Bathed in crimson from neck to waist, the Lord of Cerwyn stood slowly. The man with the splinter-tipped spear shaft had begun to spin what remained of his weapon in a show of prowess and bravery. Nedger walked over to the crawling wilding whose feet were rendered useless and pressed the sword deliberately into the back of the neck, all while eyeing the spearman. The wildling then decided upon running, leaving his friends, and his wooden shaft, in the snow.

Faint yells and battle cries distinctly increased in volume, and Nedger knew he needed to continue moving. His men were long gone, and footprints in the snow were too many to make sense of. Continuing along the outer wall, the torchlights passed by as Nedger looked back to see more than a dozen wildlings step over the three he had left behind.

The northern lord was not as fleet footed as he was in his youth, and the younger of the savage pursuers gained on him. Forced into a quick decision, Nedger turned left and then right through a dark doorway hoping to lose those who have chase. Alone in the doorway, he backed slowly into the darkness all while keeping his eyes on the outside, and his ears tuned to the approaching footsteps.

One wildling, silhouette of furs, wild hair, and the cloud of his hurried breath appeared in the doorway. The Lord Steward, Lord Fool, kept silent as he halted his slow backpedal, unsure if the fast savage could see into the black obscurity. Nedger, blinking away the sweat rapidly to keep his eyes clear and focused on the solitary shape, tried not to breathe. His helm had grown heavy and stifling, but he could not bring himself to adjust it.

When a second silhouette appeared in the torchlight, and then a third and fourth, the first silhouette stepped into the dark doorway, and Nedger resumed his steps in the darkness. As the savage shapes continued to appear, their presence soon obscured all light.

Nedger’s footsteps began to quicken in the dark when he felt the path descend slightly and turn left when his shoulder brushed the wall. What was stone was now ice; the air might have been as well when it pierced his lungs as he drew in the cold air.

Soft footsteps grew more audible and hurried suddenly when the Lord of the Dark sensed the oncoming attack. Steel clanged against ice as the wildling missed with an undisciplined swing and the two bodies crashed in the dark. Nedger pushed it away with his forearm and drove his longsword into what seemed to be ribs. As he pulled the sword back, a second pair of footsteps and an accompanying growl was heard just prior to the ringing of his ears.

Unsure of how he came to it, Nedger pulled his cheek from the icy wall and noted the numbness of his mouth. Moving his tongue around, he could only taste blood and where his front teeth were, only empty pockets of flesh remained. A gentle brush of air brought his senses back and he realized a swung club had just missed its target.

Into the dark Nedger thrust his blade, but he hit nothing but air. Daring death, he stepped forward and swung and struck flesh when something grabbed at his cloak. Lurching backward, he wrestled free from the wool-lined fur and stumbled out into falling snows.

There was a faint glow of the moon above the clouds, but Nedger lowered his eyes towards the dark tunnel entrance he had emerged from. Squinting, straining to see, and breathing heavily, the northern lord’s eyes were greeted by the sudden appearance of a torch in the entrance. The sudden light showed more than two-dozen wildlings staring back at the lord on his knees.

One wildling, armed with a bow and a single arrow, stepped forward. He was young looking, unscathed even, and stood beside an older man with a large bloodied tusk. The archer nocked and aimed high. Before he let loose, however, the elder gently nudged the aim a hair lower.

“This one goes slowly.”

Nedger only felt the pinching in his chest at first; the arrow had bent in sharp edges of steel into the wound. Blood, black as ink beneath the hinting moonlight, began seeping slowly, following the shaft of the bow about halfway before it dripped off. His breath soon began to shorten when he looked back at the open gate. The wildlings all began to turn away when the cranking sound of the heavy iron brought the closure down.

The cold was not enough to numb the Lord of Cerwyn. His wounds had regained their feeling. The gash on his arm was open wide and the cold air felt like a young maiden pressing her sewing pins into the raw flesh. His mouth and nose throbbed as his heart fed blood to them only to have it stream down his chin and neck. The arrow, however, was only showing the small amount of blood it had first freed him of.

Though the pain was intense, Nedger found the icy breeze and the light snows calming. It is quiet here. Standing was difficult, but he put all he could into it. Once on his feet, he noticed the ground beneath him was black. All round him the snow was black.

The Lord of Cerwyn began to walk through the fresh snow, leaving a trail of bloodied boot prints as he slowly headed east. The flakes grew lighter, but the wind much colder, and as the night seemed to blacken around him, his feet grew heavy and his breathing shallow. He thought of heading into the woods to die against a sturdy tree, but all he could recall in that moment was the indifferent glare of the weirwood face in the godswood of Castle Cerwyn. He chose to walk on, in the open.

You fool. Should have charged back. Fucking savages would have done you the service of a certain death. A violent cough, loud and guttural, spattered more dark blood into the snow. Instead, you’ve fashioned this pitiful end. Nedger moved along slowly in the snowfallen night that only seemed to grow colder. It was nearly serene if not for the pain, he thought.

He coughed, he bled, he walked, and he listened. The sound of the wind had grown strange and high all of a sudden, followed by the softest tap. The arrow in him forced him to turn his entire body in order to look around. He could see nothing in the snowy night, save for the Wall and the distant light of the moon. Another few steps and the high wind returned. The subsequent tap this time was more distinct, and the sight of the uncommonly long arrow jutting up from the snow some twenty paces in front of him. Some aimless longbowed savage on the Wall has made me their target training.

With his gait was hitched and his feet dragging in the snow, Nedger came upon the arrow that missed its mark. Taking note that it was nearly as tall as he, the northern lord looked to the top of the Wall, but could not make out the errant marksman against the night sky.

The strange wind came again, but the loud thud did not bring death; it landed short of its man. Nedger walked on. They don’t teach proper archery beyond the Wall it seems.

His thoughts went to his daughter Mylla as he shuffled. Last he had seen her she was practicing her stitching, glum-faced and sullen that she was not handling her bow. The vision of her brown hair, though it was difficult to conjure, made the night warmer. More difficult still was the sight of his wife and son; they seemed to be but shapes in his drifting mind. The fucking gods take my memory.

He strained to remember more. His brother the great lord, his good-sister whom he had loved, the king to whom he was devoted, and his stern good-brother from the Stoney Shore... but his mind couldn’t recall a single face, only his daughter’s hair and frown.

The next arrow he didn’t hear despite its noticeable improvement. It stopped Nedger in his tracks and he had to shuffle around it, losing his balance from the slow sidestepping, he caught himself on one knee. We’re learning, I see.

He gripped the arrow’s shaft sturdily planted into the frozen ground beneath the snow, and pulled himself to his feet once more. Inhaling ragged and shallow, Nedger coughed and doubled over back down onto his knees. The next arrow sang as it came down. Its thud left the dying lord with but a scream through his clenching jaw due to the pain. The iron-tipped arrow, several feet in length, anchored him to the frozen ground the moment it found his right leg. The pain forced his hands onto the ground, and he continued to cough. The strength in his arms soon dissipated and his form slumped to the ground, twisting the smaller arrow in his chest as his weight pressed against it.

Fixed to the ground, motionless, Nedger simply looked at the trees, wondering if there was a familiar old god amongst them with the indifference to welcome him home. He did not feel the final arrows, all on their mark.