Winter's (GOT) Nothing on Me #80

Every hour seamlessly blended into the next with relentless stir in the last two days since our arrival at the village that was the Weeper's hideout.

The constant marching left us fatigued,  punctuated only by sporadic moments of rest. The Weeper and his renegades were relentless in their attempts to thwart us, launching surprise attacks during our breaks and springing clever ambushes along our chase.

My quick thinking, a touch of paranoia, and the swift compliance of the wildlings under my command helped us navigate these challenges with minimal losses.

For every man we lost, we managed to take down three of theirs. Yet, each fallen warrior weighed heavily on my conscience; each man had died following my orders, and I couldn't simply shrug off the responsibility.

However, at this point, I was more than happy to see a half-full glass rather than a half-empty one. I was pessimistic by nature, but I had to look at the positive side of things this time. It's all I could do to keep going, after all.

Amidst the weariness and the persistent onslaught, our tireless pursuit finally paid off. The Weeper and his renegades found themselves trapped, driven to the edge of a cliff that overlooked a jagged drop into the valley below.

As the tense standoff persisted, the Weeper's forces, outnumbered yet seemingly unperturbed, stood poised with their backs pressed against the cliff. Their lack of concern only heightened my suspicion.

'Another scheme, no doubt...' I surmised, feeling a knot of caution tighten within me. "Raise your shields and keep your wits about you!" I barked, urging the wildling warriors into a formation.

Their swift compliance impressed me; it might not have been a formation as intricate as a Spartan phalanx, but they weren't facing a horde of Persians. The crude shield wall will do, given the circumstances.

I nodded, acknowledging their readiness, and took a step ahead of the formation, my ice blade resting casually on my shoulder.

"Come forward, you weeping shit!" I called out to the wildling ranks, addressing them directly. "There's no need for these men to die. Let's end this, you and I, right here and now," I proposed, pointing the tip of my ice blade toward them.

Much to my surprise, the ranks of wildlings parted, revealing a man wielding a large metallic scythe.

He cut an imposing figure—tall, with long blond hair and a scraggly beard. His attire consisted of furs embedded with steel plates, providing some protection to vital areas. His eyes appeared continuously watery, as though in a perpetual state of tearing.

'Well, what do you know... he actually came out...' I chuckled inwardly, observing his confident stride toward me.

While I had issued the challenge, I hadn't anticipated he'd accept since facing me was basically a death sentence, if I do say so myself. It was more of a tactic to demoralize his men once he refused the challenge, similar to what I did with Rattleshirt.

Nevertheless, I couldn't deny my joy with this unforeseen development. If I could slaughter the Weeper before his men's eyes, their surrender or disarray would make the remaining skirmish easier to control and potentially save lives.

I didn't dwell on the situation and met the Weeper halfway across the open field. Without a word, the Weeping Man wasted no time, immediately lunging at me. I was genuinely surprised by his speed, given his towering build, but I managed to track his movements clearly.

I raised my iceblade to block, anticipating the moment when his scythe would impact the iceblade and shatter. However, the Weeper saw through my intentions, altering the trajectory of his weapon to strike the long hilt of the iceblade instead of the freezing blade itself.

'If Ser Barristan could devise a way to counter the iceblade, others may do the same, I suppose...' I mused inwardly, preparing to step back and retaliate as we found ourselves in a stalemate.

To my surprise, the Weeper grinned at me and began to speak, his voice barely understandable, filled with malice and glee. "A crow... and a white walker... Slaying you... will make me... a legend," he muttered, his eyes locking into mine with a vicious intensity.

"So, you can speak... though hardly," I replied with a chuckle, casually removing my right hand from the weapon and effortlessly pushing the Weeper away with a single hand, showcasing the vast difference in strength between us.

"Crying your eyes out and barely able to string a coherent sentence together—your intimidating words might've held weight if not for that," I chuckled, a grin playing on my lips as I rested my blade on my shoulder. "You're nothing but a mess of watery-eyed bug, full of incoherent rage-- no wonder you don't speak often.." I sneered, disdain dripping from every word, and spat on the ground.

My mockery seemed to pierce through the Weeper's facade as his expression contorted instantly into a mask of seething rage.

Thick red veins pulsed in his watery eyes at my words. "I'll gouge out... your eyes... cut out... your filthy tongue..." he seethed, his voice strained and garbled with emotion.

Without warning, he lunged at me, moving with surprising speed, narrowing the distance between us in the blink of an eye.

Reacting swiftly, I sidestepped his attack, pivoting gracefully as I deftly evaded his assault. Using the momentum of his charge against him, I maneuvered behind him, seizing the advantage.

With a swift and calculated motion, I tripped him, causing the Weeper to crash onto the ground with a resounding thud.

Pinning him down with the weight of my boot on his chest, I held my blade at arm's length, the cold, icy blade glinting in the dim light. The Weeper struggled beneath me, his attempts to break free only fueling my urgency.

Breathing heavily, I tightened my grip on the hilt of my weapon, ready to deliver the final blow.

The tense confrontation teetered on the edge of resolution as I poised myself to end the Weeper. Abruptly, Threya and Val's alarmed shouts jolted me to spin around just in time to witness a volley of arrows hurtling toward me from the ranks of the Weeper's men.

My focus shifted back to the Weeper. A twisted grin stretched across his face, savoring the unfolding chaos. Aware I had scant seconds, I instinctively conjured an icy barrier, a protective wall that materialized just in time to intercept the raining arrows.

The Weeper seized the opportunity my diversion presented, lunging at me with a swift, unexpected move. His weapon pierced my ankle, a searing pain shooting up my leg. With a guttural grunt, I stumbled backward, the Weeper using my vulnerable moment to make his escape, scrambling away toward his men.

As the shower of arrows ceased and the icy barricade dissolved, my attention snapped back to the charging horde of the Weeper's renegades surging toward me.

A mix of frustration and annoyance welled up within me.

"Fucking hell," I muttered, steeling myself for the impending clash, preparing to face the oncoming onslaught despite the searing pain in my injured ankle.

Behind me, Threya and Val orchestrated the chaos, their voices cutting through the fray. "Charge! Slaughter the traitors!" Threya's command thundered across the battlefield, her figure darting forward as she led the charge against the encroaching foes.

Not far behind, Val's fervent cry echoed, rallying the wildling warriors. "Now's your chance to repay the Winter Crow for saving your lives! Charge!"

The ground quaked beneath the weight of countless footsteps, the vibrations reverberating through the snow. It was evident—the wildling warriors surged forth with an unmatched fervor, their determination palpable in the thunderous advance toward the enemy lines.

Observing the wildlings' relentless charge, I couldn't help but smirk. "Winter Crow, huh...? Maybe these wildlings aren't as bad as I thought they were," I muttered to myself, a wry chuckle escaping my lips. "They sure are creative with their titles, if nothing else..."