Chapter 116: Arrival and Call
A dull horn blast echoed through the pitch-black, rain-soaked night. Lightning split the sky, thunder rolled, and violent wind and rain battered the town. Almost immediately, several nearby buildings burst open as a group of men charged out.
They were dressed like savages—wild, unruly, weapons clenched in their hands, faces twisted with ferocity. At first glance, it looked as though they intended to kill without a word.
But the instant lightning illuminated the scene and they clearly saw the army before them, their arrogance shattered into panic.
A barrage of frantic shouts erupted—guttural cries mixed with a few broken phrases of the Common Tongue—so chaotic that it was impossible to make out what they were saying.
The army didn't need to understand.
Whatever they were shouting, these people were enemies.
Seeing signs of retreat, the surrounding archers immediately loosed their arrows.
The hastily organized volley was not especially dense, and the narrow streets of the ruined town prevented large formations from advancing together. The scattered arrow fire claimed only a few bodies—but that was enough to make the rest flee even faster.
Not everyone ran.
Some of the wildlings instead roared and charged, weapons raised. But against a force more than ten times their number, such attacks were nothing short of suicidal.
"Robb!"
The sudden shout cut through the chaos. Robb Stark, seated calmly atop his horse, froze for a moment—then quickly leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
When he recognized the black-clad figure rushing toward them, his face lit up with joy.
"Jon!"
That joy lasted only a heartbeat.
His expression tightened immediately, because the Jon he was looking at had a dagger pressed against his throat.
The wildling holding him barked out a string of harsh words in the ancient tongue.
"Stop, or I kill him right now!" another wildling shouted in the Common Tongue, acting as translator.
Robb frowned—but did not hesitate.
At his command, the encircling troops halted their advance.
The wildling leader continued shouting.
"#￥!@#￥!"
"Clear a path, or I slit his throat!" the translator roared, eyes wide as he scanned the sea of soldiers surrounding them.
But before the words had fully left his mouth, the bald wildling chieftain suddenly rolled his eyes back and let out a strangled cry, collapsing to the ground.
The wildlings around him recoiled in shock.
Turning in panic, they saw the impossible.
Behind the fallen leader, a companion who had moments earlier been shot dead now stood upright—expression blank—as he slowly pulled a blood-soaked longsword from the chieftain's back.
"!#￥!@!"
"Elok?! What are you doing?!"
"Damn shapeshifting bastard!"
Seizing the moment of chaos, the black-clad youth tore free and sprinted toward Robb's lines.
Luck was on his side.
With their leader slain by what appeared to be one of their own, no one had time to stop him.
But the consequences for the wildlings were catastrophic.
The moment the hostage was safe, the northern army resumed its assault.
Under the torrential rain, the battle reignited. Some wildlings fled in desperation; others fought with reckless courage. But against the disciplined ranks of the North, their resistance was futile.
They looked fierce—but they fought without coordination, without order. In moments, their chaotic resistance was crushed beneath the methodical advance of the northern host.
The fighting did not last long before it came to an end. Those who fled were pursued by soldiers, while those who resisted were all slain.
Very few prisoners were taken.
"Elok—thank you."
After the battle, Jon Snow, dressed in the black cloak of the Night's Watch, stepped forward and quietly thanked the wildling who had stabbed the chieftain through the heart.
He received only a blank stare in response. No words, no acknowledgment.
Jon was momentarily at a loss. It wasn't until someone leaned in and explained in a hushed voice that understanding finally dawned on him.
His eyes widened in disbelief as he stared at the wildling—who looked no different from any other living man—realizing that what stood before him was a walking corpse.
It took Robb's reminder to snap him out of it.
Jon turned, spotted the young man standing beneath the eaves to escape the rain, and walked over, awkwardly offering his thanks.
The man merely pressed his lips into a mild, friendly smile.
For a moment, Jon wondered if what he'd just been told could possibly be true.
With the fighting over, Robb ordered the troops—aside from those sent in pursuit—to quickly secure the surrounding ruins and set up camp.
Bonfires were lit one after another. Under the pounding rain, the abandoned town—silent for countless years—was suddenly awash in light and warmth.
…
Inside the house that had once belonged to the wildling leader, the brothers embraced, emotions surging.
"I was separated from the Lord Commander at the Fist of the First Men," Jon said quickly. "I carried out a mission with Qhorin Halfhand of the Shadow Tower, and then I—right, how is Father?"
"Father is well," Robb replied. "Before I left, he even mentioned you…"
But before the reunion could go further, Jon's expression abruptly changed.
"Hurry. We need to get to Castle Black. Mance Rayder is bringing a hundred thousand wildlings to the Wall!"
Though Charles had mentioned this before, none of them—himself included—had expected the wildlings to move so fast. Robb's face immediately turned grave.
"We must inform Father."
A hundred thousand wildlings—even if only a fraction were true fighters—meant at least twenty to thirty thousand capable of battle.
"Still," Jon added more quietly, "with the Wall standing, they won't be able to break through anytime soon…"
As he spoke, his gaze drifted instinctively toward the prisoners.
What met him instead were looks of raw fury—especially from a short, red-haired wildling woman who glared at him with unbridled hatred.
Jon visibly faltered, his voice growing subdued.
…
The army rested in the ruined town for the night. The next day, as the storm passed, they left the wreckage behind and returned to the Kingsroad.
With each mile, the Wall grew larger in their sight.
Under the sun, the ancient ice barrier shimmered brilliantly—stretching endlessly from east to west, breathtaking in its sheer scale.
But along with its beauty came an increasingly bitter cold.
The northerners barely noticed, but Charles found himself shivering uncontrollably. In the end, he had to drape a white bearskin cloak over his black robes just to feel comfortable again.
That night, they rested in Mole's Town, the half-buried settlement not far from Castle Black.
Early the next morning, they broke camp. Before long, the headquarters of the Night's Watch finally came into view.
Against the snow-covered landscape, Castle Black appeared dark and unremarkable at the end of the road.
In truth, it barely resembled a castle at all—no stone walls, only a ring of wooden palisades.
A few black stone towers rose vertically within, ancient and weathered. Yet beneath the towering Wall of ice, they looked pitifully small.
Up close, the Wall's summit vanished into the frozen sky.
Beneath its shadow, a group of people stood waiting at the gate. Scouts had clearly ridden ahead to announce the army's arrival.
Most of them were elderly. The one at the front even walked with a visible tremor, drawing curious looks from the northern soldiers.
The Night's Watch was legendary—thousands of years of history, honor, and sacrifice. And yet now, it seemed to have fallen to a sorry state.
"Lord Commander Mormont took all the rangers out on patrol," Jon explained quietly. "There are only about two hundred men left at the Wall—mostly stewards and builders. Hardly any fighters."
With so few defenders, empty buildings were plentiful. The thousand-strong force from Winterfell was quickly and easily accommodated.
Charles—and his cartload of books—were assigned to a tower known as the King's Tower.
They arrived in the morning, but because of the unusual cargo, unloading took quite some time. By the time everything was settled, it was already afternoon.
There was nothing urgent for Charles to do.
Defenses and wildling matters were being handled by Robb and the Watch.
He had planned to visit the local library to search for any records on the White Walkers—but before he could, a clear, fervent voice suddenly echoed in his ears.
"May the great Seven bless Daenerys in Qarth. May they grant her success in winning the support of the Undying Ones and the warlocks…"