Alesander XI

"Gods, I thought it was slow going when we marched north," complained Elia. Just now, they were on picket duty, screening the line of march of tens of thousands of wildlings as they plodded their way to the wall. It was slow not just for the people, but for what they carried. These folk took their whole lives with them: farm animals, sacks of flour and dried fruit, spinning wheels, millstones, all their worldly goods packed on the backs of oxen or sleds pulled by teams of skinny dogs. The women, children, and pack animals in the center were the most vulnerable of all. They fled the dead, abandoning everything they'd ever known to journey to a new world. Gods pity them.

Lady Lance's lance had an obsidian blade on the end that flashed blindingly bright when it caught a sunbeam through the piney canopy of the Haunted Forest. They had few enough of those, but seeing as how they rode with Ser, excuse him, Lord Domeric, they got special consideration.

The night of the dead was still fresh in his mind, though the moon had turned and turned again. When it came to the Others, Al caught only a glimpse. Ser tore into them like a rabid stoat, and that crystal armor did queer things with the light of their torches, making it hard to get a good look at what was underneath, flickering like a full moon on moving water.

"I hope there won't be another incident," said Alesander, remembering when Alfyn Crowkiller tried to pick a fight about pride of position among the outriders. Their lord told him to piss off, then steel was drawn. Domeric's absolute lack of hesitation in killing proved a problem there, for the Crowkiller was gutted before Mance could calm him down. Well, since then, the others had proved more reasonable. The wildlings trusted the Northmen but little, and the black brothers not at all, but they at least had survival instincts enough to look at Bolton banners and quarrel not with them that flew such.

Elia grunted in agreement. Things were tense enough. Some among the Watch wanted Mance Rayder's head for a deserter, but surprisingly, the Old Bead counseled against it. Plainly, he was the only one holding the wildlings together. If this mob was fighting amongst themselves, their task would be impossible.

The garon between his legs was a pitiful creature. Alesander was still growing, having gained three inches and one stone of weight this year alone. Though a knight, Al was still a youth, but the man was coming on. Elia especially liked the rough growth on his cheeks. He stroked his horse's neck. "Stay strong, my friend."

Almost in answer, the horse whickered and shied away. It took a moment to take the beast in hand. Elia, of course, kept cool control of hers as the wolf Nymeria bounded forward.

In her wake came their lord, Arya Stark, and his brother Brad. "Al, Elia, I need to see Mance Rayder about forming a kill team. You're invited, of course."

Al and Elia looked at one another in puzzlement. Kill team? Nevertheless, they fell in and followed the wolf.

They found Mance Rayder amidst the giants. The hairy folk rode mammoths, and spoke no word of the common tongue at all. The first time he'd seen them, Al had been shocked, more shocked than when an undead shadowcat tried to claw his face off.

"Ah, if it isn't the flayed lord," the King-beyond-the-Wall greeted them with a hint of sarcasm.

Lord Domeric looked uncomfortable. "You're not still mad about that Alfyn, are you? I swear he took the first swing."

Rayder shrugged indifferently. "To tell it true, you did me a kindness. My folk needed to witness what you could do. Tales are one thing, but seeing is another. Your red sword moved faster than eyes could follow, and puissant Alfyn Crowkiller, one of my best captains, by the way, fell like wheat before the scythe. There is less talk of turning on you now, I think."

"Glad to hear it." Domeric looked up at the giants. "Might be best if they came and lived with me. I've written my lady wife. There is a nice place they could settle with no people around."

"They will kneel to no lord of men," Mance pointed out.

"I'm not a man who needs his ass kissed," Domeric replied, drawing shocked laughter from the wildlings about. "Only heed my words. Think of me as one of your chiefs. The people in my lands look to me for protection. If you harm them, we have problems. If not, I'll let you alone."

A short man with a broad back and bare arms, with much gold wrapped around them, snorted. "Har! That's better than we're like to get from most!"

"Indeed," the king agreed. "Might be I'll visit this Dreadfort of yours. We could swap songs. I have a few you've never heard, I'm sure, all in the Old Tongue."

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"Interesting. I sing in High Valyrian sometimes, or in Braavosi or Lyseni, mostly for my concubine Mordaena." He started, remembering why he was here in the first place. "Anyway, getting your people over the wall, or under the wall, will take time, time when they're vulnerable. Arya dreamed a dream."

That made everyone pause and take stock. "A dream?" Mance asked.

"Yes, the Others who were shadowing you have stopped their pursuit. They mean to build an outpost upon a frozen lake. There are few wights about to screen them. Most were burned or scattered at the Fight at the Fist. I'd like to gather your best warriors to ride with me. I need to show you they can be killed. We're not helpless. If we ride tonight, we can kill them all. Who knows how long it will take for more to arrive from the Land of Always Winter?"

Mance's eyes narrowed shrewdly. "How many Others?"

"A dozen, at most. We have obsidian blades and arrowheads enough to arm many more than that. Lord Stark will be there with Ice, and the Old Bear is lending Al Longclaw. Arya's wolf will lead us right to them. Not a single one of those blue bastards will escape alive."

That surprised Alesander greatly. A Valyrian steel sword for him?

"I should very much like to be there," said Mance.

Domeric seemed like he didn't like that, but who was he to refuse a king, even a wildling king?

***

"Dismount," Domeric said so loudly that some snow fell from a branch behind him.

"Why so loud?" demanded one they called the magnar, which meant "lord," Al heard.

"They can smell the breath of life," Arya Stark explained. "It was in my dream. There is no way to surprise them. They already know we're here."

"Fine," the wildling lord replied shortly. He clutched an obsidian dagger in one hand and held a bronze axe in the other.

For his part, Alesander Frey drew Longclaw. It was a bastard, or hand-and-a-half sword, but light enough to wield in one hand so he could have a torch in the other. Some of their foresters were getting a fire going, piling up some logs they had cut before the trip and oiling them up. One wildling lad struck a spark off a flint, and suddenly they were almost blinded.

"Hold your torch far away from your eyes so you don't go too nightblind," Lord Domeric instructed. He drew his sword of red Valyrian steel, while Lord Stark clutched the greatsword Ice, and Arya Dark Sister. "Archers, forward. Shoot at anything that glints or flashes."

The frozen lake was visible beyond. At this distance, all he could see was a sea of blue stars, the unholy eyes of the cold and the dead. When their archers loosed, some of those eyes winked and guttered out. The telltale sound of cracking ice and unholy screams shook the woodline.

His wife Elia held her spear Dornish fashion, though more comfortable mounted, she was no slouch on her feet either.

"Nymeria will know when it is time to get to grips with them. It's like your dream, right, Arya?"

"It is," the girl confirmed. "Some of the Others are already dead. They're taking cover behind a half-completed wall of ice they made. Wait for it...now!"

Lord Domeric shouted no battle cry as he followed the wolf. This was to be no battle, but slaughter. These Others were weeds that needed to be pulled, unnatural pollution, nothing more.

Al heard a dull clang, and their lord met the first foe upon the Ice. Lord Stark shouted, "Winterfell!" but Arya Stark's battle cry was "Dreadfort!" which was a bit funny. Al and Elia didn't bother. He held his torch low, looking for shimmers and glints. Something almost silent came at their side, but his wife fended it off with a spear thrust. They really were light upon the snow! There was a thin crust above the lake of ice, giving them somewhat decent footing.

Husband and wife worked together, driving the fiend back. Al noticed the blue eyes were easy to mark in the dark, even if their armor of darkling crystal caught no light. He lashed out with Longclaw, a downcut that might've split the demon's head, but the Other caught and turned the blow with its pale blade. While he worried about his head, Elia went low, burying her dragonglass spearpoint in its guts, if Others had guts.

"Fuck, that's cold!" she exclaimed, dropping her pikestaff in pain.

Around them, more cracking ice could be heard. Some scattered wights were aflame after running afoul of torches. The Other Elia stabbed was longer in dying, clutching at the spear and trying to pull it out; even as its hands wrapped around the wood, they melted and dissolved. Elia tried to pick it up again, but it was still too cold to hold.

Alesander took a defensive position, guarding Elia while she was unarmed. The one they called the magnar launched himself into the air, driving his dagger into a shimmering shade. Lord Stark swept all before him with long, looping cuts from his greatsword.

Domeric, Arya, and Brad were behind a wall, butchering the ones taking cover. He heard ice crack thrice in a short space.

Suddenly, he spotted a shimmer. An Other stood before him, drawing itself up to its full height, which, he regretted to notice, was half a head more than Al. The hatred in his blue eyes seemed to concentrate in his pale blade. They danced.

Longclaw was faster than any sword had a right to be, and Alesander was strong on defense; though the Other was terrifyingly quick, he had no trouble beating it back. Suddenly remembering something Arya said, he feinted high and went low with a shallow cut.

Blue blood dripped from its wounded thigh. "Just a scratch will do," Arya told them. He only needed to touch the Other lightly, and it was done for. The hate in its eyes did not dim at all as it stumbled. It steamed like your head when you take your helmet off after long training, until there was nothing but a cold wind that broke up in the moonlight.

"Gather up any arrows you see!" Lord Domeric called. "We need to get the hell off this lake before it melts!"

Al looked down and plucked one up. It was still icy cold, even through his glove, but he could bear to hold it. When they returned to the treeline and took a count, they found that they hadn't lost a man. Mance Rayder and his wildlings looked like they couldn't believe what had just happened. Lord Stark was quiet, but for Al, this was just another day with Domeric Bolton.