7th Month of 300 A.C. Castle Black
Lord Robb Stark
Darkness had fallen across the sky, across the world, they had not seen the sun for some time now, it was becoming a distant memory, but there was hope, there was always hope so long as they remembered. That was what Robb had started telling himself, the letters Wynafryd had written to him kept in a pouch that hung close to his heart, even though he was not with them, with her and his son, they were with him in spirit, their words keeping him sane, anchoring him to something more than the world of death and destruction that was his very real present. The White Walkers had come and attacked a few times in the intervening months since he had written to the King, they had managed to beat them back, but they had not managed to kill them. The Wights yes, they had killed the wights, but not their masters. It seemed to be a bit of a never-ending process, and as such it was a wonder the men's morale was still as high as it had once been, the words of their loved ones, the thought of seeing them once more, that was what was keeping them together, Robb knew that now, knew it more than he had done when he had been fighting in the south.
There was a brief interlude now, enough time for them to hold a war council, something they desperately needed to do, and so Robb is the first one to speak, looking at the Lord Commander. "Has there been any word or sighting of Alliser Thorne and his companions?" he asks. He feels as though he has asked that question numerous times, and he most likely has.
The answer is the same. A shake of the head. "No, there has not been my lord. I do not think there will be. If he was still alive, he would have sent word ahead. That is the type of man Ser Alliser is."
"Besides, we know that the man did not find the horn, one of the White Walkers had it strapped across their back." Theon points out, the man so rarely speaks, but he has spoken now.
"Aye, though the thing did not sound it, and that worries me." Robb says aloud, daring to voice the fear that has slowly been nagging at him for some time. "If they have the horn, they must know that I have the other one."
"What makes you say that my lord?" the new Lord Umber, Smalljon asks, his father having died during one of the fights that had occurred over the months.
"Mance Rayder told me that when he was coming toward the Wall during that battle, that he could feel the presence of the Horn of Winter, he did not know who wielded it, but he could feel it. And now I can feel the same thing now, I only need to think of the horn and I can feel it. And if I can feel it, then they can most certainly feel it." Robb responds.
"And no solution has been found for those horns?" Bowen Marsh asks, looking at Maester Aemon.
The old maester sighs and shakes his head. "Unfortunately not. I have looked through everything that is available in the library here, but nothing has come. It seems that our former brothers were not prone to writing down these sort of things."
"They likely thought such a thing would never happen again." Robb muses. He shakes his head then. "There is no point wondering over things that might or might not happen, what we need to do now is discuss what we can actually do." He pauses for a second then continues. "We have thanks to Greywind and the brothers, found some dragonglass arrows and spears, but we need to decide who wields what. We have seen from experience that unless you engage directly with the White Walkers that they shall not perish."
"Are you suggesting then that we arm people with those weapons and hope that it works?" Bowen Marsh asks.
"Yes. The dragonglass arrows can be used by the best archers, none else will do for that. We cannot afford to waste them." Robb responds, looking at Theon then his friend nodding in agreement.
"And what of the daggers and the spears? Those are just as valuable, but who would volunteer to wield them? Getting in close to death itself is something that not many are willing to do." Bowen Marsh points out.
At that, Domeric Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort and a man who usually remains silent throughout all of this speaks. "I'll do it." he looks at Robb then and Robb can here the sincerity in his tone. "I know how to wield a spear, and I am not afraid to lead men who are willing to go toe to toe with the White Walkers."
Robb considers the man for a moment before nodding. "Very well, you may command them. I want you to ask around for volunteers though, and I want them trained. We must be prepared when they come again, as I am sure they will." Domeric Bolton nods his acceptance, and they move on.
"What of the defence. It is all well and good to prepare for an offensive strategy my lord, but we shall still need to defend the wall." Bowen Marsh points out. "Who would you have on the wall?"
Feeling slightly disconcerted that they are placing the defence of the wall under his command, Robb thinks for a moment and then says. "Denys Mallister and Cotter Pyke still hold their respective castles, and they have extra men from my lands and the lands of my lords, they will be fine. But I know from observing them, that the White Walkers will hit Castle Black, it is the centre of everything, and so, we shall have men stationed on the wall firing normal arrows to provide support to those who are firing dragonglass. I want men manning the gates as well as the winch, we must be prepared for an attack on the very defences of the wall itself. Bowen, I want you leading that. Lord Umber, you shall command the castle itself, Domeric you shall join forces with mine own men. We shall lead the sallying forth from the gate." He hears the men within the room murmur their agreement to that statement, before the meeting comes to an end and Robb walks out returning to his own quarters for the time being.
He's not sure how much time passes between him leaving the solar and returning to his own room, before the shouts of men reach his ears, he soon finds himself strapping Ice onto his back and walking out of the room, Greywind at his side. He finds Martyn Cassel and asks him what's going on, to get the response. "They are coming, sighted." Robb nods and soon his horse is being passed to him, he mounts his horse and watches the proceedings, waits for the horns to sound, one blast, riders returning, two blasts wildlings, the third blast sends a shiver through him, and he knows in that moment that the time has come. He rides forward towards the gate, Domeric Bolton at his side. He looks at the man, putting aside his distrust for a moment and merely nods, the man nods back, and then the gates are opening, and they ride out.
Robb feels the air leave his body for a brief moment as his horse comes forth from the darkness and the reassurance of the gate into the light, or the darkness on the other side. There is a large army staring back at him, he can see the dead there, breathing and shaking in their stupor, he can see the ghosts of the dead looking to haunt him forever, he can see White Walkers, looking at him from their dread mounts, and then there is someone he had not thought to see. Edric Stark. The former Lord of Winterfell, a ghost, a dead man, but someone who is very much alive, is at the front of this host, a mad smile on his face. The man calls out in a mocking tone. "Welcome to the end boy." Robb looks at the man, or rather what he can see of the man through the darkness, and the helmet that is narrowing his vision, not for the first time he finds himself wondering what made the man before him like this. He does not bother asking, instead he merely looks around at the enemy before him, counting, thinking.
A quick look to Domeric, and then he takes the horn from where it is strapped across his back, and brings it to his lips. He takes a deep breath and sounds the horn, the melody sounding out, harsh and haunting. As he expected, the man before him does the same thing with his horn, and the wights begin to break and fall, turning to dust, lessening their numbers greatly, Robb keeps the horn pressed to his lips, determined to make full use of this power he has. His heart feels as though it might burst, his lungs are screaming for relief, but he keeps the horn pressed to his lips, thinking of Wynafryd and their son, of Rickon, of Arya who never got to see the stars, and he keeps going. Determination fills his every fibre, determined to make sure that things are fairer when the end comes. For the end must come, of that he has no doubt, it cannot keep going, not like this, one of them has to give, and Robb will not be the one to leave. Eventually, he removes the horn from his lips and looks around at the field of snow before them, laughing he calls out. "Your army has thinned."
He does not expect the laugh that greets that. "They are not dead yet boy." Robb watches in horror as more of the things come staggering into view. "Now let us end this." the man calls out moving his horse forward.
"Gladly." Robb replies, setting the tone, and marching forward, drawing Ice, determination once more setting in.
They meet in the middle, with death frolicking around them, swords clattering against one another, one pale white, the other pale blue, sparks fly, and it becomes a measure of strength and agility and skill. Robb presses hard on the right, the false Stark presses hard on the left, they break apart, sweat beginning to form, and then they move forward, to meet once more. He presses hard, a swing here, a block there, he knows how the man fights, quick flourishes and then a press, and so he tries not to give the man the chance. He swings, cuts, block, and then once more it goes. The false Stark continues his own press, swinging, hacking, ducking and dodging. It is messy, but that's how things are, they are not pretty, this is not a song, it is a fight, and fights are dirty. He winces slightly as he feels the man's sword dig into a part of his body, he's not sure which part, but it does not matter, for every scratch that the man has given him, he's cut the man far worse. They keep going exchanging blows back and forth, until finally Robb manages to find an opening, he gets inside the other man's guard, and swings, cuts, parries, then his sword is thrust through the man's chin, he pulls out and the man bleeds. He pulls back, moves his horse back, waits a moment, then roars. "Do it." an arrow comes from on high and hits the dead man in the eye, a scream then the man is gone.
That breaks the silence, the noise of the battle fills him, as do those who are coming for him now, White Walkers, angry at the loss of their general, of one of their commanders, they come for him and he sits straighter on his horse and welcomes them. Just as the blow is about to come, dark shadows blot out a little of the light, and ice and fire come down on them all, the dragons have come.