Chapter 149 – The Road Beyond the Wall
The army filed out through the Wall's narrow gate, then regrouped at its base.
Horses whinnied in the frozen air. Supply wagons creaked as their wheels ground against the hardened earth. Knights gathered in clusters, offering final prayers before departure.
Once the full host had assembled, they set off under the guidance of an elderly wildling.
Their destination was the hill where the Three-Eyed Crow resided. Based on what Charles had witnessed—and on Melisandre's divinations—they had pieced together a rough location. The old wildling recognized it at once: a place near Windy Gorge, a mountain known as Hornwood Peak.
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"I remember pissing there once," the old wildling, Gorne, remarked casually as he rode beside Charles.
(Note: Different Gorne.)
His breath billowed in white spirals before his chest, and frost clung to the ring of yellowed beard around his mouth.
The Wall was cold enough. But beyond it, the farther north they traveled, the more brutal the temperature became.
For the wildlings, born and raised in the frozen lands beyond the Wall, it was harsh but tolerable.
For the northern soldiers Charles and Melisandre had brought—it was agony.
They had marched less than half a day when the men began shivering uncontrollably in their saddles, teeth chattering.
Strangely enough, Charles—who looked far too refined for such hardship—seemed barely affected. Though wrapped in heavy robes and fur-lined cloaks, he rode upright and alert, glancing about with bright, steady eyes.
"Why isn't he cold?" someone muttered from the ranks behind.
"He's no ordinary man. Of course he's not cold," another replied, hugging himself and trembling.
"Then why isn't that Red Woman cold either?"
"Maybe standing near him keeps you warm?" the soldier guessed, casting an envious look toward the front of the column.
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There were no true roads beyond the Wall.
More than two thousand men trudged through snow and ice, stretched into a long, winding line across the white wilderness.
One day.
Two days.
Three.
Nothing attacked them. No ambushes. No unnatural horrors.
They pressed on—across the plains beneath the Wall, through the white woods, then over a makeshift bridge they built across the Antler River. From there, they advanced deeper into the haunted wilderness known as the Haunted Forest.
Above them, a black hawk circled tirelessly, observing the army and everything surrounding it. From time to time, it cried sharply in the frozen sky.
It was Gorne's "pet."
Or, more accurately—
his skinchanging companion.
Gorne had been personally sent by the King-Beyond-the-Wall, Mance Rayder, to assist them. Marching across this endless white wilderness without sharp eyes in the sky would be suicide.
"The white demons only come at night," the old wildling said as they rode. "But the wights? They can crawl out anytime."
"You fought them often?" Charles asked, rubbing his face with both hands as he spoke.
Thanks to his Child of the Sun talent, he didn't fear the cold as much as others—but that didn't mean he felt nothing. After hours of marching, even his cheeks had grown stiff with frostbite's bite.
That was why a long-forgotten spell—Warming Hearth—had returned to service. The incantation was subtle, barely more than a murmur, so to outsiders it sounded like idle muttering. What they did notice was the persistent flush on his face.
Melisandre, walking not far from him, clearly sensed the magical fluctuation, but she said nothing. With the ruby at her throat pulsing faint warmth, she feared no cold at all.
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"No," Gorne replied to Charles's question. "We never fought the white demons head-on during the migration. But they followed us. Always at our backs. Striking from the shadows. Never showing themselves in daylight."
He spat angrily at the ground—though the spit froze into ice before it even landed, rolling across the snow crust like a bead of glass.
"Not counting the stragglers… we lost hundreds of scouts alone."
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The Night's Watch had reacted quickly during the wildlings' great migration. Total casualties had been just over a thousand. That relatively low number was precisely why Charles dared to march north so boldly.
If they were facing tens of thousands of wights, he would never have risked placing himself in such danger.
Of course, beyond the Wall there were still other living creatures—just far fewer than before.
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The army marched through the seemingly endless Haunted Forest, frequently passing abandoned wildling villages.
Once, this forest had been the wildlings' greatest gathering ground. Now it stood silent and deserted. But memory does not vanish so easily.
At one village, Gorne unearthed a buried cask of mead. Under the soldiers' curious stares, he grinned wide.
"Old Raymun got eaten by a snow bear before Mance called us together. I knew his hidden stash would never be found. See? His son's a fool!"
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Days passed.
Seven. Eight.
The northern soldiers gradually lost their initial terror of the lands beyond the Wall.
No White Walkers. No wight hordes. Hardly even wild beasts attacked them. With experienced wildlings guiding the march, they navigated the massive snowy forest with growing confidence.
Aside from the relentless cold, the journey had proven surprisingly manageable.
Fear thrives on the unknown. And as the fog of uncertainty lifted, what had once seemed like a realm of nightmares now felt merely harsh—but survivable.
Charles relaxed somewhat.
But only somewhat.
Too much misfortune is dangerous.
Too much smooth sailing is worse.
Their march had been unnervingly smooth. Even Melisandre's fire divinations revealed nothing amiss.
That uneasy calm lasted half a month.
By the time they finally sighted Hornwood Peak in the distance, the army had penetrated deep into the far north.
"Stay sharp. Final stretch," Gorne ordered grimly, closing his eyes to peer through his hawk's vision.
The enemy could not possibly have failed to notice a force of this size. And yet nothing had happened.
Anyone with sense knew that wasn't normal.
Still, they pressed forward—more cautiously now, but without retreat.
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They left the forest behind and crossed a wide, open plain between the trees and Hornwood Peak. Under the pale, ash-colored northern sky, the army slowed its pace instinctively.
Snow crunched under hooves in an endless rhythm. The formation tightened into a defensive circle. No rush—only steadiness.
Charles marched near the center.
Suddenly, a sound carried across the wind.
Beside him, Jon Snow stiffened. His bow was already in hand. He loosed an arrow without hesitation.
A snow fox collapsed in the drift with a faint whimper.
"Just a fox, my lord," Jon said, lowering his bow.
Yes—Jon Snow had joined the march.
Cautious by nature, he should have avoided such a dangerous expedition. But perhaps the presence of a certain red-haired wildling woman had influenced his decision.
Charles couldn't help but think: Hormones cloud judgment.
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The army advanced slowly.
The plain around Hornwood Peak was buried under deep, compacted snow. Eventually, the horses could go no further. The men dismounted.
"This used to be marshland," Gorne explained. "Once we're past this stretch, it'll be easier."
Charles nodded and stepped forward among his guards.
Then—
His eyes narrowed.
"Form ranks!" he shouted sharply.
The column halted instantly. Horns blared across the formation.
"What is it, my lord?"
Charles didn't answer. He simply pointed ahead.
At first glance, there was nothing there.
But at his signal, Jon loosed another arrow into the drift.
The snow exploded upward.
A black, desiccated hand burst through the crust.
Then another.
And another.
Cracked fingers clawed upward, tearing through frozen layers. Corpses hauled themselves from beneath the snowpack, skeletal faces contorting in silent rage.
Before the stunned soldiers' eyes, a grotesque horde of wights rose from the earth itself.