Chapter 9: Battle at the Bridge of Skulls
MC POV
North, Castle Black, 289 AC
We had just received word from Winterfell; the raven's message unfolded like a long-held breath finally released—the war had ended, and the Greyjoys had failed. Catelyn Stark had sent for me to return. I suspected it was because she didn't want to face Ned's wrath for sending me to this frozen shit-hole.
I had been at Castle Black for about seven months, and in that time, I had grown accustomed to the harsh conditions and even found a place among the brothers. After six months, I was considered skilled enough to join the patrols—a record for the youngest ever to do so. Despite the risks, I insisted on doing my part, compelling Benjen to accompany me to help me gain experience.
Our journey took us to the Shadow Tower, and along the way, I encountered villages that harbored a deep-seated hatred for the wildlings. Their reasons were clear enough; the wildlings raided these settlements, stealing food, assaulting the people, and burning what they couldn't take. The villagers' lives were a constant cycle of fear and rebuilding.
Arriving at the Shadow Tower, my initial impression was one of disbelief. How could such a ramshackle place hold the line against the wildlings? The outpost seemed more a relic of desperation than a defensible fort. My uncle quickly went to confer with the commander, Ser Denys Mallister, leaving me to wander and observe.
As I explored the grounds, the stark reality of life at the Shadow Tower struck me. Compared to Castle Black, which I had begun to see as a bleak refuge, this was the bottom of the world. The men here were clad in leather and fur, armed with what little steel or bronze they could muster. Their appearance—reek of unwashed bodies, thick beards, and gaunt faces—told stories of severe hardship and scarcity.
Eventually, my explorations led me to the infamous Bridge of Skulls. Standing there, looking out at the narrow, treacherous path, I mused bitterly about the wildlings under Mance Rayder. Why hadn't the 100,000 strong horde attacked from here? Mance had once been a brother of the Night's Watch; surely, he knew this weak point. It seemed a gross oversight, or perhaps, I thought with a scoff, the title 'King Beyond the Wall' granted more arrogance than sense. They could have easily overwhelmed this dilapidated bastion. 'dumb fukcs'.
As I stood on the bridge, the biting cold gnashing at my face, a fierce resolve crystallized within me. I would exploit any weakness to ascend to the heights I deserved. Lost in this grim determination, my eyes caught a movement at the far end of the bridge—a horde of wildlings, perhaps five hundred strong, was surging toward us. My heart pounded with a mix of fear and exhilaration. "Holy shit, that's a lot," I gasped, sprinting back to warn the others.
Despite our meager force of two hundred, not a man showed fear; instead, they prepared grimly to receive our unwelcome guests. Uncle Benjen urged me to stay inside the safety of the castle walls, but I refused. This was the moment I had been waiting for—to feel the raw, chaotic pulse of battle, to test my mettle.
As the Night's Watch lined up in formation, spears and shields at the ready, I took my place among them. The bridge allowed for no more than five men abreast, a natural choke point that we could use to our advantage. The wildlings charged without strategy, a reckless, frenzied onslaught that initially seemed suicidal.
Their archers, however, began to turn the tide, their arrows finding marks while ours largely missed. Frustrated, I grabbed my bow—its quality superior to the standard issue—and began shooting. Each arrow I released flew true, thudding into the skulls of charging wildlings with sickening certainty.
The melee was brutal and short-lived. Once the clash subsided, we cleared the bridge by heaving the fallen wildlings into the abyss below. Back inside, while the men celebrated their grim victory, I received quiet commendations for my precise shooting. Some grumbled that a real warrior would have fought with a sword, not "cowered" behind others. I shrugged off their envy and disdain; they couldn't understand that effectiveness in killing held its own honor.
Yet, the night was far from over. Amidst the echoes of celebration, a bloodcurdling scream tore through the air. I leaped up, sword in hand, and rushed to Benjen's side. Together, we faced the shuddering gates, weapons drawn, hearts pounding.
With a deafening crash, the doors burst open. Two figures, each towering nearly seven feet tall with wild brown hair and long, tangled beards, stormed through. They were not giants, but in the dim torchlight, their size seemed monstrous.
"Is that a giant?" I muttered, half in jest, but the levity of my comment died in an instant.
"Next time, shut the fuck up," Benjen hissed, bracing for battle.
As the figures charged, focusing their fury on me, adrenaline surged through my veins. I wasn't about to wait for death to come to me. Dashing forward, I dodged the first brute's swing and used his knee as a step to propel myself upwards. My blade, resting on my shoulder, swung with all the momentum of my ascent, severing his head in a spray of blood.
Spinning around, I saw the second wildling bearing down on my uncle. Without hesitation, I sliced through the giant's Achilles tendon, dropping him to his knees. Benjen wasted no time, thrusting his sword deep into the wildling's throat. Looking around we saw more wildlings arrive "It seems we will have a long night".
As the chaos settled and the last threats fell, silence reclaimed the night, broken only by the heavy breaths of the living. Standing amidst the carnage, I realized that this battle was just the beginning. I had proven myself in combat, but the path ahead was fraught with greater dangers and darker realities. It's time to go back to Winterfell.
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