Chapter 241

"Ser Jaime... the portcullis... it's been lowered!"

"I saw it!" Jaime snapped, his voice laced with irritation as he turned to take in the seething throng of thousands of wildlings packed at the gate. It became immediately clear why Mormont had given the order: the newly reinforced and walled-in Castle Black was far more defensible, but at the cost of reduced space—its grounds now only a fraction of the original size. With over a thousand Night’s Watch brothers and militiamen from the Gift already filling the keep to capacity, letting this mob of wildlings pass through the Wall without first disarming was out of the question. Even if, by some miracle, they weren’t bringing those "things" beyond the barricade, their very presence posed a grave threat to Castle Black.

And worse still, the horrors outside the wooden walls—their inhuman pursuers—were already ramming the gates and scaling the timber barricades. If the portcullis was raised to allow entry, no one would be left to hold the line against them.

Better to let none in than to risk chaos at the gate—where desperate wildlings would trample one another for the chance to escape—only to have their backs turned to the slaughter. Better to force everyone to pick up a weapon and fight back.

Jaime, born of a noble house, could grasp this cold calculus, but that didn’t mean the others—his brothers in black and the refugees who had barely escaped the Haunted Forest—would. A mob of wildlings clustered before the portcullis, their voices rising in anger, shouting curses and protests in the Common Tongue, the Old Tongue, and other languages Jaime couldn’t begin to recognize. Some even called for the gate to be lifted by force.

“Silence!” The Kingslayer stepped to the front of the gate, shouting with all the authority he could muster. “Even if you raise the portcullis, no more than a tenth of you will escape. Pick up your weapons and drive back the monsters chasing you. That’s the only way we survive!”

“And who are you to order us around?”

“Just a bloody crow! Get out of our way!”

The sharp sound of steel leaving its scabbard was followed by a gleam of Valyrian steel, and the wildling who had raised a club against Jaime fell to the ground, blood pouring from his throat. The Kingslayer stared down at his handiwork, blood dripping from his blade. Realizing reason would fail here, he lifted his sword and roared, “You bastards! You either pick up a weapon and push those dead things back where they came from, or I’ll kill you myself—just like this fool here!”

Jaime had never imagined himself speaking such crude, venomous words. Yet the effect was instantaneous. The sight of his bloody sword—and the steely gazes of the black-clad men behind him—silenced the nearest tribes. Those who understood the Common Tongue began relaying his words in the Old Tongue and to the remaining giants. Slowly, reluctantly, the wildlings turned, picked up their weapons, and faced the crumbling wooden walls where the dead were closing in.

They weren’t moved by Jaime’s rhetoric or suddenly inclined to cooperate. The reality of their situation left no room for doubt. The portcullis, reinforced with iron and steel, would not budge. The dead were at the gates, and their only choice was to fight for survival—not for the Night’s Watch, not for humanity, but for themselves and their kin.

Amid the biting cold and swirling snow, the wildlings huddled behind the timber barricades with the Night’s Watch brothers, armed with whatever weapons they could find. They lit torches and fires, hoping against hope that the flames would hold back the enemy.

They didn’t have to wait long. With a deafening crash, the wooden gates gave way under the assault of countless wights. The dead poured in.
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“Jaime is trapped beyond the Wall?” Aegor drew in a sharp breath. “Why him?”

The soldier he’d cornered shrugged helplessly. “No reason, my lord... It was just his turn on duty today.”

That was bad. Very bad. Aegor clenched his fists, his mind racing. Jaime Lannister might be a ranger captain, and a dedicated one at that, but he was no ordinary officer. If anything happened to him, it wouldn’t just be a matter of losing one man—it would send shockwaves through the Seven Kingdoms. Tywin Lannister’s support for the Wall would vanish, and if the Westerlands believed the North had engineered Jaime’s death, the entire realm would plunge into chaos.

Mormont understood the gravity of the situation. “We need to find a way to bring him back.”

“He won’t come alone,” Aegor muttered, shaking his head. “Get every barrel of oil from the stores. We’ll need them all to push the dead back.” He cursed the timing. The wildfire shipment from King’s Landing had only recently reached Eastwatch, but the Night’s Watch had been too preoccupied with the influx of wildlings to transport it. “We’ll surround the barricades with fire and use the chance to cover the retreat of our men.”
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The barricades, meant to disarm the wildlings, were well-stocked with tools and weapons. The remaining giants, the strongest wildling warriors, and the spearwives quickly armed themselves. The young and weak were herded into the inner circle, most carrying flaming torches rather than blades.

The dead surged through the fallen gates, shambling toward the huddled survivors.

“Spread out! Charge!” Jaime roared.

If they stayed clustered, the wights would cut through them like a scythe through wheat. The smarter wildlings caught on and bellowed their own battle cries, leading the charge.

“Kill them!”

“Burn, you bastards!”

“@#¥%&!”

The air filled with shouts in countless tongues, the screams of dying horses, the growls of dogs, and the thunderous voices of giants. The first to reach the defenders was a massive wight direwolf, its ragged fur hanging from its skeletal frame. Faster than the rest, it lunged at Jaime, but the Kingslayer sidestepped, his muscles tensing beneath his armor as his steel blade severed its neck. The beast crashed to the ground and was quickly engulfed in flames as wildlings jabbed it with torches.

Jaime’s skill and courage steadied the defenders. Slowly, the wildlings began to rally around him, fighting with the desperation of the doomed. Their cries inspired others, drawing even the young and fearful into the fray. They fought with whatever they could find—torches, clubs, makeshift spears—striking at the undead until one fell, then turning to face the next.

The battle was chaos. For every wight that fell, a dozen more surged through the breach. The giants, unable to retreat in time, became islands in the tide of the undead, dragged down by sheer numbers. The air rang with the clash of steel, the splatter of blood, and the crackle of burning wights, mixing into a grotesque symphony of death.

Thankfully, no White Walkers had joined the assault. Against the wights alone, the defenders managed to hold—for now. But they had no path to safety, no means of escape. Their only hope lay in the commanders at Castle Black, and whether they would show mercy and raise the portcullis.

As the wooden walls began to splinter and collapse, the hulking shadow of an undead giant loomed at the edge of the forest. The balance of the battle was about to tip irrevocably.