waiting for his heart to give out. The shrieks grew distant as he gazed at the cloudy skies, the tiny break in the storm now closing again. When Samwell helped him up he saw they were retreating, dashing back all over the clearing. Measure that hope, Ross. Probably just regrouping.

"You mad bastard," he told the equally panting knight, "Should've left me out to die."

"We save the Kingdom one man at a time," he said, kneeling down to check on his leg wound. Donvan's bellows echoed throughout the wall as crossbowmen secured their weapons, the storm starting up again. It hadn't been enough to try a breakthrough south… but it'd been enough to bloody the bastards.

"Which dead maester said that?" he asked him.

He tied up a bandage with a brutal knot, making Ross wince. He looked up with a grin, "I did."

-: PD :-

The wait was the worst, ask any soldier. All the time to pick at doubts and fears, none of the frenzied action to put the mind in the now. Ross didn't know why he'd ended up back in Line Six's tent, waiting for the inevitable as the men took their breakfast. They picked at their food with steady deliberation, a task to be completed more than a treat to be enjoyed. Over where Guardsman Ben had sat there was now only a bowl with the same soup everyone else was eating. It would be left there until the men ate their fill, only then to be reverently picked up and its contents returned to the communal cooking pot. Absent bodies and funerals—not even a burning wight-pile—new traditions had risen to fill the void. No one talked.

The blizzard outside howled sharper for a few seconds as someone entered the tent, and Ross turned to face Ser Samwell. The men immediately perked up, lifting their cups and calling him out. Word had already spread about the man's heroic feats. Ross had made sure of that.

The Guard can always use more heroes, he thought with a hidden smile.

Ser Samwell shrugged off the fur coat over his plate, sitting down with a sigh. After a bit of small talk he was content to leaf through his Silver Chronicle, and the men soon gave way to oppressive silence again. It was always like that, when a Walker-storm raged. Men did anything to cut up the white noise of the howling knife-sharp wind, with little success. Some sharpened their weapons; an uneasy taunt to the horrors lurking outside. A couple men played a desultory dice game. Ross found himself oddly soothed by the sound of Samwell studying his book, softly-turning pages drawing his eyes. He contemplated Ser Samwell's neat and loping script; blocky paragraphs escorted by skirmisher notes scribbled on the margins. The knight raised his gaze to meet Ross'. "I wanted to ask one more question, if you don't mind."

There was a hidden danger in that question, a warning given in good conscience. Ross stared at his hands, gaze drifting to the bloody bandage by his leg. Two times he'd almost been killed by that wound. Two times he'd been saved. Once by Donvan, sprinting in between bits of falling Wall. Once by Ser Samwell, running between wights with blood on their eyes. Ross nodded at the man; he ought to pay off at least one of those debts.

The Knight Chronicle already had his crow's feather out. "When the Red Comet opened, what did you see?"

Shivers swept him down low, cobweb feet as Ross hugged his knees tight. One of the players dropped the dice. The insistent shriek of whetstone on halberd ceased, and only the storm remained. The opened eye of the Comet bored inside his mind, a silent spider-queen with steadfast will. Nobody talked about the Comet. Nobody who'd been there.

And yet there was Ser Samwell, patient and relentless, quill in hand as he stared at him. He realized with a start that the historian was just as fierce as the warrior… and just as merciless. He looked away from those zealous eyes, swallowing hard. "I saw… I saw light. Light so strong it ran straight through me."

"And beyond the light?" he asked him, eyes hard and still on him even as he scribbled something down. "What did you see?"

"It was… connected," he whispered, "Everything was. Everything was connected into one great pattern." Guardsmen were nodding, and it gave Ross the strength to continue, "And it sat there, weaving its will throughout it all, trying to crush it. Everything was part of what it sought to destroy; the Wall, the trees over the Haunted Forest…" He swallowed again, "Us." How could he forget it? The existence that bound him to his brothers, to the very land itself. Once seen the terrible innards of the Comet could not be forgotten, that infinity that sought to silence. And as a light inevitably casts shadows, so had the Comet's opening revealed that which it sought to destroy. Men and women. Birds and trees. Land and sea. It was Line Six all around him, it was Samwell Tarly with his silver book. It was the northron woman next door. A thoughtful fisherman near Lannisport. It was a lone oak tree around a river bend in the Stormlands. All-that-breathes, all-that-lives. Through the Comet's guts he'd seen all the world, and all who lived. He'd seen, he realized, what the Silver Knights must call The Song.

The constant scribbling shook him out of his trance; a reverie so enchanting he almost thought it was happening again, seeing far beyond all that is. Had he said all of that aloud? Samwell nonstop writing seemed to affirm that, and he'd not been the only one listening. Around him the guardsmen of Line Six came back from their own trance as well. Some shaken and on the edge of tears, others with nascent smiles swift to rise. Many came out of it slowly, as if waking up. Some shot him harried looks, and he shrugged helplessly in return. It was all too easy to get lost in it when someone started talking about it.

"I felt the King and Queen rise to stop it," said Guardsman Vim, "Like the Seven's own Angels they faced it down…"

"And the Comet flinched," said Ross, smiling savagely. Guardsmen shared fierce grins, for all had felt the presence of King Joffrey and Queen Sansa, twin figures facing that piercing glow like arrows made of Valyrian steel. Their love for each other, for their land, for their people so bright and visceral so as to bring tears to even the most beaten down cynic or wight-in-waiting. How could a line, a cohort, a regiment break when every soldier in it had felt their King and Queen's love for them.

"Thank you," said Ser Samwell. Though satisfied with the morning's work, even he looked rattled by the telling. He was there, too, Ross remembered.

He spent the rest of the morning building up his mental picture of the century's current state. By the square and under tarps worked the people of Wintron, building crude sleds out of wood reclaimed from the outer sawmills. Behind them, Grip's warehouse was stacked with supplies for the coming fight. Serjeants counted out buckets filled with crossbow bolts, doling them out to runners as they ticked the numbers on their ledgers. Patrols came and went in constant rotation, warming up by the indoor fires and taking a quick bite or two.

When the horns thundered, they were ready.

The storms had stopped. Instead, as crossbows lined the log wall and Ross knelt beside Donvan, all he could see was the mist. "See any Walkers?" asked Donvan, handing him the far-eye.

He scanned the battlefield as he'd been taught, but found nothing but shadows and formless shapes lurking in the mist. One of them was actually running right towards them. Ross frowned, focusing the far eye as a bolt whisked past the figure.

"Hold those bolts!" he shouted, lowering the piece. "Serjeants! Enforce bolt discipline!" Another one flew off mid-sentence.

"Hold 'em! I said bloody hold 'em!" he heard his order echoed.

"Easy lads! Easy!"

The sprinting figure reached the line, bolting over the logs and landing next to Donvan. Third Scout Maeber looked as agitated as ever Ross had seen him, eyes wide as his hands convulsively patted his pouches and belts, of which he had many.

"What is it? Did you see them!?" said Donvan.

"No! It's my amulet, I can't bloody find it!" said Maeber, patting himself as if he'd lost a limb.

He shared a look with the Centurion. "They can carve you a new one back in town," said Ross, "Now what did you see, dammit?"

He shook his head, visibly distraught, "Oh. Yeah, they're coming alright. Funny thing though, couldn't find the Walker leading them. Must be some squat fellow." He returned to his pouch-looking, "Must be 'round here somewhere."

Donvan stood atop the log wall, throwing his helmet at Ross. "Alright lads! Looks like this is it!" He surveyed the troops, hand on his sword, "They already chucked a Wall at us, everything's gonna seem a bit of a let down after that!" A grim chuckle spread throughout the ranks, ending swiftly. "Follow your serjeants' orders. Make sure those wights stay down. And be ready to fall back to the Warren at the sound of the horns!" He licked his lips, "Those people back there, those northrons who have fed and sheltered us, they're counting on us to do our part!" The men growled assent, banging metal on metal, banishing the oppressive silence, "To cover our part of the deal and defend Kingdom ground! What say you!?"

"Blood and Mud!" Ross screamed, the men taking up the cry. Stomping and banging their weapons, they prepared for what was to come.

Donvan hopped back behind cover, "How did I do?"

"Getting the hang of it, ser," said Ross, handing him back his helmet, "'Fore soon you'll be spitting 'em out like the King himself."

Donvan chuckled, "It'll be cold day in the Seven Hells, Ross."

"With this cold they must've frozen about a month ago."

A distant shriek sounded out through the mist, rebounding eerily. Ross took out his axe, and Donvan turned back to the raised platform where Guardsman Bogs and a few others were manning what remained of their field artillery. "Ready one-fifty!"

"Ready, ser!" said Bogs, fiddling with the back end of the launcher. Carried on two wheels and protecting its crew with a wooden shield, the stagram had already been loaded into the launcher, the tip of it peeking through the shield.

"Here they come," whispered Maeber.

The shrieks grew louder, pale-blue eyes blinking in the mist, amorphous silhouettes acquiring weight as they ran for the log wall. Like an itching phantom hand Ross felt the men nearing for their triggers. "Easy!" he shouted, "Make 'em count, lads!"

"Now," said Donvan, the far-eye tracking the oncoming mob.

Ross turned to the platform, "Fire one-fifty!"

"Fire!" said Bogs. The stagram ignited with a banshee scream, tearing off the launcher and roaring for the mist. It clipped a wight, tearing off its shoulder before detonating fifty paces past it. Bits of bodies rained down over the scuttling undead, more and more of them emerging from the mist.

"Lower fifty!" said Bogs, "Reload!"

"Now ser?" asked Ross.

"Alright. Start dropping them."

"Right ye'are ser." Ross filled his lungs to bursting, "73rd! Loose at will!"

"Loose!"

"Punch 'em!"

Crossbows sang through the mist, the volley felling wights in two's and three's, others charging on with bolts still stuck to their chests. Firespears groaned in dull frooms, silent killers piercing through the mist and bisecting wights in half. The veterans of the 73rd and the other survivors from the second cohort worked in tandem, crossbows reloading as they switched places and another volley thrashed through the undead.

"Fire one-hundred!" roared Bogs. The stagram leapt short, erupting in a fountain of snow right in front of the wights; they jumped the small crater like spiders, jaws hanging agape, their eerie shrieks growing unbearably loud.

"One more volley," said Donvan.

"One more!" shouted Ross, "This one's for the Wall!"

"Loose!" shouted the serjeants. Wights dropped in the mist, plowing headfirst into the snow as their legs gave out. One of them had a centurion's plumed helmet; it took a bolt to the chest and fell to its knees. It stumbled upright as another two broke apart its rotting ribcage and it fell back, it's shriek filled with agony.

"Fire fifty!" roared Bogs. The stagram made a queer fizzling sound, staying in its launcher.

"Misfire!" screamed one of the guardsmen.

Ross tackled the Centurion to the ground a second before an earth shattering boom raked his hair with burning pinpricks. He swatted at the nape of his neck, putting out his burning hair as he struggled to hear anything but a powerful drone. Back where the platform had been there was now only a hole, a couple of burning Guardsmen stumbling around like wights themselves. Donvan slapped his shoulder as they stood up, shouting something. Ross shook his head, tapping his ears. Donvan pumped his arm at the town, and Ross nodded shakily as he picked up the cry.

"Fall back!" he roared, though his own voice sounded distant, "Fall back to the Warren!" The halberds were holding the line against the wight onslaught, using the height of the log wall to leverage their polearms. Crossbowmen sprinted back by sections, serjeants directing the retreat with their axes.

Assembling by lines, the halberds started to retreat as well. In serrated rows they covered each other, falling back as more wights jumped from the log wall. He saw Ser Samwell and his Lord Commander fighting in one of the blocks before they reached their predetermined cabins, squirreling inside. Ross followed Donvan into one of them, the guardsmen behind him closing and barring the door.

"They've taken the bait!" shouted Ross as crossbows spat from windows and cracks in the walls, further baiting the undead. Some of them were barreling straight down Wallward road, towards the barricade and Grip's people, but many others were distracted by the juicy meat hiding right beside them.

"I can hear you, First Serjeant," said Donvan, "Come on, this door is not going to hold out long." The entire house was rattling from all sides as they retreated down the first 'warren', planks torn apart as wights snaked their arms in between. They got into the next one just as the door and part of the wall gave out, wights shoving each other in.

It turned into a brutal close quarters fight, one where the Guard used their halberds to keep the wights at bay, crossbowmen squirming in between and loosing their bolts at point-blank range. It took supreme trust to hold like that, keeping from the temptation to smack the wight scrabbling at your feet and instead keep aiming your halberd against the main press behind it; a mass made out of pinned wights, their arms shaking forth. Sooner or later one of the halberds in the back row reached out and killed the wight closest to you, and the line held. He realized he'd picked Line Six again, and a second later he realized why; they were the bravest, smartest bastards in the century. If the Centurion was going to make it out alive, then there was no better way of tilting those odds than by fighting besides them.

There were no brilliant plans now, no heroic charge to break the enemy. Now was the time for Guard business; the dirty work of pushing and stabbing, no speeches but grunts and huffs. Trust In the man beside you. Fight back the enemy until your arms would no longer rise. They went from house to house, choke point to choke point, staying as long as they could at each place before the wight onslaught started bringing down the very walls.

Ross stood by the door's frame as soldiers kept streaming past, two's and three's until a large cluster of them showed up moving far more slowly, a forest of halberds separating them from a veritable wall of wights gnashing and screeching from one side of the corridor to the other, like a clogged sewer. They retreated slowly past Ross, grunting and shoving with all they were worth, being pushed backwards at a steady beat. "Ready!" he shouted, body tensing. He nodded at the assault trooper at the other side, "Now!"

The man took the spool from his firecharge and tossed it down the corridor at the same time as the halberdiers stumbled back and cleared the doorway. Ross closed the heavy door at once, a second before a wight with no teeth reached him. The door trembled before a dull explosion shook him to the bone… and then more wights starting smashing against the door.

"Ser, get out of there!" shouted Guardsman Hollick, holding one of a dozen halberds all pointing at the shaking door. Ross and the man from the 52nd squirmed between them, mindful of the edges.

"You seen any Walkers yet?" he asked the assault trooper. He was armored beyond the standard guard half-plate, covered from head to toe in steel and trained for one job only.

"No!" The burly assault trooper threw him a frustrated look through his angled helmet. "But I'm saving my last one for when it shows up!" he said, brandishing another firecharge; the size of a big wooden round of cheese, a flint spool jammed in the middle. It hung from his shoulder like a particularly bloated wineskin.

Ross shied away from it, "Just mind where you throw that!" Already he could smell smoke drifting from below the door, along with quite a number agonizing shrieks.

"Sounds like they're cooking good, boys!" shouted Guardsman Tolly, reloading his crossbow, "Roasted wight, an all-guard-special!"

"Shut yer trap and keep moving!" said Ross, shoving back soldiers to the next house in the line. They repeated the pattern time and again, holding choke points and tearing up undead before falling back. They mixed it up with fires here and there, enough to keep from being predictable. The storm was picking up outside, stopping those from spreading much further. The commanding Walker must be getting near… Still, as bad as they were blooding the wights, Ross felt his belly give out every time he looked outside. More and more of the bastards were ignoring the houses, preferring to run down Wallward road. They were in danger of being cut off.

"That's enough!" shouted Donvan, "Back to Harrenhal! On the double!" A wight had broken parts of the boarded up window beside him, and he shoved his sword through its eyesocket. Another one tore down a piece of the wall, its bony arms snaking through and grabbing guardsman Hollick from behind.

"It got me! Help! HELP!" he screamed, gurgling blood as it feasted on his neck.

"Die fucker!" shouted Vim, spearing the wight's head. Thus released, Hollick stumbled between shooting crossbowmen, blood fountaining from his neck before he collapsed on the ground.

"Move damn you! Back to Harrenhal!" shouted Ross, shaking them out of it. "Move! Serjeant Jev! Get your men in order!" He hacked at the dead valeman's neck, severing the spine before following the retreating soldiers south.

They moved quickly, the ominous rattling growing in intensity as they scuttled through the warrens. They linked up with other lines retreating south through the darkened nest of cabins and connected houses, pale faced guardsmen shouting challenges before standing down and joining the flight. "To Harrenhal! Run for Harrenhal!" roared the serjeants. It seemed everyone was converging on the town square. On their last stand.

They emerged from a big house right into the madness of the main square. Rows of stretchers held the recently wounded, people racing between them carrying food and water and crossbow bolts. A big wight-pile burned right in the middle of the square, the tall flames casting a light on crossbowmen shooting from slanted rooftops all around the square. The two main barricades—mounds of rubble, really—were swarming with northrons, hacking down at wights unseen with libards and woodman's axes. Inevitably, one of them would stumble back bleeding or get pulled down by the unseen masses, and another would take his or her place. Ross took a few seconds to catch his breath as Donvan shouted orders to the men still jogging out of the house, and he found himself staring at two sobbing children leaning on the wall.

They must have been no older than eight and nine, a girl and a boy watching the horrors of the War for Dawn in misty-eyed shock. There was something about the way they held each other that tingled Ross' throat; it was as if in this new terrifying reality the only certainty that remained in the world was the grip they had on each other. Ross knelt beside them.

"What's your names?" he asked them, shaking them both, "Your names!"

"Arby," sobbed the girl, "A-and he's Derron." The little boy didn't say a word, crying in big, breathless sobs.

"Why aren't you helping?!"

Arby blubbered something.

"Speak louder girl!" shouted Ross, tapping his left ear, "I said why aren't you helping?!"

"I can't!" she said, squealing.

"The hell you can't!" said Ross, tilting them away from the barricade, "You see those men in the stretchers?!"

"Y-Yes!" she said.

"Those are the King's men needing your help! You an oathbreaker?!"

"W-what?! No!"

"Then go! Give them food and water! Fetch bolts for the boys on the rooftops!" He shoved them towards Grip's warehouse. Now given something to do, they rushed at the wounded, their sobs softer to Ross' ear. Shell shocked soldiers or sobbing children, the remedy was the same; give them something to help with.

"First Serjeant!" roared Donvan, "Where are you?!"

"Right here ser!" he said, standing up. Gods, but his bones ached. His limp had flared up after the third house. Now he couldn't go anywhere without a waddle funnier than the Umber's.

Donvan sighed in relief when he saw him. "We got to find Grip!" he said before jogging towards the barricade by Wallward road. Ross followed, climbing the rubble and avoiding sharp-looking beams. Some of the smaller women and the older children had formed a chain of sorts, lifting chairs, bricks, anything of weight up the barricade. An entire stag's head, complete with its oaken frame, followed Ross' journey up until it reached the hands of some big northron boy with not a speck of a beard on his face. He tossed it down with a shrill roar at the sea of wights by the other side of the barricade, catching one in the skull.

"Good toss lad," Ross told him, slapping his shoulder and following Donvan to the middle of the barricade. Grip wasn't hard to find. He was wheeling his woodman's axe in big circles, bringing it down to cleave the heads off wights that clambered too close.

"How are you doing up here!?" Donvan shouted, struggling to be heard over the dull roar of battle.

Grip moved back from the front line, "We're holding," he said, nursing a cut by his forearm. The lack of vambraces made any Royal Militia brittle to attrition, but Grip didn't seem inconvenienced by the fact; try enraged. "How did the warrens go?"

"We ate up a lot of them before being overwhelmed. Now we're here."

"That you are," he said, looking at them strangely. He offered his hand, "You're alright, Centurion. For a southron anyway."

Donvan took it, nodding at the man, the message clear. Then Grip offered it to Ross, "You too, First Serjeant."

Good company to die in. "You're not too bad yourself, Grip." Ross gave him a gallows smile, "For a northron anyway." His forearm was slick with blood.

The arrival of guardsmen put a spine into the townsfolk's defense, and for a good long hour they held the barricades of Harrenhal against the onslaught, both main and secondaries. The wights slowly surrounded the main square, and the men working on the sleds gave up and joined the defense; any progress they managed by now would be wasted if the front failed. Ross stayed by Donvan's side, bellowing out orders and pulling men back and towards the fight as they rotated around the square, surveying the defense. Three times they had to wade into the fight itself, shouting encouragements and bashing wight skulls left and right. The persistence of the buggers was astounding, launching themselves at the barricades and tumbling through new breaches through crumbling houses.

Ross found himself resting by Maeber's side with the rest of the wounded. The Third Scout had a long ugly gash through his torso; someone had tied a few bandages over the wound, probably more out of doing something for the man than out of any real hope of saving him. The patchwork job was soaked red, and blood had already dripped down his sides, forming a pool below his stretcher. Maeber, though, was smiling from ear to ear, as serene a face in front of death as any.

"What are you so godsdamned chipper about, eh, Maeber?" Ross asked him, "You're a dead man."

Maeber blinked at him. Slowly, he raised his amulet with bloody fingers, "It was in my left pocket."

Ross stared at him, his throat tingling. He didn't know whether to cry or laugh, and so opted for the latter. Maeber laughed with him—a good, nice, healthy chuckle. One of those that crept up from the belly.

When they stopped, Ross had to wipe the tears off his eyes, but only succeeded in drawing blood over them. "They should hand us handkerchiefs along with those daggers, eh, Maeber? Like those yellow ones the Handmaidens prance around with."

But Maeber was dead, still grinning, still holding his amulet in an iron grip. "Come on, happy dead man," he told him after closing his eyes. He lifted him up by the shoulders and carried him to the wight-pile. He tossed him in with a heave, almost burning his own eyebrows off. The amulet burned with the body, and Ross stumbled back, gazing at the powerful fire. Sparks and smoke flew up in a constant torrent, lighting up the skies with the fires of men. Banishing the mist.

"The storm's breaking," he muttered, frowning at the sky. It was then he heard the Guard cheering, the townsfolk picking up the cry.

He clambered up the barricade to find Donvan surveying a smoking crater by the other side, wights still trying to climb up and getting beaten back by those at the top. There lacked a certain push to the effort though, their coordination between groups all gone.

"One of the assault troops from the 52nd got the Walker," said the Centurion. "Ice Spider. The only one it seems; looks like the rearmost wights are already wandering off."

Ross smiled. He had an idea about which one it'd been. "That crazy bastard. It's almost enough to wipe that whole waterfall fiasco clean, eh ser? Where is he now?"

"He's dead. Threw himself at it with firecharge in hand."

"Oh." Ross stared at the smoking crater, blobs of fire still burning here and there.

"Once the last of the wights are dispatched I'll want a head count. Who's alive, who's wounded. And have the serjeants count out how many bolts we've left. Recover what they can." Donvan sheathed his bloody sword, Ross by his side as they climbed down the barricade. In his mind he was already reconstructing the image of the 73rd and allies with what information he had, almost as clear a picture as his left hand. "We'll march off tomorrow at first light. See that Grip's people are ready."

"Right ye are, ser," said Ross, making a mental list. Such was life in the Guard. No rest till final death. You fought through hell, saw friends die, and then you picked yourself up and did it again. No grand moments of legend. Only daily acts of silent heroism.

For all the living, Ross thought as he looked up at the Red Comet, a ruby-red moon anchored to the sky. May whatever be birthed from this terrible war be worth it.

-: PD :-