When she had first set eyes on the planet, she didn't quite know what to make of it.
The readouts had shown that it was one of those planets that seemed average, in all respects. In this planet's case, the proximation to it's parent star along with its axis and speed of rotation meant along with an abundance of both fresh and saltwater on the surface meant that, apart from a few deserts and mountain ranges here and there, the majority of the planet was covered in lush, green forests, both of the tropical and deciduous variety, and vast, rolling plains. The active atmosphere as also pretty average for a world of this type- capable of serene calm and violent storms in equal measure. She found herself watching one such storm right now, sweeping across the central plains they had set themselves up in.
She didn't worry all that much about the storm, however. They had chosen the site well- a large hill with enough room for four entire legions to comfortable house themselves on top plus room for all their vehicles. They'd be safe from flooding, at the very least, and the well-constructed, utilitarian domes that were a staple of Imperial military architecture meant that strong winds- even those from devastating tornadoes- would mean that their base would, at best, only suffer dents and scratches from flying debris.
No, she wasn't worried about this storm, she mused as she watched a particularly large wedge tornado tear its way through the plains below, churning like a deadly ballerina across the prairie. The storm she was worried about was one which was far worse- a storm of cold and death, one that would not be content to limit itself to one measly planet, but rather one that would not stop until the stars themselves would be snuffed out.
So far, she had not caught sight of the menace, but she had heard of the aftermath. Everywhere she sent scouting missions, the crews always reported the same thing- a dead, cold world, with all signs of life simply gone. Only ice, snow, and wind remained.
And there had still been no true sighting of the barbarian coalition under this mysterious figure, either. Sure, the ships she sent out would pick up the occasional anomaly on long-range scanners, yet when they went to investigate, the anomaly vanished, as if it had never existed in the first place. They also had detected no residual radiation left from a hyperspace jump, which meant that the ghost ships didn't make a hasty jump to lightspeed.
She furrowed her brow in confusion. Did the Vong and their allies get a hold of some sort of cloaking device? She heavily doubted it, as cloaking devices were tightly controlled and regulated by the Empire, but she could still not dismiss the possibility.
She sighed and turned away from the window, bored already of watching the storm. Truth be told, she always enjoyed spacefaring more than she did being on the ground. She badly wished to be up there on her destroyer, right now, not stuck on some nameless planet overseeing the finishing touches to some unnamed forward operating base.
She may be considered one of the more level headed and cautious officers in the Imperial fleet, but she did share one thing in common with many of her compatriots- a love of the stars. If she was honest with herself, then she'd also say that she also had a fair bit of ambition, too. If she didn't, she'd never had risen the ranks to the Admiralty, after all.
But she wasn't power-hungry, or a glory-hound, unlike a fair amount of officers in the Imperial Armed Forces. Constantly scrambling over one another for the Emperor to even spare a second-long glance at them, giving out promotions or meting out punishment based on what connections you had, or what family you were born to, or if you said something that even mildly flattered or offended them. Arrogant, self-serving, and egotistic, the lot of them. Unlike Thrawn, herself, and a handful of others, there existed in the new officer corps no sense of loyalty or duty to the ideals of the Empire or the Throne. All that existed was nepotism and incompetence, and it had been that way ever since the purges.
She walked back to her desk, plopped down onto the chair, and began to read the reports that had piled up on her desk. Tedious work, sure, but it needed to be done.
The first report was a geological survey carried out by her fleet's resident scientists. All in all, it seemed this planet was abundant in natural resources, and could one day make for an excellent, self-sustained colony. But that concern was far off in the distant future. What she was concerned with right now was if there was a way to tap into the resources in order to keep her fleet fueled and supplied.
The second was a report from one of her TIE/sr scout fighters that all fleets were required to keep on standby, as deploying probe droids wasn't possible in all cases. Here, they reported that they had spotted a large concentration of unknown vessels- nearly an entire squadron's worth. The scouts speculated that it could be these "Free Folk", but they could not get close enough to verify, lest they had given away their position.
It was like this throughout the entire afternoon going into the evening. Report after report, from sanitation levels to troop morale. Finally, after she had exhausted her last paper, she came across something on the bottom of her stack of papers.
A journal, bound in black leather, with a note written in flimsiplast attached to it.
Our friends in the Ascendency just sent us this, the note read. Apparently, it relates to Valaryos and it refers to an organization that was dedicated to battling the White Walkers. They thought it might be useful in some way.
Regards,
Uthbar.
Despite her misgivings about why there was this seemingly 'important' journal that their Chiss "allies" had sent to them, Rae had to smile. Where would she be without her second-in-command? In all honesty, without Uthbar, life in the navy would have been a lot more miserable for her.
Making a mental note to thank Uthbar later, she tore off the note and placed it on the stack of papers, and opened the journal to its very first page.
The Journal of Eddison Tollet, 999th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, with annotations by Archmaester Samwell, it read in Basic.
Rae paused before turning the page. The Night's Watch…
She had read about their organization before, going over the big history record that she obtained on Csilla. But why in the world would they send her a personal journal belonging to its last leader? What did they think was so important in this book? She already knew how the Walkers could be defeated. She read as much in that big history tome downloaded on her datapad. As a beside, she didn't see a point in an organization exclusively dedicated to an outside threat- wasn't that what centralized governments were even for? To protect the people from all threats foreign and domestic, and to keep the peace?
But they do not take this threat seriously, the voice that had been with her for months now suddenly spoke up in her head. You do. You must find Azor Ahai. You must give him the shield that guards the realms of men.
Rae frowned. That was another problem. Ever since that damned tomb on Valaryos, she felt more and more like she wasn't truly in charge of her own fate. That something was definitely guiding her to some unknown destiny or fate. What this destiny was, though, she hadn't the foggiest. Maybe it was something to do with the White Walkers, she reasoned.
Whatever the case may be, she put aside such thoughts and continued to read the journal, beginning with the first entry:
March 14, 298 AC. Well, here I am, writing this bloody fucking thing. Well, where to start? Guess I better start with my fucking name. I'm Eddison Tollet, though all my friends here at the frozen ass end of the realm call me Dolorous Edd, because I seem to be the only one who realizes just how badly fucked we all are…
Hours later, the storm had cleared up, and the sun had set, revealing a clear, beautiful night sky, complete with a full moon, yet Rae found herself far too busy to notice such a thing. Instead, she found herself engrossed in this journal of a man who had obviously seen so much and accomplished many things as a brother of this "Night's Watch". He went into great detail describing the undead and the White Walkers, far more so than what her history book had told her about the undead foe. She felt a shudder run down her spine at his description of the massacre of Hardhome- how the Night King just casually managed to rise up over a hundred thousand fresh bodies to become a part of his horde. Another thing that caught her interest was his description of the resurrection of his predecessor and best friend; one Jon Snow, the bastard son of the man who ruled from the castle Rae had visited-Winterfell.
For some reason, her mind flashed back to the Grey Wolf and Robb Stark. No one had ever seen what the former warrior looked like underneath his mask, or if he was related to the ancient house which had a long, storied, and successful history.
A possibility popped into her head, one that was ridiculous and fleeting, but it had shown itself for the briefest of moments, and sometimes, that's all it takes for a seed to take hold in one's mind; there existed an infinitesimal possibility that this Grey Wolf was not a descendent of the Starks, but rather Robb Stark himself.
She quickly waved it off. No one could be brought back from the dead, and even if they were, they certainly couldn't jump eight thousand years forward in time to the present day, to a galaxy that would be so advanced and different from the culture they grew up in it might as well have looked like the realm of gods to the primitive mind.
She continued on with her reading. She reasoned that she as might as well finish it, considering that she was on the last entry and that it turned out to be a very fascinating look-in to what the lives of these people were like.
September 12, 305 AC.
This is probably going to be my last entry into this damned book. Tonight, the dead are going to be at the gates of Winterfell, and if we lose here, then Westeros might as well kiss it's ass goodbye, cause I don't think there's going to be any force left that can stop the Night King and his ungodly fucking hordes.
There's going to be a war council in the evening. Jon's been devising strategy all day, and we're going to make some final minute changes then. I really hope these Unsullied and Dothraki are all that people say they are, and that the dragons can burn those undead freaks to oblivion, because even with Winterfell's fortifications, ten thousand Northmen alone can't hold out against a hundred thousand swarming wights. I've seen how they overrun the Wildlings at Hardhome and my brothers at the Fist. Clawing, biting, breaking, hacking, screaming. I'll admit, I'd be a bit more comfortable if that bitch Cersei had actually kept her promise for once and sent some of her troops up here. If we win, and they're gone, maybe the nightmares that haunted me constantly will finally stop. Maybe not.
Should we win, but I perish on the field, as I do believe what will happen, then I want to give this book to Samwell Tarly. Maybe he'll know what to do with it when he writes that history epic he's always been blabbering on about, and if anyone else reads this, I want to give you a piece of advice-
If we win, but the Walkers were somehow to return one day, or if the Wildlings return to their previous ways of raiding and pillaging our kingdoms, then the Wall must be repaired. The Night's Watch must stand, for we are the shield that guards the realms of men. We protected the kingdoms and the cities when no one else was able or willing to- too concerned with their power plays and their pointy metal chairs to give any concern about the things that truly posed threats to their lives.
I have to go, now. The council is set to begin any minute now, and I can't dilly-dally around any longer.
This is Eddison Tollet, the nine-hundred-ninety-ninth and last Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. May the old gods and the new watch over us tonight.
Rae closed the book. Her mind was practically sprinting through a gauntlet of thoughts, and so far, none of them were answering her questions. Did the voice want her to restore the Night's Watch- raise an army dedicated to fighting these monsters and hand it over to some "chosen" stranger supposedly destined to defeat them? But would that not conflict with her sworn duty to safeguard the Empire and obey the commands of the Emperor and those officers appointed above her? Would that not paint her as a traitor in the eyes of her comrades? But could she afford to ignore this voice?
Could she truly count on the Empire sending reinforcements if things went south?
The more and more she thought, the more and more her mood went dark, as each thought process ended up in the same conclusion- if she followed this voice's commands, she would be labeled a madwoman and a traitor, in all likelihood, and if she didn't, she ran the risk of the Empire falling to a cruel and callous enemy that defied the very nature of logistics.
She groaned and rubbed her temples. That book had not answered anything. If anything, it just presented a new dilemma for her. What she needed was answers- a clear path to follow.
She got up from her desk and exited her office. Some fresh air was sorely needed, she decided, for she had spent far too much time on a ship or locked up in a building, and her anxiety was getting worse.
She soon exited the command and control building and soon found herself wondering around the base in the cool, clear night. Normally, her deathtrooper bodyguards would have been escorting her around the premises, but right now she neither required nor wanted their presence. She needed to do something to get her mind off of her worries and troubles.
As she found herself walking next to the barracks, she noticed how quiet it was outside, save for small groups of troopers here and there gathered around smoking pits. It was around one of these pits that she heard someone singing while playing their guitar.
Curiosity got the better of her, and she decided to go over and investigate, if not to at least get to know the men under her command better. As she approached the pit, she noticed that the men were either in their undersuits or in civilian attire that they had purchased back when they last had shore leave. A few of the men had regulation-trimmed mustaches, some were bald, and others were skirting on the edge of what regs allowed as far as it went for hairstyles and length. But all of them, it seems, were either in a happy or ambivalent mood. She smirked. More than likely, a few of them were hitting the sauce, as it happened to fall on a weekend and the men had "secretly" broken into contraband and "liberated" the alcohol that none of them were supposed to be consuming while deployed. More often than not, many officers who didn't have their heads stuck up their asses chose to ignore the troops blatantly breaking such rules, provided that the enlisted men didn't go overboard with it.
The troopers must have noticed her coming, for one of their numbers suddenly swatted the guitar player to stop the music. Suddenly, everyone jumped to their feet and stood at the position of attention, with whom she presumed to be the leader of this team saluting her when she came near.
She gave a tired smile, returning the salute. "As you were, soldiers," she commanded. "I'm not hear for an inspection or anything like that. Just wanted to make the rounds and see how my men were doing."
Immediately, the troopers seemed to give out a collective sigh of relief and sat back on their benches, still somewhat wet from the storm that had passed through earlier.
"Forgive us, ma'am," their leader said. "Ya' just startled us, is all."
She was struck by how the man talked. His accent sounded like he was from one of the Rim Worlds, and he had the tanned complexion and dark hair to match. What's more, she was curious about his age. He looked young, probably not even into his mid-twenties, yet. His eyes, though, shone with all the hardened seriousness and steadfast loyalty that one would expect of a stormtrooper underneath the armor.
"Don't worry about it, trooper," she waved aside, sitting down beside them. "If anything, I should have known better than to walk up on a fireteam of stormtroopers just trying to have a good time. By the way, who are you?" she asked.
The young man's eyes glazed over, a result of years of conditioning "DX-578, Corporal E-4, ma'am."
Rae frowned. It was like this with all stormtroopers, it seemed. All of them seemed to identify themselves via their operating number, giving themselves the appearance of nothing more than faceless, nameless meat-droids.
Or…maybe it was all a front the troopers put on for anyone outside their company, let alone their platoon. It stood to reason that these troopers called each other by their last names within their immediate units, in order to build unit cohesion and morale, or perhaps they used nicknames derived from things they did, said, or plays on their operating numbers- much like their clone forebears.
She bit her lip. She decided to press the issue.
"Well, DX-578," she addressed, "you've given me your operating number. I want to know your name, though. Where are you from?"
A long, uncomfortable silence passed between them, as DX-578 seemed to have an internal debate, as to whether or not he should tell someone who was outside his immediate unit or chain of command and support. Finally, after a long moment, he seemed to have decided.
"Bunkle," he answered at last, understandably reluctantly, though. "Corporal Ames Bunkle, though my platoon calls me 'Bunk', ma'am.
Bunk's answer seemed to have instilled some courage in his slightly younger teammates, for the rest of them began answering.
"Private First Class Jayne Reynolds," the young redheaded woman answered next, "known to everyone outside the company as TN-727 and inside the company as 'Red'. I'm the team's designated marksman, ma'am."
"Specialist Jon Cramer," the bald, mustached man with a cigarette in his mouth said next, "inside the platoon, known as 'Train', due to something that I'd rather not mention. Outside of it, it's FN-891, ma'am. I'm the squad's repeater-gunner. Get me behind the sights of a DLT-19, and I can guarantee you that I can hold off an entire damned battalion by myself as long as I have ammo."
"Private Amos Blackwood," a blonde-haired youth answered next, "AK-101 is my number, and I'm the team's grenadier. They called me 'Nerfboy' in basic, and the name stuck, ma'am."
"Private Dan Jakarta," was the final man's answer, who was a huge, muscular dark-skinned man with a wiry regulation haircut. "My number's MD-534, and the nickname's 'Horse', due to me trying to steal horses back before I joined up with the Army. I'm Cramer's assistant gunner. He needs ammo or a tripod, I'm his man."
She looked at all of them; Bunkle, Reynolds, Cramer, Blackwood, and Jakarta. All of them were young humans, conditioned to be steadfastly loyal to the state and to their Emperor, ready to lay down their lives for realm and ruler and kill in their name as well. A tight-knit group, as all fireteams were, led by a junior NCO that she had a good feeling about.
She shrugged. "Well, you all know who I am, obviously. The commander who brought you to the literal end of nowhere, chasing shadows and depriving you of glory. Did I get it more or less right?"
"More or less, ma'am," Bunkle admitted. "Permission to speak freely?"
She nodded. "Permission granted, corporal."
"With all due respect, ma'am, what in the name of fuck is High Command thinking sending us out here? The only thing out here is some backward ass, no-nosed nerf-fuckers, and their equally hideous friends. Does command really think that they're such a threat to waste a handful of legions and a fleet full of ships on?"
Rae was silent for a moment. She debated on whether or not she should let the rank and file know why they were actually out here. She decided against it, for several reasons. Firstly, the tale itself was unbelievable, unless you had seen it personally. Secondly, the enlisted usually didn't have top secret and above clearances for a reason. Too big of an operational security risk to tell a lowly private or sailor something vitally important and not actually pertaining to his or her task at hand.
"I cannot tell you men the exact reason for why we're out here, men," she finally answered, deliberately and carefully. "What I can tell you, though, is that what we are facing is far, far worse than some backward barbarians with barely any ships to their name, and that we might as well be the only thing between the Empire and oblivion," she spoke, her voice cold and serious as the winds of winter.
Even though her men still had a slight look of confusion on their faces, they silently agreed to drop the subject. They'd soon know, anyway, Rae thought. All that she could hope for was that they're morale held in the face of the apocalypse.
She shook her head. "Never mind that, though. You were playing a song, earlier. Never heard of it, before."
Realization dawned on Bunkle's face. "Ah, right, ma'am. Well, it's an old song that some Mando merchant taught me back on Ord Mantell. Said it came from a time long before his people even called themselves 'Mandalorians'. Hell, he told me that it might not even be one of the songs from their past at all, due to it not being 'warlike'. I can start playing it for you again if you like, ma'am."
Rae nodded, and soon enough, the sounds of music filled the night sky, the lyrics sad and mournful, like a portend of tragedy before a great battle was to take place.
"High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts. The ones she had lost and the ones she had found and the ones who had loved her the most. The ones who'd been gone for so very long, she couldn't remember their names. They spun her around on the damp old stones, spun away all her sorrow and pain…"
A/N: "and she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave…"
Well, another chapter done.
During the small hiatus between the chapters, I watched the eighth and final season for GoT. There were many things I liked about us, and a few things I didn't. Now, I know I said that I wouldn't change the backstory to this fic, but I've been thinking about lining some of it up better with what happens in canon GoT. Namely, changing Sansa's fate to match her show fate much better. Don't worry, though. Theon's fate in my story will remain the same (I think).
Now, on to the substance. Rae is given Edd's journal, detailing his history as a brother of the Night's Watch. What does that mean for her and her forces? Where will this lead? And what is her role in defeating the third coming of the Night King?
Till next time!