Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

The first snows of autumn descended gently; they seemed almost suspended in the air, like the dandelions Taby loved to blow in his face. Andon gawked at the sight, lifting up a hand and cupping one of the falling feathers with his hand. It melted to nothing in an instant, leaving him with nothing but wet disappointment.

His big brother chuckled, and Andon turned to face him at once. "This one's your first winter too!"

Bale lifted his hands innocently. "Come on, Ma' will tan our hides red if we take too long," he said, turning to the ground and poking the leaves again.

Andon shook his head before doing the same, searching under the bed of yellowed leaves that covered the ground. Hedgehogs within the forest loved to burrow under the leaves left by autumn storms, and made for a decent source of meat before the onset of 'true' winter. At least, that's what they've been told. "I think Old Tom had us in again," Andon said after a long while of flipping leaves with nothing to show for it except the odd worm.

"All the better if we come back with one at least. Then we can swing it in his face."

Andon sighed. He had to preempt his brother before he set into one of his stubborn moods, else he'd be tougher to move than Ma's donkey. "I'd love to know where these supposed hedgehogs have been living since we were old enough to walk," he said, "You ever actually seen one?" Bale shrugged, ducking under a low hanging branch and poking the leaves closer to the great oak's stem. It's starting, oh Gods. He could practically see it; the long hours wandering around the forest till nightfall, coming back to Groverick wet and tired with nothing to show for it. They'd been playing in and around Faldryn Forest since they'd been six, and Andon had never seen one of these mythical beasts.

"Just once. Tell me one time you've seen anything resembling a hedgehog. And Lord Dole's banner doesn't count."

"That's because they only come out around autumn's end. Old Tom said so."

"Old Tom also said he saw a dragon carrying the Mad Princess with the King on top, making love as they fought," Andon said.

Bale chuckled, "Point." Groverick was closer to the Neck than it was to Harrenhal; no way Old Tom ever saw a dragon, never mind the rest of the wild tale.

"This reeks of make-work," said Andon, trawling the surprisingly deep layer of leaves around a fallen tree. Predictably, there was not a hedgehog in sight. They walked across a sea of red and yellow, the trees around them bare like skeletons. They did little to stop the cold wind blowing from the north. "Before this it was repairing the old well. Then Goyle's missing sheep. And before that-"

"The hooch!" said Bale. Now he gets it, thought Andon. "It all started after Ma' found us with the hooch!"

"She still thinks we're kids," said Andon, biting his tongue before he could say anything more drastic about his Ma'. The Mother wouldn't approve. He kicked a sprawl of leaves asunder and watched them fly away with the wind. Every man in the village is drinking right now, every single one but us. There wasn't anything else to do anyhow; with the last harvest safely inside Castle Terrick, only the shepherds still had work to do. And they were likely drinking too.

The men were probably all in on it; more liquor for them. Fuckin' unfair, that's what it is. They'd worked as hard as anyone for that last, tightly timed harvest. Hells, without him, Old Tom might have cut his own fingers trying to decipher the workings of the King's seed drill. He stopped his hopeless search as he come upon a ledge, taking a deep breath and gazing at the valley below. The fertile but stony hills of Lord Terrick's lands held a commanding view of the Northern Riverlands, and counted Faldryn Forest, Groverick, and Castle Terrick itself within its purview. From there Andon looked upon the rugged hills and winding trails that spread out from the Kingsroad as it made its way north, entering steadily marshier terrain with every league. Sometimes, on sunny days, he could catch a glimpse of the Twins far to the west. He tried to do it now, but the task soon seemed as hopeless as finding a hedgehog napping by his feet. The overcast sky was like a grey hand reaching down, clouding his sight not far beyond the fork in the Kingsroad.

He frowned, narrowing his eyes at the figures riding through the trail. They were heading for Lord Terrick's lands as surely as bees heading back to the hive. "Who might those be?"

"Can't rightly tell," Bale said as he came to his side. "Don't look like peddlers though." No wagons behind them, only two men in plate atop good horses trotting briskly through the winding trail up the hill; one of them carried a banner with three red stripes and a silver fist. The last one ringed a bell in Andon's head. Weren't those the King's soldiers?

"We should get back to the village," he said. Bale gave an uneasy nod. They quickly made their way out of the forest, hedgehogs forgotten as they took shortcuts over worn trails and fallen trees with the ease of long practice. Faldryn Forest was an old friend, and Alfus -Lord Terrick's woodsman- had always been content to let them roam as long as they did not poach any deer. They reached Groverick just as the newcomers did, riding hard for the village square as if they owned the place.

They dismounted, one of them cupping his hands and shouting as harsh as Aldon had ever heard a man. "Gather around! Everyone!"

"Piss off!" shouted Old Tom as he limped out of his house, taking another swing from his bottle of hooch. Keeping the peace was about the only duty the aelderman enforced to the letter.

The armored soldier ignored him, walking around the village square as he bellowed, "All villagefolk are to gather around! Gather around in the name of the King!" That got everyone's attention. The men came out of Nettle's Barn and eyed the newcomers suspiciously. The women stared out the windows of their timbered houses, unwilling to leave the warmth of their hearths. The soldier didn't care, walking up to the houses and banging each door relentlessly with his steel gauntlet. "By Royal Decree, all villagefolk are to gather around!" He opened a shutter and jutted his head past the window, "That means you lot as well! Come on, move along!"

The other soldier -this one with two bronze strips hammered to his pauldrons- planted his banner on the ground. A mob formed around him soon enough, filled with scowling farmers and drunk shepherds. "Oy! You're disturbing the peace!" Kollin said as he shoved his way to the front of the crowd, a bottle of hooch in his hand, "Who the hells do you think you are!?" he shouted as he grabbed the man by the flag.

From one moment to the next Kollin was on the mud; he seemed as confused as the rest of the crowd, rubbing his arm and looking up at his vanquisher. The man who dropped him swept a jaundiced eye towards the crowd; most of the women and the other children had joined the circle by now, the other soldier returning to his side. "I'm Serjeant Knub," he said, pointing a thumb at himself, "First Cohort, Third Regiment of the Royal Guard." He nodded at his confederate, "Me and Guardsman Peyter have been detached from the Winterkillers to ensure…" he trailed off, taking a bit of folded not-parchment from the vest that hugged his armor, "Groverick," he read before looking at them, "This is the village of Groverick, is it not?"

Silence. Everyone knew someone who served with the Guard, but instincts honed through generations were not so easily forgotten. When armored men came asking questions you kept your mouth shut. Unless their tabards held the four hawks of House Terrick.

"It is," Andon called out from the middle of the crowd. Villagefolk turned to stare angrily at him. What the hells do you all want me to do? He thought as he returned the stares, lie to the King's own bloody Fists? It would be like lying to his own Father!

"Good," said Serjeant Knub, tucking the not-parchment away. He was built like a burly pig, one of the wild ones with tusks and a mean temper. "We've been given the honor" -he said it as if it were a fate worse than flogging- "of bringing the village of Groverick up to Code. We'll be starting in earnest the day past tomorrow, morning sharp."

"Excuse me, Ser-jeant," said Taby, "I didn't understand a word of that last you said."

"We're here for the C&R," he said, frowning.

"The see what-now?" asked Old Tom.

"The Codes and Regulations?" Nothing. "The King's Decree? The defense of the land?" Every question out of the Serjeant brought a wave of shrugs and shakes out of the villagefolk. Soon the man was scowling and pacing, making a racket with his helmet's flaps as he undid the string and took it off. He passed a hand through his smooth head, not a hair in sight though the gauntlet came out drenched with sweat. His wide pan-like ears were red, glowering at them. "The Others? The White Walker menace and the marching armies of the dead? Didn't Lord Terrick warn about any of this?!"

Oh, thought Andon. The villagefolk looked at each other, then paled. Oh, he thought again, the chill wind making him shiver. They'd been 'warned' alright. The people of Groverick had listened dutifully as Lord Terrick's son explained that the Others had risen from their ten-thousand year old slumber to invade the lands of the living and that soon the King's own army would march to Groverick and turn them all into soldiers in case the wights ever stormed past the Neck. After they'd watched him ride back to Castle Terrick, they'd gathered inside Nettle's Barn and closed the doors; they'd laughed so hard that Old Tom had fainted. Then the hooch had come out. And then Ma had fallen on him and Bale like the Smith's own Hammer.

But there was no good-natured gleam in Serjeant Knub's eyes. If anything he looked even somber than Lord Terrick's son, if such a thing was possible. They're serious, Andon realized, another chill wracking his spine. "Bloody hells," Serjeant Knub said as he turned to his companion, "We'll run it by the book then. Go."

"Aye, Serjeant." Guardsman Peyter slapped a fist against his chesplate with the easy discipline of worn machinery. He went to his horse and retrieved a long piece of canvas, like the side of a tent. He nodded at his superior before taking a few steps forward, "Where's the tavern?"

"We ain't got one!"

"Don't'ya get cheeky with me!" he said, "You lot have a hole to drink without the rain getting in the way. Now where is it?" He sneered, "Or do'yall use a trough?"

"It's that barn!" said Bale, and Andon never felt as proud for his brother than then. Revenge you hypocrites!

Spoiler: Music

Guardsman Peyter walked towards it as if the crowd did not exist, ignoring their grumbling. It had the curious effect of making people stumble out of his way, and Andon swallowed a gout of envy. If he'd tried that he would've bounced off Long Jon's belly like a thrown pebble, never mind the man rushing to get out if his way! He and Bale followed in Peyter's wake, curious as the circle turned into an oval of sorts and the crowd stretched to face both men. The soldier reached the barn's front wall and took out a hammer, nailing the wide piece of fabric across the stout planks. Andon frowned at the squiggles. "What does it say?" he asked Old Tom as the Guardsman made his way back.

"Codes and… Regulations," Old Tom read, blinking slowly, "for the Defense… of the Kingdom… of Westeros." Between the great letters and the mass of smaller ones was a big drawing; a wide landscape of people in all sorts of funny clothes. Some were clearly cattle-ranchers, at least going by the make of their leathers, and Andon also recognized the straw hats of farmers and sheep-herders. There were many more though; fishermen and blacksmiths, weavers and tough-looking woodsmen. Both men and women, they were all framed against a setting -or was it rising?- sun, standing in line and wielding some sort of short poleaxes against their shoulders. A silver lion lay triumphant atop the sun, but he was already entranced by the other, smaller drawings surrounding the mass of smaller text. Little diagrams of bells and signal-fires were drawn in luxurious detail, with little lines naming each part with squiggles. There were timbered earthworks and palisades, spike traps and watchtowers and strange machines of wood and rope that Andon had no name for. There were darker things as well; slack-jawed skeletons with arrows pointing at skulls and chests, burning septs with barred doors, and a blue smudge with white dots for eyes that sent shivers down his spine.

"Goodman- I mean- Serjeant Knub," said Long Jon, drawing Andon back to this world. The Serjeant was standing atop the wagon Tabby's Ma used to bring her wares to town, hefting a polished wooden case no longer than his forearm. "All that drivel 'bout the marching dead and the Othas…" Long Jon swallowed, "All that babble 'bout the War for Dawn we heard from the Young Hawk, it true?"

The Serjeant scowled at him, but for a moment Andon swore there was pity in the man's eyes. He cleared his voice and stretched a roll of parchment from the case, "People of Groverick! Listen now and listen well, for I speak the King's own words!" The Serjeant's chest puffed, his breathing deep as he licked his lips. The act of reading the King's words seemed to fill Serjeant Knub with some nameless majesty, and Andon's heart raced as he listened intently. The King himself was addressing him. A farmer's son out of a village he doubted was even on the map. Not even when Septon Marimar came to preach did Groverick held its breath so. "My people," said King Joffrey Baratheon, Dragonslayer and Silver Lion, "As you have no doubt learned from your lords or ladies, we find ourselves on the edge of a great storm fit to ravage our continent. The legions of the dead march upon our Kingdom with death and destruction as their goal, and though my lords and regiments stand ready to greet them with a field of fire and steel fit to shake the world, the dead are many and filled with unnatural resolve." His voice boomed, "The war to come will offer no place to hide, no lands to forage, and no quarter to the defeated. If we are to survive then we are to fight! And if we are to fight then we are to do so smartly! It is with that purpose in mind that I've created a set of Codes and Regulations, to be followed throughout the land with no exceptions. If you can read, you will find the contents of it written across the taverns, septs, and castles of the Seven Kingdoms. If no one in your village can read, you may ask any of my soldiers to recite them to you by memory, for they are oath-bound to carry its edict come Hell or Last Winter." A proud smile raked across Serjeant Knub's lips, gone in an instant as he took a breath of air, "Therein lie the lawful provisions to establish a Royal Militia, with the task of guarding your lands should the worst happen and the Wall were to fall." The words chilled Andon to the bone, The Wall? Fall?! "My people! Know that though the hour is dire, my leal lords and regiments stand ready to bring war to the White Walkers wherever they strike! Though the skies darken and the winter to come promises to bite deep, I have in my heart the utmost certainty that you will rise to the challenge with fire in your souls! If we have but the grit and bravery to triumph, I see beyond this war a future of peace and plenty, of halberds turned to sickles and summer without ending. If you but stand and bear the light with me, then I swear by all that is right and holy: We shall-prevail." Serjeant Knub came down of it with a heady breath, as if he'd taken a good hit from a long-pipe. The titles were a relief. "Signed, His Grace Joffrey of the House Baratheon, First of His Name. King of the Andals, the Rohynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Commander of the Royal Guard. The Silver Lion, Dragonslayer, and Stormking."

The cold wind blew little tufts of snow, the opened shutters banging against each other as the crowd stared at the Serjeant in numb shock. "What does it all mean?" someone asked.

"It means that the day after tomorrow, I start bringing the King's vision-" Serjeant Knub pointed at the fabric by the barn before stomping the little wagon -"into Groverick. I'll have you learning how to move without tripping all over each other. Nothing fancy; basic directions so you can move down a road as a block and not a mob." He jumped off the wagon, "Then you'll learn basic drill with a libard, if we ever get the damned shipment. You'll learn skirmishing order for moving in rough terrain, and then utility stuff; things like how to build wight piles or basic field fortifications. Theory too; what's a wight, what's a Walker, and how to kill 'em dead. After that," he shrugged, "Depends on how much time we've left. The Codes go all the way from white to red; we'll want to get Groverick as warm a color as possible."

"What'll that give us?" asked Old Tom, white eyebrows twisted into a fierce knot.

"Your lives," said Knub, unfazed as he strapped his helmet back on. "A red-colored Royal Militia can be armed and formed up in less than five minutes after someone has roused the alarm. They can march out of their town or village in good order and deploy in an advanced position, perhaps to buy time for an evacuation or to make use of better terrain. If it disengages successfully, it can quick march back to town without routing, man pre-built fortified positions, and hold them with some skill." Serjeant Knub enumerated the benefits with his fingers, "They can execute basic hammer and anvil tactics, dig a dead-trench in less than half an hour, and understand both smoke signals and bell-speak. Hells," he smiled grudgingly, "They'd make decent regimental auxiliaries. Orange too. Maybe." The smile evaporated, "Not that I expect you lot to even touch that. Ask me, anything below yellow's a waste of time. Aim below that and you might as well lock yourselves up in the sept and set the timbers on fire; save old wight the trouble."

A voice pipped up, "Good thing Regiment didn't ask you, ser."

"Guardsman Peyter," said Knub as he looked back, "Shut yer' trap."

"Yes, Serjeant!" said Peyter.

The corner of his mouth was twitching when he turned back to Andon's section of the crowd. "Weekdays will be divided into short days and long days. Short days we'll train one hour, long days two. Full day will be once a week, and yes, it's exactly what It sounds."

"How the bloody hells are we'supposed to find all that time?" said Long Jon.

"Last harvest's in," Knub said with an evil smirk, "Plenty of time between drinking and sleeping." The men ruffled awkwardly. That was a shitty first argument, thought Andon.

"That's not true for some of us!" said one of the shepherds. He had the decency to leave his bottle of hooch on the ground before voicing the challenge.

"I can adapt to local conditions," said Knub, "Sell me on it and we'll work something out. Don't even try to fully sneak your way out of it, my patience only goes so far."

"And thun' what? We gonna march all day like those guard-boys crossed the fork a week ago?" said Fat Gollys, "You'll run us all to the ground before them-" he struggled with the word "-wights coming barging down!" Things were moving so fast Andon hadn't really processed the fact that there was such a thing as a White Walker and that it was in fact marching towards the Wall right now. Already they'd moved on to how well they could be expected to fight it.

"An extra grain dole will be passed on from Castle Terrick. You'll work on full bellies."

"And what if he says he's got nothin' to give!" cried someone. A few nodded sagely; lords were a greedy lot, it was known.

"Then a King's Aide will ride to Castle Terrick and he'll argue with Lord Terrick's maester until they both go green. If your lord's telling the truth then the royal granaries will bring in the food. If he's not…" Knub smiled, "Well, then he'll certainly be marching on an empty stomach."

Strange was the King that could not protect his own subjects but could compel his lords to cough up precious grain. Then again, King Joffrey Baratheon was anything but ordinary. The man killed a dragon with his bare hands for Seven's sake.

"Anymore questions?" said Knub. The banging shutters were his answer, swinging faster now that the wind picked up. "Good. I'll want everyone over the age of twelve gathered here morning after tomorrow. In the meanwhile me and Guardsman Peyter will be asking questions 'round here and surveying the land. We'll-"

"Wait just a moment," said one of the farmers, face red, "The women too?!"

"Old wight doesn't care!" Knub's voice thundered across the square, "He doesn't care if you've a shaft or a cave, if you're old as stone or a babe in arms. He. Will. Kill. You. All!" His eyes were wide, his scowl deep and hateful. Andon was surprised by the sheer vehemence behind the man. "He'll seek to tear the guts out of you!" he said as he slashed his hand at Old Tom. "And you! And you! Even you!" he said as he pointed at pale-faced Taby and Andon scowled. Like hell they will! Knub was deadly serious, the enormity of his claims just now punching the village in the gut. The White Walkers, the Others, they were real, and they were coming. "And he will! Unless you lot put in the sweat, blood, and tears needed to stand to up to the fucker and say no!"

The resulting silence was heavy with the prospect of war against the undead. It was scarcely believable, but then again; why would the lords of the land, the King, and his own soldiers collude to make up such a wild tale? King Robert Baratheon had been no liar, and neither was his son. War, Andon thought, stunned. The Serjeant and the Guardsman took their silence as acquiescence, and they set off to walk the perimeter around the village, asking lots of questions and making squiggles on the short piece of not-parchment that the Serjeant carried. The day after tomorrow, their instruction began.

-: PD :-

The Serjeant was as good as his word. They marched up and down the trails of Groverick and the Kingsroad. They spent evenings in Nettle's Barn not drinking but listening to the Serjeant as he explained the mechanics of wight-fighting with haunted eyes. They dug trenches and built little palisades, and then they marched again. Most of all there was libard drill; soon enough Andon was going through the guards, stabs, and crushes in his sleep. No man could walk longer than a quarter league from the village square without carrying his weapon with him, and those that did were left in the stockade to soak in the rain for an afternoon. The libard was a mongrel aptly named. A 'little-halberd'; it was a two-handed short poelaxe of an exceedingly simple design. Little pikehead on one side, blade on the other. It was so simple to make that Long Jon did exactly that, his smithy filled with the villagefolk's scythes as he worked day and night; there were not enough libards coming out of the King's industries to satisfy demand. The design was so that you could ram it into the earth and use it as a half-baked shoved without dulling the blade, and it was to be cared and tended to as 'that other lover you hide from your spouse,' in Serjeant Knub's own words.

The months passed in a frenzy of work, autumn dying to winter day by day. Their valley began to be dotted with traps and simple watchtowers. Landslides were prepared with clever timberwork, pit traps were dug at choke points, and fortified palisades were raised at crests and hills near clusters of farms. Castle Terrick was expanded; timbered battlements and covered walkways were raised, and the approaches were filled with obstacles. Throughout it all Andon worked like never before, possessed with a communal zeal the likes of which he'd never before felt. He saw it reflected in the gazes of his neighbors; in Old Tom as he cooked big cauldrons of soup for Fulldays, in Ma as Bale corrected her posture with the libard, in Taby as they stole furious kisses behind Nettle's Barn. It seemed everyone had been swept along into one great struggle, everyone a part of one great giant readying for a terrible blow. Itinerant Septons visited the village often, mouths filled with fire and faith as they swept their hands with grand gestures in Groverick's square. They preached about the Sacrifice for Dawn, about the Promise of Summer and the Light of the Silver Lion. Lord Terrick bellowed with them as they raised the pillars of watchtower nine, and they cried with him when they found the Young Hawk hanged in his own room. It was a battle against terror, a war against despair waged before the first wight crossed blades with the King. They were interconnected, the whole land of one mind, everyone a soldier. Teamsters worked a path against storms and floods to bring helmets and libards to the surrounding villages. Messengers rode through day and night to deliver news to Serjeant Knub's Militia Command in Nettle's Barn. Work details from a hundred different settlements worked together to turn the Neck into a deathtrap fit to slow any army of the dead. Peddlers brought word of great ship convoys carrying steel and machinery to the North, of spontaneous vigils held at torchlight throughout King's Landing, Old Town, Lannisport, Maidepool. The 'Kingdom Spirit' Serjeant Knub called it, and it was as good a name as any. They left the ignominy of white and climbed to blue, and then to brown.

On a chill morning still blue under the cover of clouds, Andon blinked at the new 'poster' nailed on the front of Nettle's Barn. A regal lady sat on a tree branch, a sapphire crown on her head and a wolf's pelt on her shoulders. Below her were intrepid looking boys and young men, foxes between them and staring in the same direction. They were taking cover in the forest, shading their eyes or pointing at the columns of marching grey silhouettes on the valley below. "What's that all about?" he asked Guardsman Petyer after walking inside, rubbing his hands against the anemic fire by the hearth.

"Decree to establish the Queen's Foxes," said Peyter, passing a whetstone on the halberd that never left his side. "Arrived with that Raider over there." He pointed a chin at the corner of the Barn, where a sharp-eyed man in boiled leathers was busy ravaging a steaming bowl of chicken soup.

"The Queen's Foxes?" Andon said as he turned back to Peyter, scratching his struggling beard. It felt as anemic as the fire. The guardsman shrugged, standing so close to the fire Andon feared he'd burn. Thank the Seven today's a short day.

"The Queen's Foxes," echoed the Raider, suddenly standing right behind him. "I'm glad you asked." His smile was that of a killer's.

The Queen's Foxes were the scouting arm of a village's Royal Militia, made up of the boys and girls most intimate with the surrounding countryside. Andon, having played around Feldryn Forest throughout most of his childhood, was a natural fit, and the oldest of the lot trained under Raider Dalyn's command. They learned the basics of woodcraft and stealth, their newfound duties taking them away from militia drills. When the man left, hell-bent on training the next village on the map, Andon took command of their little force of foxes. Many were barely eleven namedays old, having the time of their lives by day and screaming with night terrors by night. The forage scraped and tore at his skin, and the cold left him so numb he sometimes took hours in front of a fire to feel his feet again, but he leveraged that hard-earned experience to the hilt. He trained the younger ones in turn, running them through multi-day exercises around the defense perimeters and camping out by frozen streams and pre-covered overhangs. He reported directly to Serjeant Knub as they coordinate defense drills and trained for surprise sightings. In time he came to consider the man a friend; they spent many a stormy afternoon with Guardsman Peyter and Old Tom by their little corner in Nettle's Barn, sketching out tactics and discussing rumors in hushed whispers as Mollie served them broth. And sometimes hooch.

One night, glued to Taby's back as he kissed her neck and they passed the storm under a deserted stable, he realized he'd grown into a man. "Alfus offered to hire me, after the war's over," he said.

Taby snorted hay, turning to look at him, "They'll keep you traipsing in the woods, even after it's all over?"

"He said I'd make a fine woodsman for Lord Terrick after he retires. Make good coin out of it." He kissed her slowly as the rain redoubled, pattering the thatched roof without end.

"Enough to buy that farm?" she asked when they broke. It was not only about buying a farm; it was about making it official.

Andon smiled, "I'll have to ask your Da' about that first. If he doesn't brain me first."

Taby sneaked an arm past the thick covers and grabbed her libard. She thwacked him gently on the forehead, "He'll have to get past me first!"

They laughed and made love. That night, a snowstorm knifed autumn like a thief in the dark, and Groverick's Royal Militia was mustered in earnest for the first time. Him and Taby worked with the rest of their section, shoveling snow and digging up the houses on the northern slopes of Koffer Hill. They found Taby's Ma and Da frozen in their sleep, her little brothers covered in a delicate layer of frost. The Walkers had delivered the first blow.

The onset of winter saw their preparations reach a fever pitch. They gathered great stockpiles of firewood and scoured the forests for beasts to make good cloaks and coats. They listened in dread as Knub explained the particulars of 'Last Defiance' and how to make sure their their bodies burned to a crisp, if the battle were ever to turn hopeless. News and rumors reached Groverick constantly on the voices of the septons and the peddlers, on the hushed whispers of royal messengers when plied with heat and ale. Grander happenings stormed the land; a response to the rising snow, each one bigger than the last. The Conclave gathered in the Starry Sept in Old Town and declared every man, woman, and child to die fighting the Others a martyr in the eyes of the Seven. First Swanlord Gerion Lannister and the might of the Summer Islands answered the King's call. Nature itself rebelled against the marching enemy; sparrows and ravens brought word of troop movements beyond the Wall.

War was on the horizon, creeping closer every night, frosting windows and smothering fires. Regimental dispatches told Knub of hushed skirmishes in the snow, the King's Raiders and the Free Folk Volunteers seeking to delay the marching Others as much as they could. The next one asked for their color readiness.

A grim smile had taken Knub, a single word his reply; Orange.

Perhaps grandest of them all was the rumor that the King and Queen were destined to battle winter's own general; the dread red light that had settled on the night sky like a second sun, glaring down on them all. The Crown had a plan, they said, a lethal strike against the enemy. Westeros had to hold though, hold at all costs. Hold and tie down the enemy for as long they could.

One afternoon after a fullday of work, he'd finally asked Knub if he'd ever killed a wight.

"Aye," he said after a long while, fortified by a tankard of ale. They were in their usual spot, the triangle of tables by the corner of Nettle's Barn, the hearth flickering softly. Groverick's Militia Command; the name was grander than reality. Great tempests of wind rattled awnings and shutters, cold and dry with not a flicker of snow in the air. The sun glowered cloudless and weary, accosted by the red light on its shoulder. "We were digging up barrows and dead mammoths when the Queen sounded the alarm. I was there when she stopped the beast with a single look." His eyes were hazy, his ears pale instead of their usual red. "Then the wights came storming out the forest like an avalanche. I'd never seen anything like it, they were so many."

Guardsman Peyter nodded solemnly, "It was madness after they breached the palisade. Me' squad barely made it to the second line."

"Mine didn't," said Knub. "We got cut off and made our stand in a barracks. Damn walls collapsed on us." He swallowed. "Too many," he whispered.

Old Tom looked at his fingers. He voiced the question that had prickled Groverick for months, his tone respectful; Serjeant Knub had earned that. "That why you scream so' at night, Serjeant?"

For a moment Andon thought he'd strike him, but they'd gone through too much for that. Too many months of training together, too many salutes by funeral pyres, too many words of strength for those that'd cried as the fires waned. Instead he shrunk unto himself, the fire in his eyes guttering for the first time. "Everyone had them night terrors," he said, loosing himself in the tankard, "Mine just didn't stop." He chuckled as a boar must've, if it'd been struck by a spear, "That's why Regiment sent me here."

A Fox stumbled through the door, all thirteen namedays huffing and puffing. Peyter was first with his halberd, but they all followed quickly, libards in hand. "Seh!" he said as he took big mouthfuls of air.

"Breathe Lein, breathe!" said Andon.

"Yes seh!" said Lein, massaging his throat.

Andon waited until he looked more than two seconds away from passing out, "Report."

He hyperventilated again, "There's soldiers on the Kingsroad, marching north! They cover the road as far as the eye can see!"

They exchanged quick looks before storming out of the Barn. They weren't the first to reach the Kingsroad; half of Groverick had gotten there first, and just in time to witness the man and woman at the head of the column.

"The King," whispered Andon. He rode a silver lion almost as large as the horses of the knights that covered his flanks, his armor as deep and mesmerizing as the night sky. Crowned in wickedly sharp antlers, his weighty gaze seemed to cup Andon with willpower alone. Then it skipped to Taby, to Old Tom, to Bale and Mollie and Long Jon and everyone standing as straight as soldiers, too shocked to kneel, libards in hand.

That gaze found Knub, and the King gave him a single nod. "Excellent work, Serjeant."

The guttering fire behind Knub's eyes roared into a second life, the Serjeant standing tall with squared shoulders as he slammed a fist against his chestplate.

"Keep your wits about you, my clever foxes," said a soothing voice, and Andon found himself looking at the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. "Cold days brave we must," she said with the Mother's own smile. Northern pelts covered chainmail armor, her easy grace carried by the enormous direwolf prowling by the King's side. The King and Queen passed him by too fast for him to react, and he tried to close his mouth as he gazed at the hundred knights in silver armor following in their wake. Grim-faced and armed with lances and maces, they made their way in solemn silence, and behind them… Behind them was the muster of the Seven Kingdoms.

Their marching steps made for a rumbling thunderstorm, a tempo fit to shake the world. Never before had Andon seen so many people in the same place. The lords rode their chargers with boisterous dignity, their lances held upright, the sky run amok with the banners of the west; beasts snarling to the wind, castles stout and strong, fields and flowers promising warmth and summer. Men-at-Arms and semi-professional levies filled the road from end to end, their complexions hailing from every corner of the land, their faces hiding the same fear and trepidation. They carried the panoply of war with them; mallets and hammers, longbows and spears, kite shields and crossbows. It sent a tingle down Andon's throat, the sight of his people marching for war.

Most fearsome of all were the singing regiments of the Royal Guard; one armored snake marching like a single man, halberds on shoulders and arms like pendulums. They sung of death and glory, at a rhythm with their stride. They sung of loves lost and last promises uttered before the dawn. Most of all they sung of summer; of children run amok and graves covered in grass. On and on they marched; crossbow cohorts with tower shields and heavy bolts, assault troops garbed in fullplate and armed with dragonglass, strike-companies hefting tripods and stagrams. Tall square-faced banners divided the segments of the snake, each section of it singing of past victories paid for in the blood of friends. The Mistwalkers, first of the first. The Nightsails, twin lines of coal beneath their eyes. The Winterkillers, bane of the Walkers. The Dragonslayers, chestplates winged and red. Andon didn't glimpse his Da within the ranks of the Second, his ship lost long ago after ramming a Volantene galleon, but he saluted his friends and comrades all the same. Knub slammed his chestplate as the Third Regiment marched by, and they returned the honor to their Serjeant.

They were people just like him, scared and shivering through the cold. Marching despite it all, unwilling to give up. Groverick didn't cheer as they say the lords did when they answered the call. They bared witness instead, giving out what food and clothes they could spare to those marching souls. "Give 'em hells, Your Grace," Knub whispered as the soldiers lost themselves on the horizon, the Neck swallowing them whole. Andon hoped it would be enough. He prayed to the Gods that all the might of Westeros would be enough. Taby hefted her libard against her shoulder and squeezed his hand. Bring us summer, King Joffrey, he thought before squeezing back. For Da sleeping with Blackfyre. For Taby's family coated in frost. For the Young Hawk hanged by despair.

"First Groverick!" said Serjeant Knub, tall and misty-eyed, "Form up! Let's march home." And so they did.

Weeks later, the Red Comet surged in the night sky. The cold wind shrieked down from the hilltops and the mountains, scything through naked trees and biting through hearth and fur. The people of Groverick held vigil under that scarlet light, fluttering torches in their hands. They didn't have to be told.

The war had begun.

-: PD :-