Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

The triple line of marching men made more of a funeral procession than an army. The soldiers navigated the dense forest following the tracks of the scouts, making way around sharp-looking rocks and tall birches as white as the snow. First Serjeant Ross squinted at the mist, trying to find the edge where the marching halberdiers dissipated into the grey. There was no definitive barrier; their silhouettes gradually melded with the mist until they were no more, followed by the next row, and the next, and the next. It was snowing again, though this time with a windy edge, a piercing bite that blew from the north, deceptively slow.

Blizzard in the air, thought Ross, his old wound aching assent. He had a simple rule for assessing his own effectiveness. Could he imagine the current state of his men as well as his left hand? Right now, it was like a hand half submerged in a murky pond, making odd waves with its fingers. Had to get moving and see to that, but it was a tall task in this damned mist.

A figure dashed opposite the marching column, stumbling over the great mounds of snow between the naked birches, "First Serjeant!" he shouted. The soldiers threw him tired looks even as they tightened their grip on their weapons. "First Serjeant Ross!"

Ross already had his hand axe out as the man practically collided with him, "What is it? Wights?"

"No ser, survivors!" said Wigs, "Couple o' the King's silvers near the head o' the column!"

Silver as in Silver Knights? "It's just the mist, Wigs. It's silver bloody everywhere."

"I know it sounds crazy, serjeant! But they're there alright, sitting on a rock and quiet as peaches."

Ross stared at him before shaking his head. Wigs wasn't prone to hysterics. Then again, a lot of men hadn't before Wallfall. "Alright, point me at them. And then go find the Centurion, he'll want to hear this."

Suitably armed with a vague heading, Ross gritted his teeth and hurried to the front of the column, waddling over knee-high snow with funny-looking strides. So funny the guardsmen had guffawed at the Umber men when they first got this sorry march a-going. No one was laughing now though; everyone moved with the same funny waddle that, turns out, didn't leave you panting like a bitch-on-heat after five hours of forced marching. Aye, thought Ross, checking the shuffling column of men and making a show of it, the better to hide his own exhaustion. No stragglers just yet. We all proper winter troops now. Those who hadn't made the cut were having their second go at it somewhere to their northeast, complete with gnashing teeth and ravenous blue eyes that stalked through the mist.

Wigs had been telling the truth alright. He found the two knights sitting on a rock by the side of the marching column; one of them had a broken arm on a haphazard sling, the other was propping up his head over the butt of the warhammer he'd rammed into the snow. Even haggard, dirty, and dotted with a score minor wounds, they had a silent dignity about them: a steely shroud that lifted their gaze out of the snow as he approached.

"Good day, ser knights. Didn't ken I'd meet a couple o' silvers down this way."

"And we weren't sure we'd meet another living soul," said the one with the broken arm, "Not before trying to tear its throat out anyway."

Ross' mouth twitched, "Well, I'll be keeping mine if you don't mind."

"We'll allow it," said broken-arm, a little smile on his lips. Seven knows we all need a bit of a laugh. Warhammer let out a long steamy breath; not exactly a chuckle, but it was something.

"Any chance you've a column o' knights somewhere close by?"

"No such luck, I'm afraid," said Broken Arm, "What about you?"

"Haven't seen another soul since our host got broken up. Just our unit and a few other bits and bobs."

"Ah."

"Wallfall?" asked Warhammer. Funny how they had the same name for it.

"Not really. 'Twas a monster blizzard two days later. Our whole cohort got scattered across the mist, and once you lose sight of the man ahead of you…"

Both knights nodded somberly. It waxed and waned, but the mist was a patient and cunning enemy. There would be entire mornings free of its oppressive influence, leaving only the sky overcast with surly grays… then it would sneak up on you in the afternoon, when the men were tired. In between blinks, the man in front of you was gone. If the one behind you wasn't there too… well. That was the reason they did everything in threes now, from blizzard-marching to taking a piss. If you got yourself lost, then at least you'd not die alone.

"What's this about knights, First Serjeant?" said the Centurion, catching up from behind. Centurion Donvan had a slender frame turned thinner still by the harsh winter, but his broad shoulders could lift an armored man and carry him through a rain of falling Wall. Ross struggled not to scratch the long scar on his leg lest he break it open again. I'd know.

"Two o' the King's silvers. Haven't introduced each other yet."

"Silver Knights?" he said as he reached their little gathering by the rock, and Ross could hear the satisfaction in his voice. Or was that relief? "I'm Centurion Donvan, and this here's First Serjeant Ross." Any bastard with a sword and a horse could call himself a knight, and these days the horse was rather optional. Made it hard to judge how useful they'd be in a fight, or how well they'd take to orders from a commoner. Silver Knights though… they had a certain reputation.

"Robar Royce, Lord Commander," Broken Arm said as he stood up.

"Samwell Tarly, Knight Chronicler," said Warhammer, nodding deeply but staying seated. "Got space for two in that column of yours?" He looked even more exhausted than Ser Robar. While the wounded knight carried only his axe and a small pack, it was clear Ser Samwell had been carrying the bulk of their scavenged supplies. Ser Robar. Ser Samwell.

Ross shared a look with Donvan. Not any silver knights, but the two highest ranking members of the order. Iron Rune and the Gatecrasher himself, he thought, stunned. Ser Robar was lacking his famous tower shield, but sure enough Ser Samwell had his warhammer well in hand, and the book-shaped bundle of leathers by his belt was a dead giveaway.

"We'd be honored to have you," Donvan managed, "You are on a mission from the King?"

Ser Samwell snorted, "Just searching for a warm fire, though I'm sure His Grace would approve."

"That he would," said Ser Robar. "We spotted a village this morning, when the mist cleared up a bit." He pointed to the southwest with his good arm, "We were making our way there when we stumbled into your scouts."

"A village?" said Donvan, the tiniest trace of hope tickling his voice. They'd had a hard time managing hope, after Wallfall. It had to be rationed tightly, doled out only for the surest of bets. It was the only way not to end up a wight-in-waiting. A village, though… Ross should've known better, but he could practically taste the warm food. The fire of a good, strong hearth; so different from the pitiful campfires they'd been scraping out of wet, fallen birch limbs. As always, the centurion turned towards him, "What do you think, Serjeant?"

"I think that's a mighty fine idea, ser. Haven't seen a wight in days, and the wounded could sure use a good roof." He could already feel the burning tingle in his gut, the tingle that had gotten so many men killed. Budget that hope, Ross. The food will be moldy and the wenches will be wights. "No harm in sending in the scouts first, though."

"I agree," said Donvan, though his gaze lingered on the knights.

"This is your command, Centurion. We won't be getting in the way," said Ser Robar.

Donvan nodded gratefully, "Then we'll make way towards that village immediately. And," he hesitated briefly, "I feel I should tell you, it was Lord Tyrion who originally commanded our force."

Ser Robar blinked at that, "Tyrion? You're with the Master of Coin?"

"Aye," said Donvan, "Met up with him during the blizzard that scattered us all over the Gift. Him and some Umber men. He's not doing too well now, though."

Ser Samwell frowned, "What do you mean?"

Ross cleared his throat, "Wallfall banged him up something fierce. Hit his head, broke both legs. Now he's down with some hellish fever." He gave a helpless shrug, "Haven't found a maester or even a handmaiden to tell us what's wrong with him, though at this point mayhaps a septon would do him more good."

"Shit," said Ser Robar. He gave Ser Samwell a nod, "See if you can do something. I'll show the centurion where I saw the village."

"Alright," he said, accommodating the big bundle of supplies tied to his back before standing up with a sigh. "If you could lead me to him?" he asked Ross.

-: PD :-

The forest turned to oaks, and then stumps as they got closer to the village, whole copses bearing the scars of saw and axe. The remains of super heavy sleds poked out of the snow here and there—large beasts meant to be loaded with lumber and then dragged by triple teams of horses. Now they lay beached between big lumps of snow, the northerly breeze adding new layers of frost with delicate care. "They had a hefty operation going-along here," said Ross, tracing one of the sleds' broken side rails with a hand. It was stiff with frost, and he almost fell on his face when the end of it broke off.

"Lumberjack's village, no doubt about it," said the Centurion.

Ross felt naked out of the forest's dubious embrace; unconsciously haunched, gaze bouncing from sled to sled before he looked at the piece he'd broken off. "Must've cost the King some pretty coppers," he said. A little bronze shield had been tacked where the rail had met the driver's seat, depicting a tiny lion holding a hammer and nails, framed by a big wheel saw as if it were a noble shield. He passed it on to Donvan.

He whistled softly, "Blackworks," he said, tracing the heraldry before discarding it. "This place must have been feeding the work atop the Wall. Not firewood though; timbers for the new towers?"

"Suppose so." Ross shrugged, "Big lot o' good they did us in the end." Their conversation dropped to whispers as the slowly lifting mist revealed the first houses beyond the stumps. They dropped to their bellies and crawled like Gulltown eels, scuttling forward until they reached the cover of a trio of stacked logs, catching glimpses of buildings in between the mist. The place wasn't all that small; Ross counted more than forty sturdy log cabins nestled at the bottom of the small valley before the mist turned impenetrable, their alarmingly steep roofs leaning into each other like a gaggle of singing guardsmen after payday. Probably more behind them.

"Far-eye," whispered Donvan.

He handed it over and watched their backs as the Centurion swept it left through right, slow and methodical. "Where the hells' Maeber?" muttered Ross.

"He'll be here," said the Centurion, focusing on something and then resuming his sweep.

"He better be," said Ross, thumbing his axe. Something smoky stirred in the air, carried by the wind and making his nose twitch, "Something's burning."

"Hearths?" Perhaps the only one amongst their entire mish-mash of survivors, Ross could catch the tiny inflections that passed for emotion in the Centurion's voice. Hope. Dangerous in First Serjeants, outright deadly in officers.

"Or some poor bastards gone Last Defiance," he added helpfully.

"Always the cheery soul, First Serjeant."

"Trying m'best, ser."

"No wights," said Maeber.

"Warrior's cock!" hissed Ross, almost cutting the man's head off. Third Scout Maeber lay kneeling behind them, silently tapping the wooden amulet that hung from his neck; a seven-pointed star dulled dirty-grey from a lifetime's worth of fidgeting. "Would you stop doing that!"

"Talk to me," said the Centurion, still looking down the far-eye. Didn't even twitch.

"The outskirts are abandoned, but the core's well lit and warm," said Maeber. He spoke with that dull tone that always left Ross on edge. More than he usually was anyway. "Some desultory patrols, barely any work outdoors."

"Must be hunkering down," said Ross, returning his gaze to the village outskirts. "Idiots. They'd be better off running south as fast as their hairy northron legs could take 'em."

"We don't know what they know," said the Centurion. He mulled it over before snapping the far-eye shut with a decisive click. "First Serjeant," he said in that tone that made bad serjeants flinch and good ones relax. "Bring up the column. We'll see if the northmen live up to their famous hospitality."

"Right you are, ser," he said before scuttling back the way they came, spraying a bit of snow over Maeber's boots on the way.

He made good progress back to the halted column, finding scarcely a man idle as they worked on their boots, stretched their limbs, or gathered fallen twigs from the ground. Some clipped but approving nods later, he harangued the serjeants into motion, who harangued the guardsmen, who harangued each other as they dusted themselves off the ground and through a chaotic swirl managed to transform into a marching column again. Blink and you would've missed it. Screw the abundant half-plate and the halberds; this was what made the Royal Guard deadly. Ross led the march, receiving short reports along the way from horseless pickets and outriders scarcely faster than the column, but still more valuable than gold now that they were in wight-lands. Wight-lands… Not two weeks from Wallfall and already the soldiers considered this to be enemy territory.

The men picked up the pace without needing to be told, another snowflake falling on Ross' arm. Softly, silent. A green boy might have shrugged it off, but not them. Not the 73rd. We proper winter troops now, he thought as he gazed back, calculating what time they had left before the blizzard hit, looking for stragglers within the surly mist. He could now just about make the Umber men at the rear of the column; a small group of them carrying Lord Tyrion's covered sled. They'd had a horse at first, but it'd broken its leg trying to cross a small creek. The poor Umbers had been devastated that night, and the cooks of the 73rd elated.

Smoke drifted out of chimneys as they approached the village, drawing lazy lines which lay suspended in the air before being scythed by errant winds. A gust rich with the scent of vegetable stew caught Ross right as he took another breath. Eager saliva flooded his gob, and he had to spit before shouting at the men to keep going. They didn't need the encouragement; caught by the smell of hot food they were now little better than wights chasing after fresh meat, marching almost in a trance. They made way past the uninhabited outskirts; wind-powered sawmills whose torn blades leered down on them. Into the village proper where the houses grew densest, almost piling on each other. A small mob of suspicious locals had formed up at the center of the village square, hefting a mismatch of libards, lumberjack's axes, and a hell of a lot of frowns.

Maeber and the Centurion were waiting for him, and Ross hurried up to them as the soldiers spread around the square, letting drop their packs with powerful sights that steamed through the cold air. "Awfully tight grip on those arms, ser," Ross cautioned.

"Let's hope they're just scared," the Centurion whispered back. They stopped a few paces from the man at the head of the northrons. Ross spotted a lot of the very young and the very old in the mob, more women than men.

"You lot seem 'live 'nough," said the leader. Middle aged, shorter than the average guardsman but wide, and with hands big enough to tear a chicken's head out with three fingers. He was eying the thin centurion as if he might need only two.

"So we are," said Donvan. There was a frosty pause before he cleared his throat, "Living, but cold and hungry. We'd be grateful for any assistance in helping set that right."

The villagers murmured anxiously, but the man merely lifted his shoulders, "You're the King's Fists, them's the laws. 'Sides, we'd be cursed right if we let our own army starve in the middle of a war and all." His sausage fingers twitched, the pops painfully loud as he tapped his chin, "We no smallfolk here though, but yeomen." He said it as if he were delivering a friendly word of advice on the nearby bear cave. "Some southrons get mighty confused and seem to treat one like the other."

Donvan seemed to get the message, "Smallfolk or yeomen, we've sworn to follow the King's Edicts to the letter. We'll cause no trouble to you and yours goodman; First Serjeant Ross here knows how to tie a good noose."

Ross stood straight as he gave a ponderous nod at the man, trying to appear reassuring, "Bloody expert at it. The men know better than to test me."

The leader of the villagers stared at him for an unnervingly long while before shifting back to Donvan, and then Maeber. Finally, he nodded. A kid sprang from the crowd, handing him a clothed bundle. He took a loaf of bread from it and cracked it in three with another twitch of his fingers, passing it on to them. "Be welcome then."

Donvan took a polite bite from his piece, all high and proper though he had not a drop of noble blood. Ross wolfed his down in two bites. It was crusty, crackling delightfully into warm little bits as his mouth unleashed all that pent up spittle. He had to struggle to keep it all inside in time to swallow. Good heavens, this is what we fight for, he thought, fighting the urge to jump the boy for more. Maeber seemed like he might do just that until the Centurion shot him a quelling look, reducing him to more amulet-fidgeting. He extended a hand at the leader, "I'm Centurion Donvan, and this here's First Serjeant Ross and Third Scout Maeber. 73rd century, Fourth Regiment… plus a few odds and ends."

He engulfed Donvan's hand with his own, "Folk call me Grip." He smiled dubiously, "On account of my good manners." He turned back and hollered, "Move along people, make sure the King's men get some warm food!" The mob dispersed with a collective sigh, meeting the still arriving guardsmen by the square and handing out food and blankets. They might have been stubborn, suspicious folk, but when host rights were given the northrons took to it with a will. "To tell you the truth, I'm a bit relieved to see you lot. Haven't spotted a single outsider since this bloody mist wafted south." He frowned, "Shouldn't your boys be marching north, though?"

Ross and Donvan shared a look. The silent language between First Serjeants and commanding officers was a strange and supernatural thing. Frighteningly effective thought. I'll tell him, Donvan thought at him. Alright. I'll see to the men, Ross thought back. The centurion cleared his throat, "Grip. Is there a place we might speak privately?"

-: PD :-

Sure enough, a few hours later a snowstorm charged out of the forest and through the tree stumps, rocking the village into a tavern-jig of groaning wood and trembling tarps that set Ross' teeth on edge. The screeching timbers of Wallfall swayed inside his mind as he quickened the pace through the square, shuffling through the howling snow, cheeks raw against the wind as he went from house to house ensuring the men were warm, fed, and well-behaved. The serjeants did most of the work, but he was their lifeline to the Centurion, the channel through which their needs could be heard. "Alright in here, lads?" he asked as he moved the flap aside. Line Six's tent had been attached to the cabin's front like an extension of sorts, to make space for more men. Warmth drifted from the opened wooden door on the other side, along with dribs of hushed conversation steeped in northron slang. Packs and blankets lay scattered as if they'd been living here for a week, but their weapons were all close at hand and suitably untangled. Aye, all proper veterans now.

"We good, ser," said one of the fourteen men clustered around the fire, left hand suspiciously behind his back. Ross sniffed, was that the stench of hooch? It'd been so long he barely remembered the revoltingly pleasant smell. After Wallfall, weeks had turned into years.

"You have better traded for that bottle, Tolly. King might take in thieves, but those that keep the trade get the lash."

Tolly's smile froze, and he sheepishly revealed the bottle behind him, "No thieving, serjeant. Was all done fair an' square."

"Oh, what did you trade it for? Your guard dagger?"

Tolly's smile froze again, and the men around him cringed.

Ross swept a jaundiced eye over the lot of them, making them cringe further still before he gave out a long sigh and tromped closer to the fire. "Make way, you two," he said before plopping his arse right in between Serjeant Jev and Guardsman Hollick. "Truth be told, I could do with a drink or two." Ross had met some First Serjeants that made it their duty to be their centurion's enforcer, yammering and hollering about discipline and never ever mingling with the troops. Truth was, you had to cut the men some slack now and then. Especially now, what with the end of the world and all. They didn't relax completely until Tolly served him a cup and he downed it in one gulp, the mellow glow of complicity spreading through the squad and the First Serjeant's throat.

Fire crawled down his chest, more pain than pleasure. He coughed, tears springing out of his eyes, "These Northrons sure like it raw," he rasped.

The men chuckled cautiously, "Enough fire to roast a wight whole, eh ser?" said Serjeant Jev.

Already the fire was fading into a warm tingle, and Ross nodded easily. The chatter picked up quickly, though nowhere near as rowdy as it would've been had Ross passed them by for the next tent. He lent an ear to the obligatory grousing, as was the First Serjeant's duty. Complaints were lodged about the quality of their beddings, the warmth of the food, the taciturn villagers and the inclement weather. Tactics and grand strategy were picked apart with vicious gusto, as it seemed the King, his Small Council, his Legates and his lords had all been born without the genius good sense that the Seven-Who-Are-One had bequeathed to the common, salt-of-the-earth guardsman.

All in all, morale was better than it had ever been since the Wall had shrugged itself into Slope. It was when the men didn't complain that Ross took heed.

Guardsman Vim was one of the silent ones, and no matter what Ross said the man would only stare at him blankly. Vim marched when told to, fought when directed, and cooked when it was his turn. He did nothing to justify any possible attention by his First Serjeant. And yet Ross knew the man was silently battling wights inside his mind with only one of two outcomes: a stronger soldier, or a wight-in-waiting… and the latter didn't last long before becoming a wight-in-truth. Ross cursed inside the privacy of his own mind. Would that I could battle them mind-wights with you, Vim. A good First Serjeant fought with his troops... and died with them, if needed.

The rustling wind heralded another guest; a stout ball of steel and furs with a sharp, inquisitive stare. "Room here for one?" asked Ser Samwell Tarly.

"Of course," said Ross, at the same time as another three men. The Knight Chronicler sat down with a sigh, waving away the offered cups.

"What brings you here, ser knight?" said Serjeant Jev.

"Just taking a look around," said Ser Samwell. He scratched his paltry beard, frowning thoughtfully, "Say, you men wouldn't mind me asking some questions? For posterity's sake?"

The deceptively light tone left Ross wary, but there was only really one acceptable answer to that. "Ask away, ser."

The knight beamed at that, and unfolded the leather wrapped bundle hanging from his belt. He extracted a hefty tome with a silvery cover; the book that gave the knight his rank. Guardsman Tolly sucked in a breath, "Is that-?"

"The Silver Chronicle," said Hollick, awed.

Ser Samwell caressed the book once before opening it, landing on the last written page with eerie precision. He uncorked a small inkwell, dipped a crow's feather in it, and lifted calm eyes to the soldiers. "Your names?"

Ross watched him jot down the date and the names of all present, nodding thoughtfully. Ross expected to be asked about some lord's great deeds, or perhaps even the King's though he'd not lay an eye on him since they'd marched past Moletown, before the Battle for the Wall. Ser Samwell cleared his voice, "Where do you come from?" he asked him.

Ross blinked, "Pardon?"

"Where do you hail from, First Serjeant Ross?"

"I, well-" What a curious question, to ask for posterity, "Gulltown, Ser Samwell."

"What do you think of it?" asked the knight, not a trace of humor in his deadly pale gaze. If this was some sort of practical joke, he ought to make sure never to play cards with Ser Samwell.

"It's alright, I suppose," he said, searching for something more to add, "There's enough work now for most honest men."

"How so?"

"Well, there's the harbor for one. 'Fore the Antlered Lion you had to pay out of one ear to dock a ship. Then again to move the cargo by wagon past the city gates. Then once again to each lord on the way till you reached a market town. It was so expensive most merchants never bothered to haul a wagonload more than a day's walk uphill from the city." Ser Samwell's face betrayed nothing but keen interest, jotting down words without looking at his book. Would some lord's son learn of Ross' words a century from now? He? Some filthy cobbler's son from Gulltown turned soldier? An odd warmth coursed through his veins, making him speak again, "Bout a year after King Joffrey took the throne, the King's Aides took the Vale by storm. Merchants aught to pay only once, they said. To the Aides, and they would in turn give the lords their share. Gave the merchants little copper tablets in exchange, a token of safe passage of sorts from the local taxmen." Ross shook his head in bewilderment, even after all this time it still sounded crazy, "Of course barely anyone followed through at first. And some whispered the lords were on the edge of revolting before the King slew Aegon the Surprised." He chuckled, "That shut them up alright. By the time of his Royal Progress with Prince Tommen 'round the Vale -when he took Little Robin away and left stout Lord Royce in charge- it was all running like one of 'em waterwheels. Those little tablets made it all simpler, and a lot cheaper too… 'fore we knew it there were more tradesmen and merchants than you could shake a seven-star at. And not all of 'em were bright-eyed crownsmen. Plenty of local folk chipped in for an uncle or a brother or the neighbors' dog to buy a wagon and ply the so called Guardway. You know 'bout the Guardway?" He took a breath as Samwell shook his head, his quill racing to catch up. He was hunched over the Silver Chronicle now, intent, eyes burning as he uncorked another inkwell like an assault troop does a firecharge.

"'Twas the name the folk gave to a long stretch of road they built right through the Vale of Arryn. One of the regiments—not ours, the Third—plopped down outside Gulltown and did nothing but that for a year. Laid these funny little red blocks they called guardbricks all over the Vale. Anyway, there was so much gold flowing in and out of Gulltown that even some of the high folk pinched their noses and bought a cog or two. It spread around too. Hardly any beggar left in the harbor; they were all loading and unloading ships like there was no tomorrow. The city gate was so cluttered with carts they had to leave it open until midnight, bundles of cloth and—watchacallit?—textiles made it up, and foodstuffs too. Arbor Brown, occasionally. Skins and ore on the way down. Ingots later, once they built the furnaces up near Crosstown."

"Oy, something similar happened near Storm's End," said Guardsman Ollyn.

Guardsman Mandon, Ollyn's fellow Stormlander and constant shadow, nodded quickly, "Yeah!" he said, "Fixtures and furniture, so much so we started floating the logs whole-sale down to Stonehelm."

"Oh, do tell," said Ser Samwell.

Line Six rushed to have their voices recorded for posterity with all the dignity of a broken dam. Many of them didn't even know how to read, and yet all but Vim were eager to have their words recorded. The Knight Chronicler took note of Guardsman Ollyn's adventure's logging throughout the Rainwood. He lent an ear to Serjeant Jev's talk about Guard drills in the Crownlands. Hollick talked about his training to be a septon before 'some disagreement' with a lord's daughter forced him out of town and into the Guard. Ben blabbered about massive stills and the dubious merits of the astonishingly cheap King's Swill. "Bless King Joffrey, but the name 'Arbor Brown' never stood a chance," he said. The man told the story—which Ross knew by heart by virtue of repetition—about his meteoric rise from landless laborer to ramshackle innkeeper selling the King's Swill to anyone with a copper piece, and raking in the coin. The fast transition from inn to gambling den didn't prove as smooth, though, and two broken fingers and a fire later he joined the Royal Guard.

"They never mended right, itched when s'was 'bout to rain," said Ben, showing the two stumps in his right hand, "No longer a problem, though. Lost 'em to frostbite last week."

That old adage about a Guard Line always having someone from Fleabottom proved annoyingly true when Guardsman Tolly shared some of his wild tales during the height of the district's Reconstruction, where every single one of his friends proved to be a cut-purse… all now gainfully employed by the Royal Guard or the Sewer Service. All guard units were mixed to a certain extent, but it turned out that Line Six had more of a diverse gathering than usual, to the point where Ross found himself wondering at Ser Samwell's canny choice of tent. They had one of everything; hardy miners flooded with expansions, refurbishments, and new prospects that tripled their mineral output. Fishermen working in the new, massive whaleships. Even Wardens struggling to formalize grey-market poaching. Practically everyone had helped construct something at some point in the last eight years, be it new housing, infrastructure, or even their own workplace. How each ended up in the Guard differed as wildly as their backgrounds. Some signed up out of a burning passion called the 'Silver Fervor' or 'The Kingdom Spirit', depending on which minstrel you heeded. Others barely one step ahead of the hangman. Ser Samwell digested this at lightning speed, jotting it all down in his own words, adding furious notes in the margins wherever he found the space.

The long line of tales was momentarily stalled by a meaty northron girl as she walked out of the cabin's door by the other side of the tent, carrying a heavy cauldron thick with the scent of salted meat and warm vegetables. The guardsmen all reached out with bowls like the Gulltown beggars of old, waving pewter cups for coin. "Settled yet?" she said, picking the ladle and depositing thick scoops of soup one after the other.

"Now we sure are," said Guardsman Tolly, giving her his famous Fleabottom smile and reaping about the same success the beggars had. The woman sniffed contemptuously, but to Ross' surprise gave him a little bit extra. Must have been a first, judging by Tolly's face. Northron hospitality. I'll be damned.

They ended up circling back to the Vale. "Must have been quite the change," said Samwell, his own steamy bowl forgotten as he resumed his scribbling.

Ross nodded. "Oh yes. Everyone wanted some of that gold; taverns sprouted all over the Guardway, and it seemed every other day there was someone in there preaching about the virtues of this or that new thing to come out of King's Landing. Seed drills, spinning wheels, fork plows, cheap horseshoes, you name it. Folk who took a trip to King's Landing—and the 'old Dragonpit—came back changed, New Men alright. There were new market towns too; the King was none too shy 'bout giving permission."

The quill stopped. Samwell let it hover over the paper like a miner with a pickaxe, spotting gold out the corner of his eye. "New Men?"

"Aye," he said, startled by the silent intensity radiating out of Samwell like an overheated stove. The rest of Line Six stared quietly.

"Do you consider yourself a New Man?"

"Aye," Ross said after a beat, "I reckon we all do here."

"How does that work?"

Ross shrugged helplessly, "What do you mean? You just are."

Ser Samwell hummed, the miner undeterred as he shifted his grip on the quill and tried for another angle. "By your features I reckon you of Andal descent, with a bit of First Men here and there. The nose, perhaps your cheekbones. And yet you are more. By what traits would you identify a New Man?"

Ross realized he was feeling his own nose. He let his hand drop, "Well, it's certainly not physical. Of course."

A glint of gold in Samwell's eyes. "What, then?"

"It's a—a trait of the soul, I suppose." Vale-born and raised, Ross couldn't help but look to the closest thing they had to a septon here, treading so close to heresy. Guardsman Hollick was nodding vigorously though, for whatever that was worth.

"A trait of the soul." Samwell seemed almost aroused by the word, his quill annotating it slowly. "A fine chapter heading. But what traits?" he said as he turned his gaze back to Ross with all the suddenness of a hunter. Or a gold-crazed miner. There was no stopping now until he satisfied the knight's quest.

It was Vim that spoke up, his low voice gravelly with disuse, "To look forward instead of backwards," he said, "Our glories wrought by our own hands, shared in all eyes alight with a single certainty; this is our time, this is our land. Dreams instead of History. Soul instead of Blood." He blinked, the fire fading from his eyes, "Ours is our fate."

Ross stared, his throat tickling with something tight and right. He took a long sip from his cup, two fires meeting in his belly. "… Aye, that's about right."

Ser Samwell jotted that down intently, "Yes," he muttered. "Yes." He took a deep breath before closing the book with a clap. They jumped up at the sound, a spell broken. "Thank you, Line Six. First Serjeant." He stood up, stashing his book. "I think I'll continue my walk now. Lots of things to think about."

Ross nodded back, then looked at the rest of the Line, as if sharing a single thought. Silver Knights…

-: PD :-

Ross closed the door to Grip's warehouse with a firm thud, muffling the shrill snowstorm outside. He stamped the snow out of his boots before closing in on the hearth like a bee after honey. Grip and the centurion were chatting by the orange light of the burning cedar limbs, sharing a flask of something awful smelling. Seemed he wasn't the only one drinking. "How are the men?" asked Donvan.

"Settling in alright. Morale's soaring like a bird set free…" Ross hesitated, looking at Grip. Donvan nodded. "A mangy, limping bird. But it's something," he finished.

"You'll be flying alright," said Grip, shooting both of them a resentful scowl. "South as fast as your little wings can carry you."

"I was just informing the alderman of the current strategic realities," explained Donvan, passing him the flask.

Inexplicably, it tasted worse than Tolly's contraband hooch, but it put a fire in his belly. Another one anyway. "It's gonna be mighty difficult marching with this snowstorm, ser. We might need to wait this one out." Possible, but harder than they'd marched in as many days as he could count.

Grip crossed his arms, "And you'll gorge on our food and firewood in the meanwhile," he said.

"This position is untenable," said Donvan, sounding like he'd gone over this a hundred times already. "Rimegate didn't outright collapse on itself, but Lord Commander Royce says there were whole chunks that did, all along the center." He tapped his chair multiple times, "We didn't wait for Legate Snow's word, and how the left flank's faring is anyone's guess. Either way, the path to Winterfell is open— hells, White Harbor even! You need to evacuate as soon as possible."

"With this weather?" said Grip, "We'll need sleds for the old and the little ones; lots of 'em. And we've not a lot of men to make 'em, being as they 'all fighting north… or so they claimed." He lifted half a lip at that, a missing tooth leering through.

"You've got plenty of tools, just need a little time," said Ross, giving the flask back to him. "I'm guessing you've got a bunch of experienced woodworkers around here." The place they were in was a dead giveaway, if the remnants outside the village hadn't been enough. Mallets and saws hung from the walls, and sinuous carving tools lay scattered over heavy work tables.

Grip's shrug was like a rolling earthquake, starting on one shoulder and ending on the other, "Aye. But most of the heavy workshops outside town froze over. We're—"

A harsh bang rattled the warehouse as the side door bulged open and a frost-encrusted wight grinned at them with twin rows of teeth. Ross was already flipping the table, carving tools rattling all over the floor as Donvan took his sword out and Grip gave a startled cry. "Get back!" shouted Ross, grabbing the man's arm and dragging him behind the table as Donvan covered the other end.

The wight didn't walk so much as hover, its legs dangling over the wooden floor before it flipped over and Ross saw the looming shape holding it from behind. Ser Samwell Tarly tossed the wight at their feet, it's shattered chest leaking broken ribs. One of them rolled near Grip's feet, and only then did the alderman grab his woodman's axe. "Found this one and three others sniffing out the outer perimeter," said Samwell, frowning at the wight like a Septon in a whorehouse.

"Shit," said Ross. Knew there was something to this one. He gazed out the cracks in the timbered wall. Snowstorms had a sort of bite when Walkers were about.

"But… you killed them, right?" said Grip, staring at the wight as those who'd never seen one before did. 'Horrified awe', as Guardsman Hollick put it.

"Doesn't matter," said Ross, "If they were being all sneaky and not charging in for blood, then that means someone's pulling the strings."

"A White Walker," said Samwell, "Or several, probably leading a larger force not that far from here."

"Damn it all to hells," Ross said as he turned to Donvan, "We've not the strength to make a stand here." He'd defend his decision in front of the troops, but that didn't mean he'd be an enthusiastic supporter of defeat in detail. "We have to withdraw immediately."

"I can't move my people in this weather!" said Grip, face ashen as he gripped the Centurion's arm, "You'd leave us to die!"

"Ser, every day we stay here will be another day closer to encirclement!"

Donvan seemed caught between two hounds. He stared at both of them before turning to Ser Samwell. The knight didn't bat an eyelash though, and simply stared back.

The Centurion lifted a palm in a familiar gesture, asking for quiet. Five seconds later, he nodded at Grip. "Get your people to work on sleds, small ones capable of carrying those who need it. We'll defend the village for as long as you need us."

Grip seemed taken aback, "Thank you. Old Gods as my witness, we'll owe you our lives for this."

"That's what they pay me for," he said with a disbelieving grin, as if he couldn't believe what he'd just done. It was one thing to face the legions of the dead behind a sky high Wall and the entire Kingdom at your back. Quite another to defend a no-name village cut off from resupply. Ross' stomach dropped, cold sweat blossoming along his back. For all they knew Winterfell had fallen already. "First Serjeant, we'll need to see to the village's defense in the meanwhile. Sketch me a map of which entrances to barricade, and who to man them with."

Damn it all to the Seven Hells. Survived Wallfall to die here of all places. Such was life in the Guard. Ross closed his eyes, "Aye ser."

"Ser Samwell?" Donvan hesitated before plowing through, "Could you lead a scout force? Tell us how much time we have?"

"I can," said the knight.

"Good. Good," said Donvan. "A more organized force will meet you later, see if we can't slow down the wights. Let's get to work."

-: PD :-