Arya VII

The return journey over the Lonely Hills was easy. Giant folk with huge spades and pickaxes cut them a road right through. They feasted the whole host, Dreadfort men, Umber, and Karstark, in their citadel of Ironforge. Five thousand men slept on the floor of their great hall, with plenty of room to spare. Arya went to sleep clutching Brad, dreams of victory in her head. She could almost forget the one about Winterfell, broken and ruined, ringed by a host of evil creatures with hate-filled blue eyes.

The weather turned when they reached the headwaters of the White Knife. One hundred leagues from Winterfell, the first horse died. Fifty leagues from Winterfell, the last. They had to rig the wayns to be dragged by teams of men. All their provisions and the precious wildfire couldn't be abandoned. Wildfire was easy to ignite, especially by accident, but when the cold winds blew, it could save your life, burning when no other fire would.

"Spades," called Ser Domeric over the roaring winds. In his opinion, an army should never march without plenty of spades. "We'll build snow shelters. Pack it like bricks. With snow coming down like it is, our tents will collapse by morning."

So they built these "igloos," which was the name her lord gave the queer houses they caught the Others camping in. Arya spent a pleasant night, her last, side by side with Brad in one of the little snow domes. It was warmer than she would've believed. The next night, they came, and every night after.

A league was reckoned the distance one man could march in one hour. They should've been at Winterfell a week ago, but with the snow and wind, a day might come and go without them marching a single league. Their line of march had to be ringed with burning torches at all times, and at night they made a perimeter of braziers filled with wildfire. When it wasn't burning, the green stuff looked like sludge, or the least appealing jelly Arya had ever seen, and if you cooked your food with the green flames, it tasted funny. Wights troubled them constantly, testing their defenses for gaps, and sometimes an assault of the Others had to be repelled. Every step was a misery, as Arya sank past the knee and had to pull her foot up out of the powder to do it all over. She was tired all the time, and the attacks meant they could hardly sleep.

"We're running low on arrows," Brad told her worriedly. Most of the time, the Others kept their distance, fearing their formation bristling with dragonglass spears, and shooting arrows at glints in the darkness was all they could manage.

"We'll be at Winterfell soon," she assured him, but Arya really had no way of knowing. Everything looked the same, buried under snow. With the clouds above, they couldn't even use the stars to guide them. Only Nymeria seemed to know the way.

A warhorn blew, and Arya took up a warhammer. It was about the same weight as Dark Sister, and served better against the wights. In her other hand, she held a torch over a wildfire brazier. Each one served as a strongpoint they could rally around.

With a great thundering crack, Bradamar stove in the chest of a wight who was trying to upturn the brazier. A cloud of snowy particles went flying, catching the glint of the green fire like sparkling stars. When he touched the creature with his torch, the flames spread across the cold black body like dry parchment thrust into a hearth, and it went limp.

To Arya's dismay, she could tell the creature wore iron ringmail and had a cloak of fur. Had it been one of her father's men in life? She couldn't think too long on that; she must not! Wights bubbled up out of the snow drifts, climbing over one another and trying to throttle them, or worse, cast down their source of fire. They spent a restless night keeping the horde at bay. There was not a single horse for Lord Domeric to lead a mounted sortie and hunt the Others that were driving them.

When dawn broke, a poor thing, with the sun dimmed by overbearing grey clouds, the attacks tapered off, as they usually did. Cold dead things disdained the light of day, even such light as this.

"No rest," her lord ordered, eliciting many a groan. "If we march all day, we'll reach the walls of Winterfell before night comes again."

And if not, they were undone.

***

"Arya? Can it be Arya?" The worry lines on her father's face softened, and they embraced so fiercely it drove the breath from her.

Their men stood dripping and shivering, crowded close to the fires burning in a dozen places in Winterfell's great hall. Lord Domeric didn't waste time.

"Victory in the east. We caught them with their pants down, but I'm beginning to suspect the main blow was meant for Winterfell. It took a long time to fight through them to get here."

Father nodded gravely. "Robb has managed to hold them at the edge of the Wolfswood for now, but I was about to call for him to pull back. There are too many. It might be that your approach prevented them from taking him in the rear. I had no notion there were Others to the east at all. Most of their attacks have been from the north and west, out of the treeline of the Wolfswood."

Bolton considered that. "Might be. There are more wights here."

"I am afraid the folk of the mountain clans have few maesters. It is difficult to get word to them. Most like the Others fell upon them unawares after the Wall fell."

"King Stannis is coming," Domeric pointed out. "If we could hold them here..."

"My lords, I fear we cannot hold long," Vayon Poole, Father's steward, said. "Young Robb has ten thousand in the field, and Lord Bolton has brought another five. Our food stores might last a fortnight with care, but no longer."

"Shit..." Domeric swore. "The king means to land at White Harbor. If we withdrew down the White Knife, we could unite our power with his and make a stand."

"And abandon Winterfell?" rumbled the Greatjon, whose beard was dripping like icicles. "Hell, we just got here!"

"Well, the only other option is to march into the Wolfswood and bring the fight to the enemy. We'll have fewer mouths to feed after that, I promise you. With Nymeria and Grey Wind both, we could seek the Others, even in this snowscape. Their wall of wights won't protect them forever."

"A chancy thing," Lord Stark says. "They have not been able to threaten the walls of the castle at all. The green fires still burn in Robb's camp. You can see them from the battlements. He stands athwart their path, fighting manfully."

The thought of that made Arya smile. At last, Robb was blooded like the rest of them.

"Give my men a day or two to rest and warm themselves," Lord Domeric suggested. "We can make a decision after that."

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***

Father didn't say anything about her and Brad sharing a bedchamber, and she seriously considered giving him her maidenhead, but ultimately decided against it. There would be another time. Thinking "it must happen now because I won't get another chance" was "defeatism," as Lord Domeric called it. They would not lose here!

"Arya, are you well?" he asked. They were in her mother's old bedchamber right now, the hottest spot in Winterfell. The water from the hot springs beneath the castle was pumped right through the walls, radiating heat.

"Me? I think so, just nervous about what we shall do. We cannot hold for long. Attacking and withdrawing both pose risks."

He kissed the crown of her head. "Mayhaps you'll have a dream."

She did.

***

"Attack! We must attack!" she told Lord Domeric in the morning. He was talking softly with her father and Lady Jynessa, Robb's wife. There was a woodharp in his hand, and he might've been about to play a song, but as soon as he saw her come running, Domeric cast the instrument aside.

"Tell me," he said, instantly serious.

"Help is closer than we know, but we must attack! Robb is holding now, but his wildfire is running low. He's burned too much keeping the wights at bay. This very night, the Others come in force to snuff him out, and all his soldiers. Without us, he's lost."

"What sort of help is coming?" Father questioned. "Is the king closer than we thought?"

"I don't know!" Arya answered. "But help is coming. We just need to light a great big fire that can be seen from afar off."

Lord Domeric chewed on that for a moment. "Is this an 'all or nothing' thing, would you say? The wildfire we brought from the Dreadfort is also getting a little low."

"I think so," she answered. "Big battle, big fire, and something will happen, but the dream ended after that."

Domeric Bolton stood up from the table. "Then we march tonight."

At evenfall, five thousand swords departed from the Hunter's Gate, hefting torches. The snowdrifts were waist-high in places, making them fight through the powder just to advance. Robb Stark's camp was in the shape of an "L," screening Winterfell from the Wolfswood to the north and west. The green lights defending his perimeter could be seen flickering in the distance.

Many of the men bore spades as well as swords. "Arya," Domeric said, "when we reach the treeline, I'll have them dig a nice big pit, and we'll pour the last of our wildfire into it. We'll fight beside the biggest bonfire the North has ever seen. Does that seem like your dream?"

It did. She nodded. "I'm not sure, but in the dream, you knew the right time to attack. We must hold until then."

As ever, he took her deadly seriously. "I'll trust my instincts then, and yours. Keep Dark Sister handy. I'm getting tired of fighting mooks. These Others have made too much trouble not to taste steel tonight."

Mooks? She'd laugh at the queer word, but battle was about to be joined.

They made their presence known to Robb with the blast of a warhorn, and took their place to the far right of his formation. Domeric reasoned they wanted to turn his flank from the east, so he placed his own troops in their way.

As much sense as that made, Arya wished he had not! A horde of wights, ten times what they faced on the Fist, came pouring out of the snowy woods. They waited to light the bonfire till battle was properly joined, and when Lord Domeric flung his torch into the pit, the great flash blinded Arya for half a minute! There was a roar and a mushroom of green fire thrust into the sky.

Like a rock in the river, the army of the dead flowed around it, right into their path. With hammers and maces and torches, they bashed and brushed and thrust. It was a good thing they'd had a great big meal and a nap before they left Winterfell, because there was no way anyone could disengage. It wasn't like the fights on the way where they could sleep in shifts. Every hand was needed all the time to hold the cold dead things back.

Twice, cold black hands grabbed her, twisting and squeezing with inhuman strength, but Brad was there to thrust his torch into the creature's mouth. Once, a skeletal shadowcat tackled him, and it was her turn to do the saving.

They held for a long time, but men died and had to be swiftly flung into the bonfire to prevent them from rising again. Arya didn't know when it happened, but they became less a line and more a cluster around the bonfire, defending it like one great brazier. How long could this go on?

Robb's army to their left seemed to be doing better, or mayhaps the wildfire was burning so bright that all she could see was green. As long as the fires stayed burning, they could hold.

Or could they?

The Others came when they were much diminished and weary of fighting, came to finish them off! Brad tried to thrust his glass spear at one, but it hacked the spearhead off with contemptuous ease. It was all Arya could do to get Dark Sister in the way of its pale blade. They danced together, blades kissing; the sound of Valyrian steel on ice like nothing natural. It drove her back, and when they got closer to the bonfire, she could see its armor was weeping. All it took was one scratch from Dark Sister. She feinted a sidestep, making the thing think Arya was trying to lure it into the fire. It did not take the bait, but it wasn't ready for her lunge. One scratch, one shriek, and the pale alien thing, who thought itself so much better than men with hot blood, was nothing but midnight mist.

Others fell to arrows, but soon the arrows were spent. Lord Domeric had rallied a goodly company, forming a shield wall with their backs to the flame, dragonglass spearpoints thrust out in threat. She and Brad made their way to him, and relative safety. Such Others as danced with their lord did not last long.

After some time holding, a shadow passed over them, but how could that be? Could the Others have raised a dead eagle to swoop down and take their eyes with its talons? Arya shut her eyes, and when she opened them, black fire mixed with green.

Seeing this, Lord Domeric raised his horn to his lips. Two blasts for "at them!"

He raised his red sword high, whose name was Razor. "The dragon is on our side!" he roared. "Banners forward!"

Arya could make no sense of it, but Nymeria seemed to understand. The great direwolf led them into the burning forest, and there they fell upon a terrified enemy. Dark Sister cut down many, and Razor somewhat more, but nothing could match the black fire from the shadow above.