Chapter 59

Squatting, Tiresias peered around the corner. The bank was empty. He had heard the river and nothing more. He just had to be sure.

Exhaling, he stood and stalked back to the horses. He didn't have to shake his head or give any signal to the others. If he had spotted anything, he wouldn't be walking so casually. Thankfully, none of his companions seemed annoyed. This was no jaunt through the Haunted Forest. Or a silent ride along the abandoned peaks. Speed was not their friend here and the frequent stops before each corner were not protested.

It was now late afternoon. Or so he estimated. He couldn't see the sun. Just a blanket of grey sky. He mounted and the line began to move again. Waiting until they had cleared the corner, he spoke softly to Macha.

"Did Orell manage to say how far along he flew here?"

"The last point he managed to locate was five miles to east of where we descended," Macha breathed, her eyes forward. "When he went back to continue, he would have been flying right above us. Whatever broke him is close."

Tiresias gripped his reins. "Should we even set up camp then?"

"We can't risk a fire." She exhaled, fog exiting her nose. "But we need to rest. Probably sooner than usual. They like to roam at night. We'll grab some sleep before dark. Next suitable spot we see, we'll take."

That ended up not taking too long. Another hour of riding, they turned another bend and came upon a bigger shore. Macha scanned the rocks, searching.

"I recognize this part," she murmured. "There was a cave somewhere…there."

She pointed off to the rocks. Everyone followed her finger to a crevice in the mountainside. Their quarters for the evening?

No one objected to the idea. Tiresias knew he wasn't the only one who could tell. But as he sniffed the air, he sensed a snowfall headed their way. Their first in a fortnight. They had been blessed with clear weather. And a cave would be most welcome. Even without a fire.

Nevertheless, he stayed put as everyone else filed behind him, following Macha to the cave. His eyes and ears on the bend above. Nothing but the river…

Tormund came up to his side. "Anything?"

He shook his head. "No."

Following alongside Tormund, his eyes lowered from the bend to the shore. His breath hitched. Underneath a thin layer of snow, mounds of earth were splattered everywhere. As he rode closer, these splatters were centered by narrow ditches…

"Is this…are these graves?"

Tormund didn't even look down. "They were. The Milkwater brings life to many Free Folk. Many of us were buried along its shore. Going back thousands of years…'til the dead came back."

He spoke far too casually. Tiresias looked back to the graves. To the snow and ice. The ditches were mostly snowed in. Hopefully from the last fall they had a fortnight ago.

They're not around. They're long gone.

His breathing returned to normal, but he looked again to the bend. Allowing his horse to lead him to the cave. Did the White Walkers find these graveyards before? Or was this behavior due to the premature migration of the Free Folk? They were losing their numbers for their army fast.

Not nearly fast enough.

It was a long night in that cave. After they managed to get the horses in, most laid down to sleep, despite the white glare. They needed their rest. They had to skip a meal today. The lake was a reprieve but not for long. Their packs were lighter and they had started to stretch their supplies. Tiresias felt it as he sat cross-legged by the cave entrance, out of sight, listening. The snow wouldn't help. It would silence everything as it fell. His rumbling stomach wouldn't be much help either.

We'll get a wight and we'll hurry back to the forest. If we hurry, it's only a few days down the river. There's food in the forest.

When darkness fell, it was his turn to sleep. Kober relieved him. As he walked back, he smelled the snow beginning to fall. Tormund nodded as he walked by. He stretched and sat against the rock as the man handed him his ration. Two strips of goat jerky. He chewed it slowly to make it last. When it was mulch, he swallowed and immediately wanted more.

Fortunately there were nightmares to distract him from his hunger. He closed his eyes. Though he wasn't on watch, he still listened to the cave entrance. Past it. To hear if any others visited the graveyard amidst the snowfall.

The night passed without incident. Like everyone else, Tiresias woke up hungry. Breakfast was their largest portion. Somewhat satisfied, they led the horses out into the fresh snow and continued west along the shore.

Where they had rested that night was probably the beginning of a sacred area for whatever tribe had lived in these parts. Over the dozens of bends they traveled that day, they encountered five more graveyards. Each one emptied out.

Tiresias didn't try to count how many. It was a drop in the bucket compared to how many were now in service to the Night King. Even now. With the majority of the Free Folk camped north of Castle Black.

At least he hoped so. It was very well possible that the Army of the Dead had marched out a while ago. Descended on the main camp. They had no way of knowing. When he first saw the story, he had the advantage of omnipresence. Not so much here.

It wasn't just the White Walkers either. Suppose Lord Bolton had made his move and taken Winterfell? The Starks all dead. His wife murdered. Their child with her…

That made him snap out of it. He casted his ear out forward again as he rode with Macha. Not for the first time, he wished he could feel cold. At least a little. The cold centered the rest of them. Qhorin, Karsi, Tormund and the rest couldn't afford to indulge catastrophizing. They had to fight the cold at present.

His pessimistic daydreams didn't go unnoticed.

"Something wrong?" Macha muttered from the side of her mouth.

He grunted in the negative, eyes on the bend ahead. It was just past midday. So he estimated, glancing carefully to the sky. The sun was still hidden. He heard nothing ahead and signaled to the group. They rounded the bend and Tiresias saw the displaced dirt and empty graves once again. A crow's cry resonated from above.

The sixth one today…how many old bones did you raise?

He took in the rest of the shore. Not the worst place to camp, but it was far too early in the day. The crow screeched again as it flew away, its cry echoing in the valley. No one else said a word as they rode through the graves. Tiresias glanced to them…and his glance turned into a stare. A shiver ran through his chest. Something…something was not right.

"Tormund," Karsi whispered behind him. "Tormund, look at the graves."

So you see it too…

Halting his horse, he turned back to Karsi. Being in front, everyone followed his lead. His gaze alternating between her and the surrounding graves.

"What am I looking for?" Tormund muttered.

"Last night it snowed. First time in a while. And each upped grave we've passed has been filled with snow. Coverin' everything."

Tiresias felt the energy shift as every one of their band realized what she was driving at. More than one reached for their weapon. Gared voiced it.

"It's bare earth. Just dirt. No snow from last night," he muttered, staring down to the graves. "This happened today."

Forcing himself away from the ground, Tiresias turned to the bend in front, listening, trying to ignore the rising heartbeats of his companions. He swore he heard nothing before, but he had to make sure.

The burble of the Milkwater…the distant wind at the top…no cold armor creaking…no footsteps through the fresh snow beyond…

Exhaling slowly, he opened his eyes to find the others looking at him.

"I hear nothing," he said quietly. "They're gone. But not too far, I think."

"You think, but you don't know," Qhorin stated, his voice soft but commanding. "We need to decide what to do in the next few moments. We don't have much time if we want to follow."

"All of you, wait here," Macha said. "Someone, count the graves."

With that, she dismounted her steed and took off for the bend. Pausing for one quick look, she turned the corner, disappearing. Karsi waited until she had gone before dismounting herself, walking between the ditches. She had her dragonglass spear out.

Tiresias did a quick count himself. He tallied twenty-three graves. Not a particularly crowded cemetery.

Looking up, he saw Macha returning from the shore ahead. Everyone else dismounted, holding their steeds steady as she approached.

"How many graves?" she asked.

"Twenty-four," Karsi responded.

Macha took a swig of water. "Well, that's not quite what I got from ahead…it's not a big group either way. Definitely looked like more were walking away from here than what arrived…but it's no army."

Silence followed her assessment. Kober looked from her to Clatton.

"So what?" he asked. "Why are we waitin' here then for? Let's go!"

"I think…" Tiresias murmured. "You lot might hate this…but if there's no army near, at least not too near, I don't think we should go after them."

All eyes went to him. No one interrupted so he continued.

"I have a plan. Feel free to call me an idiot, but I have a plan…"

The Milkwater provided. Even up in these mountains. The absence of Free Folk around here for months allowed the waters to fill again with fish. It took them no more than thirty minutes to catch enough for their whole group. Even for those not visible.

Tiresias rotated the fish so it wouldn't burn. They had retreated one bend to a shore that carried more cover. A few gnarled trees, boulders, a flatter incline into the mountainside. The horses were tied another bend back, out of sight. They weren't valuable here.

He tilted his gaze, following the smoke as it climbed into the air. He hoped it was enough…

Determined to sound confident, he proposed his plan to the group. If it wasn't the whole Army of the Dead just ahead of them, perhaps just one White Walker, then they should lure him back with a fire. When he came around, pausing at the sight of an empty campsite, they would down him with an obsidian arrow.

All the corpses he had turned that morning would fall. Any others they would rush and take out quickly, leaving one to bind. They'd douse the fire and haul ass back to the Haunted Forest.

Elaborating more than necessary, he stopped talking when he saw Tormund's face. Along with the rest of the Free Folk.

"What?" he asked.

Tormund sighed. "That plan of yours…it's what we did when we first got the dragonglass. Set up a fire, lured them in for an ambush. They caught on quick. Anyone who tried it soon found dead men falling on them from all sides. More than they could take."

Deflated, Tiresias glanced up to the mountains. If that was the case…all possible hiding places quickly seemed much less effective.

"I say we rest for a bit," Tormund continued. "Strip down our supplies. Get our weapons ready. We'll hide the rest here and ride after them. When we get close, we lose the horses and pounce on foot."

"The Night's Watch hasn't ranged in these mountains for years," Qhorin said quietly.

"So?"

"What Tiresias just proposed, what you just described…they've only seen the Free Folk pull that trick."

The Halfhand turned to Macha, but he also spoke to Tiresias.

"The White Walkers…they're smart. Aye? Think they'd see a difference between a crow's black cloak and a wildling's fur? Is that possible?"

Tiresias wasn't the first to see where he was going with this. But he wasn't the last. Macha was there as well.

"We're all just meat for their army," she said softly, considering it. "But they're smart. They adjusted…aye, it's possible."

"What are you all on about?" Kober asked. He and Clatton glanced at each other, each bewildered.

 "When we set up the fire to lure him back, it won't be abandoned," Benjen stated quietly. "Qhorin, Clatton and I will be bait."

Gared stepped forward, but Benjen continued. "Gared, you're quicker than Clatton. You'll be better served rushing in from the sides with the others. Besides three men is more than enough. They'll come around the bend and see a trio of idiot rangers. New to these mountains. Who don't know not to light a fire. Who don't know not to camp in the open."

To his credit, Clatton only took a quiet breath before steadying himself. To the others' credit, they all looked to the Night's Watchmen. Waiting for their decision.

"Are you sure?" Tormund asked.

"Sure? No." Qhorin chuckled. "Willing? Aye."

Clatton nodded. Benjen didn't bother to give his answer. He strode back to his horse.

"This place is no good for an ambush. We should go back 'round the bend. There's some cover there."

"Wait," Tiresias said. Everyone halted on the way to their horses, looking to him. "I should take Qhorin's spot at the campfire."

Qhorin chuckled. "What? You tryin' to save an old man?

"No, I'm trying to kill the White Walker. Which we need to do as quickly as possible. You're an old man, but you're the best of us with an arrow. You'll be better served firing dragonglass from the side than crouching by a fire."

He wasn't trying to do Qhorin any favors. The Halfhand knew it.

"What about the plan?" Tormund asked. "Aren't the men by the fire supposed to be the Night's Watch? You're not dressed for it, Tiresias."

"So we switch our cloaks," he stated, still looking at Qhorin, waiting for his acquiescence. The old ranger decided quickly, nodding curtly before turning for his horse. There was much to do.

Tiresias pushed the black cloth out of the way before fanning the flames. It stank of countless nights in the wild. Saturated with cold sweat, woodsmoke and blood; both animal and human alike. He wondered with some amusement if Qhorin felt strange wearing his fur coat. Barely tested by the elements. The clothing of an academic.

Not that he felt academic now. He had washed his hands in the river, but they still stank of fish guts. He didn't care though. The fish was a proposal by Kober. They couldn't stop and fish before. Too much exposure. And they hadn't had a fire since the mountain lake. They might as well take advantage and fight on a full stomach.

It had been only an hour. So he had estimated. Clatton, Benjen and he huddled by the fire. They had three horses tied to the eastern part of the shore. To sell the image of idiot rangers.

Not that we aren't being idiots right now…

Those thoughts didn't last long. Not when he thought of the Northern lords, what Lord Stark needed to show them. He thought of the Stark children and Mal. The rolling fields surrounding Winterfell…

Exhaling, he came back to the fire. Benjen just added a cedar strip. They had bundled a roll of softwood from the Haunted Forest. Wood that smoked far too easily. They were saving it for a cloudy night. Not for this.

They all watched as the smoke climbed to the sky. He hoped the rest of them were staying warm enough. Macha, Karsi, Kober, Tormund and Qhorin were all stationed around them, hidden. He heard their heartbeats settle the longer they waited. They were to give it two hours. If nothing happened, they would reconvene and discuss another strategy.

For now, they sat quietly. Just waiting. Clatton and Benjen kept looking to the west, but Tiresias kept his eyes on the fish. His ears though, he kept peeled for anything off. Anything not of the river, the fire and the wind.

His hands didn't feel like his as he pulled the fish away from the fire. He passed them to the rangers, looking to the fish still leftover. They had caught enough for all of them. He took another hard listen before standing.

"I don't hear anything. I'm gonna feed the others."

Benjen's mouth lined, but he didn't object. With his time precious, he walked quickly to each spot, depositing a steaming filet for each one. He didn't pause to chat, save for Qhorin. The Halfhand took the last of the fish.

"Nothing so far," he said, crouching behind the gnarled trees.

"Aye, I figured," Qhorin murmured. "You're not so much an idiot that you'd expose us all when they're coming 'round the river."

"How's my fur suiting you?"

"'S all right. For Winterfell, I suppose. Up here, it's a little thin." He glanced to Tiresias. "This the only layer you had this whole time?"

Clever words eluded him. He could only meet the Halfhand's glance before he stood.

"I should get back."

He didn't feel the Halfhand's stare following him as he walked back to the fire. Qhorin had more pressing matters at the moment. They all did.

His own piece of fish was waiting for him as he sat back down. After one more listen to the bend, he pulled apart the steaming white meat. Savoring it as it went down. It needed salt, but it was substance.

In between glances to the west, they managed to finish their meal. His standards for hygiene were lowered in these lands. For this mission. Still he maintained some standard of cleanliness. Stalking to the Milkwater, he threw the bones and skin into the current. Then he rinsed his hands in the clear water, imagining more than sensing a headshake from Clatton. Afterwards, he dipped his waterskin in the river, filling it quickly. The same one he had ever since he first arrived here…

Thank you…thank you…

He had forgotten the farmer's name. Along with his wife. He stood and stared at the water, trying to remember…

Cullen…Cullen and…Kerry. Cullen and Kerry.

A sigh of relief escaped him, a thick fog emitting from his mouth. He blinked, surprised. It wasn't that thick before. He turned and walked back to the fire. Slowing his step as he approached. Benjen and Clatton were staring at him.

He sat before them. "What is it?" he asked.

"Do you not feel that?" Clatton asked, thick fog coming from him as well.

"Feel what?"

"It's gotten colder," Benjen answered softly.

Apprehension staggered to each of them separately, but they all slowly looked to the bend west together. Nothing. Closing his eyes, Tiresias listened, trying to ignore his heart pounding in his ears.

Past the fire, past the wind, past the river he went along the shore. Heartbeats from their band. The steadied breaths as each one of them tried to calm themselves. But he wasn't listening for breaths or beating hearts. For the blood pulsing through. Just a cold march…

He was at the graveyard beyond. Nothing but the wind there. Nothing but cold silent earth upturned by the dead. Nothing but the distant clink of ice.

That last part…that last part he focused on…

How long has it been since he had heard that sound? Never in reality. Always through an engineered artifice. Ice cracking…but this wasn't the untamed sound of a glacier splitting. It cracked and clinked again and again in rhythm. He followed the rhythm as it fell down upon earth, stepping lightly on the rocky shore.

There were others behind the walking ice. Quite a large number. Their own footfalls landing clumsily on the rock, falling more quietly on the disturbed earth as they walked over their emptied graves.

Tiresias opened his eyes to see Benjen and Clatton staring at him. The question clear in their eyes. He answered by slowly grasping his bow. The rangers clenched their jaws as Tiresias raised his bow above his head twice to alert the others.

They remained seated. He didn't let go of the ice cracking. It was coming nearer to the bend, stalking slowly. Underneath that, he heard Qhorin nocking his bow from the gnarled trees. He looked to see Benjen shaking his head slowly. Repeating silently as he said when they first sat down.

"When he comes, don't look. We want him to come within range, for Qhorin to get a good shot. He has to see us sitting here, not anticipating him at all. When he gets close enough, Clatton will see him and we'll follow his lead. All right?"

As such, their steel and dragonglass stayed sheathed, hidden under their black cloths. Tiresias furtively reached up and unclasped his, letting it hang loosely on his shoulders. He wasn't used to fighting with it. When the time came, he'd toss it aside.

The world didn't fall silent. There were no crows to stop cawing. The Milkwater still burbled past. The fire continued to crack. Tiresias stared at the flames. To his right, he heard Clatton inhale sharply as the walking ice came around the bend to his left.

Don't look, man. Don't look. Don't look.

That mantra didn't help. The only saving grace was a glance to Clatton, who sat staring past them. There was no artifice in his expression. The fear there was well-earned. Exhaling, he turned slowly to his left.

Nothing in this world or the previous one could have prepared him. The White Walker stood, armored and still, at the bend. He was tall. Not as tall as the Mountain, but at least Clegane was human. Violent and cruel, but still familiar. Nothing he hadn't seen before. This Walker was not human. It once was, but no more. Tiresias could see its blue and bright eyes, shining as it stared at them. This was something primeval.

A tremor ran through his chest. It was the closest he had felt the cold since he arrived.

It continued to stand still. Not coming any closer. Remaining out of the Halfhand's range. Benjen's heart began to race as they just stared at each other.

Swallowing, Tiresias stood and stepped out from the fire, his bow lowered.

We're idiot rangers. Idiot rangers. Idiot rangers.

"Who are you?" he called out, over the river. "You a wildling?"

He felt the creature's focus shift to him. Benjen and Clatton stood behind him. His hands grew heavier, holding his bow.

"Answer me!" he yelled. "You a wildling or not?"

Something in its face twitched. Its eyes narrowed. Tiresias felt a familiar twinge himself. He recognized it as the same feeling he got whenever he entered the Winterfell godswood or passed under the Wall. He barely registered it when the wights came around the corner.

Sam was right. There was no rot. Sniffing deeply, all he could pick up were the musty tatters, the remains of clothes and armor. The cold dampened the rest. The White Walker started forward as the dead followed behind him. He tried to count. He was about twenty in when the White Walker reached behind him and pulled out a long blade of ice.

His dragonglass dagger hidden behind his back, Tiresias drew an arrow and nocked it. His heart pounded as he aimed at the White Walker.

"Stay back! I'm warning you!"

It continued to march, stalking forward slowly. All the while, the dead still flowed from around the bend. No rush from any of them. There were more than thirty, perhaps forty…

C'mon. C'mon. Just keep coming. Just keep coming.

He didn't know how good this creature's hearing was, but if Qhorin needed cover to pull his bow back, he'd provide it.

"I'm telling you, stay the fuck back! You hear me!? Stay back—"

A screech halted his own yells. The White Walker spoke, silencing all else along the river. Tiresias stood struck dumb. His own ears were too sensitive. The screech went into his brain, stilling it. His arm was too heavy now. The bow and arrow fell to his side. If Benjen or Clatton were speaking, he couldn't hear them. If the Milkwater still flowed, he couldn't tell. There was only the ice soldier. It raised its blade as it screeched, nearing him…

An arrow flew into its neck, halting the screech. Tiresias gasped as the world came back to him. The wind, the river, the fire behind him. He raised his bow again to the Walker as it fell to its knees. Its mouth, still open for its screech, was now rasping. Rasping under breaking ice.

The legs shattered first. Then its chest and arms. The face was the last to go. Tiresias swore he saw realization in the bright blue eyes before they collapsed into ice.

He felt Clatton and Benjen staring behind him. They barely had time to observe the broken pile of cold before the dead started to go themselves. A wave swept through them as they fell, bones crumpling to the rocks. And then there was silence.

In the quiet, blue eyes still stared at them and Tiresias stared back, hoping against hope that more would fall. But none did. Out of the fifty-odd wights that followed the White Walker, he must have raised barely half of them. About thirty corpses still stood before them.

"Oh shit," Benjen muttered, to his side.

The first wight screeched as it ran forward, but its yell was nowhere near as disorientating as the Walker's. And it was joined by the others, both dead and alive as the their band rushed from their hiding places. But help wouldn't reach him or the rangers before the wights did.

Tiresias tossed the bow and quiver aside, along with Qhorin's cloak. He withdrew both daggers and held them ready as they ran forward. He spared a glance to the horde as the wights were feet in front of him. A few were staggering off-course. In the old ranger's direction. From the arrow had come from.

He sidestepped the first wight, swiping it with his dagger. It turned and launched again. Its bony hand swiped his face as he realized his mistake. He had used his steel. Instinct had overridden him. 

"Fuck," he growled, shooting his other hand up. Ignoring the pain from his cheek. The dragonglass entered its chest. He could smell foul air as it was expelled. The blue eyes rolled back and the wight was only a dead woman once again.

Withdrawing his obsidian, he tossed her aside and thrusted the dragonglass behind him, following his ears. It found another wight. Its eyes dulled, but not before it hit him with its heavy corpse, toppling him to the ground. His hands were still wrapped around the hilt. Before he could pull it free, another wight jumped for him.

Bringing his legs up, he kicked it away. It regained its footing quickly and ran forward again.

A flaming torch flew into its chest, halting it as it screamed in agony. Tiresias didn't pause to look who had thrown it. Jumping up, he kicked the burning corpse away. It attempted to get up, to crawl towards the water. But it stopped shortly and was still. His cheek was warm with blood.

Benjen ran past to grab his torch from the burning bones. He barely got there when two more wights descended on them. Tiresias jumped up, tackling one to the rocks. The creature furiously clawed at him, stilling only he shoved the obsidian in its throat.

Already panting, Tiresias heard Benjen stop the other one. Swerving his head around, he saw Tormund swinging his obsidian axe, dispatching one after the other. Karsi had her spear out as she charged into the fray. Kober came to Clatton's aid behind them while Macha ran to where Qhorin was becoming quickly trapped.

The remaining black brother, Gared came to their side.

"You all right?" he shouted.

"Aye," Benjen yelled back over the noise. Tiresias scanned the shore. None had fallen so far. The wights were quick victims of obsidian. And thirty opponents were no army.

A trickle of dread seeped into his mind, amped from the noise and the scurry. He stared back down. He was still on top of the wight, which now laid still. He had it pinned. He could have held it.

"Shit!" he hissed, standing up. He looked about. Battle instincts were taking hold. Everyone fighting to end it. From a quick count, there were only about fifteen more wights scrambling on the shore.

One of them charged them. Gared threw his obsidian spear, ending it quickly.

Make that fourteen.

He began to hurry through the foray, knives out, calling as he did.

"We need one alive! Don't kill them all! We need one!"

To his left, Karsi cried out in pain. He rushed toward her as Benjen and Gared followed him. She fell to her knees, pushing away the wight that wounded her away, the obsidian spear in its chest. Another wight fell on top of her.

Tiresias and Benjen grabbed a shoulder each and lifted it off. Blood rained on Karsi as she yelled. Two dragonglass daggers entered the wight's torso and it collapsed. Gared knelt quickly to Karsi, pressing his hand against her neck, trying to stay the blood loss. She stopped screaming, clenching her teeth in pain.

"I got her," Gared spat. "Go. Go!"

They dropped the wight and surveyed the area. Eleven? Ten remaining? Maybe…

Macha had three of them to herself. She appeared behind the trees where Qhorin had hid. She swung a torch, keeping them at bay. Kober, Clatton and Tormund were taking the rest on.

Benjen turned to him. "Go to Macha! I'll send one wildling fucker your way."

Tiresias didn't even wait for him to finish speaking. He hurried to her, jumping more than one pile of remains to get there. Macha glimpsed him coming and waved the fire toward the nearest wight, herding it into his obsidian.

He stabbed it and wrenched it out of the way, coming to her side. She was panting as well, still swatting the torch as the wights tried to charge forward.

"Which one?" she asked, in between gasps.

Kober decided that for them when he arrived. Shouting, the burly man took a running jump at one of their two assailants. Pulling the creature into a hold before stabbing it from the back. Macha quickly got in between them and the lone dead man, barricading Kober with fire. Tiresias didn't join her, instead stepping around, circling them all.

Suppose this one, then…

There was no realization from the creature. No sense that it was alone and outnumbered. Disorientated from the torch, it didn't register Macha sheathing her own obsidian dagger, pulling out the gag. It only seemed to become confused as Kober stood and circled it, planting it right in the middle, between three potential victims. It turned from him, to Kober and Macha.

Tiresias quickly sheathed his blades, heard Kober do the same. They didn't exchange any glances. They had practiced this countless times already.

Macha threw down the torch. It had barely extinguished in the snow when Kober charged. The wight didn't try to dodge and turned to meet the man. But dead weight wasn't enough and Kober shoved it back. Tiresias met it from behind and tackled it at the knees. It tried to twist away, but Kober landed on its chest, holding its arms down.

He grabbed the knees as he heard Macha swoop down. The gnarled cries of the corpse were muffled. As she began to move down and tie the rest, he felt a rush through the body as the wight screamed. Or at least attempted to. The gag held and what should have been a piercing alarm that would have echoed through the Frostfangs was confined to this knotted knoll of mountain trees.

They continued to work, flipping the wight over, twisting the arms around. Macha bound them, working her way to the feet as Kober and Tiresias held it down. It attempted to get loose, twisting and turning. But soon it could barely move. They looked at Macha, waiting for her signal. Finally, she nodded.

They stood, taking their hands off the creature, leaving it to writhe in the snow. Save for its growls, the shore was silent. Tiresias looked to the others and saw Benjen, Tormund and Clatton staring their way. They stood over a bound wight as well.

Macha picked up the extinguished torch in the snow, nodding to them. "Bring it."

Grumbling a bit, Kober picked up their captive. As the shirt wasn't complete tatters, he grabbed it by the collar. Tiresias took the leg. They stalked to the fire where the others gathered. It was still burning.

Tiresias and Kober steered well clear of the flames before dumping the wight down. They didn't need it rolling to the fire for a quick escape. He looked up to see no one smiling. No serious injuries either. At least for the ones who stood.

"That was a lot of noise," Tormund muttered, glancing to the west, to the bend where the White Walker had come.

"We need to leave," Macha said. "Soon as we can. Figure out what to do with the Halfhand."

"Where's Qhorin?" Benjen asked, though he sounded like he already knew.

"Back there." Macha didn't even jerk her head to the trees. "He's dead."

No hurt in her voice. No delight either. From any of the Free Folk. Qhorin had killed too many of them in the past. But he was their companion for the past month. He killed the White Walker as well.

It was too much for now. Benjen took the news well, taking only a few seconds to exhale before he glanced off.

"He may not be the only one."

Tiresias followed her gaze to Karsi down on the rocks. Gared still sat with her, pressing her wound. Her heart still beat. He heard it easy enough, but it was weak.

"All right," Benjen said. "Someone, see to her. Clatton, Tiresias. Follow me. We need to get Qhorin."

As they broke, Tormund stepped toward the bound wights, pulling his obsidian dagger out. Tiresias paused midturn to grab his arm.

"Stop! What are you doing?"

Tormund blinked. "We have one. Don't need two of them."

"And what if something happens and we lose it?" He released Tormund's arm, looking around to the others for support. "It's a spare. We won't get this lucky again. I can promise you that."

"The words of a shit prophet…" Tormund sighed before sheathing his dagger. "We can't put them both on the Halfhand's horse. They might get free."

"I'll ride with one," Tiresias said, ignoring his fingers twitching as he promised. "We'll keep them separated 'til we get back."

"That might not happen if you lot don't hurry the fuck up!" Macha called, on her way to Karsi. "Fetch the horses. Burn the Halfhand. Let's go!"

Tiresias followed Benjen and Clatton into the small knotted grove. He eyed the fire behind them. A part of him didn't want to add to it. That flame should be extinguished immediately. It was still signaling their location.

He turned back, accepting the risk. That White Walker was the only enemy in range. They'd be long gone before anyone else arrived. And Qhorin needed to be burned. He couldn't become one of them.

His resolve only strengthened when they found his body. It wasn't difficult. They followed the unmoving wights, laid slain by the Halfhand before his fall. The fourth one was on top of him, a fresh stab wound in its back from Macha. They pulled the wight from him. Blood pooled underneath the man. Exposed innards. His blank eyes suggested no peace at the end.

Benjen closed the eyes without ceremony. "C'mon," he muttered, lifting one arm. Clatton got the other and Tiresias took the legs. They carried him quickly out of the trees, back to the fire. Blood droplets marked their path.

A sparse pyre was quickly assembled on top of the going fire. Kober and Clatton went off to fetch the other horses as Tiresias and Benjen placed the old ranger on the pyre. He made no attempt to salvage his torn and bloody fur coat. It went up in flames along with Qhorin.

It was hard not to let his anxiety run rampart. His heart hadn't stopped pounding since the the White Walker appeared. Tormund stood guard over the two wights, but they kept growling and fighting the gags. And now, Qhorin was burning, his corpse freed from enslavement to the Night King.

Dead again. You were another I couldn't save…

A part of him wasn't surprised. The Halfhand was on the front line. He led a hard life. He wasn't going to be saved by a librarian.

He didn't have time to watch the flames. None of them did. Qhorin's horse was brought forth. They freed it of any supplies, leaving only the saddle. They all exchanged looks as Kober and Clatton reached down for the larger of the wights, slinging it over the back.

Qhorin's horse had seen many ranges before this one. It was a testament to the animal's deposition that it remained relatively calm. The wight squirmed and twisted as they tied it to the saddle. Tiresias turned as the final knots were pulled tight. He could hear the horse's heart beat slightly faster.

He came to where Karsi lay. They brought her horse alongside her and lifted her to the saddle. She was only slightly more cooperative than the wight. She could barely lift her head and her lips were shivering.

Tiresias looked and recovered Qhorin's black cloak, still spewed on the rocks. He came over and once she was secured, threw the cloak over her.

"Don't give me…a fuckin' crow's cloak…" she murmured, laughing as she did.

"Shut up." He clasped it at the neck before adjusting it. "Just concentrate on not falling off."

She peered at him. "Aye…you don't need it."

"You know I don't," he said. A split second of consideration where he tried to figure how he would explain to the others who didn't know. There was only so long he could cite the adrenaline of their skirmish.

That consideration ended instantly. He found he didn't care. They had to leave. Reach the Haunted Forest. Get Karsi to a healer. Reach Castle Black. They had to start riding minutes ago. He was still warm. He'd remain so. Heat pulsed through him, it throbbed on his cheek...

He paused in the middle of that thought. He had forgotten about the scratch. Gently, he probed the wound. Blood colored his fingers, but it wasn't deep.

He went to the Milkwater and splashed his face. Stronger men than him have fallen to infections in this world. He stalked past the burning pyre to Macha's horse for a ointment. The smelling of searing flesh reached his nose. Qhorin would soon be ashes, climbing to the sky. It was far more smoky than their fire to lure out the White Walker.

After smearing his face with a prepared ointment from her pack, Tiresias mounted his own horse. The smell of herbs barely dented the nearby cremation. Kober and Clatton were waiting with the second wight. Once secured, he leaned back a bit and nodded. Without ceremony, they swooped and placed their dead captive in front of him.

It twisted and squirmed as the other one did. Being near a live human probably didn't help and he doubted it would calm until it was alone. Still, it was the smaller wight and barely able to move once it was tied tightly to the saddle, Tiresias lifted his legs so he wouldn't be caught up in the binds.

His steed stepped uneasily at the feel of the creature. After Kober and Clatton stepped back, he reached over and stroked the mane.

"Easy, friend, easy," he muttered. "I'm in charge. Me. Not this dead fuckface. It's all right."

The horse keeping neighing softly, but it stopped shuffling about. Tiresias looked up to see all the others mounted. Tormund had the reins of Qhorin's horse tied to his. Gared led Karsi as she slumped over her saddle. Macha cantered out to the front.

With no preamble, she kicked her steed into a trot and they followed her on the shore. They rode faster than they had ridden so far. Through the Frostfangs and the Haunted Forest before. Their hooves echoed through the Milkwater valley and the wind followed him.

Glancing up, Tiresias saw the smoke of Qhorin's pyre above them, trailing them. Cursing it, he looked forward again. The echos of the hooves wasn't enough to drown out the mangled growls of the wight he rode with.