Night thickened, and with it, the roar of the Mountain Clans.
A horn blasted, raw and guttural.
Out of the darkness, shadows surged.
The fort was a semicircle backed against a steep cliff. One way in. One way out.
"Here they come!" Lauchlan roared, gripping his sword until his knuckles turned white.
The clansmen charged, carrying crude ladders lashed together with vines.
"Archers!" Lauchlan commanded. "Loose!"
A thin volley of arrows whistled into the dark. Screams followed. Some fell, but the rest trampled over their bodies without breaking stride.
"Spears!"
Wooden javelins flew, biting deep into flesh. More clansmen dropped, but the tide was unstoppable.
Thud.
The first ladder slammed against the wooden palisade.
"Hold!"
Solomon drew his Myrish blade. The fine steel caught the torchlight, a silver fang in the night.
He lunged to the wall. A wildling was halfway up. Solomon swung down—a clean, vicious arc.
Shhk.
The blade bit into the man's neck. Blood sprayed, and the warrior fell backward, taking two others with him.
Beside him, Bronn watched. He was surprised. The kid could actually fight.
"Kill!" Solomon roared, his voice cutting through the chaos.
"Kill!" Lauchlan echoed.
"Kill! Kill! Kill!"
The soldiers, infected by the madness, stabbed and hacked at the climbing figures. Axes, swords, spears—anything to stop the tide.
Bronn moved like a panther along the walkway. He didn't waste energy. He waited.
A wildling head popped up.
Thwack.
Bronn's sword went through the throat. He kicked the body off the ladder.
Another tried to flank. Bronn spun, slicing half the man's face off.
"Nice work, sellsword!" Solomon shouted between breaths. "I'll add a bonus!"
"Just doing the job!" Bronn sneered, backhanding another climber off the wall. "Don't die before you pay me!"
This money better be worth it, Solomon thought, dodging a throwing axe.
The assault was relentless. Ladders were pushed down, only to be raised again. The wood of the palisade was slick with blood. The air reeked of iron and sweat.
Solomon fought in a trance. His sword was a blur—stab the eye, slice the throat, pierce the ear. Efficient. Deadly. Like a dance of death.
"These savages are annoying!" Bronn grunted, kicking a clansman in the teeth. He was covered in gore.
"So are we," Solomon replied calmly.
Time blurred. Muscles burned. Lungs screamed for air.
Solomon leaned against the parapet, gasping. He didn't know how many he had killed. His arm felt like lead.
He glanced toward the river valley. Still pitch black. No sound of rushing water.
Lushen! Where are you?!
Distracted, he missed the glint of metal.
A wildling threw a jagged knife.
Solomon saw it too late. He tried to dodge, but his legs were heavy.
Thud!
A body slammed into him, knocking him down.
"My Lord!"
Lauchlan grunted, the knife buried in his shoulder. He ripped it out with a roar. "Watch out!"
Solomon grabbed Lauchlan's hand and pulled himself up. No words were needed. Just a nod.
More wildlings swarmed up.
"Argh!" Tommen screamed nearby. He blocked a blow with his shield but was too exhausted to counter. Another soldier saved him with a spear thrust.
Solomon looked around. His men were failing. They were brave, but they were human.
And someone was missing.
Bronn.
Below the Wall.
Bronn crouched in the shadows near the main gate.
"I am not dying for this," he muttered, wiping blood from his eyes. "Solomon, you little shit. My sword is yours, but my life is mine."
"That was the deal."
"Always acting like you know everything... arrogant brat."
Westeros was big. The Free Cities were bigger. There was always another war, another lord with gold. Why die here in a wooden box?
Bronn crept toward the stable area. The gate was under heavy assault, distracting the guards. If he could grab a horse, he could burst out when the gate broke and ride into the night.
He reached the hitching post.
And stopped.
Six mountain ponies lay on the ground, throats slit.
And hanging from a beam above them was a rope. Tied in a perfect hangman's noose.
Bronn stared at it.
"Solomon!!"
His scream tore from his throat, raw and filled with hatred.
"Solomon! I'm going to kill you!!"
Up on the wall, Solomon heard it and smirked. "Trying to leave? Die with me, you bastard."
The Gate.
Outside, the Milk Snake Chief roared.
"Bring the ram!"
Ten warriors hefted a massive tree trunk, sharpened to a point.
BOOM!
The wooden gate groaned.
BOOM!
Splinters flew. The hinges screamed.
"Lord Solomon! The gate! It's breaking!" a soldier wailed.
Solomon looked down. The gate was buckling. Once it fell, the wildlings would flood in. It would be a massacre.
It was too late. The water hadn't come.
Solomon closed his eyes for a second, then opened them.
"Brothers!" he shouted, raising his sword one last time. "It has been an honor to fight beside you!"
The soldiers raised their weapons, ready for the end.
CRACK!
The gate shattered.
The wildlings roared in triumph, ready to surge in and slaughter the "rats."
But they stopped.
Standing alone in the ruined gateway was a single man.
He was covered in blood. His face was twisted in a rictus of pure, homicidal fury.
"SOLOMON OF Mirekeep!!"
Bronn screamed, his voice cracking, louder than the entire wildling horde.
"I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!!"
He pointed his sword at the darkness behind him.
"WHERE IS THE WATER?!!"
"WHERE IS THE GODDAMN WATER?!!"
"WHERE IS THE FUCKING WATER?!!"
Bronn stood his ground, a demon of spite, ready to kill every savage in the Vale just to get his hands on his employer.