CHAPTER 7
WHAT IS NEEDED
The smoke could be seen even from atop The Wall. Based on the direction and general distance away, he could tell it was coming from Craster's Keep. It looks like someone finally had enough of the vile shit. Though, it did not bode well for the Watch, they had lost both a valuable source of information and a place to rest when on ranging beyond the wall.
Jeor, personally, would not mourn for the man. He was a blight upon the world and his disgusting practices had always made his skin crawl. Still, the implications of his death could not be overlooked. There had been disturbing rumours and hearings coming from the great North of late, and this turn of events only gave credence to them.
Mance Rayder, the treacherous scum, was gathering all the clans beyond The Wall into one camp. The largest assembly of Wildlings in centuries. One or two clans meshed together were an inconvenience at best, but a gathering of that size would be a terrifying thing indeed.
He had noticed that there were fewer and fewer raids being carried out. The decline started around the same time that news of the gathering had gotten to them. Only a few rogues were stupid enough or desperate, to cross The Wall by themselves and try anything. While he was certainly grateful for the respite, he was worried what it might have meant ultimately.
If Mance was indeed confecting all the clans into one banner, what could he do with such a host? The population out there was roughly half a million, give or take and the estimation of fighting men were in the two hundred thousands there about. He was as proud as any highborn man, especially after becoming the Lord Commander, but he was not drowning in self importance so much that he could not admit that if they were attacked by those numbers, Wall or no Wall, they might not prevail.
He even heard talk there were giants in the camp.
Giants!
The Gods be good, what could they hope to do against such monsters? Regular men alone were trouble enough.
They weren't equipped for a struggle of that scale, he knew. That is why he had sent ravens to every lordly house in the Seven Kingdoms and even petitioned Tyrion Lannister personally for aid. Aid he knew would not come, but he had to try. The Watch was little more than a prison for the rest of the realm, and prisoners deserved no consideration. Never mind that they were working tirelessly to keep hordes of rapers, reavers and cut throats at bay. Only The North had been of any help but the little they could provide was just that, little.
No, they had to fend for themselves and defend the realm with the wares they had available to them.
Stranger still, he had noticed that more than half a year ago the few sporadic raids they would contend with had almost completely ceased. That, coupled with this, were too coincidental and Jeor who was a northerner, did not believe in coincidence. If the Wildlings were gaining any form of tactical ability, then the problem was larger than they had originally thought. Wildlings were supposed to be wild, any organisation whatsoever could make them a force to be reckoned with.
He needed to know what was happening out there. He was flying blind without his first ranger, who was lost to him. Reported missing, didn't return from ranging, his company along with him. Most likely killed by cannibals and eaten or …something stranger. He'd eat boiled leather before he believed Benjen just simply lost his way or got caught in a snowstorm. No one knew those lands better, save for the Wildlings themselves, and no one knew the Wildlings better either. He was said to have made friends with some of the more amiable ones and that is why he was so effective at his job.
'He was ambushed' Jeor thought cynically, a frown marring his face.
The movements of the Wildlings weren't the only thing that worried the old bear for true. Darker rumours were blowing on the wind coming south. Honestly, they weren't strictly rumours, he should know. He fondled the pommel of the ancestral sword of house Mormont, strapped to his waist.
What was normally a bear, had been changed, by himself, to the visage of a white wolf with ruby red eyes. The likeness of the dire wolf which belonged to Jon Snow, Ned Stark's bastard, who had saved his life, from one of his charges no less. A fucking dead man.
He's been alive for longer than he was comfortable saying and he's seen his fair share of this world's shit. But dead men moving and attacking live people was never even a thought in his mind. He couldn't deny what he saw with his own eyes. The body of Othor, one of the black brothers, had been recovered from beyond the wall along with another body. Normally they burn their dead but in trying to ascertain the cause of death they had left them out. The damn thing had come alive in the middle of the night, and he supposes it was meant to kill him.
'Jon Snow had deterred it though.' The boy had saved his life and the old bear wanted to reward him. He planned to give him the sword, to honour him yes but also, he really wanted to be away from the damn thing. Usually, a source of pride for his house, now, he felt only shame when he looked upon it.
"Jorah." He whispered quietly, his breath coming out in a mist of heat. He grew sombre with regret and guilt but shook his head to free it of the crippling grip of sorrow. He had more pressing matters to think about at present.
The winds were quiet today. So, he had no problem hearing the heavy footsteps coming up the ramp. He didn't turn to look, whoever it was would say their piece and leave. The footsteps got increasingly closer.
"L-Lord Commander…" that was the voice of Samuel Tarley. A skittish, timid boy. A craven by all means, his place was not at the watch, but his situation was a…delicate one. Jeor turned and gave the boy his attention. "The M-Maester sent me to find you, my Lord. There's been news, Qhorin Halfhand has returned…it sounded urgent."
Jeor's eyebrows jumped at that. 'Seems the Gods haven't abandoned us yet.' He says to himself. He took one last look at the smoke rising to the sky some miles away, then turned and beckoned the boy to follow him down the ramps. The lift was not very fast going down, but at this very moment it felt like it took forever.
From his height advantage, he could see the brothers milling about and a pit grew in his stomach. The Order had fallen to waste. To join the NightsWatch was once a thing of prestige and honour. A man could have taken pride in knowing he protected his people from all sorts of terrible fates. Now… it was filled with criminals of all shapes and sizes. A sad development. he sighed and shook his head. Criminals or not, he was in charge of this lot, and he was responsible for their lives, he took that responsibility very seriously.
As the lift finally made it to the base of The wall, he disembarked with the Tarly boy on his heels. Maester Aemon would most likely be in the Maester's quarters. Being blind, he didn't move about much, only for important meetings and the like. He made his way up the steps and took the very familiar route to his destination, men stopping and giving him salutes the entire way.
He came to the Maester's door and knocked, more out of respect than necessity.
"Come in." he heard Aemon's wizened voice. He entered to see the Maester sitting with Qhorin Halfand, one of his most prominent rangers and the new first ranger after Benjen Stark's disappearance.
"Commander Mormont. Please, join us, there are urgent matters at hand." Aemon said in his old voice, staring blankly in Jeor's general direction. He nodded his understanding and made to find a seat.
"Tarley, wait outside the door. If we need something, we'll call ya." He grunted out as he lowered himself onto a stool he found next to the Maester. He looked to Qhorin who was just staring sombrely at the fire in the hearth and didn't even acknowledge his presence. He knew Qhorin well, he was one of his best men and a friend to boot. He could almost see the worry coming off of him, it was so palpable.
What could cause such alarm in a man as tested and tried as Halfhand? Dread was pressing down on him now, for he knew, whatever it was, would spell possible doom for the Watch and mayhaps the realm itself. The silence permeating the room was as loud as thunder claps in a storm. It was making him severely uncomfortable.
"someone say something before I slit mi own throat." The old bear demanded impatiently. It took a minute before anyone took heed of him.
"Qhorin my boy. Talk to your commander." Aemon urged, delicately.
"…I don't know where to start. There's so much to tell. The Wildlings, the WhiteWalkers?" he asked, turning away from the fire and finally meeting Jeor's eyes. There was fright in his eyes, he noticed, real fright, not the sudden scare you get from something happening too quickly.
"WhiteWalkers?"
"Aye… I saw things beyond that wall, Mormont. Things that make no sense to me. I was attacked by children, who I thought were dead. Animals, missing an entire half of their faces, walking about aimlessly. What manner of things would be capable of that?"
"Fuck man. I had enough to worry about losing my first ranger." Jeor moaned, running his hand over his face wearily. He had had his suspicions but this was all but confirmation.
"I think it was 'them' that took him. I went searching for him, by where he was supposed to be last. Didn't even find a body, not for any of the brothers who were with him." he was holding his head and shaking it.
"Why would you go there? What if you had been ambushed or taken as well? I'd have lost both of my best rangers and countless brothers still. Gods damn it man." Jeor was beyond frustrated with the stubbornness of his charges. They were good, brave men, but foolish all the same. He was getting old, he couldn't deal with this shit forever. Well, if these happenings were anything to go by, then he might not see his next nameday.
"Benjen was my brother, Lord Commander, in all but blood, you know that. I had to find him!" he said standing from his seat in anger.
"Aye, I do. Calm down. You made it back in one piece at least. Thank the Gods for that." Jeor placated. He truly did understand. But worrying about his men's wellbeing was a full-time job for him. He side-glanced at Aemon and then continued. "I believe you. We had our own encounter a few nights back." Qhorin looked up at him quickly at that, eager to hear what happened.
Jeor acknowledged his excitement with a nod. "Aye, Few nights ago They brought two bodies from beyond the wall. Black brothers both of them. We had the Maester here take a look at them, so we held off burning the bodies. That night one of them, Othor I believe his name was, woke up and I suppose he was coming to kill me, That's where he was found- "
"Fuck." The ranger said in an almost whisper.
"-by Jon Snow. The boy must have stabbed him a dozen times. You could see the blood coming from his body, but he wouldn't die, he was already dead. It was not until he threw the lamp I had in my hands at it that it was impeded, burned, and caught fire quicker than timber soaked in oil." He finished, looking to see his friend's reaction.
"…Aye, it was the fire I used to …kill that little boy that attacked me." Jeor could see that the act had left a bad taste in his friend's mouth. Qhorin was one of the few, along with himself, who willingly swore himself into service. He was a fighter but not a criminal, he had no real love for killing, killing children, previously dead or not would not sit right with him.
"There is not much we can do about that at present. Share the other news with him Qhorin." Maester Aemon chirped. Jeor's head was spinning. What more news could he have carried? What God had they offended? An… interesting turn of phrase.
"It's the Wildlings Commander. They're being united."
"We've known that for over a year now." The lord commander said impatiently.
"This is different! They're not just coming together, they have order, stability!" Qhorin exclaimed angrily, he seems to be on edge.
"How would Mance manage such a thing? He's an outsider! No king beyond the wall before him accomplished that. What are the odds he would?" This did not make Much sense at all for Jeor. Not at all.
"Way I heard it, It's not Mance that's leading them, not really."
"Not Mance? Then who? Who is the King beyond The Wall?"
"There's a man. well… Most of the Wildlings don't believe him to be a man at all. They seem to think he's a God. Said he was stronger than giants and has ice magic apparently. He has the colouring of the Weirwood I heard."
"…Where did a man like that come from?"
"Don't know, Wildlings don't seem to know either. He just appeared and killed the vilest of them, trained the rest and is now leading them here, to cross the wall."
"…How many?" The commander asked after a while of pondering, knitting his hands together in front of him.
"Fighting men?...at least one hundred and fifty thousand, but he's not just bringing fighting men. He's bringing all of them." Qhorin whispered ominously.
"Women and children? He means to attack the wall with women and children?"
"No." he shook his head. "He means to move them from beyond the wall."
That got the old bear pondering. If beyond the wall is being infested with these…Wights, then he could understand why anyone would wish to leave. Though, the realm would not stand for it, and the way he suspected they were going to go about it would be violent. He got up and paced around the room.
"So, we have Wildlings coming to attack the wall in a desperate bid to escape whatever fucked up Monster it is raising the dead. And we have the dead themselves coming back to life and harder to kill than the first time. All this while the realm rips itself apart over that Gods Damned Iron Throne?"
"Yes my boy, that seems to sum up our predicament quite tidily." Aemon said, making light of the situation. He didn't blame him, what was there to be done? Cynicism didn't become him, but other avenues seemed blocked at this point. He could deny reality no more than he could light wet kindling.
"Aye, we're fucked." Qhorin with his helpful commentary.
"Don't be so quick to write us off, Qhorin. Jeor my boy, You came to me a few days ago, asking my advice on a decision you were making. Have you given the sword to the boy?"
"… I haven't gotten around to it yet." He said quietly, but still loud enough for the other occupants of the room to hear him. Halfhand gained a look of surprise on his face and glanced down to the sword on his hip.
"You mean to give the boy your family sword?" he asked, incredulity staining his voice.
Jeor sighed. "Aye. The boy saved my life, I owe him a debt."
"So? you give him rank or lighten his duties for a few moons, you don't give your Ancestral blade!"
"I have no one else to give the thing to, damn you! At least in his hands it can regain some form of honour. Bastard or not Ned Stark raised the boy, he bleeds honour, and he can already wield a sword better than most!... I give it to him, or I throw it over The Wall, either way I'll be rid of the damn thing." His tone was final and Qhorin apparently sensed that, so he kept his mouth shut but he did not look happy.
"…If that unpleasantness is done with, I have a suggestion, my boy." He motioned for him to continue. He wished to know what the frail dragon had up his sleeve.
"Give the sword to the boy, he deserves it enough. I'd rather know it is in his hands than at the bottom of some chasm. No, give it to him instead, and ask the boy to send a raven to his brother. The North needs protection and the armies are below the neck. Task him to send a raven and have his brother make for the wall."
"That won't work Maester. The Northern armies are south because they are fighting a war. Robb Stark would not abandon his quest for the freedom of his sisters to come North on the word of his bastard brother." Jeor shook his head.
"You have no idea of the bond those two boys share. Either way, it wouldn't serve you ill to try?" Jeor was frustrated now. He had already sent ravens to every house he knew of asking for support, for aid and no answer came, the Maester is asking him to repeat the task only to see time wasted again. He respected Aemon, but he thought mayhaps he was too old and disconnected to still be the Castle Maester.
He reminded him that he had already sent letters. And Aemon had a reply for him, how surprising.
"Yes, you did. What I'm asking you to do is to have Jon Snow send a letter of plead to his brother. Call the boy here, explain what is happening to him. give it to him unblemished and honest and then have him ask his brother for aid."
"I agree with the Maester. If you trust the boy enough to give him your family sword, then surely you can trust to tell him of this?"
Damn them for having a compelling argument. He ran his hand over his face and sat back down and just stared at nothing for about a minute. Then he nodded his head slowly. "Alright, I'll do it. It's no hair off my back, but if it doesn't work…" he left the statement open, only alluding to consequences.
He got up from his stool and walked to the door. He would find Jon Snow and bring him here. He may just be their only hope.
-Line Break-
In his dreams, The Ghost of Sparta noticed they were not his dreams. They were plagued, of late, with a raven, dark as night and larger than most. This raven had three eyes where there should have been two and used words when it should be cawing. Not the strangest thing he had ever seen, not even close. But he has dealt with beings toying with his dreams before and he hated it more now than he did then, and he had killed those beings.
Kratos had caught the bird in one of his night's slumbers and had threatened it thoroughly. It spoke to him then, in an old man's voice. Telling him there was something of importance to him where it was, where 'forest met the sky'. It was certainly as illusive and as cryptic he thought it would be. These beings, they never gave a straight answer, he was beginning to think they were cursed to speak in riddles. That, or they took great pleasure in giving him a headache.
He was of Sparta. He said what he meant and meant what he said. No spartan boasted a silver tongue, not even the women. It was not a warrior's way. These hidden messages only served to frustrate him, he had no patience for such things.
He remembered though, that the old woman had warned him about a raven. She would be made to answer him plainly or limbs would be removed. He was currently watching Atrea practice her archery. She was made for the bow, took to it like fish to water. Her close combat training was also coming along nicely. By the time she was of an age, she would be the most dangerous woman alive, he would make it so.
"Girl! That is enough. Lead me to the old woman. I would have words with her."
She released the arrow she had knocked and turned to stare at him strangely. Her eyes searching him.
"You're not going to kill her are you?" she asked after a while. Kratos didn't see fit to answer her, she got annoyed.
"Father!" throwing her hands up in exasperation. "You can't just kill everything that displeases you!"
"I do not. If that were the case, half your people would be dead." he pointed out to her. She looked as if she believed him, her face gaining a scandalised expression. Good, he meant every word. There were those among these people that were insufferable, so he left dealings with them up to Mance. He was the diplomat. Kratos himself dealt with his problems by getting rid of them.
"The outcome of our talk rests solely with her." She sighed and seemed resigned. She strapped the bow around her torso then walked away, in the direction of the main camp. They had arrived one night ago, and now they were waiting for the arrival of the half legion.
The site of the old woman's tent was surrounded by people with red markings on their faces. The Spartans, he knew they called themselves. When they saw him approaching they all stood with haste, held both of their hands up as if they were holding something above themselves and bowed their heads.
Passing them he heard whispers and mumbles of 'Oh Lord' and 'Bless Us'. He was somewhat off-putted, but he could not rightfully deny them, he was, in fact, a God and he will always be such, no matter his wishes against the matter. It was not the first time he was worshipped by men, so he was not unfamiliar with it. However, he was a Spartan first, he much preferred actions over words.
Atrea did not seem to even acknowledge their presence. It made sense she would be used to it. She spent a great deal of her time with the old woman.
She pushed open the tent flaps and strode inside and Kratos followed suit. He saw inside, the old woman praying? He looked closer and saw that she was indeed praying but to a symbol he was very familiar with. His blood boiled.
"Where did you find this totem?" he asked, anger lacing his every word and syllable.
"It is only fitting Oh Lord, that I have your symbol as my icon of faith. I saw it branded in your chest in a flash of vision when I first met you in the woods." She said with that ever-present smirk on her face.
"You meddle in things you do not yet understand, witch, things that are above you." He continued.
"I do not presume to put myself on your level, My Lord. But you are our God, we deserve the right to worship your personage."
Kratos huffed at that and didn't bother replying. He knew it was futile to try and dissuade her. She was a fanatic, a fanatic in his name. a strange concept to deal with, so he chose not to.
"The Raven has visited you, has he not?" she asked after a brief period of silence.
"You already know that. It is why I have sought you out."
"Aye the Raven is old, older than me, but not you My Lord."
"That is not important, where can I find him?"
"The Raven did not tell you?"
"All he told me were riddles and you are testing my patience." He knew his anger was beginning to show and he normally has it under great restraint. But he wanted answers and so far all he has gotten are more questions.
"Tell me these riddles My Lord, mayhaps I can shed some light on them."
"I will find him where the forest meets the sky."
"…There is only one place in the Haunted Forest that can be described as such."
"so, you know of it?"
"Not personally. I've never been. It is where the largest Weirwood in the world stands. So tall, from an angle it looks as if it is touching the sky, the roots as thick as a man." Kratos didn't care much for how it looked, he cared where it was and so far no one knew.
"I'm truly sorry I can't be of more use, Great Lord." He didn't stay to hear the rest of her words. He left the tent and walked with purpose towards the Weirwood that was in the woods nearby. He could sense a presence coming from it and it was about time he found out what it was.
He eventually arrived at the tree, and he stopped some ways from it and just stared. He could feel it staring back at him, so he asked it. "show yourself."
He could feel the presence in the tree getting more intense, a steady build until it peaked and then went back down, and a raven landed on one of its limbs. It cawed and spread its wings and then kept saying 'touch' and 'closer'. Kratos was no scholar, but he was intuitive, he understood the message.
Leaving his prints in the snow behind him, he got ever closer to the trunk of the pale tree. When he was close enough he reached out and placed his hands against the bark. Immediately he felt as if he was falling, a disorienting feeling but he kept his bearings.
He appeared in a forest, much like the one he was in originally, except this forest was made solely of these Weirwood trees. All of them bearing carved faces in various stages of sorrow. He felt a presence behind him and turned to see what it was. An old man. a very old man. He was so thin, his skin seemed to be cloth, hanging over his bones. No muscle or fat between the two. His hair was white, and he wore an eye patch.
He stared at Kratos as if he was dying of thirst and Kratos was a drink of water. Kratos could tell the man himself was no older than a hundred or mayhaps a hundred and twenty years, yet he could feel history flowing off of him. His aura was ancient, but the man himself was not.
The man seemed to have found what he was looking for in Kratos. He nodded to himself and lowered himself to the ground on his knees.
"Why do you kneel?" Kratos asked in impatience.
"What else is one to do in the presence of a God?" he asked with his head bowed and not looking up at Kratos.
"…A God I may be, but I am not your God." There was no point in hiding his nature from this…being in front of him. He was not a man, only wearing a man's flesh.
"Are you not? I know you can feel it. The people have started worshipping you. It has been mixing with your divinity, affecting you and you affecting them. Your very presence is seeping into their bones. They are becoming different people. In time, they will all share the similarity of yourself."
He did feel it. Day after day, more and more of them whispered his name when they gave thanks, and he heard them. It was making him stronger. He did not know how he felt about it for true, so he ignored it, best he could. It seemed that would no longer be an option.
"Who are you and what do you want?" he decided to get to the point of the meeting. He would not spend a minute more here if he could help it.
"Whatever my name once was, doesn't matter. Now, I am The Three Eyed Raven. I have a thousand and one eyes, I see everything that has ever happened, everything that is happening and glimpses of what might happen. I have even seen you 'Ghost of Sparta'. Never in any great detail. But I have seen enough. Enough to know that you are the God for which we are in need."
"Your visions have failed you Oracle. I am only capable of violence and destruction." Kratos said, becoming sombre and drifting away into his head.
"Violence? You are The Great and Mighty God of War, yes, but you are also the God of strength, in all forms! And it is strength, the people most desperately need. only the strong can survive what's to come. Your mere presence gives them this and you bestowing the blessing of your ideals upon them will ensure that as a people, they will retain this strength."
There was a beat of silence as Kratos didn't answer him and instead just stared at him unblinkingly. He seemed to calm down, cleared his throat and continued. "I wish to help you, but this body will not move. I am too old, and it is the roots of the Weirwood that keep me alive. If I were to part from them, I would perish. But… there is one, that in time will inherit my essence. He will be able to lend you aid. Until then, keep the raven close, I will help however I can through him."
Kratos mentally decided that the conversation was over, and he saw the world draining out of focus around him and he was suddenly standing with his hands on the bark of the tree. He removed it and backed away from the wood. As he turned to return to camp he felt the raven land on his shoulder. It had three eyes, he noticed, like the one in his dreams. He glanced at it but didn't dwell. He needed to find Mance. There were things to discuss.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Hope everyone is Enjoying themselves. I don't know if you've noticed but some of the earlier chapters have been edited. To make for a better read, without all the grammatical errors and a little touch up here and there. I've recently gotten some help from my friend HoJ Roxas, who has been proofreading and helping me edit. Thank you for that.
P.S.: I appreciate the follows and favourites. Honestly didn't expect this story would have gotten any attention. I must admit though, that I've become addicted to your thoughts on the story. So. Please don't be afraid to leave a review. Even if it's to criticise, I don't mind, I read and appreciate them all. Oh, and Share the story if you can, thank you.