The Wandering Crow.
There was something about the air that disturbed Mygon. Granted, as a sworn brother of the Night's Watch, the putrid smell of death was not exactly unusual for the old crow, but this time there was something in the air that disturbed him. Something in the frigid Southern frontier of Castle Black seemed more foreboding than usual to him as his horse calmly approached the gates, followed by a few dozen poor souls, either recruits or prisoners sent to the Wall. Some brothers said Mygon's time as a Wandering Crow had made him soft, but the moment the cold wind hit against his skin, he felt a winter's approach, darker than ever.
Memories of his days Beyond the Wall echoed in his mind as he saw a raven fly towards the castle. "Dark wings, dark words." He thought out loud to a recruit nearby. Some low born kid who decided to join the Night's Watch after one too many tales of brave knights and dragon slayers. The young man nodded with the most stupid grin Mygon had ever seen in his twenty years as a Wandering Crow. Mygon wondered how long he'd be able to sustain that stupid grin before getting his throat slashed in the middle of the night.
The gates opened at last, and Mygon rode in alongside his many recruits.
Upon dismounting, he received a grim reminder as to why his days as a ranger were long past him: A searing pain ran across his leg, setting his muscles ablaze. Mygon winced in pain and grabbed a cane, propping himself up with it. There it was, roaring in fury like a charging bear, the wound that turned a ranger in a Wandering Crow, the shattered leg bone that ended his career beyond the Wall. Just the memory already made Mygon feel nauseous.
"Mygon!" Cried out a familiar voice. The pain in Mygon's leg started to wane as he lifted his eyes to meet Donal Noye, the one-armed blacksmith of Castle Black. He expected to see a smile, but instead was greeted with a grim expression.
Balancing himself on his cane, Mygon answered "Is there anything wrong, Donal?"
"Mormont wants to see you." Mygon could tell when Donal was trying to hide something, and this was most definitely one of those times. But Mygon simply nodded and shifted his legs in the direction of Mormont's tower. In his old age, stairs proved to be a much more threatening foe than an army of Wildlings. As he slowly crept up the steps he thought what he'd give to be fending off a giant axe-wielding Wildling instead of climbing those goddamned steps for the hundredth time.
After this tortuous journey Mygon found himself sitting in the Lord Commander's office, catching his breath and resting his leg. As he regained his strength, Mygon stroke his white beard, removing snow flocks from his faded white mane.
"You look terrible." The Old Bear looked at Mygon from the other side of the table. Behind him his crow screamed "Terrible! Terrible! Terrible!". "I've seen dead men with a healthier expression than you."
Mygon studied the Old Bear with his eyes, noticing he too had something to hide. Maybe the White Walkers had returned and nobody told him, he thought half-jokingly. That'd be about the only justifiable reason for this amount of secrecy between sworn brothers. "I've never felt better, Mormont. I still have a few wandering days ahead of me before my watch is done." He said with a grin.
Mormont prepared to speak again, but Mygon cut him off. "With all due respect, Lord Commander, but would you mind telling me what is the reason for this visit?"
"Nothing gets by you, does it?" Mormont's expression shifted between cold disapproval and some level of sympathy for the news he was about to share with Mygon. "Very well, I'll be succinct: Winter is not coming, it is here." The old commander put in a blunt manner, but Mygon could sense a feeling of dread in those words. "The night's gathering, Mygon, and it's coming for us all."
Mygon nodded in agreement, but at the same time he leaned against the chair, somewhat confused. "I agree, but any particular reason for such a foreboding warning?" Mygon took a moment to note how his feeling at the gates of Castle Black seemed disturbingly correct up until this point.
Mormont and Mygon exchanged a look. A look that any sworn brother worth his salt could identify.
Mygon's jaw dropped and his eyes widened as he desperately scurried for words.
"I've seen a dead man walk in front of my eyes, Mygon." But it was Mormont who found words to explain. "And I was standing not far from where you sit when I saw his cold, blue eyes. Eyes of the Others, looking me through a carcass of human flesh. Wishing to end all that is sacred on this world."
"They're back." Mygon concluded, wide-eyed in astonishment, "After so many centuries, they're back."
"And we need to prepare." The Old Bear's eyes returned to the table, his tone returned to commanding respect, "A long winter approaches, Mance Rayder and his Wildlings get bolder with each passing day and the Others return from the faded myths." He sighed, exasperated with the situation "We need recruits, Mygon, brothers to man the wall and its weapons. The Wall has never needed men as much as it does now."
Mygon returned to his usual senses, as if Mormont's request had brought him back from a hypnotic reflection about the fate of the Night's Watch. He quickly conceded "I will double my patrols and the length of my journey. I won't rest until this wall has more men than snow."
"Excellent." Said the Old Bear, "As for me, I am to go beyond the wall. Tired of sitting here and waiting as my rangers die in the snow. It's time to see what lurks there with my own eyes."
Mygon reminisced about the days he would join Mormont in such a dangerous path, and cursed his leg for its uselessness. "Bloody Hell, Mormont, I should be going with you." Mygon sighed, nostalgic and exasperated. "Benjen's gone, Castle Black can barely man its walls, rangers vanish with each fortnight. We need every man we have!"
"I can handle myself more than fine." Answered the Lord Commander, "And besides, that is precisely why we need you, old friend. You have a crucial task at hand: Manning this Wall before winter kills us all. Perhaps even more crucial than Ranging." The Old Bear reflected to himself.
The old recruiter sighed, whispering a curse to his mangled leg and its uselessness. How cruelly the gods mocked him, making Night's Watch as frail as it has ever been just as the Others return from their slumber, making Mygon frail in body just when bodies are needed the most.
As he took another swig, the wine tasted bitter in his lips. Perhaps the Watch's wineries had finally gone sour, or perhaps Mygon's mouth couldn't handle anything sweet after such a bitter thought.
"How many did you bring with you this time?" Mormont interrupted his thoughts brusquely. "Fourteen, fifteen?"
"Twelve." He said recollecting his thoughts. "Yoren often arrives before me and picks the cells clean. A crippled crow can only fly so far, Mormont." He shrugged.
"A crippled crow is better than a dead one, Mygon. And that's what we'll all soon be if you don't pull a thousand men out of this sleeve of yours." The Old Bear tossed a few corn crumbs to his crow, who shouted behind him: "Yours! Yours! Yours!"
Mygon reached for his wooden cane and arose from the wooden chair, cleaning the wooden cup in one final gulp. The pain in his leg worsened as he went from sitting to standing, but letting this pain be apparent would help no one, and thus he merely smiled and said: "I was a court magician, Mormont, not a wizard."
The old crow limped away, his wooden cane hitting against the floor in a unpleasant noise. But then again, Mygon himself didn't have the most pleasant of appearances: Thick grey eyebrows shadowed his eyes, and a scraggly white beard adorned his skeletal, half-dead face. From a distance he could be mistaken for a corpse (and one time, he was). While he was taller than any other brother of the Watch, he was also thinner. Some sworn brothers nicknamed him The Starving Crow for the lack of meat in his bones, in the taverns they called him the One-Winged Crow. The Wildlings, however, used to call him the Blizzard Blade. As he limped his way out of Mormont's tower, he took a moment to appreciate the fact only his enemies seemed to treat him with some respect.
As he walked past the courtyard he could hear sworn brothers talking behind his back about his injury. In rare cases he could hear one or other, of the older ones, discussing his old nickname as the Blizzard Blade and how he came to be a Wandering Crow. Others just looked at him in bewilderment, wondering what a cripple could be doing in the Night's Watch. Mygon learned to ignore the whispering of the young crows as time passed him by.
"How soon can the horse leave? Mygon emerged behind one of the table boys, frightening him.
"I believe tomorrow he'll be in prime condition." The boy answered, jumping a bit.
"Good." Was Mygon's only answer
And burying his cane in the snow he made his way across the courtyard, into the Watch's rooms and to a bed of his own, where he collapsed, groaning in mild pain. With his cane he closed the door of his chambers. The burning cold of the Wall made his leg injury hurt more, as if the wound remembered where it was made, as if it served as a warning for him not to come back.
He reached for his hip, unsheathing his sword. What a fine sword it was. That sword's new forgery was Donal's finest work since Robert's war hammer, in Mygon's humble opinion. A Bastard Sword with a beak shaped hilt and wing-shaped guard, forming a massive black steel crow. He could still hear the steel's cry when it clashed against a Wildling blade. What was the blade's name? Mygon could not recall.
Nostalgia did not ease his leg's pain. Five decades had passed him since he joined the Watch, and two since the end of his Ranging days, but time only made him wearier and wearier with each passing season. Many summers and winters he had seen, perhaps too many. Mygon reasoned this winter would probably be his last. Hopefully, his last. The life of a wandering crow had few joys to Mygon. He was born as a ranger, and by the gods, was he a good one.
"Snowstorm." He whispered to the sword, "Its name was Snowstorm."
Snowstorm, the blizzard blade, the One-Winged Crow, the Starving Crow. So many names seemed to have attached to Mygon he could barely keep track of them all. All he knew was that these names did nothing to ease his leg pain or his weariness. In the end of the day, the only thing he could rely on was his cane. Names and swords were just decorations, his cane became his only friend.
He looked at the cane and seemed mildly surprised he hadn't given it a name yet. "Old Oak fits well." He commented out loud, and seeing the words echo in his mind he found the name acceptable. Mygon chuckled, noticing how completely insane he must have looked in that chamber. He often heard tales of rangers who had gone mad beyond the wall, but Mygon didn't. He lived Beyond the Wall. His madness set in away from the Wall.
Mygon decided that it was enough reflection for one day, closed his eyes and slept, his hands gripping the Snowstorm's hilt.
He woke up to the sound of the flapping of wings. "Dark Wings, Dark Words" He muttered as his eyes opened up, finding the saying to be ring true once again. His wounded leg woke up numb, a rare blessing compared to the days Mygon would wake up in the middle of the night, screaming and sweating as his leg pulsated pain.
His old bones and muscles cracked in the same manner as the last remnants of the fire at the fireplace. As he gripped his cane and stood up from the bed, he realized he had slept in the same clothes he arrived. A depressingly common occurrence for a Wandering Crow: To forget to change clothes, or take baths.
Sniffing the air he could tell that now besides looking like a dead man, he also smelled like one. Now all he needed was to actually die, and he'd fully embrace his looks.
He placed Snowstorm back in his hip and headed out of his chambers, meeting with the same whispers of usual, just in a lazier, slower morning version.
Mygon could tell his leg would start hurting in no time and glanced at his horse. But his eyes soon gazed upon the Wall, as foreboding as it was majestic, rising above every structure known to the Westerosi. Mygon decided to take one last look before leaving.
He limped across the courtyard faster than most times, startling his sworn brothers with the strange sight of that elderly cripple almost running from one edge of the place to the other. He climbed aboard the wooden lift, which soon rose to reach the higher levels of the Wall.
There he was once again, tasting the breeze of a summer's end. He could feel in his bones, a magnificent winter approaching from the North to consume the land from the North to Dorne. He walked to the very border and looked at the horizon, seeing the old forest every ranger knew like home: the haunted woods. He could hear the whisper of the dead singing in the wind, almost like a siren's call.
Oh how he wished he was down there, searching for the Others with the Snowstorm at hand. The thought brought a grin to Mygon's face and some semblance to comfort to his old soul. But his dreams shattered when the pain came back: His leg was no longer numb, but burning like the red waste. Yet again, his wound did not fail to remind him how he no longer belonged at the Wall, much less beyond it. His home was the Kingsroad and all the paths it took.
In mild anger he stormed out, returning as fast as a cripple could to his horse. He placed his injured leg in a special harness and turned his faithful steed around, nodding for the gatekeepers to open the gate. While he gears moved he took one last glance at Castle Black, and saw not much beyond the expected: Donal Noye heading for his forge, shaking his single arm, Lord Mormont atop his tower, looking to the castle below with a mournful gaze, Alliser Thorne shouting at the recruits Mygon had brought the day before, Maester Aemon tending to his ravens. Things didn't seem to change at the Wall, thought Mygon, only he changed.
The gate opened. Mygon rode out at full gallop, with nothing but his sword, his cane and a few supplies to accompany him in the long journey ahead: He planned to ride from Winterfell to Sunspear, grabbing every single recruit, orphan or criminal in his path. His horse ran past Mole's town until the Kingsroad slithered in the horizon.
As he rode, the Wandering Crow started to think about the task he was handed; manning the wall. In this moment of reflection he noticed how there were very few Wandering Crows in the Night's Watch. Mygon could only think of one, besides himself, worthy of note: his old friend Yoren, and perhaps the finest Wandering Crow Westeros had ever known. Not the most prestigious of titles in Mygon's opinion, but certainly one of the most important.
Yoren had been a recruiter for ten years longer than Mygon himself, and had only lost two recruits in his entire career. Mygon reflected how he had lost over ten in his career. It certainly helped that Yoren had a broken shoulder instead of a leg. That bloody limb made the journey twice as long and three times as painful for Mygon.
But Mygon came to a conclusion: Perhaps it was time for the Wandering Crows to meet again. It'd be good to see the old Yoren again, and perhaps with their combined wits, the Wall could be manned before the winter arrived in full strength. Mygon would certainly enjoy having some company on the way to Sunspear, because the gods knew, it'd be a bloody long way.
Suddenly, his horse whinnied nervously, stopping Mygon's journey. The air still frigid around him as some shades of snow fell past him, Castle Black nothing more than a figure in the horizon behind him. His eyes ran through the woods and his ears patiently analyzed the sounds of the road. He identified the breathing of three men with his ears, and three cloaked figures hiding in the woods. Mygon chuckled, noticing how a Ranger never loses his senses.
He gently dropped from his horse, grabbed his cane and announced "Oath breakers of the Night's Watch. It is my solemn duty to inform you that traitors have no place amongst the living. Unless, of course, you go back and ask for forgiveness. Maybe that'll work." Mygon shrugged.
Three men emerged from the woods. By their physical stance and appearance, he could tell all three were low-born. One of them had the body, sword grip and eyes of a veteran soldier, the other two, who seemed to be brothers, were probably baker's sons or some such. All three were armed, two with knives, and the former soldier had a sword.
"You came to hunt us?" Asked the soldier, uneasy.
"I met you by chance, I assure you." Mygon, Snowstorm still in its sheath, calmly balanced his weight on his cane. "I have every intent of either killing you or bringing you back to the Wall, however, and that is non-negotiable."
"Back to that place?" The soldier scoffed "I served the Lannisters my whole life, killed my first man when I was eight, raped my way one maiden to another until it left me to that frigid Hell, and I did not mutter a single complaint for a year." He furiously explained, gripping the sword's hilt stronger "But when I heard the dead began to rise? No. I refuse! I will not waste my life there any longer!"
"Ah, a rapist. How delightful." Said Mygon in a mocking tone with a smile on his face. As a recruiter of the Watch he had seen his fair share of rapists, but if there was one type of recruit that never ended well, it was a rapist. Stupid, lust-filled killers with no time for strategy and no sense of loyalty. "And you decided to drag these two along with you."
"They came out of their own will." He nodded to the other two, who nervously clutched their knives. "Now please, out of the way. I do not want to kill an old man, but I will if I have to."
Mygon watched the deserter. He inhaled and exhaled nervously, taking a long time to do each. Mygon waited. When the man was done exhaling and about to begin inhaling, Mygon leaped in one leg and slashed his face with his wooden cane. The soldier fell to the floor, nose bleeding, caught in utter surprise.
The other two advanced, Mygon merely smacked one in the face with the cane and, unsheathing the Snowstorm, disemboweled the other. Jumping over in one leg he turned around, seeing the former soldier slowly rising back up, and moaning in pain.
With the Snowstorm he cleaved the man's head in two in the blink of an eye, watching as his blood gushed out of the wound as his body dropped to the ground, nearly headless. The other deserter charged, knife in hand, but received such a brutal hit of Mygon's cane that his skull cracked with a horrible noise of bone shattering. The deserter fell backwards, having convulsions on the floor.
Mygon cleaned the Snowstorm on his black coat. He saw the deserter writhing, choking on his own saliva, his eyes rolled back and his head shaking nervously. Mygon kneeled and slit his throat, finally ending his suffering. "And now his Watch has ended." Grimly commented Mygon, considering that these days, deserters outnumber genuine sworn Brothers.
He glanced at the two dead boys. Green boys who probably had never met a woman before joining the Watch. He had about their age when he took his vows, and this depressed Mygon. Youth wasted on deserters and cowards, who preferred to see break an oath to face a winter. He considered burying them, but as these thoughts rushed in his head, he instead did the exact opposite.
He severed their heads and making makeshift spikes out of wooden branches, he placed each head on a spike by the side of the road, as a warning to future deserters. Mygon had lost count how many times his wanderings made him cross paths with a deserter, and how many of them he had to butcher. Up until that point, Mygon had respectfully buried them like a sworn brother ought to. But in that moment, Mygon was sick of treachery, sick of cowardice, sick of disrespect for the sacred vows. The time for charity ended with the summer. Winter is the time of fear, and fear is what Mygon would bring to deserters.
He mounted his horse again and rode South, leaving behind the corpses and heads of the three deserters. His mind turned attention to the road ahead. The last time he heard of Yoren, he was headed to King's Landing to find recruits with the new Hand, Lord Eddard. Mygon had a lot of sympathy for the Starks, Benjen himself was the finest Ranger he ever followed. Apparently Ned's bastard had also taken the black, which made Mygon eve more impressed: Even a half-Stark seems to be worth more than all other men in Westeros, thought Mygon.
Night fell upon the Kingsroad, and Mygon soon found himself walking in a random inn by the side of the road. Walking inside it showed to be barely habitable, with no more than sixteen men filling the tables, drinking merrily away all their problems. A bunch of farmers and merchants of no importance to the Watch. Doubtful he'd find recruits there.
"Oh, One-Winged Crow, One-Winged Crow!" A voice echoed in the room, drawing attention to the bard. Every man, sober or drunk, turned eyes to the singer, and following his line of sight they found Mygon, the titular one-winged crow. "Fly fly, One-Winged Crow! No matter how high you fly, you'll fall in the snow! Oh One-Winged Crow, One-Winged Crow! Your sword is just for show!" The patrons at the inn laughed uproariously, probably because of their drinks.
Mygon sighed in exasperation, wondering just why the concept of a crippled member of the Night's Watch seemed to attract bards out of the woodwork. Every other inn he wandered in seemed to end up in a bard singing about the fabled One-Winged Crow. If the bard were sympathetic to the Watch's plight, he'd make a fairy tale hero of the One-Winged Crow: A brave hero who conquered monsters of all kinds despite his injury. If the bard were less charitable, as was the case in that particular inn, he'd instead make a tune mocking the concept of a Wandering Crow with a single wing. Not exactly the hardest jest to make, or the more original.
Mygon ignored and walked past the laughter, approaching the innkeeper. A robust man with a friendly face and a thick moustache. "Wine, I take it, Mygon?"
Mygon nodded affirmatively. "And preferably a few recruits on the side."
"I'm an innkeeper, not a miracle-worker Mygon. I can't produce recruits out of the thin air." The man defended himself, pouring a cup of wine to the One-Winged Crow as the bard continued to make a mockery out of Mygon's career. Mygon took the bottle and the cup and limped away to a table and enjoyed a bottle of wine by himself.
Mygon found amusing how Yoren attracted no such attention wherever he went, except for one or two bards who sang of the Filthy Crow, but those songs were never popular with the public. Often too vulgar for their tastes. But the One-Winged Crow always managed to rouse the audience. There was something striking about the concept that found its way into the hearts of every drunkard and every bard from the Wall to Sunspear. It got the point some Lords started to greet him as the fabled One-Winged Crow. Mygon supposed he couldn't complain: The songs earned him some fame, which made some Lords and Ladies more willing to cooperate with prisoners and aid to the Night's Watch, so in a way, he thought he should thank the bards, perhaps.
"Oh One-Winged Crow, oh One-Winged Crow!" the bard sang again in a very high-pitched voice, "You will die with just one blow!"
Upon further thought, perhaps not. Mygon continued to drink away the bottle in peace, while the bard's song slowly died down as the joke grew stale amongst the patrons of the inn. Such was the usual occurrence. Ina few minutes Mygon wouldn't be remarked by anyone at all.
As he savored the wine Mygon thanked the Seven how Wandering Crows didn't have to pay for their drinks and food. He reflected how this life led him to savoring all kinds of wine and fod, from the lowest inn at the edge of the North to the finest wines of House Redwyne all over Highgarden. This was one of the few parts of the job Mygon seemed to truly enjoy, the variety of foods and of course, people.
As if the Seven sought to ruin even this small joy in Mygon's life, the bard got up from his chair and drunkenly walked up to Mygon, sitting in a nearby chair. The bard smiled like a idiot and said in a barely comprehensible slurred speech "What's a crow doing so far from his nest?"
Mygon wondered why the bard asked questions he already knew the answer, but simply answered "The Watch needs men, and men can often be found in inns."
"Or prisons." The bard's speech stabilized, becoming more comprehensible. His very eyes seemed to shift into something more sober, "Don't you remember me? You took my brother all the way to the Wall."
Mygon struggled to remember the man but he couldn't. Too many recruits. "I can't say I do, no." And thus he took another sip of the wine.
"Of course you don't." Said the Bard mockingly, "You only remember your bloody vows and your bloody Wall. Such brave warriors you are, taking away boys from their homes that did nothing but some small crime and carrying them to death. How do you even sleep at night?"
Seeing the man's tone rise, Mygon placed one of his hands in the grip of his blade. With the other hand he poured more wine on his cup, calmly stating "I sleep very well. It's an ugly job, minstrel, but someone has to do it. The Wall needs men."
The bard spit in the floor in disgust. He stood up and knocked over the cup and the bottle from Mygon's hand, letting them shatter in the ground, spilling the wine all over the floor. "A pity, really, I rather enjoyed this wine." Commented Mygon dryly.
The bard grasped a knife and Mygon stood up with the aid of his cane, hand in the sword's grip.
The wandering crow glanced around the inn, finding looks of utter dread in every face and complete silence in every room. Killing a bard would help in nothing his search for recruits, thought Mygon. He released the sword's hilt and sat back down, diffusing the situation.
The patrons went back to talking, singing, cheering and drinking. But the Bard looked at him with some disgust.
"Coward." Said the Bard, spitting in the floor again. "To the Seven Hells with you, Crow. I tell you this: I'll make my mission in life to ruin any possibility of you getting any recruits. I will give shelter to criminals and deserters if that's what it takes to ruin your bloody Order. Fuck the Night's Watch and fuck you." The bard turned around and vanished in the halls of the inn.
Mygon scanned around the room, noticing something he already suspected: As usual, many shared the bard's opinion. As the bard passed around, many patrons cheered or raised a glass to him. Some even paid him a drink.
Mygon was used to this hatred by now, of course. Wandering Crows were never really popular with the common folk, but Mygon must have been of a particular brand of hate, because most were uncooperative at best and outright antagonistic at worst towards his attempts at finding recruits.
Truth to be told, Mygon couldn't blame them for being furious: Many peasants saw family members, husbands, wives and friends being dragged away to the Wall, never to be seen again. All that pain had to eventually become hatred, and of course the easiest target was the figure of the wandering crow, the boogeyman that captured children from their beds and took them to serve on the Wall.
Mygon shrugged and arose from the table. That was more than enough thinking for one night for the fabled One-Winged Crow. He limped past most chambers, only stopping at the very last chamber. A lonely, forgotten place with just one bed and a pot for the necessities next to the stables. The life of a Wandering Crow led him to many inns, but one thing was certain: He'd always have the worst room of the entire place.
Of course even as terrible as the bed was, it was still far superior to his locations at the Wall and for that he thanked the Seven. As usual he slept grasping his sword, a habit he picked up Beyond the Wall and stood with him ever since. Mygon's eyes slowly closed, and soon he was no longer in the nameless inn of the far North, now he stood in the middle of the snow, watching over the hills.
In the fogs of his memory he saw the frozen hills Beyond the Wall, the snow whipping him like a dog. But he could take it, his leg was good once again and his body felt younger than ever. Behind him stood Sworn Brothers, rangers like him, whose faces and names he could not recall. But he could remember they were thirteen all told. Thirteen rangers, wandering in the snow on the hunt for a Wildling pack.
One of the thirteen called him "Mygon! Over the hill top!" He recognized that voice. Yes, yes, it was Qhorin, Qhorin Half-Hand, back when he had the whole hand. The anonymous figure acquired a face and solid form once again before Mygon's eyes.
He looked over the hill top, and there, emerging over the snow, he saw a small battalion of Wildlings charging, howling like wolves, frothing like dogs, shaking their weapons like a charging bear with his fangs. A wolf pack would have been less noisy and less brutal. They were 70, maybe 80. Maybe a hundred. Mygon could not remember.
He could remember, however, a tall man, with two battle-axes on his back, long red beard flowing in the wind. It was Stone son, chief of some Wildling tribe Mygon could not remember. Stone son had been conducting raids and massacres against members of the Watch and sympathizers.
"Retreat!" Screamed Qhorin, turning around to run to the other direction. As Qhorin wisely remembered that moment, they had been sent to find him, not to battle him. A fact Stone son made irrelevant the moment he ambushed them.
Mygon ran away from Stone Son's pack and by the Seven, he was fast. He outran his entire Ranger party in a matter of seconds, and as such had the astounding luck of witnessing as another pack of Wildlings came screaming from the other side of the camp. Surrounded by both sides, the thirteen stood their ground.
A fraction of a second before the armies clashed Mygon's eyes gazed upon the morning light. Slowly, the vision dissipated and he realized he was once more in the small room at the end of some forgotten inn. An expected disappointment for Mygon. He often dreamed of his days as a Ranger, and it always disappointed him to wake up, having left those days behind.
Much unlike his dream, his body creaked noisily and painfully when he stood up, cracking bones and muscles. His leg was once again mangled, and he probably would have been trampled underfoot by the twelve other Rangers nowadays. Mygon grasped his cane and placed his sword back on his hip.
The inn, unlike Castle Black, was more or less asleep in the early morning lights. Drunkards still slept merrily in every corner and not a soul lingered on the halls, barring one or other prostitute that hurriedly crossed the halls half-naked.
Mygon went directly for his steed, and after a few minutes, he found himself in the Kingsroad again. Deciding that he wasted enough time amongst drunks and bards, he rode ever faster, hoping to reach as soon as possible the Last Hearth, where he hoped to find some recruiting material. House Umber had always been a good friend of the Watch.
Soon enough, he spotted two men on horseback, clad in armor. A banner trembling behind them. Mygon recognized the symbol of the Umbers (a chained giant) and thanked the Seven for such a good horse. The two men stopped besides him, pointing their spears at his face.
"Who goes there?" Asked one of them.
Mygon chuckled, wondering why the man couldn't tell he was a member of the Night's Watch. "I'm Mygon of the Night's Watch. I am looking for recruiters and prisoners to man the Wall. I wish to be taken to your Lord, if that isn't much trouble."
The two studied him for a few seconds, and one of them concluded. "Sincere apologies, my Lord Mygon, we did not recognize you." The horses turned around and throttled forwards. Mygon followed them, chuckling at the concept of Lord Mygon. He wondered why so many people seemed to miss the entire point of the Night's Watch having no Lords or Sirs, attributing every single relevant Sworn Brother a noble title.
Mygon continued to ride until he gazed upon the eye of the blizzard: The Last Hearth, justifying its name by standing tall and alone, the last castle of the North before Castle Black. Some castles were noticeably built to look grand and magnificent, royal. But Mygon's eyes saw no royalty or wealth in that castle, instead he saw walls as thick and as brute as the men who resided inside it. The Last Hearth was built to wage war, not to receive guests, and thus looked as grim as a bloodied battlefield. And what a grim place it was, indeed.
No sooner he crossed the gates he was received by a giant behemoth of a man, a titanic, muscular individual who resembled more a shaved bear than a human being: Greatjon Umber, holding the ugliest, most foreboding blade of recent memory in his hip.
"The One-Winged Crow!" Greatjon laughed heartily, walking towards Mygon. With his massive arms he lifted the Sworn Brother in the air like an infant and placed him down slowly, handing him his cane. Mygon always hated when he did that, but he also couldn't help but laugh. "Welcome to our home!" The Greatjon hugged Mygon, nearly shattering his bones.
"Lord Umber." Mygon took a respectful bow, recovering his breath. "Haven't given up on the Watch yet, I see."
Mygon and Greatjon soon found themselves in the halls of the Last Hearth, great and expansive, but containing the grim aspect that colored every corner of that castle. A few plates containing roast beef, sliced onions and wine could be seen in one of the smaller tables. Greatjon sat down in one end, while Mygon sat in the other.
"A minstrel once told me a story where you fought and killed an entire battalion of Night's Watch deserters using only your walking stick and your wits. Is that true?" The Greatjon inquired with a grin, perhaps already expecting the answer.
Mygon laughed. "I'm afraid the bards exaggerated with that one. The one about me flying in a giant crow from the Wall to the Red Waste is true, though." Warned Mygon with a half-joking tone.
"Lying to a Lord is a serious crime, Starving Crow." The Greatjon's laughter roared again, nearly deafening Mygon. "But jokes aside, what brings you here my friend?"
It amused Mygon to no end how often people asked him that despite knowing the answer. "Men, for the Wall. Perhaps some good food." He drank from the wine and took a bite out of the beef. Both far superior to any food provided in the Wall or the inns on the way, yet still a bit hard on the teeth compared to the softer meals of the royal court in King's Landing. But, hey, who was Mygon to complain?
Greatjon gave the request some thought, and when he prepared to give an answer, out of the door came hurriedly a slightly smaller man than the Greatjon, yet positively massive all the same. Mygon could recognize in him the Smallljon Umber, Greatjon's heir. In his face, an expression of sheer worry.
"What happened?" Greatjon lifted his eyes to meet him.
The Smalljon scoffed nervously and handed him a letter.
Greatjon unfolded the paper, and for a moment, Mygon saw the titan's face grow as pale as the snow, his jaw drop as low as the floor and his eyes widen like a blossoming Northern flower. He read the contents out loud to Mygon "Lord Stark has declared Joffrey as a false King. He's awaiting trial for treason in one of the black cells. His son has summoned the banners." He said incredulously, as if he had a hard time believing his own words.
Mygon's shock mirrored the Greatjon's. Honorable Eddard Stark, man of the winter, a traitor? His son preparing for war? In one fell swoop Mygon's view changed. He saw the North marching against the South, the Wolf against the Lion. A battle that would end up dragging down the entire Realm with them. Soon the Seven Kingdoms would be marching against one another in a bloody struggle.
With the longest winter and an army of Others marching in their doorstep, the Realm still found time to sink into a civil war. Mygon sighed in disgust at the politics of the nobles and their conspiracies, noticing how they forgot the cold of the winter, and seemed only focused on the pleasantries of the summer. And yet, saving their flowery seats was Mygon's goal in life. The irony did not escape the One-Winged Crow.
But in this storm of thoughts, something came to Mygon. "He may be sentenced to the Wall."
Greatjon stared at him, confused. "Lord Stark may be sentenced to the Wall." He clarified, nervous. The thought of Ned Stark in the Wall sent a chill down his spine, because of how much it seemed like fate that the patriarch of House Stark and one of the greatest men of the Seven Kingdoms to be sent to the Wall just as Winter is about to grasp the land. Mygon had decided: He would bring Ned Stark to take the black whatever the cost.
"Outrageous!" Greatjon's thunderous scream of wrath broke Mygon's trail of thought. "If these Southern bastards think they can get away with this treason, I will prove just how wrong they are!" He punched the wooden table so hard the wood cracked, almost splitting in two.
"Son, gather the troops. I want every able man with a sword in his hand and ready to march. We're heading to Winterfell!" He barked. Smalljon faithfully heeded and left the room in a hurry. Greatjon turned his head to Mygon, and the old crow could now fully see just how wrathful the Greatjon looked: His eyes narrowed, his teeth gritted, his eyes became full of tempest. The image reminded Mygon of a charging bear. "Mygon, you are free to grab whatever scum you find in my dungeons, but I sadly cannot stay here to aid you, for duty brings me South."
Mygon nodded to him with an expression of understanding. If there was a man who knew about the price of honor, it was Mygon and his fifty years of unbroken vows at the Wall. But another thought came to Mygon: Yoren was already at King's Landing, recruiting for the Watch. Yoren, however, was unaware of what Mormont had told him about the Others, about the winter. Mygon's plans changed.
"I appreciate your hospitality and your request, my Lord. The Night's Watch will never forget your honor." Stated Mygon, taking a bow out of genuine respect. "But much like yourself, I must head South. I hope your swords bring justice to Lord Stark, my Lord, but if all proves to be in vain, the Watch will be there to redeem Lord Stark's honor."
Greatjon reflected about Mygon's words for several seconds. But ultimately he grinned and offered his hand. "If the Gods are just, we will meet in King's Landing for a drink."
Mygon grinned as well and shook his hand. "If the Gods are just." His tone, however, was considerably more cynical than the Greatjon, for Mygon was all too aware the gods were anything but just. Mygon and the Greatjon turned their backs on one another and walked to different paths: Both men were marching to war, but they would traverse very different paths.
When Mygon reached his horse, his leg pulsated with pain once again. A bad omen, Mygon knew, but when you live in the Night's Watch, almost everything you see becomes a bad omen of some sort. Mygon rode out of the gates of the Last Hearth with one direction in mind: King's Landing. Mygon knew the journey would be far, and there would be many dangers along the way, but he did not knew just how many.