Battle Weary #55

Amidst the raging battle, Gale's once-pristine armor and iceblade now bore the gruesome marks of blood and gore, the crimson stains blending into his attire and even splattering his face. 

Each lethal swing of his blade, each life taken, exacted a toll on Gale, evident in the growing strain in his breathing and the contortion of his features—a twisted blend of anger, confusion, and grief. The unsettling mix of emotions on his countenance seemed to unsettle the wildlings, who beheld this transformation with horror and bewilderment.

Beneath the accumulating layers of blood, Gale's face underwent a ghastly metamorphosis. Once warm and living, his skin turned ashen, icy and translucent, mirroring frozen frost. 

The radiance in his eyes intensified, the blue glow now visible from a distance. Jagged cracks crept across his skin, creating a chilling mosaic, while blue-tinted veins naked across his visage, giving him an otherworldly and fearsome appearance.

In the chaos, a lone wildling, driven by fear but with a sliver of bravery, lunged at Gale while his comrades hesitated. His gaze was cold and glowing as he seized the man by the throat in a swift, almost instantaneous movement. 

The others watched in dread, expecting imminent death. But what followed was unexpected, a startling departure from the man's assumed fate as a raven's cry echoed in the ruins. 

As the others awaited the swift demise of their comrade, a raven's ominous cry pierced through the ruins, interrupting the impending doom. Amidst his grim actions, Gale turned his attention to the black-feathered creature perched atop the crumbling wall. 

The raven's gaze seemed to lock with Gale's, jolting him out of his battle-induced reverie. 

With a heavy sigh, Gale's grip on the man relaxed, allowing him to stagger back to his bewildered comrades. A sense of confusion rippled among them, puzzled by the sudden shift in events. 

As Gale's features gradually returned to their usual state, he regarded the wildlings calmly."Enough of this," Gale spoke, his solemn words echoing through the tense air. 

Testing the iceblade on his shoulder, he continued ."No matter how many of you there are, continuing this fight means certain death for all of you," His eyes flickered from the wildlings to Rattleshirt and Harma Dogshead, who observed the battle from afar. "You've fought for your captains-- now let them fight for you... let the bloodshed end with my death or theirs..." 

As Gale's words resonated, laden with challenge and a finality that hung heavy in the air, a divide emerged among the wildlings. 

Some nodded in agreement, hesitant to sacrifice their lives for leaders who remained distanced from the frontlines, fostering a sense of betrayal among the ranks. Loyalty to leaders who showed no willingness to fight for them waned quickly. 

However, others were entrenched in their unwavering loyalty or vehement disdain for the Night's Watch, refusing to back down, driven by pride and stubbornness. Though not cowardly, these wildlings were recklessly determined, and their numbers appeared to tip toward continuing the conflict.

About to revel in this perceived advantage, Rattleshirt found himself swallowing his words as approaching footsteps trudging snow disrupted the tense atmosphere. 

All eyes turned, and Gale was the first to register concern as another faction of wildlings emerged from the woods. Distinguished by different attire and armaments, these wildlings were visibly distinct from the preceding tribe. 

At their helm were two women, each striking in her own right.

The redhead exuded ferocity, adorned in furs dyed a pale green that allowed her to blend seamlessly with the forest. She clutched a hunting bow, her back adorned with a quiver brimming with arrows. 

In stark contrast, the fair-skinned blonde exuded an air of refinement, draped in white furs, her golden locks neatly bound, cascading over her left shoulder. She wore an ornamental belt with a short sword hanging on her side. 

The blonde woman, Val, stepped confidently forward, exuding poised authority as she observed the assembled wildlings before addressing them. "I find the crow's words quite sensible, don't you?" Her question hung in the crisp air, directed first at the wildlings and then toward Rattleshirt and Harma Dogshead.

Rattleshirt scowled at Val's interruption. "Val? Why are you here? This crow is mine to slaughter, and you'd do well to stay out of my way," he snapped, his gaze filled with hostility. He then turned his attention to the redhead, his voice filled with suspicion. "And you, Ygritte? Might be you're here to a stick a knife in my back?" 

"We're acting on Rayder's orders, Rattleshirt," Ygritte responded calmly. "I joined your raiding band as instructed by Rayder, and I'll not hesitate to slit your throat if you go against his commands." Her tone held a steely resolve as she met Rattleshirt's gaze.

"You're the only traitor here, Rattleshirt," Val interjected, her voice steady. "Gathering these people against Rayder's wishes—well, he saw it coming and sent us to put in your place as a show of good faith to our new friend...." She went on, her eyes narrowing. 

Rattleshirt's fury simmered beneath the surface as he addressed the bewildered assembly. "Have you all lost your bloody minds?!" His voice resonated with indignation, teeth clenched in palpable anger. 

He leveled a scathing glare at Gale, his axe pointing menacingly. "Dancing to this kneeler scum's tune without a second thought? Raising your blades against your own kin for him?!" His words carried a venomous tone, filled with contempt for Gale.

Val, standing tall, couldn't help but chuckle at Rattleshirt's outburst. "And what about you? Watching your men die at the crow's hands while you idly stood by?" Her voice was calm, yet her words dripped with disdain. 

"Regardless, It's up to Rayder to decide the crow's worthiness. As for you-- your only task was to follow orders, and you failed miserably at that..." she continued, her displeasure evident in her growing frown as she addressed Rattleshirt.

"You can't be--" Amidst the tension, Rattleshirt's attempt to interject was abruptly halted by Val's resolute tone. 

"Enough of your nonsense... Rayder sent me to bring back your head for your treason, and that's what I intend to do," she declared with calm conviction. She eyed Rattleshirt, a trace of subtle amusement in her demeanor. "However, I'm not without mercy... I'm willing to give you a chance," she continued, a faint smile dancing on her lips.

Rattleshirt, although suspicious, held his tongue, waiting for Val to expound on her proposal, and she didn't delay. "You heard the crow... he's willing to let the bloodshed end with your death or his..." Val's gesture indicated Gale. "Duel him and triumph. Succeed, and I'll plead with Rayder to spare your life," she stated, her tone surprisingly amiable. 

"Perhaps I'll even convince Rayder to lend you his ear on occasion..." she added, a chuckle underlining her words. 

Before Rattleshirt could respond, Gale swiftly objected. "If you want to kill this man, do it yourself. I am not Rayder's executioner, and I've spilled enough blood today," he calmly stated, his blood-stained figure barely distinguishable and marred and red, a testament to his words. 

"I can't compel you, but it leaves us no choice. We'll need to cut through every one of Rattleshirt's men to take his head, foolish and loyal as they are," Val said in an unwavering tone. "Whether you wish to spare them or let them be slaughtered with their leader, that's your decision." Her words lingered, her smile remaining nonchalant.

Gale sighed audibly, feeling frustration mount within him. These wildlings and their relentless savagery were wearing on his patience. Rubbing his forehead, he contemplated the dilemma laid out before him without voicing his thoughts. 

Rattleshirt's gaze narrowed at Gale's silence, interpreting it as a sign of weakness. He prided himself on his ferocity rather than the martial prowess of someone like Tormund Giantsbane or the strategic cunning of Mance Rayder.

A brutal and merciless warrior, cruelty was his greatest asset. To a man like Rattleshirt, the notion of sparing an enemy's life was absurd, even laughable. Due to his own insidious nature, he dismissed Gale's reluctance to shed more blood as falsehood to mask his weakness. 

Far from considering that the slaughter might have worn out the young man as he'd claimed, Rattleshirt assumed it had physically drained him, making him apprehensive about engaging in further combat, hence the reluctance. 

Rattleshirt's lips curved into a sardonic smile. "Not eager to fight now, are we?" He taunted Gale with a sneer. "After all that horse shit you yapped about stopping the bloodshed! You only meant to divide us and nothing more! As expected of southern cunt..." He chuckled, his tone carrying a calculated menace.

His words dripped with an unspoken threat: a clear ultimatum hovered in the air. It was an insidious attempt, using the lives of his comrades as leverage to coerce a duel, a challenge Rattleshirt arrogantly believed he could win.

...

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