She moaned in arousal as he thrust inside her. She held him close to her chest. Her nails dug into the flesh of his back, but he did not mind the pain. If anything, it incited him to go deeper.

Keeping one hand around her waist, he groped her tits with his other hand. Her breasts were small like the rest of her, but they were enticing all the same. He ran his tongue along her nipples as he resumed his plunge. The faster he went, the louder she became. He pumped into her unsteadily at first. Soon, he found the most agreeable pace, and he kept that pace. At one point, she stopped moaning long enough to call out his name.

"Oh, Maron! Oh, yes!" she shrieked. She sounded delighted. As pleased as he was to confirm that she was enjoying the experience, he wished she would keep the noises she made to incoherent moans.

Why do women feel the need to talk when they're being fucked? It annoyed him whenever he was getting intimate with a woman, and she spoke to him out of nowhere. It was very distracting and extremely unnecessary. He was tempted to tell her to shut up, but he did not wish to spoil the moment. Anyway, he was almost done.

He felt his climax approaching fast. Just before it was upon him, he lifted her up off the sheets and thrust hard into her one last time. She arched her back and screamed in ecstasy as he came inside her.

When it was all over, the two of them collapsed onto the bed. They were wrapped in each other's arms, panting heavily. He caught his breath first, and it was appropriate to talk now. Talking after sex is fine. During sex… definitely not. In his mind, there were times when one shouldn't multitask.

Once he was respiring normally, he turned to her and asked "How do you feel?"

He felt the odd need to ask that question every time he made love to a woman. Whether it was because he was genuinely interested in how she felt or because he simply wished to have an assessment of his performance, he could not say. It was mostly a compulsion.

"Even better than last time," Elia Sand responded, grinning at him.

Ser Maron Greyjoy grinned back. He remembered last time quite well. Afterwards, she had described it as the best love she had ever made with a man. He had noticed she did not say "man or woman." Where she came from, that was a bit of an important detail. After this time, I'm certain she'll admit it was the best she ever had with a man or a woman.

Elia rested her head on Maron's shoulder, and she ran her hands down his back. She rubbed the spots where her nails had dug into his skin. Although she had not drawn blood, those marks would not fade easily. They'll fit right in with my other scars.

As Elia caressed the small of his back, she placed a few light kisses on Maron's face. One on his forehead, one on his nose, one on each of his cheeks, one on each of his temples, and one on his chin.

You missed a spot, he thought humorously. That spot did not remain overlooked for long. A couple seconds later, Elia gave him a kiss on his lips, which he returned.

Maron noticed she only kissed on the lips at the beginning and end of a round. Maybe she has a few compulsions of her own.

At any rate, he found he enjoyed those kisses. Almost as much as he enjoyed everything that happened in-between them. He wondered if that could have meant anything.

Gods forbid I actually fall in love with her. We've only been doing this for a fortnight, and anyway, she's nearly twelve years my junior.

That was quite true. Ser Maron Greyjoy would soon turn seven and twenty, and not long ago, Elia Sand had seen her fifteenth nameday.

Usually, Maron Greyjoy would not share a bed with anyone so young. Despite his Ironborn heritage, he had standards on who he would lay with. Nevertheless, the fifth daughter of Oberyn Martell had enticed him.

When Maron first embarked on this mission, he had set sail on his warship, the Leviathan. Oberyn Martell, Ellaria Sand, and the four youngest Sand Snakes had come aboard with him. While the Leviathan was large even for a flagship, daily encounters with the Dornish passengers were inevitable.

If Elia had been any other man's daughter, Maron would not have dared to touch her. In fact, given her father's reputation, for the longest time, Maron was unwilling to even look Elia's way.

As it happened, she was the one who approached him, not the other way around. For a while, he resisted her advances, due to his fear over what her father might do to him if he gave in. Maron may have been friends and colleagues with the Red Viper, but he knew how protective the Dornish could be of their children.

Fortunately, when Prince Oberyn realized what was going on, he and his consort Ellaria gave Maron their blessing to court their oldest girl. Far as I know, courting and bedding are not that different from one another in Dorne. That was when Maron conceded and invited Elia to his cabin on the Leviathan. He did not feel so guilty or apprehensive after they made love for the first time. After all, Elia had flowered a couple years prior, so she was a woman by all accounts. Apart from that, Maron was not Elia's first.

He did not know who her first really was, and he decided he would rather not know. What matters is that I've outdone him, according to Elia.

Maron recalled being about the same age as Elia when he lost his virginity. His first had been one of Lord Gorold Goodbrother's daughters. He could not remember which one, though. That was partly because the Lord of Hammerhorn had sired twelve girls and partly because she had not been particularly memorable on her back. Unlike this exotic beauty.

Interestingly, that was just before his father's ill-fated Rebellion. So, shortly after Lord Gorold's daughter made a man of him in the bedchamber, Maron was expected to become a man on the battlefield, as well.

Alas, Maron did not have much opportunity to partake in the war directly. His elder brother Rodrik and his uncles Euron and Aeron did most of the fighting for their family. Rodrik had been maimed and captured, Euron had been killed, and Aeron had been imprisoned.

Maron himself did not see any action until King Robert's forces besieged Pyke. That was where he encountered Nuncle Victarion fighting alongside the Royal Army. He had been enraged by his uncle's betrayal, but before he could engage him in combat, Maron was countered and subdued by Barristan Selmy.

Looking back on that episode, Maron realized how fortunate he was that Ser Barristan had intervened. The man saved more than my life. If not for him, either my nuncle or I might have become a kinslayer.

Father had surrendered that very same day. Not long after, he was taken to the Wall, and Maron and his brothers were made hostages of the crown. Rodrik was incarcerated in King's Landing, Theon was put in the charge of Winterfell, and Maron was brought to Moat Cailin.

Eleven years had elapsed since then. Lord Balon Greyjoy was still a sworn brother of the Night's Watch, and he would remain one until his last breath. At some point, all three of his sons had been freed from their captivity. Even so, they had voluntarily chosen to stay at their respective locations. Each of them had done quite well for himself.

Theon was a ward to Lord Eddard Stark and a good friend of his family, Rodrik had become the Master of Ships on the small council, and Maron was the Ironborn representative on the secret council. One could argue Maron had the most desirable position. He had been released earlier than his brothers, and he grown the most in terms of influence.

In Maron's mind, being sent to Moat Cailin was the best thing that could have ever happened to him. Although he dreaded the place at first, the experience had opened his eyes to the diversity and greatness of the world. Even before he was given back his freedom, he had discovered how outstanding life outside the Iron Islands could be. That was one of the things that had impelled him to stay at the moat.

All the same, he never allowed himself to forget his roots. Once a year, he and his brothers returned to the Islands to visit their family and friends. They spent most of that time with their mother and her family at Harlaw. However, that furlough only comprised a few weeks of the year. The rest of the year, they spent on the mainland.

Of course, he was not on mainland of the Seven Kingdoms now. At this time, Ser Maron Greyjoy was nowhere near Westeros. It had been nearly two months since he saw it last.

At present, he was out on assignment. King Robert and Lord Gregor Clegane had tasked him with travelling to Essos and recruiting as many swords as he could find. They argued that the Seven Kingdoms would need all the reinforcements it could get in the wars to come, and Maron was in full agreement.

Lord Victarion Greyjoy had lent much of the Iron Fleet's strength to this cause. He had even appointed his nephew to the office of Iron Captain. A duty which Maron had been quite eager to assume. First I fill in his spot on the secret council, and now I have his old commission as leader of the Iron Fleet. What next? Maybe Nuncle will decide to make him his heir.

Maron was not foolish enough to believe that would actually be the case. Victarion Greyjoy already had a son, Gregor, named after The Mountain That Rides. Maron was currently fourth in his house's line of succession after his uncle, his cousin, and Rodrik.

Thankfully, Maron was content with that. He did not care for the Seastone Chair. Even before Father rebelled, it would never have been his. It would have been Rodrik's. Now neither of us shall have it. Oh, well. At least we'll still have the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.

Although Prince Oberyn Martell was in command of the mission, Maron was in charge of their armada. Even if most of the vessels were not Ironborn in origin, Dorne had not had a proper fleet in centuries. Thus, Maron was far more qualified to direct them than the Red Viper. Oberyn was the one who decided their destinations, but it was up to Maron to decide how they got there. The ships went where he told them to. Such empowerment in that role. The feeling it gave him was almost as good as the feeling Elia Sand gave him.

"What about you?" the Sand Snake's soft voice interrupted his broodings. "Do you feel as good as I do?"

"If I didn't, you think I would admit it?" he asked rhetorically.

"Yes, I do," she murmured plainly, turning to him.

Maron scoffed and told her sardonically "It was marvelous."

"Good," she remarked, setting her head back down, "But we can do better than 'marvelous.'"

"Oh, we will," he asserted firmly. If she is any indication, I get progressively better every time.

The two of them laid in silence for a couple minutes. Maron cherished those minutes, as there was hardly ever any silence at sea. Except when my late Nuncle Euron was still alive. Silence was everywhere in those days.

Ultimately, the quiet atmosphere was shattered. Naturally, Elia was the one to do it. She looked Maron in the eye again and queried "So, where will we be heading next?"

"That will be the topic of today's discussion," he apprised her. He knew she preferred a more direct answer, but as of then, that was the most direct he could be. I don't choose where we go; that's her father's job.

"Well, our options are not as broad as they were last week," Elia debated, "We've already been all along the west and south coasts of Essos."

"And I'd say we've been quite successful so far," Maron contended, "Three sellsword companies in two months."

"Yes, but the Windblown, the Second Sons, and the Stormcrows only have around three thousand units altogether," Elia pointed out, "That is but a fraction of our own forces."

"No need to have such a glass-half-empty attitude," Maron uttered cheekily.

"'Glass-half-empty?'" Elia repeated in confusion.

"One of Lord Gregor's proverbs," he enlightened her, "It refers to a scenario where a person has a drinking glass that is only filled halfway. A person with a negative outlook would see it as half-empty. Whereas someone with a positive outlook sees it as half-full."

"How does that work?" she queried in interest.

"I didn't understand at first, either," Maron confessed, "Lord Gregor explained that it's all a matter of whether you choose to appreciate what is there or sulk over what isn't there."

"Ah, that makes sense," Elia commented. After a short pause, she smirked and said "Would I be right to assume your people tend to have a glass-half-full approach to life?"

"You might…" he stated, a little perplexed. "What led you to think that?"

"Well, meaning no offense to you or any other Ironborn, but I've heard that life in the Iron Islands is not always pleasant," Elia stated.

"You're right; it isn't," Maron promptly affirmed. So promptly that she giggled a bit. "At least it wasn't until King Robert took steps to make the Islands fertile and establish better connections between them and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Nowadays, it's more appealing."

"I will take your word for it," Elia muttered, "Still, before all that, the Iron Islands were the smallest, least powerful, and most isolated of the nine regions in the Seven Kingdoms. While I do not agree with many of your people's old practices such as raiding, I do admire how they never allow any of their disadvantages to discourage them. They even view death in a positive light."

"How so?" he asked.

"No other culture is so bold as to declare 'what is dead may never die,'" she argued.

Maron chuckled. "That is not meant to be taken literally. It mostly refers to those of us who've been drowned and revived. It is not uncommon for followers of the Drowned God to go through that process. I went through it once myself."

"If you still believe in the Drowned God, how are you a 'ser?'" Elia enquired in interest, "I thought only followers of the Seven could be knighted."

"That's not always the case," Maron elucidated, "Your sister Nymeria's husband, Lord Jorah Mormont, is a firm believer in the Old Gods, and he was knighted at Lannisport for his heroics during my father's rebellion. In a similar fashion, I decided I wanted a title of my own a while back, and I was knighted in the sept at Moat Cailin."

"Ah, alright," Elia Sand acknowledged.

Maron settled back down and stated "Your observation of my people is a fair one. We tend to make the best of any situation, no matter how dreary. That is what gives us our resilience and our tenacity, and what keeps opportunity within our grasp. That is also another reason why we say 'what is dead may never die.' Be that as it may… there are some dead things in this world that should stay dead."

"I know…" Elia mumbled, suddenly a little uneasy. She knows what I'm talking about, he realized.

"Best not to dwell on that," Maron hastily added in.

"Perhaps," Elia remarked, "But I wonder… do you think White Walkers can swim?"

"By all accounts, they cannot," Maron debated, "Nonetheless, we are fairly certain they can walk on any surface. That includes ice."

"So, what?" Elia murmured restlessly, "Do you think they could freeze the surface of the Narrow Sea and march all the way to Essos and beyond?"

"I would like to think that would be impossible," Maron told her, "But with dragons, giants, wargs, and so many other strange creatures cropping up in recent years, I've had to rethink the boundaries of 'impossible' several times."

"Then even all the way out here, we're not safe from the Others?" Elia presumed grimly.

"While it may be too early to assume so, there is nothing to suggest otherwise," Maron perceived. I would not be surprised if they could freeze the whole of the Narrow Sea.

Elia sighed and said irately "I was afraid of that. Gods, I can't believe I was foolish enough to think that sailing to the far east would be a solution to our problems."

It has been known to remedy many an Ironborn problem. Alas, this is one predicament where even the Ironmen cannot escape by ship.

Maron pulled Elia close and told her softly "Don't reflect on that, Elia. The Others won't head south until winter, and that won't be for at least another two years. By then, we'll have amassed enough strength and resources to counter them. For now, though… you should just relax. Maybe be more optimistic about the matter."

Elia reflected on that for a few moments. Then she smiled at the Ironman and muttered "Very well, Maron. I'll try to believe that the glass is half-full"

"Excellent," he uttered, snickering slightly.

The silence returned to the room for a few minutes more. Maron thought about proposing that they start another round. Before he could present the offer, there was a knock on the door.

"Yes?" he called out.

"Forgive me if I disturb you, Captain," came a voice from the other side. He recognized it as Dagon Codd's voice. "But Prince Oberyn requests your presence on the command deck."

"Tell him I will be there momentarily," Maron proclaimed.

"Aye, ser," Dagon rejoined.

As Dagon's footsteps faded away, Maron emerged from the bed and proceeded to get dressed. After getting into his smallclothes, he pulled his beeches on and swiftly laced them up. He found his white tunic near the base of the bed. It smelt of saltwater, but it was reasonably clean.

As he threw his tunic on, Elia climbed out of bed, too. She went to retrieve her clothing. In his haste to have her, Maron had flung them across the room. Luckily, he had not torn them.

Maron looked around for his doublet and his cloak, but Elia found them first. She held them out to him, and he accepted them graciously. As he put those back on, Elia got into her own smallclothes and her dress.

A couple minutes later, they were both fully clothed once more. They were armed, as well; Maron adorned his belt with his sword, and Elia slid her dagger up her sleeve. Then they each took another minute to touch up their appearances in the looking glass that overlooked the chamber pot. Wouldn't be good protocol for the captain to report to the bridge looking all disheveled.

Once Maron was satisfied with his appearance, he turned to his consort and stated "Well, my dear, as much as I enjoy your company, duty calls."

"You needn't explain, Captain," Elia insisted, "Perhaps again, tonight?"

"Maybe," Maron supposed, "Depends on how long your father requires my presence."

"It won't be all night, I assure you," Elia slyly muttered, "Papa won't keep you for that long. Mama will see to that."

He smirked. She has a point, though. Ellaria Sand does hold some sway over the Red Viper.

Ser Maron Greyjoy kissed Elia Sand on the cheek and departed from his cabin. Whether she left soon after or stayed there, he did not know. Either way, he predicted that he might find her there when he got back that evening.

Maron headed down the adjoining corridor until he arrived at a stairwell. From there, he made his way up to the command deck. Once he was up top, he heard someone exclaim "Attention on deck!"

Everyone on the command deck of the Leviathan promptly stood at attention. Maron smiled for a moment, and then he declared "At ease!"

He had come to appreciate being afforded that much respect. He could get used to it on his own ship, but he was determined not to let it get to his head. In his experience, too much power did unsettling things to people. His own father was a fine example of that. I am not about to repeat my father's mistakes.

As the ship's crew returned to their previous tasks, Maron looked around for Dagon Codd. He spotted him near the center of the command deck. A certain Dornishman with an ever-present mischievous expression was with him.

Maron strode over to them, and he told his fellow Ironborn "Thank you, Dagon. You may go now."

Dagon Codd saluted his captain and said "Yes, ser."

Ser Maron Greyjoy was left alone with Prince Oberyn Martell. We'll not be alone for long, I'm certain. At least, he hoped they would not remain alone, considering what he had done with the last Dornish person he had been alone with, as well as who that Dornish person was.

"I did not interrupt anything, did I, Maron?" Oberyn inquired deviously.

"Not at all, Oberyn," Maron disclosed, "I just finished."

"Even so, this must be a bit of a nuisance," Oberyn Martell disputed, "No man likes to go from lying with a beautiful girl to attending to her father."

One could make that argument. He noted "You think of Elia as a girl?"

"I'll always think of her as a girl," Oberyn pronounced, "You don't, I assume?"

"If I did, I would have gotten here sooner," Maron mumbled drily. "Women interest me; girls do not. I will not sleep with just anyone, my prince. I'm not you."

"You would have a lot more to boast about if you were," the Red Viper japed.

Yes, because I just LOVE to flaunt my accomplishments as you do. Maron rolled his eyes and muttered "Are we here to trade blows, or are we here to converse on matters of import?"

"The latter, though there's always room for the former," Oberyn contended. He placed his hand on the younger man's shoulder and directed him over to the bridge. "Come, captain; our new business associates await our arrival."

I know better than to keep them waiting.

When Maron and Oberyn entered the bridge of the Leviathan, they found half a-dozen other men already assembled there. These six men represented all the progress Maron and Oberyn had made in their objective over the last eight weeks.

The oldest of them was a mysterious Pentoshi only known as the Tattered Prince. He was the commander of the Windblown. He and his two thousand warriors had been looking for work in the Disputed Lands when Ser Maron and Prince Oberyn commissioned their services. Winning them over was relatively simple.

After him, there was the captain of the Second Sons, the Braavosi Mero, and his second-in-command, Brown Ben Plumm, who claimed to be a descendant of many cultures, including House Plumm of the Seven Kingdoms. A while back, the Fleet had docked at Myr, and by sheer luck, the Second Sons happened to be in the city, too. Interestingly, Maron Greyjoy and Oberyn Martell were both second sons. In addition to that, Prince Oberyn had once served with the Second Sons before he enlisted in the Legion without Banners. He still had enough of a reputation in their ranks that he was able to get their leaders to sign on with all five hundred of their cavalry.

Lastly, there were the three joint commanders of the Stormcrows: a Qartheen with a clean-shaven head aptly referred to as Sallor the Bald, a broad-faced Ghiscari called Prendahl na Ghezn, and a young Tyroshi named Daario Naharis. The fleet had encountered them just before they reached Qarth. Initially, Sallor and Prendahl had been averse to joining up with such a large foreign company. Daario had somehow convinced his fellow captains to see reason. Subsequently, the Westerosi fleet's numbers swelled by another five hundred.

The units of those companies were scattered throughout the ships of the Westerosi fleet. The officers, however, had been given highborn accommodations aboard the Leviathan.

Overall, this was a good start to Maron and Oberyn's mission. Only a start, though. We have a long way to go yet. As Elia pointed out earlier, these three sellsword companies only had three thousand soldiers collectively. Even though the Windblown, the Second Sons, and the Stormcrows were among the most esteemed sellsword companies in Essos, they were not enough to warrant returning to the Seven Kingdoms. We need more. Many more.

That was the subject of this gathering. They were going to decide where to go and who to recruit next.

"Gentlemen, you all know why you are here," Maron Greyjoy proclaimed, "You all know what is at stake. You all know our time and our resources are severely limited. You all know that you will be paid for your services. Above all, you all know that before you are paid, you must return to Westeros with us. But before we can even fathom sailing west, our ranks must grow."

"Indeed, my dear captain," Mero muttered in a deceptively amiable tone, "But what can we do about that? We cannot force people to enter our companies any more than you Westerosi can."

"The idea isn't to force people, good Mero," Maron professed, "Quite the opposite, actually. People who are pressed into joining a cause will run, buckle, or back out when they are faced with danger. On the other hand, people who join a cause by their own volition can be trusted to hold their ground. Therefore, every person who takes up arms with us must be a willing volunteer."

"You need not fret, Ser Maron," Sallor the Bald remarked, "There are plenty in the world who will join a cause without asking any questions."

"Provided you have the coin," the Tattered Prince wryly added in.

"We have more than enough coin, fellow prince," Oberyn Martell said blankly. "We have adequate transportation, as well. There is enough space on the ships of this armada to comfortably carry over two hundred thousand men across the Narrow Sea. And their horses."

"So, if you have the money, the lodgings, and the means to hire more sellswords, why do you need us?" asked Prendahl na Ghezn.

"Because the lot of you are native to this part of the world," Maron expounded, "As such, you know the land better than anyone in my fleet. As I said before, we only have so much time before the Long Night occurs. If we are going to recruit as many fighters as possible in as little time as possible, we'll need you to guide us."

Brown Ben Plumm laughed at that. Everyone turned to him, and the dark-skinned man muttered "Perhaps I did not hear you right, ser. You want US to recommend sellsword companies for you to hire? Do you not see how bizarre that is?"

"Loath as I am to admit it, he has a point," Sallor the Bald conceded, "It is not often that sellswords seek out other sellswords for their services. They tend to… clash."

"We got the six of you into a room peacefully and easily enough," Oberyn candidly pointed out.

"Only because our interests did not conflict with each other's," the Tattered Prince countered.

"If not you, who else would I consult?" Maron debated, "From what I've seen, sellswords are always high in demand on this side of the Narrow Sea. In order to survive in this market, you must know which jobs are available to you, and which jobs have already been taken. Thus, you must know how other sellswords think."

"Well, we think of other sellswords as competitors," Mero mumbled.

"Not anymore," Maron sternly refuted, "As of now, the only competition you should care about is the one between those who have a right to live and those who refuse to die."

"The Iron Captain is correct," Daario Naharis announced, speaking for the first time since the discussion began. "The inhabitants of the Seven Kingdoms have cast aside all their own disagreements with each other for the good of the world. There is no reason we of the Free Cities cannot do the same. For now, at least."

For all their other differences, all the men there seemed to share and agree with that sentiment.

"Very well," Brown Ben Plumm pronounced, "But know this: all we can do is list potential prospects. We cannot guarantee that any of them will be willing to work with us, or even be willing to meet with us."

"I think that is fair," Oberyn Martell stated.

Maron Greyjoy nodded in agreement. He then clapped his hands together, gazed around the bridge, and proclaimed "In any case, let the listing begin. I am open to any suggestions. Any at all."

Prendahl na Ghezn was the first to offer one. "What about the Gallant Men?"

"Perhaps," Oberyn thought aloud, "My late comrade Ser Osmund Kettleblack was once a member of that company. Or he claimed to be, at any rate."

Maron Greyjoy had never met Ser Osmund Kettleblack. All he knew of the man was that he used to be the Crownlanders' representative on the secret council, he had died during Greyjoy's Rebellion, and Ser Lothor Brune had replaced him. Just as I replaced Uncle Victarion. Except Nuncle is still alive.

"Getting them to sign on shouldn't be too difficult," said the Tattered Prince, "The Gallant Men have been known to switch loyalties. At some point in the last ten years, they've represented each of the Free Cities in the Disputed Lands."

"We were just in the Disputed Lands," Mero mumbled frankly.

"No, we weren't," Sallor countered.

"This was before you joined up," Brown Ben Plumm revealed.

"Oh, right," Sallor avowed.

"Since no one has any objection, I will label the Gallant Men as a promising candidate," Maron declared, "However, I would prefer if we did not make for the Disputed Lands just yet. We're a long way from that region, and, as Mero said, we were just there. For the present, let's focus more on companies who are local to southern Essos, or companies who were last seen in this part of the world."

"That'll be fine," Daario Naharis commented, "As it happens, the Long Lances are nearby. They generally confine their movements to the lands around Slaver's Bay."

"That's right," Prendahl na Ghezn affirmed, "Furthermore, Gylo Rhegan is an easy man to deal with. You, my captain, might regard him as a reasonable man."

"What about his company?" Maron queried, "Are they competent?"

"Most certainly," Mero asserted, "Naturally, Gylo's Lances could not compare with my Sons, but they do well enough on their own."

"Alright, that's two," Maron thought aloud, "Any more?"

"We could look up the Company of the Cat," Brown Ben proposed.

"Absolutely not," the Tattered Prince snapped, "The Windblown and the have always been at each other's throats. I refuse to have anything to do with them."

"Would you rather treat with the Others?" Oberyn Martell wryly muttered.

"Almost," the Tattered Prince murmured heatedly, "Their commander, Bloodbeard, is a menace who cannot be trusted."

"He says the same of you," Mero wittily remarked.

"Well, all grudges aside, consider how much manpower the Company of the Cat would bring to the table," Daario Naharis debated, "They have as many units as all three of our groups combined."

I think I've decided which of these men is the most likeable. "That alone warrants at least meeting with them."

The Tattered Prince was the only one who seemed opposed to that. He stated "I see I am alone on this issue. So, I will not protest. But if you do arrange a meeting with the Company of the Cat, do not expect me to attend."

"I give you my word no one will ask that of you, my prince," Maron reassured the elderly man.

The next hour was spent systematically reviewing all the other sellsword companies of Essos and the plausibility of seeking each one out. Each company came with its own distinct advantages and disadvantages. In some ways, some of them were more appealing than others.

The Tattered Prince personally recommended the Iron Shields and the Maiden's Men, as he used to be a member of both. The Company of the Rose and the Stormbreakers had both been founded by Westerosi, and the commanders of the Stormcrows had it on good faith that the majority of the current members possessed a strong desire to one day return to their ancestors' homelands. Brown Ben Plumm spoke fondly of the Bright Banners, and Mero approved highly of the Ragged Standard.

The only group all six of the sellsword captains fervently opposed approaching was the Brave Companions. Apparently, none of them wanted anything to do with Vargo Hoat and his "twisted band of mutilators," as Daario so richly described them. Even Oberyn was against them. Very much against them. He claimed a more fitting name for them was the "Bloody Mummers." The Tickler would probably get along with them just fine. I and all sane people, however…

All that together was enough to convince Maron Greyjoy that the Brave Companions would be more of a liability than an asset. As such, he assured the Red Viper and the sellsword captains that their ships would keep their distance from the Brave Companions, and they would avoid all forms of contact with them in the future.

At the end of the hour, the eight men had effectively and thoroughly covered every single sellsword company in the Known World, with the sole exception of the Golden Company. For reasons that had been made plentifully clear to all, the Golden Company was off-limits. We'll leave that lot to Oberyn's sister and nephew.

Oberyn was about to close the discussion when the Tattered Prince presented one final suggestion. This suggestion was by far the most astonishing and controversial one of the entire meeting. He advocated that before they even bother looking for more sellswords, they consider sailing for Astapor first.

"What is there in Astapor that would possibly be of interest to us?" Maron asked in bewilderment. He was well-aware that Astapor's only commodity was slaves. There were no sellswords there except for those who were in the personal employ of the masters.

The Tattered Prince answered with a question: "Who is the greatest warrior in all the world?"

He did not even give the others time to think before continuing with "When you think of the model warrior, do not think of any one particular champion. Think not of Strong Belwas, Khrazz, the Brindled Butcher, the Spotted Cat, Barsena Blackhair, or Steelskin. Nor should you think of Khal Drogo, Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Jaime Lannister, or even Lord Gregor Clegane, the legendary Mountain That Rides."

"Then who is the greatest warrior?" Maron Greyjoy queried. If he truly is better than Lord Gregor, he'd be invaluable to us.

"Not who, precisely, my captain," the Tattered Prince responded cryptically, "More 'what.'"

"Explain," Maron requested, trying to sound patient.

"The ideal warrior is no one specific man," the old Pentoshi professed, "Instead, it is a specific type of man. One who is bred to feel no pain, ignore all fear, show loyalty only to his commander, and live only to serve."

Oberyn's eyelids expanded, and he let out a quiet gasp. It was as though he had realized who the other prince was referring to, and he did not like the implication one bit. He uttered anxiously "Tell me you do not mean… the Unsullied."

"I do," the Tattered Prince stiffly confirmed.

Oberyn's uneasiness rapidly turned to anger. He spat crossly "You cannot be serious. We are not yet so desperate as to stoop that low."

Maron was baffled by the Red Viper's behavior. "What are you talking about, Oberyn? Who are these Unsullied? And why are you so against hiring them?"

"Because, Maron, my friend, you do not hire Unsullied," Prince Oberyn Martell disclosed bitterly, "You buy them."

Maron was astounded. "They're slaves?"

"Slave soldiers, to be precise," Daario apprised him, "It's debatable as to whether they really are the best warriors alive. I will agree, though, that they are a force to be reckoned with."

"Even the Dothraki are reluctant to face them in the field," Brown Ben Plumm proclaimed, "I myself would avoid facing them whenever possible."

"As would I," Sallor the Bald conceded, "All they know is discipline and obedience, which is taught to them from the moment they are old enough to understand words."

"They accept any command given to them, no matter how unscrupulous," Mero declared, "Only commands given to them by their masters, though. They only obey other individuals if their masters tell them to do so. They would never betray their masters for anyone or anything."

"Apart from obligation to do their duty, they have no other interests to speak of," Prendahl na Ghezn proclaimed, "Desire is a concept alien to them. I mean any form of desire. They are made eunuchs at a very early age."

Maron resisted the urge to cover his manhood protectively. He drily observed "These Unsullied sound more like animals than men."

"Some would argue they are neither animal nor man," Daario contended, "It would be more appropriate to classify them as their own breed. They probably would be… if they could breed."

"Slave soldiers are still slaves," Prince Oberyn firmly muttered, "Slavery is outlawed in Westeros. Even the Free Folk who live north of the Wall outside the Seven Kingdoms do not practice it."

"No one is asking you to take up the trade, my prince," the Tattered Prince disputed, "I urge you to rethink your position on this matter. Soldiers who are utterly fearless, completely loyal, and virtually undefeatable."

We'll definitely need people like that when we face the Others in battle.

"Slave soldiers are still slaves," Oberyn Martell repeated indifferently.

The Tattered Prince lightly shook his head and sighed. A few seconds later, Maron noticed a devious gleam in his eye. The elderly Pentoshi muttered "If you would just hear me out, I may have a solution you'd approve of. One that involves acquiring the Unsullied without ever actually engaging in slavery."

At first, Oberyn said nothing. Then he shrugged and muttered "Against my better judgment, I will listen to what you have to say."

"Wise of you," the Tattered Prince commented approvingly. He turned to everyone else and stated "I would like to speak with Prince Oberyn alone."

Ser Maron Greyjoy swiftly escorted the other five sellsword captains out of the bridge before he stepped out himself. The two princes were left on their own to converse on this very delicate topic.

Ser Maron Greyjoy, Mero, Ben Plumm, Sallor, Prendahl na Ghezn, and Daario Naharis spent about fifteen minutes waiting outside the bridge.

Maron thought about pressing his ear against the door to the bridge, but out of respect for his colleague's privacy, he elected not to eavesdrop. Still, he wondered what Oberyn and the Tattered Prince could be talking about in there. Moreoever, he was intrigued by the Tattered Prince's confidence.

What Oberyn said of slavery was true. Even the Ironmen frowned upon it. They used to have thralls on the Islands, but thralls had been banned since Uncle Victarion was named Lord of Pyke. Maron had no desire to bring slavery to the Seven Kingdoms, regardless of the circumstances.

After fifteen tense minutes, the door to the bridge opened, and the two princes stepped out onto the command deck. The Tattered Prince seemed to be smirking in satisfaction.

Prince Oberyn Martell solemnly turned to Maron and told him "Captain, plot a course."

"Where to, my prince?" Ser Maron Greyjoy enquired.

"Astapor," was all the Red Viper said in response.

"Hodor, Hodor?"

"Yes, Hodor, we're there," Benjen Stark stated drily.

Three weeks had passed since they departed from the Wall, and they had finally reached Craster's Keep. It only took Ser Waymar and his party a day or two to get this far. Then again, there were only seven in that group, and one had gone back alive. Hundreds of black brothers had gone out on this ranging. How many of us will return, I wonder?

This company was not composed solely of Night Watchmen. There were also a couple dozen Northmen, one of whom was kin to the First Ranger.

After dismounting from his gelding, Benjen Stark turned his attention to Bran and his companions. They still seemed to be in good health thus far.

Before leaving the Wall, Benjen had ensured that his nephew was bundled up tightly in fur and warm clothes. I'll not have him freezing on my watch. The Reeds were dressed in just as much clothing, and Hodor practically looked like a bear in his huge fur coat.

At a glance, one might mistake Bran and the others for members of the Watch, given how their outer layers were completely black. The Watch had lent them those clothes, and the black brothers wore no other color in any of their own ensembles.

As Benjen helped Meera and Jojen Reed down from their palfreys, Hodor climbed down from his massive destrier. Then he lifted Bran out of the saddle of his garron and placed him on the ground gently.

Once he was on his feet, Bran pulled back the hood of his coat and looked around the vicinity.

"Quite calm," he observed, "Wouldn't you say so, Uncle?"

"Yes, it is unnaturally peaceful today," Benjen Stark noted.

All of a sudden, the horses whinnied in fright, and Summer came bounding out of the trees. He padded up to his master and sat down before him.

Bran scratched his faithful beast behind the ears. Then he looked up at Benjen and suggested "If you so wish, I could have Summer investigate."

"That won't be necessary," Benjen Stark told his nephew, "I have already dispatched scouts to survey the path ahead. Apart from that… it would be for the best if your abilities were kept secret."

"I agree with you," Bran proclaimed, "But Leaf is somewhere out there waiting for us. What if one of your rangers discovers her?"

"I wouldn't worry on that, my lord," said Jojen Reed, "Remember how she evaded everyone's notice at the Wall until she approached us. Hard as the rangers might try, none of them can catch her."

"Jojen is right," Meera Reed commented, "I believe Leaf will only be found if she lets us find her."

"That aside, every ranger I sent out already knows about the children of the forest," Benjen apprised Bran, "They will be accompanying you, me, and everyone your father assigned to your detail to the cave of the Three-Eyed Raven."

"Very well, Uncle," Bran avowed.

"What's the soonest we can continue?" Jojen enquired, "We cannot stay for long."

"Lord Jeor does not plan to linger, my lord," Benjen Stark revealed, "Rayder's reconnaissance party is expected to arrive tomorrow. Once they report in, we will move on. For now, we must wait."

"Then wait we shall," Bran declared.

"Hodor," said Hodor, as though he agreed with the notion.

The Stark men arrived on the scene a few seconds later. Most of them, Benjen knew, such as Lew, Alyn, Hayhead, Donnis, and Quent. All of them were among the score of soldiers Lord Eddard Stark had deemed worthy of the honor of protecting his second son on his journey north of the Wall. Let us hope Ned's confidence in their ability is well-founded. Even if the Others were merely a myth, not everyone can survive in this land.

"The Lord Commander is about to have words with Craster," Benjen thought aloud, "Come with me; I'll show you to his keep."

As the stewards tended to their horses, Bran Stark, his companions, and his guards followed the First Ranger to Craster's Keep. It was no true keep in any sense of the word, but out here, in the middle of the haunted forest surrounded by snow, it was as good a shelter as any fortress.

All around Benjen, his fellow black brothers were setting up camp. Most of them looked quite fatigued, and justifiably so. None of them had had a decent night's sleep since they left the Wall. In fact, of the seven days of the past week, they had not even spent one full day resting. Hopefully, this night will give them the rest they so urgently need. To a black brother, a single good night's rest – even an occasional one – could do wonders for his health and morale. In a situation such as this, it could even make all the difference between life and death.

Benjen hoped that at least Bran would catch up on some sleep. In his mind, his nephew had a greater part to play than anyone else there. If the Great Ranging failed to defeat the Night King, he would likely be Westeros' next greatest line of defense. After the Wall, that is. But we have to be prepared for the possibility that the Army of the Dead will somehow get past the Wall.

Benjen took a small amount of comfort in the knowledge that the Army of the Dead was nowhere near the Wall just yet. After all, he, twenty-five hundred of his brothers, and four times as many wildlings stood between the Night King and the Seven Kingdoms. Even if we do not kill him, we'll take down a sizable number of White Walkers and wights with us. With that in mind, Benjen opted not to brood over this dismal subject anymore. Instead, he would focus on working towards his current, immediate objective.

After trudging through the snow for about three minutes, they reached Craster's Keep. Some of Craster's wives were outside, doing their chores. Or maybe they were his daughters. To the likes of Craster, there was no difference.

When they were at the entrance of the keep (which was really nothing more than a hut), Benjen turned to the people who had walked there with him. He looked down at his nephew and told him "Bran, you, Meera, Jojen, and Hodor may come in with me. Summer and the guards must remain out here."

"As you say, Uncle," Bran conceded. He knelt next to Summer and told him "Wait for me here. I'll be back shortly."

Naturally, the direwolf could not nod his head, but he seemed to understand the command. He sat down on his haunches near the front of the hut and stayed there. Alyn and the other guards stood near him. Although the Watchmen tended to keep their distance from the direwolf, the Stark men did not seem so unsettled by his presence. They may have been wary of Summer and his mother and siblings at first, but they appeared to have become accustomed to their presence in the last year.

The inside of Craster's Keep was crowded. The old, ill-tempered wildling himself was seated at the head of his long trestle table. More of his daughter-wives were at work serving him and his guests.

Benjen used the term "guest" loosely in this context. Throughout his service to the Watch, he had sought shelter under Craster's roof many times, and never once had he felt welcome. Craster's functions as a host left much to be desired by the standards of the Seven Kingdoms. Of course, he and his family were not residents of the Seven Kingdoms, so they were not subject to their laws. In Craster's Keep, what Craster said was absolute.

The sad thing is he's probably the most hospitable host on this side of the Wall.

Although Craster's Keep was large enough to accommodate half a hundred men, the trestle table could only seat about half that number. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont sat to Craster's right, which was meant to be construed as a place of honor. The most honor Craster affords us.

Most of the rest of the benches were occupied by officers and senior members of the Watch. Those included Ser Ottyn Wythers, Mallador Locke, Thoren Smallwood, Ser Jaremy Rykker, and the oft-disagreeable Ser Alliser Thorne.

The man seated to Craster's left used to be a black brother. Now he styled himself a king. Benjen was surprised to see him there; they were not expecting him for another day. Count on Mance to turn up at the most unexpected times unannounced.

There was some empty space next to the Lord Commander. When Lord Jeor noticed Benjen was there, he patted the spot next to him. It appeared as though the Old Bear had saved a spot for the First Ranger. Flattered as Benjen Stark was by that gesture, he could not accept it. Not if it meant the children would have to stand.

Benjen brought Bran, Jojen, and Meera over to the empty place on the bench. As luck would have it, there was just enough room for all three of them to sit without having to squeeze.

By the looks they gave him, Jeor Mormont and Mance Rayder seemed to approve and even commend Benjen's decision to give his seat to Bran and the Reeds. Craster did not seem to care one way or the other. I did not expect him to.

Craster did, however, seem interested in these new, young faces.

"Ah, so is the Watch accepting women now?" he said inquisitively, gazing over at Meera, "I suppose you'll be offering my girls a chance to dress in black."

"My sister and I are here on the Lord Commander's invitation," Jojen Reed claimed. That is partly true. Not wholly, though, seeing as you left the Old Bear no choice but to extend the invitation in the first place.

"That is true," Jeor Mormont affirmed. The raven on his shoulder shrieked "True! True!"

"I see," Craster remarked. His eyes then fell across Bran. He smirked and murmured "I knew you allowed children into your order, but you must be stretched thin as a rake if you're actually bringing them all the way out here."

"This is my nephew, Brandon," Benjen Stark informed the wildling.

"Bran, they call me," Bran Stark pronounced, "While I would like to be, I am not a black brother, my lord."

"I am no lord, boy," Craster gruffly retorted, "Even so, it is good of you to remember your courtesies. That is something your Uncle and his brothers often forget in my house."

You forget yours often enough; why can't we?

"Hodor," said Hodor, stepping next to Benjen. The tall stableboy had to crouch down to enter the hut, and he had to remain crouched to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling.

"What was that?" Craster sharply remarked.

"Hodor," Hodor repeated.

Craster turned to Benjen and demanded "What did he call me?"

"Forgive him," the First Ranger muttered, "His speech is… extremely limited."

"To 'Hodor?'" Craster presumed.

"Yes," Benjen confirmed, "All he says is 'Hodor.'"

"Hodor," said Hodor.

"Hodor!" quorked the Lord Commander's raven.

Lord Jeor grumbled "Not this damn bird, too."

Benjen had much the same thought. Just when I thought his raven could not become any more annoying…

"What the fuck does 'Hodor' even mean?" Craster mumbled.

"No one knows for certain," Benjen Stark disclosed, "I, however, was there when he first started saying it."

"You were, Uncle?" Bran queried in interest.

"Yes, I was," Benjen admitted, "My memory of the affair is not too great. I was quite young back then. Younger than you, even."

"What all do you remember?" Jojen Reed enquired.

"Well, it was just before Ned left for the Vale," Benjen recounted, "One moment, he and Hodor were sparring in the training yard. The next… Hodor was on the ground, having a shaking fit. When Old Nan ran to him, he repeatedly shouted something about holding a door."

"What door?" Meera inquired.

"I honestly haven't a clue," Benjen replied, "As I said, we were in the training yard, so there were no doors in sight. None that could be held open, at least. The gate was only a stone's throw away, but it had already been opened at the time."

"Maybe it was a symbolic door," Meera conjectured. That's possible. Or maybe there is no door at all, and it was nothing more than a meaningless phrase.

"Did he ever say anything other than 'Hodor' after that?" Bran asked his uncle.

"As far as I know… he has not," Benjen answered him.

"Curious," Jojen Reed murmured, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"As intriguing as this is," Craster interjected scathingly, "Perhaps our time would be better spent discussing matters of greater precedence than the ravings of a simpleminded giant?"

Watch your filthy mouth, old man. Noone insults Hodor.

"Quite so," Lord Jeor muttered. He turned to Mance Rayder and asked him "What news of the Night King's forces?"

"I would like to know that myself," the self-proclaimed King-beyond-the-Wall wittily responded.

Benjen was taken aback. "I thought you said some of your people were conducting reconnaissance on the Army of the Dead."

"And I told you true," Mance asserted, "Alas, they have yet to return."

"You mean they've been delayed?" Jaremy Rykker supposed.

"No, they are not late," Mance Rayder explicated, "I am merely early."

"If you are not here to give a report their findings, why are you here?" the Old Bear queried.

"Why! Why! Why!" the raven screeched.

"I just wanted to make sure you got here on time," Mance murmured straightforwardly, "Is that so hard to believe?"

Actually, it is not. If we were not here, he would have gone looking for us. He probably would have gone all the way to the Wall, if need be.

"Luckily for you, we were not expecting you until the morrow, anyway," Benjen Stark uttered blankly.

"Did you at least bring the reinforcements you promised?" asked the Lord Commander.

"Of course," Mance assured the Old Bear, "My forces are camped due north of here. They will merge with yours once you clear the haunted forest."

"You will be with them, I trust?" Lord Jeor assumed.

"Well, you are leading your own men," Mance Rayder contended, "So, I intend to do the same with mine. What kind of ruler would I be if I did not?"

A craven one, but at the same time, a cautious one.

"Have you seen any more of the Others recently?" Thoren Smallwood stated inquiringly.

"Some sightings here and there," Mance Rayder revealed, "They seem to be confining their movements to the areas north of here."

"How many of these encounters resulted in fighting?" asked Mallador Locke.

"So far, none, thankfully," Mance claimed, "I have given my people explicit orders not to engage the White Walkers or their wights in combat unless it cannot be prevented."

"That would be wise," Lord Jeor Mormont uttered favorably, "If the Night King truly does control all the reanimated corpses on this side of the Wall, he may take notice if enough of them get put back down."

"If so, we could expose our plot to do away with him," Ser Alliser Thorne commented dismally.

Craster suddenly gave a derisive laugh. "If you ask me, what you are planning is a fabulous waste of time, resources, and lives. You should call off this foolhardy plan and go back south while you still can."

"The thought is tempting," Benjen admitted, "But in the end, we'll be no safer south of the Wall than north of it."

"You won't be safe either," the Lord Commander told Craster, "I ask you again to consider letting us move you and your family to Castle Black. You will be much safer there."

"Not according to your First Ranger," Craster sardonically remarked, "Anyway, I refuse. Why would I want to subject me and mine to the laws of your realm when we have everything we'd ever want or need right here?"

"Twenty thousand of my people have already relocated to the Seven Kingdoms," Mance Rayder pointed out, "The vast majority of them have adapted fairly well to it."

"Furthermore, you do not actually have to follow the laws of the Seven Kingdoms," Jeor Mormont proclaimed, "You just have to ensure you do not break any of them."

"As 'appealing' as this sounds, I remain unfazed," Craster adamantly murmured, "If ever I change my mind, I will let you crows know. Until then, this and nowhere else is my home."

"Home!" the raven quorked "Home! Home!"

Now, that's a pleasant thought. The last time Benjen Stark had gone to Winterfell was for Robb's wedding to Margaery Tyrell. His visits before then had been very rare and spread-out. Still, the memory of his family's ancestral home was often enough to keep him motivated and inspired.

While he reflected on that, he noticed Craster glimpsed over at Bran again. The irascible, old wildling then turned to the First Ranger and remarked "If your nephew isn't in the Watch, why is he even here?"

"That is classified information," Benjen hastily answered, as if by reflex.

"Not here, it isn't," Craster snappily countered, "Every person who sits at my table under my roof tells me of his business. Otherwise, he is not welcome here."

That put Benjen in a difficult situation. Only a handful of people in the world knew what Bran was, where he was going, and why he was going there. Out of all the persons currently assembled in Craster's Keep, only Jeor Mormont, Mance Rayder, the Reeds, Bran, and Benjen himself were among that number. Hodor may know, too, but who really knows what he knows?

For various reasons, the group of those who did know was kept very strong for many good reasons. Not the least of which was security.

"It's alright, Uncle," Bran interjected, getting to his feet, "I'll leave."

"No, be seated, young lord," Lord Jeor bade the boy, who gradually returned to the bench. The raven cried out "Lord! Lord!"

After Bran sat down again, the Old Bear turned back to Craster, leaned closer to him, and whispered into his ear. He spent the better part of five minutes whispering to the old wildling.

For most of that interval, Craster looked indifferent and grumpy as ever. His countenance did change at certain points, though. At some points, he seemed stunned. At others, he seemed fascinated. At others still, he seemed amused.

When the Old Bear was finished whispering to him, Craster looked to Bran again, donned his most pleasant smile (which was still very uninviting), and stated "Well then… best of luck to you, lad. You are going to need it and more to accomplish your goal."

"I cannot fail, my lord," Bran sternly declared, "If I do, it could mean the doom of us all."

He's not far wrong. Winter is coming.

"Doom!" shrieked the raven, "Doom! Doom! Doom!"

Night soon fell over the land. Once it did, Mance left to rendezvous with his people After the King-beyond-the-Wall deprived them of his company, everyone else went to bed. Benjen, Lord Jeor, and the other officers were afforded the "right" to sleep on the floor of Craster's Keep. The rest of the black brothers had to camp out on the snow-covered ground, as usual.

Craster permitted Bran, Jojen, Meera, and Hodor to sleep by themselves in the toolshed out back. This was very uncharacteristic of the wildling, but no one questioned this sudden act of kindness.

Benjen had noticed that after learning the truth of Bran's purpose in the land, Craster seemed to have developed a bit of what could almost have been respect for the boy. He even had one of his daughters, a heavily pregnant girl named Gilly, tend to Bran and his companions.

The following morning, Gilly brought Bran, Jojen, Meera, and Hodor to Craster's Keep for breakfast. She seemed to have gotten close to Bran's company. From what Benjen observed, even Summer appeared to accept her.

After breakfast, Mance Rayder showed his face once more. This time, he was not alone. Four other wildlings were with him. One of them looked as though he had seen a ghost. Maybe he has… Actually, in Benjen's mind, a ghost would have been preferable to what was really out there.

Craster sent his wives and daughters outside so that he, Mance, the other four wildlings, Lord Jeor, and Benjen could converse in private.

Once everyone was settled, one of the new arrivals – a man named Devyn Sealskinner, the apparent leader of the small group – began the explanation. He recounted "We spent the whole of the last turn of the moon hiking through the Frostfangs. We managed to make it through the mountains without coming across any wights. But as we neared the edge of the Frangs…"

After a moment's pause, he turned to the man with the unsettled expression and beckoned him "Go ahead, Orell. Tell them what you saw."

At first, Orell was quiet. Then he let out a deep sigh and haltingly revealed "I was our eyes in the sky. For the longest time, the sky was as empty as the lands below it. Not so when we reached the northern Frostfangs. Oh, no; a host unlike anything you could ever imagine is amassed there."

"Then you have seen the Army of the Dead?" Lord Commander Jeor Mormont presumed.

"Yes," Orell softly confirmed, "It is massive. Larger than even we dared to think."

"How many did you see?" Benjen Stark queried.

"I cannot begin to guess," Orell replied, "There had to be millions. Perhaps as many as ten million. Or twenty."

Benjen felt his heart skip a beat. That's more than twice the population of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Are you sure?" Mance Rayder questioned, skepticism and worry in his tone.

"I would not exaggerate on something like this, Mance," Orell assured his king.

"What were they doing?" Mance queried "Were they on the march?"

"I do not believe so," Orell hypothesized, "They were simply standing around, moving amongst themselves like a disorganized crowd of drunkards."

"We do not believe they had any destination in mind," a third wildling, a woman named Holly, perceived.

"Has anyone else seen this host?" Lord Jeor asked.

"Alas, we have not," the last wildling, a woman named Karsi, disclosed, "As soon as Orell spotted them, we got out of there as quickly as we could."

"Did you manage to see the Night King?" Lord Jeor enquired.

"I may have seen him," Orell supposed, "But I was too high up in the air to know for a certainty. At that height, I cannot tell one person on the ground from another."

"Do you think the Night King knows we're coming for him?" Mance inquired.

"We couldn't say," Devyn confessed, "We pray not."

If he does know, we may see him and his forces a fair deal sooner than we planned.

"Then you were not discovered?" Benjen asked. Gods save us if they were.

"No," Karsi proclaimed, "Orell warged out of his bird before any of the wights could look up."

"Are you certain?" Benjen said dubiously.

"I do not think we would have gotten out of the Frostfangs alive if we were discovered," Holly debated.

"You mean most of us would not have gotten out alive," Devyn corrected her. He then frowned, looked around the table, and stated "That brings us to the most unsettling aspect of our reconnaissance."

"Go on," Lord Jeor insisted. He tried to sound stoic, but Benjen could detect a hint of apprehension in his voice.

"Mance brought the four of us here to deliver a report," Devyn professed, "We were six when he sent us out. Bodger and Rowan did not make it out of the Frostfangs alive."

"Tell us what became of them," Mance requested. The way he gave that order was perplexing. I wonder if even he doesn't know yet. Likely he does know, as I can't see why the wildlings would wait to tell him until they told us, too. Still… it's possible.

Holly recalled "In our haste to leave the Frostfangs, we descended the northernmost slopes a little too quickly. One of our company, Bodger, slipped and tumbled all the way to ground below. We found him when we ourselves got to the bottom. He had broken his neck."

"Did you burn the body?" Benjen presumed.

"We were going to," Karsi declared, "Keep in mind, no more than one minute passed from the time Bodger fell and the time we reached him. When he was confirmed dead, Devyn ordered the body burned. Rowan volunteered to do the deed. But just as she approached Bodger… he came back."

Benjen Stark felt his eyes widen and his breath slow down. Around the keep, most everyone else had much the same reaction.

"After one minute?" Lord Jeor uttered softly.

"Yes," Devyn insisted, "It could not have been any longer than that. That was how long it took for Bodger to get up. He attacked Rowan before she could even produce her flint. We tried to help her, but before we could do anything, he had already torn out a sizable chunk of her neck."

"Luckily, before she could come back, we managed to burn them both," Holly recalled.

"We haven't had another brush with death since then," Devyn remarked, "All the same… it has been a week since that episode, and we still cannot believe we saw Bodger become a wight after being dead for one lone minute."

"I cannot blame you for not wanting to believe it," Mance Rayder muttered, "We've never seen a body reanimate that quickly before. At least not without a White Walker nearby."

"We thought of that, too," said Orell, "So after we burned the bodies, I warged into my bird and did a sweep of the area. I assure you that other than those in the host gathered in the Land of Always Winter, there were no White Walkers to be seen anywhere in the Frostfangs."

"So, Bodger came back all on his own," Holly contended.

"This is grim news indeed," Lord Commander Mormont thought aloud, "The Others' hold must be getting stronger, now that they can reanimate bodies almost immediately after death. Be that as it may, we are fortunate to have learned this sooner rather than later. We can use this knowledge to our advantage."

"Use it how, my lord?" Benjen Stark queried. I don't see what advantage this might give us.

"From now on, if anyone dies, the body must be burned immediately," Jeor Mormont declared, "No questions, excuses, or exceptions whatsoever. The manner of death does not matter, either. Whether they are stabbed by a sword, mauled by a shadowcat, freeze to death, or simply expire peacefully in their sleep, they are to be burned straightaway. I want every black brother to understand the importance of this directive."

"I will pass that same directive along to my own people," Mance claimed.

Looks like we all finally agree on something.

"Have you anything further to report?" Mance Rayder questioned the other wildlings.

"No, Mance," Devyn responded, "Only that the Land of Always Winter is completely overrun with the undead, and that fire is our most valuable tool now more than ever."

"Then that concludes preliminary reconnaissance," the King-beyond-the-Wall pronounced.

"Indeed, it does," Lord Commander Jeor conceded, "Now we take the offensive."

"Hear, hear," Benjen murmured in agreement. Although I am not going on the offensive just yet.

Craster was the only one there who had not opened his mouth since the conversation began. In fact, he had looked rather uninterested in the whole affair. Benjen was inclined to think he had not even been paying very much attention to the conversation, if any at all.

Even so, Craster spoke the very last words of the conversation. He mockingly stated "I'll keep an eye out for you lot when you return. There will probably be so few of you left that you'll all fit in my hall."

Sooner or later, the Others will come to your hut, daughter-raper. When they do, I don't think I'll be bothered to stop them.

Within the hour, the Night's Watchmen broke camp. All twenty-five hundred of them were mounted on horseback once more. This was also when Bran's group separated from them.

Nearly all the black brothers would turn west and make for the First of the First Men. Benjen Stark and a select few, however, would turn east and make for a different location, instead.

Benjen's orders were quite clear. Once he delivered his nephew, his nephew's guards and his nephew's companions to this location, he and the rest of the black brothers in their party would head straight for the Fist of the First Men and reinforce the rest of the rangers and Mance Rayder's wildling army. There they would prepare the hard advance into enemy territory, and ultimately execute that advance.

Benjen Stark said as much when they met up with Leaf. He told them firmly "I will ride with you as far as the cave of the Three-Eyed Raven. After that, I must leave you."

"I understand, Uncle," young Bran Stark asserted, speaking with the seriousness and wisdom of their wizened Old Nan, "You must do what is required of you, just as I must."