Chapter 385

“The other night, I was having a great dream when all of a sudden, the noise outside woke me up,” Arya grumbled. “Maeve and I went out to look, and the beacon fires on the outer walls were all lit. Soldiers were running around in a panic, shouting like it was the end of the world. They herded us back into our rooms, but I couldn’t sleep a wink after that. The next morning, we heard it was a false alarm from someone who’d ridden in from the Wall. So annoying!”

Aegor shot her a sharp glance. “No one asked you. Stop interrupting when adults are talking.”

Yarm chuckled and gestured for Aegor to follow him deeper into the keep’s central area. “Miss Stark isn’t exaggerating. The situation caused quite a stir—not just because it kept everyone in the Gift awake all night, but because relighting the beacon fires requires a significant amount of resources and manpower. Our current stockpile wouldn’t withstand another false alarm. Ser Denys Mallister of the Shadow Tower personally investigated the incident the following day and sent his findings to Crown's Rest. I’ve been busy managing local affairs and haven’t had time to review them, but you can get the details from Ser Warner Buckwell. I’ve already summoned the senior council to the meeting room. They’re waiting for you.”

“Good,” Aegor nodded, casting Arya a stern look. “You stay with me and don’t run off. We’ll talk about your issues after the meeting.”
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A short while later, in the familiar meeting room, Aegor sat down with his most trusted subordinates and began listening to the reports on the Gift’s current situation.

“It wasn’t exactly a false alarm,” Ser Warner Buckwell clarified. “It started with the wights destroying the weirwood groves on the northern slopes of the Gorge. About three days after you departed for King’s Landing, the weirwoods north of the Gorge were almost entirely destroyed. The dead then moved to the remaining patches within the Gorge. You’ve inspected the North Wall there yourself, my lord, so you’ll understand what this means: from that point onward, the wights’ movements became visible to our patrols on the southern side of the Gorge.”

Wights visible within the Night’s Watch’s line of sight, destroying the weirwoods? Aegor frowned, his mind racing. Were the White Walkers so repelled by the weirwoods that they wouldn’t tolerate a single tree remaining? He recalled the layout of the Gorge. Even at its narrowest point, it spanned over a mile—far beyond the range of any weapons the Watch possessed. This meant the wights could work unimpeded on the northern slopes while the patrols on the southern side could do nothing but watch.

“What’s worse,” added Humphrey Hightree, Crown's Rest’s chief logistician, “is that this wasn’t isolated to one area. Along the entire eastern two-thirds of the Gorge, wherever there are weirwoods, you can see wights clinging to the cliffs, tirelessly hacking away at the trees. They’re not afraid of heights or exhaustion, and if one falls, it just climbs back up to continue its work. The sheer futility of it is enough to make even the most seasoned soldier despair.”

“In these circumstances, patrols are practically meaningless,” Warner continued with a bitter smile. “The Shadow Tower, Westbridge Watch, and Icecanyon Port have all mobilized their main forces, abandoning their fortresses to guard every potential crossing point in the Gorge. Tents have been set up near caches of wildfire and weapons along the patrol routes, allowing our soldiers to keep watch day and night. The dead outnumber us dozens to one, they don’t need food or sleep, and they work relentlessly across the entire front. Meanwhile, even after deploying every able-bodied person we could—including older children and women—we’re barely managing to cover the entire Gorge. And that’s with constant reinforcements being requested from Crown's Rest.”

“Watching thousands of wights hack away at weirwoods right under your nose would make anyone anxious enough to call for every able-bodied soul in the Seven Kingdoms,” Yarm interjected with a wry shrug. “But let’s not get off-topic. We’re here to discuss the false alarm. We can go over these complaints later.”

“You’re right,” Warner agreed, smacking his forehead. “The situation is so overwhelming it’s hard to stay on topic. Back to the false alarm: the wights spent nearly a week destroying the weirwoods on the northern cliffs. When they were done, we speculated that their next move would either be to go quiet or launch a full-scale assault—because the remaining weirwoods on the southern slopes are within range of our long-range weapons. Everyone prepared for the worst, and, sure enough, one quiet day passed. Then, on the night of the second, a rookie on sentry duty reported hearing strange noises from the base of the Gorge. He alerted his squad leader, who tossed a torch down and saw dozens of wights crossing the frozen Milk River.”
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“And that’s when they lit the beacons and signaled an attack?” Aegor asked after a brief silence. He understood the gravity of the situation, despite the supposed “false alarm.” “That wasn’t a false alarm at all. If I’d been on duty and seen wights crossing the river, I’d have lit the beacons myself.”

“Exactly,” Warner nodded. “What followed was utter chaos. The beacons were lit, the horn was sounded three times, and soldiers resting in their tents were roused for battle. Soon, other parts of the Gorge also reported wights crossing the frozen Milk River. Since visibility was poor, the soldiers resorted to tossing wildfire grenades to illuminate the area, then followed up with dragonglass arrows and stones. Everyone thought the final battle had begun. But after half the night of frantic defense, the officers realized the wights weren’t attacking. They weren’t even climbing the slopes. At daybreak, it became clear: the wights had crossed the river only to destroy the weirwoods along the banks. They’d accomplished their task and retreated north at dawn. In the process, we spent tens of thousands of arrows, hundreds of wildfire jars, and only managed to kill a few hundred wights. Worse, we accidentally burned some of the remaining weirwoods, doing their work for them.”

Aegor’s frown deepened. The Gift’s stockpiles—tens of thousands of dragonglass arrows, enough close-combat weapons for every soldier, and thousands of wildfire jars—had always seemed sufficient to him. But this skirmish alone had consumed a tenth of their resources without any meaningful result. At this rate, how could they possibly last?

“Let me guess,” he said grimly. “The next night, they sent more wights to continue destroying the weirwoods.”

“Exactly,” Warner confirmed. “Ser Mallister ordered all commanders to carefully distinguish between feints and genuine attacks before signaling an alarm. But as you know, my lord, the cliffs of the Gorge aren’t like the reflective, flat surface of the Wall. In the pitch-black night, it’s nearly impossible to discern their intent. Even on a clear night, the soldiers often have to toss down a wildfire jar just to get a look. And while our reserves are sufficient for now, we can’t afford to keep wasting them.”

“Both last night and the night before followed the same pattern,” Yarm added. “It’s likely to happen again tonight. The White Walkers seem to understand that sending wights in broad daylight makes them easy targets for our marksmen. So they wait until nightfall, sending small groups to work at a slow pace. It’s an effective strategy—they come in such low density that attacking them is a waste of resources, but ignoring them isn’t an option. The soldiers are caught between exhaustion and frustration, unable to eat or sleep properly with the sound of wights scraping away at the weirwoods beneath their feet. It’s a nightmare.”
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