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Chapter 242
🕑 Added 2025-01-28 23:02:31 +0000 UTCThe wights tore down long stretches of the wooden barricades and began flooding into the camp from all sides. The living were forced back step by step, soon finding themselves relying on piles of debris, flickering campfires, and the bodies of their fallen comrades as makeshift defenses.
The situation was utterly desperate, yet the repeated explosions and bursts of fire offered a glimmer of hope. Each barrel of oil wreaked more havoc among the wights than a dozen Kingslayers could, but it wasn’t just the destruction that lifted spirits—it was the psychological reassurance that the defenders on top of the Wall had not abandoned them.
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Two hundred meters above, on the Wall’s icy summit, Night’s Watch sentries strained to hurl barrels of oil and rain fire arrows down upon the chaos below. The goal was to create a fiery barrier to protect the survivors, but the sheer height made accuracy almost impossible. It was a delicate balance: throw too far, and the barrels would land uselessly outside the barricades; too close, and they risked igniting their own allies. As a result, many barrels landed just beyond the walls, forming scattered bonfires that the wights merely skirted, failing to create a solid line of defense.
As the brothers on the Wall peered anxiously over the edge, their frustration mounting, a soft, languid voice broke through the tension from behind them.
"Dear friends of the Night’s Watch... I hear you’re in some trouble?"
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At some point, unnoticed by most, Melisandre had ascended to the top of the Wall via the winch cage.
"Thousands of lives are about to be lost to the wights below." Aegor turned toward the sorceress, his hope rekindled at the sight of her. He quickly explained his plan: "We want to create a ring of fire around the barricades with the oil barrels, but our aim is too poor, and the flames aren’t spreading fast enough."
"I see," the Red Woman replied, her voice calm, almost amused. She approached the edge of the Wall with unhurried grace, her red robes flowing around her like a living thing, and glanced down.
The hastily constructed barricades were collapsing under the relentless assault of the undead. The defenders' courageous stand did nothing to deter the wights or the grotesque, reanimated animals among them. The surviving Night’s Watch brothers and wildlings were now pressed against the Wall in a crescent formation, their numbers steadily dwindling as those on the outermost edges fell one by one. The scene was one of utter hopelessness—like a mudball eroding under the onslaught of waves.
Melisandre raised her head. "It seems they need assistance."
"Lady Priestess," Mormont growled in irritation, "if you and your so-called Red God have any tricks left, now is the time to use them. Spare us your riddles."
"Very well, Lord Commander," Melisandre replied with a slight bow of her head. "Since you ask, I shall assist." She clasped her hands before her, then raised them into the air, displaying them as if to an audience. "I shall call upon R’hllor, but whether He chooses to answer... that is beyond my control."
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Of course, “calling upon R’hllor” was merely a pretense. A true god could not be expected to intervene in every petty struggle.
Melisandre had lingered at the Wall for some time now, searching for the right opportunity to display her power and assert her influence. The Night’s Watch and their southern allies were not so easily awed—ordinary tricks and illusions held little sway over men who had seen the unnatural with their own eyes. If she remained idle any longer, her presence here would become meaningless.
Perhaps it was time to expend a portion of her precious power. Even if it didn’t make the black-clad brothers bow to her will, it would surely lend credibility to her efforts to spread R’hllor’s faith among the people of the Gift. Besides, for reasons she couldn’t quite fathom, her magical reserves replenished far more quickly at the Wall than they ever had in the south.
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Resolving herself, Melisandre turned her gaze to the battlefield below and began to channel her power.
The fires and kindling scattered across the ground provided ample fuel. From memory, she selected a simple spell of combustion—a spell even a novice could learn. But casting it from two hundred meters above, and amplifying the flames to a size capable of halting the wight tide, was an entirely different matter. Even the simplest magic became a monumental task under such conditions.
But Melisandre was no novice. As one of the most gifted servants of the Lord of Light, she was confident in her ability.
Closing her eyes, she murmured incantations under her breath. The long-neglected strain of powerful magic coursing through her body brought a sharp, almost pleasurable pain. Invisible tendrils of fire-aligned energy flowed out from her, snaking down toward the battlefield.
The officers watching her were skeptical, some visibly annoyed by what they saw as theatrics. But the soldiers firing flaming arrows from the Wall gasped in unison.
Below, the scattered fires around the barricades suddenly flared, their flames leaping meters into the air. The glow intensified, and the flames began spreading unnaturally fast, igniting fallen wooden walls and gates. Within moments, the barricades had become a blazing, two-meter-high ring of fire, separating the wights outside from the defenders within.
This was no ordinary fire. Even wildfire could not spread so quickly or burn so fiercely.
All eyes turned to Melisandre, their skepticism replaced by awe. The witch, it seemed, was not all talk.
The inferno consumed dozens of wights caught in its path, splitting the undead army into two isolated groups. The wights trapped within the barricades—less than a hundred—were quickly overwhelmed by the reinvigorated defenders. For the first time, it seemed the wildlings might actually survive.
"Keep throwing the barrels," Melisandre instructed, her voice calm despite the effort it took to maintain the spell. She knew the importance of appearances. "Even R’hllor cannot conjure fire from nothing. It must have something to burn."
The evidence before them left Mormont no room to argue. He turned sharply to his men. "You heard her! Keep throwing!"
Aegor felt the heat radiating from Melisandre as he leaned over the edge to assess the situation. The flames were spreading rapidly, consuming the barricades entirely. The roar of fire and the sound of collapsing timber echoed across the battlefield. The intensity of the blaze surpassed anything that could have been achieved with wildfire alone.
The wights outside the ring hesitated, their movements halting in eerie unison. Though mindless, the intelligence controlling them was not. It understood the fire was impassable. The undead outside took measured steps back, spreading out to reduce their vulnerability to the fire arrows raining down from the Wall.
"Commander, we must raise the portcullis now! There’s still a chance to save them!"
"But so many... there are more of them than all of us in Castle Black and the mountain clans combined. If—"
"Order the gate raised to a height of one man," Mormont barked, his expression grim. "Alert the brothers managing the portcullis—if the horn sounds, lower it immediately."
----
As the gate rose slightly, cheers erupted from below, loud enough to reach the Wall’s summit. The wildlings, battered but no longer panicked, began organizing themselves with surprising discipline. The fighters formed a protective perimeter, allowing the injured and children to pass through first.
The crisis seemed to be subsiding, thanks to Melisandre’s intervention. But just as the defenders began to hope, the Red Woman’s expression shifted. Her gaze fixed on the edge of the Haunted Forest.
"They’re coming," she said, her voice low.
Mormont followed her line of sight but saw nothing. "Who? What?"
A chilling sense of familiarity prickled across Aegor’s skin. He knew what she meant before he saw it. Though the Others had yet to appear, a flash of icy light at the edge of his vision sent terror racing through him. Without hesitation, he shoved Melisandre aside, his instincts screaming of imminent danger.
