Every breath hurt, as did each blink, but the fires kept them alive and laughing. The top of the Wall was the coldest it had ever been, and were it not for the kindly men, they surely would have died of frostbite.
They all sat huddled, close to the burning flames of the sword, too hungry for its warmth to question its magic. “Thanks be to the gods for this,” Samwell Tarly said, arms stretching across his shoulders, rocking himself to let blood circulate within.
The guest who called himself Thoros of Myr simply chuckled. He looked completely at ease with the weather. “There is only one god to thank,” he said simply.
Tormund Giantsbane roared with laughter, voicing what Jon Snow said to himself. “All you fire priests are the same,” he said. “The way you go on about your lord of light, anyone would think him a boy that kisses your member every night.”
“Aye,” reiterated Jon Snow. “But I’m not complaining. If the Lord of Light sent you, he did good work. If only Rhaegal was here. Gods know where he flies when he does.”
Before Thoros could correct him, Beric Dondarrion spoke. “I still wish to see this dragon of yours,” he said. “Thoros and I have seen betrayals, resurrections and swords with fire. I believe a dragon is all that is left to finish our journals!”
“A journal?” Samwell said, interested. Whilst the others snickered, he seemed the only one who thought Beric spoke truly. Jon and the others guffawed at his foolishness again, and suddenly the days felt much warmer, their bottoms less wet, men much merrier. Every moment they had, knew Jon Snow, could not be spent waiting for men from Barrowton to arrive, worrying about ice dragons, or whether their society would end the next day.
Thoros of Myr suddenly stood, and with it, the flames of Beric’s sword dissolved. “What did you do that for?” Tormund said harshly. Thoros ignored him. His eyes pierced through the white vapors, into the deeper recesses of the Haunted Forest. His lips moved slowly, cautiously. “I feel a chill,” they said. “I never feel a chill.”
A second later, they heard the sound of racing footsteps. “King Jon!” they spoke with urgency. “They’re here! They’re here!”
Jon’s eyes jumped to the skies, expecting the winds of fire or ice to hit them, paralyzing or charring them, but all he saw was raining snow. No Rhaegal, no Viserion. The footsteps came closer, and Elron’s voice with it. He caught the stench of urine. “They’re here!” he kept saying. “I see them, they’re in the Haunted Forest!”
Jon looked where Thoros was, where everyone now did, with eyes pale and panicked. Thousands of sharp blue eyes stared back at them as if, through the mists and the blizzard, they knew exactly where their prey stood. Jon felt their gaze pierce through his eyes, into his heart, searching for fear, and feasting on it. His hands quivered. We only have a thousand men.
Elron was still yelling. “They’re here! They’re here!” he yelled from the top of the Wall to anyone who would hear. Jon let loose some of his fear by yelling at him. “Well then, toot the horn thrice, you bloody fool! And wake the Lord Commander!”
By now, Castle Black was chaos. He heard the sounds of shrieks from below him. Patrolling men ran with no meaning or purpose, some slipping against slick ice and falling on the other side of the Wall. Jon took charge. “Samwell!” he yelled. “Get the dragonglass weapons from the armory! Tormund, you have the Wall! If you see an ice dragon, get to safety!” He turned to briefly found friends. “Beric, Thoros, with me!”
“Where are we going?” Beric said.
To guard the gate, he thought, dread sneaking up his spine like snakes.
They got to the lift cage, which moved at ferocious speed to bring them to the bottom. As Jon reached closer to the courtyard, he saw Dolorous Edd coming out of his chambers, trying to organize the chaos. He had assembled a squad at the gates, and shut the rear end of the castle so that the Night’s Watch could not escape. It had to be done. Most of them were at Hardhome, Jon remembered. The first thought on their minds will be to flee.
A dozen men led by Jon sprinted through the snaking interiors of the Wall until, midway through, they reached the bars of the middle gate blocking their way. Through the bars, they could see the outer gates, gates to the Lands of Always Winter, gates separating men from monsters.
Thousands stared at them with eyes empty. Tormund was throwing rocks and arrows of fire from above, but the impact was minimal. The outer gates were tightly barred, as were the middle gates, but the number of wights they saw on the other side made them seem flimsy.
Among the masses, Jon saw two men on horseback.
“There!” he told his mates. “The White Walkers!” Tormund Giantsbane looked puzzled. “There are only two,” he said. “And none of them is the Night King. What is going on?” Tim Stone shared the same concerns. “Is the Night King testing our defenses?” he said aloud. “Is that why there is no dragon?”
There was no time to think. When he saw the men on horseback raise their scepters and point at the gate, he had to worry about what came next. “They are going to try to break through!” he said, a second before all the wights charged. As they saw them sprint towards to the gate, he wondered how these weak men could penetrate bars of cold-rolled steel, when even wildling giants had struggled.
They didn’t. Instead, the moment they touched the gates, they exploded into shards of ice.
There was stunned silence. “They cannot pass,” Tormund broke it. “The fuckers… cannot pass.” As more and more wights shattered in front of them, the moods of the others became increasingly celebratory. Beric was actually dancing with joy. “If Brandon the Builder were alive,” he said as the wights kept hitting the gates unrelentingly, “I would get down on my knees and suck his huge cock!”
Then Jon saw it.
The Wall was ice and magic fused together. Any wight or White Walker who touched it would turn to smithereens in an explosion so sheer, the snow they stood on flew with it. If one wight burst, the effect was little, but if tens did together, all before a gate not nearly equipped to keep out a legion of the army of the dead…
No, he thought, as he heard the gates crack open.
*
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