Storm Gate lay east of Deep Lake and west of Castle Black, planted almost precisely at the Wall's midpoint. From above, it appeared little more than a squat stone scar upon the ice, half swallowed by wind and frost, a relic that the world had long since forgotten.
By all rights, the castle should have been abandoned.
Most of its sister fortresses already were. One by one, the Night's Watch had sealed them with ice and stone, conceding to age, dwindling numbers, and the slow decay of purpose. Storm Gate had escaped that fate, not through merit, but through vanity.
The current Lord Commander had kept it manned out of stubborn pride and naked calculation. King Viserys still sat the Iron Throne, and the Watch, ever desperate for royal favor, wished to remind the realm that it endured. Storm Gate served as a gesture, an empty courtesy to a distant crown.
Only a dozen brothers remained within its walls.
A century earlier, three hundred men had lived and trained here. Now its halls echoed with emptiness. Fires burned low. Doors were left unbarred more often than they should have been. The brothers stationed there were old, forgotten, or unwanted elsewhere. Men who had nowhere left to go.
Unlike the sealed castles, Storm Gate still possessed a narrow tunnel through the Wall, just wide enough for men to pass through in single file. Its iron gates were thin with rust. Its winches groaned when turned.
And Storm Gate carried a story.
Long ago, when King Jaehaerys the Conciliator journeyed north to Winterfell, Queen Alysanne had grown restless amid the feasting and snowbound courtesy. She mounted her dragon Silverwing and flew farther north than any Targaryen queen before or since.
She spent a night in the village that would later be called Queenscrown, then pressed on to the Wall itself, descending at Storm Gate.
The singers claimed she even visited Mole's Town, where she summoned the women who worked its brothels and held court with them. A women's court, they called it, and it was said the queen listened more than she spoke.
Whatever was said there followed her back to King's Landing. Soon after, King Jaehaerys abolished the ancient right of the First Night. It became the second of Queen Alysanne's Laws, and with it she earned her reputation for mercy.
In her honor, the Night's Watch renamed Storm Gate to Queen's Gate.
And for much the same reason, to flatter the crown and signal remembered loyalty, the current Lord Commander refused to let it fall into silence.
That stubbornness would cost lives.
"Clear out the crows," the wildling woman said.
Her voice was calm and cold as frostbitten iron. She did not look at the men she addressed, only at the corpse sprawled near the gate.
Harwin lay face-down in the snow, his blood already darkening to black. The wildling woman regarded him with narrowed eyes, then curled her lip.
Big. Broad. Strong in limb. And useless.
"No survivors."
"Yes, Princess," one of the wildlings answered.
He dipped his head slightly, more from habit than reverence. The two closest warriors exchanged a glance. One crouched beside Harwin and tugged free his black cloak and sword belt. When he stripped away the rest, he paused, then snorted aloud.
He spat into the snow.
"Cut," he muttered.
The other laughed quietly.
Among the Free Folk, eunuchs were despised. They had no place in a world that valued strength, seed, and survival. To them, castration was not punishment alone but proof of weakness, a sign that a man had already failed at being one.
The assault quickened.
Along the Wall, sentries vanished one by one as climbers crested the ice with silent efficiency. Throats were opened. Bodies were dragged into shadow.
Some of the brothers noticed.
Steel rang as swords were drawn in haste. A horn sounded, then another. Bells were struck with frantic force.
Dong. Dong.
The sound rolled along the Wall like thunder across frozen ground.
One castle after another stirred. Torches flared to life. Men poured from their barracks, half armored, breath steaming in the cold.
The Wall must not fall.
That truth had been carved into every man who took the black.
They reached the base of the Wall and met not retreat, but a charge.
Wildlings surged forward in a roaring mass of fur and bone. Their armor was crude, lashed together with sinew and leather, but it turned more blades than the Watch expected. Bone spears stabbed low and fast. Heavy clubs crushed shields and shattered collarbones.
On a battlefield, a spear had always been a king's weapon.
"Archers!" the ranger commander shouted as his line buckled.
He staggered back a step, bracing himself as a brother fell screaming beside him.
"Archers, loose!"
The Night's Watch had few bowmen left, but those they had were veterans. They did not waste arrows. They chose their shots.
They were fortunate that they had not yet been driven far from the castle.
In the deep cold of the North, the Watch favored yew longbows. They were slower than southern bows, but they endured frost and damp without warping.
The bowstrings sang.
Bone-armored wildlings fell. One pitched forward with an arrow through his throat. Another spun and collapsed, clutching at a shaft buried in his eye.
The commander felt a fierce hope flare in his chest.
"Good," he shouted, his voice raw. "Hold fast. Push them back."
Men shouted in answer. Shields locked. Boots ground into the snow.
The Wall must not fall.
Even if they died upon it, they would reclaim it. That was duty. That was oath.
"Long live the Night's Watch," the commander roared. His sword shook in his grip. "Drive them back beyond the Wall. These savages will never set foot on sacred land."
Then the shouting faltered.
A figure stepped forward through the wildling ranks.
He was immense, wrapped head to toe in layered bone, his armor etched with symbols older than the Wall itself. Upon his head sat a crown of pale bone and bright feathers that swayed with each step.
The commander felt his stomach turn to ice.
The King-Beyond-the-Wall.
"Archers," he shouted, his voice cracking despite himself. "The one with the crown. Aim true."
If the king fell, the host might break. It was the only hope left to them.
Bows were raised. Fingers drew to the ear. Breath was held.
Then something moved beside the bone-crowned king.
Small figures emerged, more than a dozen, slight and strange. They were cloaked in leaves. Bark was wrapped around their legs. Their eyes gleamed darkly beneath tangled hair.
They lifted short wooden pipes.
Music flowed across the battlefield.
It was beautiful.
Haunting.
The sound slipped beneath armor and skin alike. Men stiffened. Hands began to tremble. Swords slipped from numb fingers and struck the snow.
One brother fell to his knees, covering his face as sobs tore from his chest. Another dropped his shield and stared blankly ahead, lips moving in silent prayer.
The commander's breath hitched. His sword slipped from his grasp.
"What is this," he whispered, his knees weakening.
Around him, the Wall stood silent.
Most of the men there were Northmen. They had grown up beneath heart trees. They knew the old stories.
As they stared at the leaf-clad figures, one name rose unbidden in every mind.
The Children of the Forest.
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