Disclaimer: I do not own any recognizable characters/places/etc, nor do I own the song Early Sunsets Over Monroeville by My Chemical Romance, by which this fic is inspired. Forgive me for any discrepancies or mistakes; it’s been a little bit since I read the books. Let me know if I need to fix anything!

Jon heard the horn before he ever saw them coming from under the cover of the trees. He stood atop the Wall, his eyes trying to pierce through the swirling white of the blizzard. It was deadly cold; even though he wore his heaviest blacks and a coat of thick ringmail, he could already feel the chill creeping into his bones. His heart pounded in his chest, anticipating what was to come. He wasn’t ready for this; he didn’t want to be the Lord Commander, in charge of all the men surrounding him. He was only a boy, really, just sixteen. He was considered a man by the standards of Westeros, but he felt so small and weak. How could he be the one to defend this crumbling structure of stone and ice with the handful of men he had left? But he couldn’t abandon his post. He had taken the vow.

And then he could really hear them—their thin, ice-like swords clinking like icicles against their pale armor, the subtle creak and crack of their dead, frozen flesh. He still couldn’t see them, but judging by the sheer sound, there had to be hundreds of them—surely there couldn’t be thousands… But no one had ever mapped the North beyond the Frostfangs; it was possible—even likely—that there was an inexhaustible army dwelling there. Jon’s heart beat faster, warm blood coursing through his body as though trying to protest its inevitable fate.

He glanced to either side, looking at the men who stood with him. They were a mix of grizzled warrior and frightened boy, the rabble that was left to guard the realms from the far reaches of the North. But he knew these men, and he knew these boys. He knew that they would stand by him no matter what. They understood the risks, and they were willing to remain; for that, he was unspeakably grateful.

The snow fell progressively thicker, obscuring his vision even more. He squinted, blinded by the whiteness. He thought he could see something taking shape in the space between the edge of the forest and the Wall. And slowly, steadily, they came. His breath froze in his throat at the size of the gathered forces. The Others and the wights marched out from under the frost-bitten pine needles, their violent blue eyes trained on the men keeping watch atop the Wall.

Jon was shaking. He looked to the fires that blazed hotly along the stone battlements, finding little reassurance in their warm light. Sam had searched the library for any little detail to aid in battling these cold, unyielding creatures. Fire they could use, as long as their fuel held out. And Valyrian steel, of which they had precious little—certainly not enough for every man. Jon knew the futility of it all, but refused to let himself even think it. His men needed him to be brave. This was something that none of them had ever faced before—but if the battle went as Jon feared it might, they would not live to face this enemy again.

They were drawing closer, moving faster than Jon had thought possible. They were eerily silent, making no battle-cry. The only noise was the shiver of their armor and the whisper of their feet on the snow. And they kept coming, lines of them and lines of them, beyond anything he had imagined.

It was time. He stepped into the cage that would lower him to the ground. Accompanied by Dolorous Edd and with Ghost trotting by his side, he made his way beneath the Wall and out into the open swath of land where the five dozen swordsmen waited with bated breath next to two hastily-built catapults to accompany those that remained along the crenellations. He felt their eyes following him, and he turned to nod at them. The wights were too close now.

“Ready!” he yelled, loud enough to ensure that everyone heard him. He heard the creak of wood and the hiss of flame as the archers above him dipped their arrows in the fires and nocked them. He lifted Longclaw and brought it down before him, signifying the start of their useless resistance. The first hail of arrows barely penetrated the front ranks. A few of the wights fell, their awful, otherworldly screeches piercing the snowfall. A second flurry flew over his head, accompanied this time by heavy stones. He looked to the men standing behind him, and they looked back. He nodded again, preparing to lead the charge.

But the enemy got to them first. They were only a couple hundred against perhaps countless thousands of Others. Jon shivered, ensconced in the ice that was the wights, cried out as Longclaw made contact with the frosty sword of an Other. Already, he was too close to feel comfortable in this battle. He drew out his small, roughly-made dagger of Valyrian steel. He slashed at the Other, his breath leaving him in a white mist as the weapon plunged into freezing flesh. His arm went numb, but he kept going. He had already lost track of everyone—Pyp and Grenn, Dolorous Edd, Denys Mallister. He was afraid, more afraid than he had ever been in his life. Flaming arrows continued to rain down into the army of wights. Cries surrounded him, filling his hears. His heart pounded as he fought back the enemy, swallowed up in blue eyes and black hands. He had no orders to give, because he didn’t know what to do, or how to fight these things. He grunted when something hit his back; when he turned for a parry the wight was already gone. But he felt a lancing pain down his back, and felt the warmth of his blood as it dripped steadily from the wound. Spots swam before his eyes.

He turned around to look at the Wall, and he stopped short. They had already reached the massive structure, and he could hear the shouts of his fellow Brothers. “No!” he screamed, his heart in his throat. He watched as the vats of burning pitch toppled down, and that inhuman shriek began anew. But even as they burned, the wights were working their terrifying powers, that horrible way they had of freezing their enemies where they stood, sheer horror rooting them to the spot. No matter how Jon had tried to prepare them for this, he knew it was no use. The air grew even colder, and he could only watch in terror and dismay as his Brothers began to slip off the Wall, falling to their deaths five hundred feet below.

He knew it was hopeless now—had always known it would be hopeless. There were too few to defend the Wall, and too few supplies. So many good men lay dead around him, after only a few brief minutes of fighting. And they would soon rise again to swell the ranks of the creatures they battled. In his state of fuzzy awareness, he vaguely registered Pyp’s face, frozen in shock as he lay on the ground. A translucent dagger was stuck fast between his ribs, while he clutched a spear of Valyrian steel in his fist. Dolorous Edd lay nearby, a puddle of red spreading beneath him. And there was Ghost, his white fur matted with blood as he twitched in his death throes. So many good men dead, and it was all his fault.

He himself was soaked in blood and staggering, his vision foggy at the edges. The fires of the burning pitch smoldered and flickered around him, unable to withstand the chill the wights brought with him. It had become a rout so quickly he couldn’t even understand how it had happened. All his fault. How could he have been so foolish as to give battle to an implacable enemy, one they didn’t have the resources to defeat? How could he have sacrificed his friends and Brothers like this?

He fell against the Wall. It was frozen solid, and he slid to the ground. Tears stung his eyes, and a harsh, anguished sob escaped his throat. He had failed. He had failed his men, had failed them as a Lord Commander and as a Brother. He had failed Mormont. He had failed his father, and he had failed the Seven Kingdoms. There was no more Night’s Watch. But he had done all he could, what little he could have done. Now he was going to die.

He closed his eyes, feeling the burning cold seep under his skin. There was the murmur of a wight’s gentle footsteps near him. There was the soft, almost tender, feel of a hand in his hair, pulling his head back. He opened his eyes and looked up into the depthless blue he so feared, the unfeeling anger that was found in the eyes of every wight. He drew in a shuddering breath, his last one, feeling his blood slow and frost. The dagger slipped across his throat.

Jon felt the agonizing chill…

And there's no room in this hell
There's no room in the next
But does anyone notice
There's a corpse in this bed?