RM: Interlude: The Battle for the Wall Part II

Ramsay Bolton, never Snow, Natural Son of Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort, sneered out at the fighting men from his command post at Rimegate, where he held the section of Wall to the west of where Lord Commander Mormont held his overall command post at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Rimegate was, thanks to the reconstruction plans helped along by Lord Seawynd, not like Castle Black. It was a largely self-contained fortress, in the shape of an Upper-Case D made of the Conquina Stone that made attacking with gunpowder weapons and other siege equipment a problem. In one corner, a large circular keep stood, with the rest of the D forming a ward in which the garrison trained. Ramsay had been told that it followed something called the Raseborg plan, but he discarded it. The name sounded foreign to him, and thus, not really worth thinking about.

What was worth thinking about was the large, bronze-plated, wierwood gate set into the Ice of the Wall that gave the Castle its name. Rimegate's bronze-plated gate meant that frost clung closely to the massive gates through the wall, rendering it cold to the touch. Hence the name, Rimegate. However, that same construction made it practically impossible for the Wildlings to take the tunnels and break through. Ramsay knew that, his Lord Father knew that, and so it seemed, did the Wildlings, since they had continually insisted on sending climbers up to the top of the wall to assault instead of trying the tunnels. Not that such a disadvantage had saved the Ryswells from being killed or wounded badly enough that it may yet kill them still.

Indeed, Rickard Ryswell's leg wound had already begun to fester, and the Maester at Mole town, where he and his younger brother had been evacuated to, believed he would not see the week through alive. It was said younger brother that was proving to be a problem for Ramsay. Roose Ryswell was fifteen years old, old enough to fight as his elder Brother's Squire. He had taken a vicious head wound that had knocked him for a loop and caused a large amount of bleeding, but Maester Uthor had reported that the Youngest Ryswell would live. Ramsay wouldn't allow that, especially as his Lord Father had made it perfectly clear that he would be adopting young Roose Ryswell as his heir instead of raising up Ramsay, his Natural Son, who should have it after Domeric was disposed of years ago.

Fortunately, Maester Uthor was Ramsay's Man, as the Maester had indiscretions that Ramsay knew of, which he was using to ensure the Old Man's compliance with schemes. Knowing that Maester Uthor was fond of young boys and buggery had allowed Ramsay to force the Old Maester to help him get rid of his trueborn brother Domeric, and now it would serve all the same for helping Ramsay to get rid of Roose Ryswell. With his Lord Father's Namesake dead, and all the other Ryswells likewise dead, it was likely that not only would the Dreadfort have to pass to Ramsay on his Lord Father's death, but that he would even be a serious contender to become Lord of the Rills as well. Once that happened, none would be able to hold him back from indulging in a bit of fun. Even the Starks, as Ramsay would be their most powerful Bannerman at that point.

All this scheming and fantasizing on Ramsay's part only served to distract him from the sudden cessation of the sounds of battle that echoed down from the top of the wall, bouncing off the icy bulwark, the stone walls of Rimegate, and so on. He was too busy writing a dispatch to Maester Uthor with instructions to feed Roose Ryswell a poison which would addle his mind, make him seen as unfit to rule, and thus open the way for some enterprising Mole Town Local to force his Lord Father's namesake to take a swan dive off the Mole Town wall. His plotting took up so much of his attention that he did not notice that the Gate through the wall that the castle was named for was under attack until it was already happening.

By that time, it was too late. Ramsay had already sent a large group of men to reinforce his Lord Father at the top of the wall. When the eponymous gate through the wall was broken open, a blood-covered Giant wielding a battering ram made of a mammoth skull affixed to a log with leather straps had literally smashed it off its hinges. Ramsay rushed to the battlements of Rimegate to see what the issue was, only to spot the Wildlings pouring through the gate. With two of every three men on the top of the wall with his Lord Father, Ramsay had only a skeleton force with which to contest the attack.

"Damn it, sound the alarm!" Spat Ramsay.

He grabbed a bow and quiver to fight with as Luton, one of Ramsay's Personal Men, put a hunting horn to his lips and blew three sharp notes, the signal that the castle was under attack. He nocked an arrow, drew back, and loosed at a Wildling in pilfered Night's Watch Ringmail and a leather cap who was wielding what looked to be a felling axe pilfered from some poor smallfolk woodcutter on a raid south of the Wall. That raider was leading a group of twenty Wildling Warriors clad in a mixture of looted and Wildling Leather equipment up toward Rimegate Castle in the hopes of clearing the way for the Giant to batter down the gate in the D-shaped wall of the castle with its ram. Ramsay's shot struck the man in the armpit as he raised his felling axe high to cut down a House Whitehill Guardsman in his Chainmail and Gorget. The Wildling died to Ramsay's arrow, though the House Whitehill Man still was cut down by another of the group, though he managed to slay two others before he was.

Ramsay, meanwhile, kept firing arrows after drawing first blood. He didn't intend to stop, either. Wildlings sported pink-fletched shafts from eyes, throats, and other vital body parts as the initial attack dragged on past the one-minute mark. Ramsay must have put twelve arrows down range, each of which claimed the life of one of the Wildling Scum that dared throw off his carefully hatched schemes. As the fight dragged on further, Ramsay began to laugh, a cruel, mocking thing, as from the battlements at the top of the keep of Rimegate Castle, he was effectively untouchable by the small hunting flatbows and javelins of the Wildlings, but his Longbow could reach out and touch them, with deadly results.

"It's like hunting!" Laughed Ramsay.

Sour Alyn and Luton, two of his Personal Men, stood nodding next to him. Both had joined him, Skinner, Ben Bones, Damon Dance-For-Me, Yellow Dick, and Grunt, on many of Ramsay's hunts before. Together, they had hunted the few Smallfolk Girls that Ramsay had been able to snatch and hide away from his Lord Father's disapproving gaze through the woods. Those had been great times, and as Ramsay relived them as he shot Wildlings from the safety of the Keep Battlements, he laughed like a madman.

"Aye, Milord. That it is." Agreed Sour Alyn, his rotting teeth wafting an offensive scent that Ramsay didn't mind much. He'd smelled worse when flaying men who had crossed him, after all. They tended to shit themselves from the pain before you had done more than so much as flay a hand or so. As Ramsay fired down, his arrow punched down into the top of the skull of a fur-clad Spearwife with a cold-worked copper spearhead on a fire-hardened shaft. That made thirteen dead Wildlings so far.

"Aye, but we'd best be joining in, hadn't we?" Questioned Luton. The Broad-Chested, Bearded, Man-at-Arms knew better than to shoot alongside Ramsay until he had racked up enough of a lead to be Jovial about things, after all.

"Indeed. If you lot wish to have any hope of catching up to my kill count, you'd best get started." Snorted Ramsay.

"What are you up to now, Milord?" Queried Sour Alyn as Ramsay loosed another shaft, punching through the furs of a Wildling with a bronze axe that had just split the skull of a Dustin Man in a coat of Steel Scales. The Wildling had paused to loot the coat off the fallen man when Ramsay's arrow caught him through the liver, sending him crashing to the frosty ground to die.

"Fourteen now. Catch up, would you?" Asked Ramsay with a mocking chuckle.

"Aye, we ought to." Nodded Luton, pulling a crossbow from his back and loading in a bolt.

"As you say, Milord." Concurred Sour Alyn, knocking an arrow to his own Longbow.

As the battle turned to the four-minute mark, however, there were signs of movement from the Top of the Wall. Ramsay looked up to see the Winch-Cages descending with Reinforcements, his Lord Father among them. He smirked at that. These stupid fools would be struck in the flanks and never know what hit them. It would be a great victory that would only enhance the prestige of House Bolton, and when his father died and Roose Ryswell was out of the picture, Ramsay would inherit that prestige for himself. As he turned back to the battle, however, Ramsay heard whistling from below and suddenly found both Sour Alyn and Luton sprouting eagle-feather fletched shafts from their bodies as they toppled off the battlements with a pair of choked screams.

Ramsay snarled, following the path the Wildling Arrows had taken to spy a pair of Wildling Bowmen with looted Night's Watch Longbows. Those two looked like brothers of some description, both having the same long brown hair and slate gray eyes. One, however, was a lot less scarred than the other, having fair skin unblemished, while the other looked far more weathered. Ramsay snarled, though curiously, he noticed the pair of Archer Brothers sending scowls back and forth at each other when they thought the other wasn't looking. While that could have been useful information to get them to fight each other some other time, now Ramsay only wanted to scar that Handsome Face of the Handsome Brother, and add another, final scar to the other brother's face out of revenge for his two compatriots.

He nocked an arrow to his Longbow and fired. The Pink-Fletched shaft flew true, punching through the boiled leather jack of the more Weathered Brother and sending him to the icy ground with bloody flecks of spittle bubbling up from the Man's Mouth. Ramsay let out a grunt of satisfaction at that. He had hit the man's lung. He wouldn't be long for this world now, which served him right for killing Luton. Ramsay nocked a second arrow, the last one in this quiver, and drew back, aiming for the Handsome Brother. Unfortunately, he was distracted by the Giant.

While he and the others had been fighting wildlings, the blood-covered Giant that had smashed through the Rimegate Gate had picked up a large rock in a gigantic, meaty paw and hurled it at the still descending Winch Cage as it reached three-quarters of the way down the wall. The Rock smashed into the cage, knocking it askew and spilling the men out into the air. Ramsay let out an involuntary cry as he saw his Lord Father go over the side of the winch cage, falling one-hundred-seventy-five feet to his death on the icy ground below, alongside his reinforcements. It was the last sight Ramsay would ever see, as his distraction had allowed the Handsome Wildling Bowman to spot who had killed his brother, nock an arrow fletched with the feathers of a Golden Eagle, and loose it at Ramsay.

As Ramsay turned back to the battle, ready to fire his own arrow, he found a dragonglass-tipped, eagle feather-fletched shaft sprouting from his eye. He let out a surprised gasp, face twisted into a rictus of shock at the sudden death he had just been struck by.

Then, Ramsay Bolton, never Snow, Natural Son of Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort, toppled off the Keep Battlements to the ground, dead. . .

XXXX

Rattleshirt emerged from the Passage through the Wall near Rimegate, his hide boots coated in the blood of both fallen Free Folk and the Skeleton Garrison of the Gate that they had died so that their compatriots could slay. He surveyed the field of battle ten minutes after their surprise attack into the tunnel through the wall began. Honestly, he had been shocked that their change of tactics had worked. Usually, the Weeper's plans were more direct than this, after all. It seemed that sending up double-strength climbing parties to attack the top of the wall in this section had done the job they had intended it to do. Drawing reinforcements to the top of the wall and opening up the gate and tunnel through the Wall for an assault.

Now, both the Bolton Lord and his Son were dead, Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun had managed to break down the Eponymous Rimegate as well as break into the Castle of Rimegate proper, and now they had their opening to roll up the Crows and Kneelers on the rest of the wall like a sleeping hide. The only thing was, someone was going to have to attack the Old Crow to ensure that he didn't hit them all from behind once he figured out what was happening. Of course, Rattleshirt wanted that honor himself, and as the Weeper exited the tunnel behind him, repurposed farming scythe out and ready to attack, he said so once again. Not that there was any killing to be done here at the moment. That was all happening at the Castle or about to happen at the top of the wall, not near the Gate, which was in Free Folk hands.

"Leave the Old Crow to me. You lead our warriors to roll up the other Kneelers and Crows." Demanded Rattleshirt.

"Fine by me. I have unfinished business with a certain Crow out west anyway." Huffed the Weeper, nodding.

"The Stark Bastard?" Questioned Rattleshirt.

"Aye. Mother Mole told me he and I were destined to fight, and one of us is destined to slay the other. I can't move further South without seeing that through, or misfortune will befall me." Offered the Weeper.

"You put far too much stock in the prophecies of that Old Mad Crone." Scoffed Rattleshirt.

"Why shouldn't I? She was right about Mance, after all." Queried the Weeper.

"Not that her supposed foresight saved her in the end. The Bloody Flux took her last year, back when we were preparing for all this. If she truly had the Power of Sight, you'd think she'd have picked a campsite with cleaner water sources." Sneered Rattleshirt.

"Did you ever stop to think that perhaps she simply didn't care? She was old and likely couldn't have made the journey South. Why not die in the True North than on the march south? At least she would be home." Asked the Weeper.

"Bah, I'd take dying to a crow's spear over shitting myself to death any day." Spat Rattleshirt.

"Suit yourself. This talk is getting us nowhere, we're just going over old arguments again." Pointed out the Weeper.

"Aye, that we are. Very well, have your shot at the Stark Bastard so long as I get mine at the Old Crow. Superstitious fool." Shrugged Rattleshirt.

"Aye, you'll get it, you faithless prick." Retorted the Weeper.

Rattleshirt regarded the Weeper for a moment with a cocked head. His co-commander was a superstitious fool, one whose plans tended to be direct as opposed to Rattleshirt's far more cunning stratagems. The Weeper was also brutish, whereas Rattleshirt thought himself to have a bit more finesse. They were two very different people, ultimately pursuing the same goals.

"I don't like you. I never did. I suppose I never will." Admitted Rattleshirt.

"Aye, the feeling is mutual." Agreed the Weeper.

"When we win here and head south, take your band and stay out of my way. That's all the warning I'll give you." Cautioned Rattleshirt.

"I could give you the same warning." Returned the Weeper.

And then, now that they both understood each other, both men turned toward commanding the Horde to carry out the tasks that would see them into the final phase of the battle of the Wall. They had to finish mopping up at Rimegate, then send a runner back to Varamyr Sixskins, who was commanding the force still keeping the Crows and Kneelers penned in at the other sections of the Wall to keep them in place so that the flanking forces could attack into their sides from Rimegate. Once that was finished, they had to mount the top of the Wall and clean up the Crows and Kneelers there before actually launching their flanking attacks. The whole thing would likely wind up taking a few days to carry out, but one thing was perfectly clear. One way or another, the Battle for the Wall would be over by the end of the Week.

And Rattleshirt intended for it to end with the Free Folk victorious. . .

XXXX

AN: All right, so here we see part two of the Battle for the Wall. As you can see, the Wildlings managed to break through the Bolton-held section of the Wall at Rimegate, slaying both Roose and Ramsay in the process. Now they are poised to hit Lord Commander Mormont's Section and Lord Stark's section from the flank to try and roll up the defensive line like a carpet. It is likely going to be there that the fate of the Wall is decided. Giants are, unsurprisingly, proving to be potent assets for the Wildling Horde on the field of battle. Unfortunately, with Mag the Mighty slain, they only really have Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun left to rely on in that regard.

A note on the Weeper and Rattleshirt. Though they see themselves as very different people, the differences are mostly in the details rather than in general personality. The Weeper is more superstitious, Rattleshirt is more fond of guile-based tactics, and so on. The reality is, they're both cruel, sadistic, thieving rapists who care little for anything but how they can best achieve their own goals. For all that people give the Ironborn shit, the Books have the Wildlings be just as bad, if not worse, in many of the same areas, yet somehow, they get a pass.

At any rate, the next chapter will be a return to Ricasso's POV for the Battle of Maidenpool, before going back to Stannis to show the next part of his attempt to finish the fight in the Westerlands. Then we'll have an interlude with Rodrik the Reader before finishing the Battle of the Wall. A lot of stuff is happening all in the same week, after all, just in different areas.

Stay tuned. . .