BOOK 2: A DROP IN THE SMOKING SEA
"Lord Mormont." Euron Greyjoy had said with a disturbingly warm grin.
"There is a saying in Yi Ti. "Even the finest sword plunged into salt water will eventually rust." I bring up this particular topic because I find it an apt comparison to that of man."
Greyjoy's teeth flashed white against his curled blue lips. The one-eyed man was incredibly calm as he spoke. As if he were explaining a punishment to a naughty child. "And you see, Lord Mormont… I intend to find out exactly just how much you can rust before you break…"
The Northern Mountains
298 AC - Four Moons Earlier
The wind was almost deafening in his ears…
Its soaring and howling blast of icy cold air had even taken the feeling out of the flesh on his bearded face. It felt as if the blood flowing beneath his skin had begun flowing in frosted chunks…
And then there was the snow that had gradually built upon his shoulders and head. The damnable blizzard had not ceased since he'd arrived at the Wall…
In fact… It had seemed to have gotten much worse.
Despite these apparent misfortunes, Starag Mormont was anything but miserable as he trotted along up the mountain path on the back of his sturdy warhorse, Bear.
The great beast also hadn't really cared about the state of the weather. They'd both been through far worse together.
Mormont himself was in one of the happiest moods he'd been in for some time. It had been a good while since he'd traveled anywhere north of Queenscrown or Bear Island, and the howling winds and threat of a slow, chilling death had excited his nerves.
Naturally, he had been looking forward to any little bit of excitement he could get outside of his ancestral home. The letter from his father, Lord Commander Jeor Mormont of the Night's Watch, had been a blessing of sorts…
He could even remember the immense feeling of head-splitting relief that had flooded his mind when he'd gotten the now burnt scrap of paper.
A feeling, which was immediately followed by an inkling of impending doom…
Each and every word on the hastily scrawled page had replayed itself to him…
Son,
I recall that you once told me of this… dream you seemed so bloody convinced about…
I did not believe you then, and even now, I don't quite buy everything you've said.
However, strange circumstances have come to my attention at the Wall. A band of wildlings has taken shelter in Westwatch-By-The-Bridge. Ser Endrew Tarth, the Commander of the castle, has allowed them to stay there for the time being.
That event itself is an anomaly. But Commander Tarth also reported strange behavior from the wildlings…
They spoke of a hoard of dead men who raided their village on the Frozen Shore. Walking corpses with glowing blue eyes, just like you spoke of… After they escaped on a boat, they decided to take their chances with the Night's Watch.
I don't believe any of it. Sounds like a trap. Or perhaps it was another tribe of wildlings that raided their village. Yet Tarth was steadfast about how… genuine these wildlings were. They even threw their weapons off the Bridge of Skulls to prove themselves…
That, and apparently, they've also brought not only children but the old and sick with them as well…
I don't like any of it, son. But I don't know everything. And because you once warned me that something like this might happen… I need your help.
I know you're not beholden to me or the Night's Watch, however, there are no other men I trust more than you and Benjen Stark.
I cannot leave Castle Black myself, as some of the other officers are demanding we march on Westwatch and send the wildlings back to Mance Rayder himself in pieces… It's a matter I must deal with personally.
If you will do this for me, please burn this letter after reading it. If word of this gets out, I don't think the Night's Watch will be able to quell the chaos…
I'll have sent Benjen to the Shadow Tower by the time you receive this letter. Meet him along the way, aid him in his investigation, and if possible, find out what really happened to that fishing village…
If not, burn it anyway and speak nothing more of the matter.
Winter is coming, son…
And I pray to the Old Gods every day, that we might be ready for it.
Your Father,
Jeor Mormont, 997th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch
Starag Mormont did not often consider his father to be particularly good at writing…
But whatever was going on, it must have spooked him enough to contact his youngest son personally. There was precious little in the world that could make Jeor Mormont "worry" about a group of wildlings…
The letter had been written so well and so... convincingly that he doubted it was by Maester Aemon's hand. That, and it had his father's signature messy handwriting.
No, this situation definitely tossed up the bird's nest at Castle Black.
And fair enough. Even Starag had not heard of wildlings having ever willingly taken shelter with the Night's Watch. Not once. Not ever.
The whole matter was so extremely odd that he just had to leave Bear Keep, ride down to his ship with his best fifteen men-at-arms, and sail across the Bay of Ice to the Northern Mountains to meet Benjen Stark halfway.
Which, he had successfully done at The Shadow Tower.
Benjen had been kind and welcoming, though he certainly was not in the mood to meet these particular wildlings, as it could all just be a trap specifically for Benjen. He was apparently well-hated among the "Free Folk" beyond the Wall.
And now, as they rode together through the intense flurry of wind and snow, both men had obviously kept silent to themselves.
They felt the presence of their combined force of thirty men-at-arms behind them, also climbing up the mountain on horseback.
Mormont tended to stay away from the black brothers of the Night's Watch, and he'd only ever speak with Benjen. The rest of them could fall off a bridge for all he cared.
It was his own men that Starag had felt concern over. At least the kind of concern that a parent has for their child who's all grown up now…
His men were trained hard by the master-at-arms in Bear Keep, Ormand Blackbeard. He was a hard taskmaster like Arthur and even Mormont himself, and he kept the men busy despite his much older age of sixty-three.
The lot that Ormand had assigned him was supposedly his pride and joy among the guardsmen of House Mormont. The best of the best. "They won't let you down. Good men, all of them." He'd said to Mormont before he'd ridden out. "If it comes to it, they'll lay down their lives to see you get away to safety."
Starag was grateful for his old friend's care in choosing his escorts. He'd reminded himself that he'd have to have Ormand's granddaughter become a lady-in-waiting for one of his own cousins.
But that line of thought had quickly faded from his mind…
Soon, another question had taken its place in his musings…
What would he do after this?
There were few projects for him to personally undertake these days…
Especially with Dacey and Arthur essentially operating independently in Westhelm, the young sprawling port city that lay on the northwestern coast of Sea Dragon Point. Not that they would disregard his commands or wishes, but that it was simply more efficient for everyone involved if Mormont gave them a task, rather than coming down from Bear Keep himself.
Not to mention, Alysane had proved to be rather efficient herself when it came to watching over the currently growing settlements along the Stony Shore since his house had gained those lands in the past two years or so…
Soon enough, more and more of his days were filled up with terribly dull amounts of paperwork in his office. Split between equally dull but warming times with his family…
The lordly life he'd once thought of as a grand challenge, a complete upending of his usual barbaric lifestyle had soon become boring and monotonous, as it likely always had been from the start.
He supposed it wasn't all that bad… There were around 350,000 gold dragons accumulated in his holdings last he checked. And that was just a rough estimate. There were probably thousands more that he'd not counted.
For the first time in… Well, at all… House Mormont was the richest house in the North. Through no small amount of accomplishment on his part, and on the parts of his family. They'd absolutely pulled their weight.
Yet… Mormont did not feel content with his victory over poverty… Just like he did not feel wholly satisfied after a light meal, or how he would always pick up newer women while out in White Harbor, Oldtown, Westhelm, and Lannisport, even if none of them would ever compare to his wife…
As the years had passed, Starag Mormont felt less and less like a man living on the edge of life, like he was constantly sitting atop a cushion. His life was soft and pliable now.
Of course, he did not give up his training routines. Every morning he got up for a good run and some swimming- if he could manage the freezing Bay of Ice for a few minutes.
And Arthur Dayne certainly hadn't gone any softer on him in the training yard. They were far closer than ever, and the Sword of the Morning had become a regular occurrence throughout his days and weeks.
More often than not, it was every morning that the two men had risen before dawn and had clashed blades. It felt more mandatory than ever since it was more out of habit than need for the two of them at this point…
What was waiting for them? What was going to try to kill them in the near future? The stuffed and comfortable delights of the dinner table? Not likely...
Each and every day that had passed since his vision back in the Water Gardens had made him wonder just when the Others would show up. Or if they would appear at all for that matter…
Or if they even existed...
Mormont sneered at himself. He should've been grateful for the things he had. A good keep, wonderful family, and plenty of wealth to spare…
Relax, Mormont. Stop being so damnably macabre. You're worried you've gone soft with all the gifts and the easy life the Old Gods have given you, and now, once again, you simply want a taste of the gamble, the risk… You want to go back to living on the edge just for one more day…
That was why he was out trekking up this bloody mountain pass next to the gargantuan wall of ice. Not because of some obligation to his father or the Night's Watch, but because deep down, Starag Mormont wanted to feel alive again.
He'd simply missed the risk of it all far too much. This intriguing plot of wildlings mysteriously showing up at Westwatch was the perfect bait for him- let alone Benjen Stark- and he'd knowingly eaten it hook line and sinker.
This simple hike had already brought back many warm memories of his lonely travels in his youth…
And yet…
He could feel the bitter reminder that it would all be over very soon. Too soon for Starag Mormont… He wasn't meant to die in his bed… He was meant to die with his sword in hand, fighting to the last…
There were no more traces of daylight behind the dark grey screen of wind and snow, so as soon as he'd trotted around a particularly thick crevice of the wall, he knew that it was brimming torchlight that he saw behind small glass windows of the keep just up ahead…
Westwatch-By-The-Bridge was one of the first abandoned castles along the Wall to be repaired after Eddard Stark had personally undertaken what was often called the "Reconstruction" of the Wall.
Seeing as it was the westernmost keep, and how it guarded central and important positions such as the Gorge and the Bridge of Skulls, Ned had thought it fitting to be one of the first castles to be repaired and remanned in over a hundred years…
Its walls were squat and square, but also surprisingly tall. All of them were made of thick gray granite stone. And the keep itself was a tall and cylindrical, with part of it being built against the Wall itself…
Mormont knew it held at least three hundred men. There were likely more seeing as it was far more important than the Shadow Tower now.
As they came up over the rise, just barely in the distance could Mormont make out the beginnings of the Bridge of Skulls. Benjen had waved his hand toward the front gate of the castle, which was made primarily from pinewood.
Starag simply nodded, and gestured for the shorter man to lead the way…
Soon enough, he'd be sitting in front of a fire with a good cup of warm coffee in his hands…
Mormont just hoped that they had honey…
They didn't have any honey.
So, as Starag Mormont sat by the fire in the Commander's Room on the top floor of Westwatch Keep, he only held a warm mug of fresh coffee without any of the comforting sweetness of the delicious golden ichor he loved so much…
Could be worse… He thought to himself. Mormont didn't mind the lone bitter tang of his coffee. Both he and Benjen had business to conduct tonight, and it was doubtful they'd be getting good sleep any time soon.
Under much different circumstances, Mormont knew he and the Commander of the castle, Ser Endrew Tarth, would have gotten along well enough. He was the sort of man you could depend on in a tight spot.
As it stood now, however… The Commander of Westwatch was wracked with dark, baggy circles around his bloodshot eyes, and seemed as if he himself had gotten barely an hour of sleep in the last two days…
He sat opposite both Mormont and Benjen, with his desk dividing the three of them. There were stacks of miscellaneous papers on the man's desk, and there were about seven empty mugs that used to have coffee tucked away into one corner.
And outside, the winds continued to howl their piercing and jagged song. Now, of course, it was at a manageable level, and paired excellently with the crackling fireplace…
"Apologies for the hasty welcome, First Ranger." Tarth nodded regretfully at Benjen. "We were not expecting your arrival to be so late."
Benjen Stark shook his mane of grey-brown hair. "Not at all, Ser Endrew. We'd been held back by the blizzard. And I'm sure the last fortnight has not been kind to you, or your men."
Tarth nodded again, this time with a look of visible relief on his narrow face. "I won't lie, I don't quite know what to think of the situation just yet. Even with these wildlings living in the cells, the men are still worried for their lives…"
But the Commander must've realized he'd been a poor host, and looked to Mormont with an appreciative glance. "I fear I must apologize to you as well, Lord Mormont. I was not expecting you, but I should have been prepared for you nonetheless. I'll have the King's Wing prepared for you."
Mormont smiled. "Thank you, Ser Endrew. Though I doubt I'll be getting much sleep tonight."
Tarth simply cracked a knowing and resigned grin, and then downed the rest of his mug of coffee. He then ordered for another to be brought up. "I'm at your service, my lords. I shall extend every courtesy you require, and whatever I know I will share with you." He said in earnest.
"Let's get started then…" Benjen sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He ran a hand down his face and then donned the Stark-like mask of the First Ranger. "The day these wildlings arrived. Start from the beginning."
And so Endrew Tarth had told them the story. Mormont felt more respect for the other man when he saw the Commander's expression harden into that of duty. He felt like he was about to fall over on the floor, but was still making his report nonetheless.
Pushing himself to his limits. That always warranted Mormont's respect.
The wildlings had shown up just over a fortnight ago, and it was just before their arrival that the blizzard outside had come on. The snowstorm hadn't let up since then.
That small detail had stuck in Mormont's mind, and he even saw Benjen raise an eyebrow at that comment. He'd keep it to himself for now.
True to his father's letter, the wildlings-led by a surly man named Ulfgar Wolfsheart- had uncharacteristically pleaded with Commander Tarth to take shelter in Westwatch.
When Tarth had refused initially, he stopped when Ulfgar had ordered each and every fighting wildling to throw their swords, spears, and bows right off the Bridge of Skulls. As a sort of pledge that they did not come with treacherous intent.
They all complied. Immediately.
This fact alone had stunned the Commander of Westwatch and had quickly convinced him. Despite this, he still conducted a thorough search of the odd sixty-three wildlings for any remaining weapons. They found none.
After that, Tarth had allowed them shelter in the ice cells beneath the main level of the keep. They would stay there until he found some other place for them.
"Very risky, that. Letting them in." Benjen had sat back in his chair with a thoughtful look. "They haven't troubled you?"
Tarth shook his head plainly. "Nothing. They didn't even insult us."
Mormont had long finished his mug of coffee by this point. Now, he simply removed his pipe from his coat pocket and lit it with a single match. "Don't they have their own traditions? Guest rite, and such?"
"Aye," Benjen said quickly, seeing his point. "We trade with some of them at Eastwatch, and we even treat with them at Whitetree. For the most part, they take guest rite about as seriously as we do. If not more…"
"That's what I thought as well." Tarth had said. "They've been nothing but kind, and even grateful… Still, there are some brothers in the ranks who do not want them here…"
Mormont simply let out a large puff of smoke. No doubt there were more than plenty of men in the Night's Watch who absolutely despised the "Free Folk" to the lands beyond the Wall…
It wouldn't be long before blood was finally spilled between the two groups of enemies…
And yet there was not much Ser Endrew could do. To send them back out into that blizzard would mean the deaths of their children, old, and sick. And it was perhaps two days ride to the Shadow Tower, which was likely much more intolerable on foot.
Where would these wildlings go? They clearly did not want to go back across the Bridge of Skulls, and yet having them settle in the Gift was out of the option, at least for now…
I could have them relocated to Bear Island… The stray flash had come to mind. If they were as serious about guest rite as Benjen said, then they wouldn't dare trouble him. But what would he get out of it? Unless…
Unless this Ulfgar Wolfsheart could tell him more about what happened to their village. Or even better…
If he could lead them to it…
Despite the multiple sets of stairs, it hadn't taken them long to descend to the ice cells.
Mormont had loved the Night's Watch as a boy, enchanted by the stories his father told of Bloodraven and The Last Hero…
"...And so he set out far to the North! With only his friends, a horse, a dog, and his sword… Searching desperately to find the Children of the Forest so that he might harness their ancient magics to save Westeros from The Long Night…"
"But magic isn't real Fath-"
"Hush, son… and as weeks, months, and even years passed by and his search yielded nothing… The Hero's friends had all died out one by one, even his trusty dog had frozen to death in the blistering cold… Eventually, even his horse had died, and one day when the Hero was trapped by the Others, he clashed his blade against theirs… Only to find that his sword had frozen so cold that it snapped!"
"Did he get away?"
"He did. In the dark, cold, and sleepless nights as he trudged through the snow, he was being chased by ice spiders as big as hounds, and the living corpses of friends and people, the Others themselves, and even Giants…"
"And did he find the Children?"
"Yes, son… The Hero did find the Children. And together, they formed the Night's Watch and fought back against the Others, sending them back into the depths of the Lands of Always Winter…"
How ironic it was that his own father had only thought of it as a story, and nothing more. The more Starag had thought of this whole puzzle, and with his dream being taken into account, the story looked more and more like cold hard reality…
Ser Endrew had led the way. He looked ready to crumple in exhaustion. Still, he kept going as he opened the large pine door that led to the ice cells in the lower depths of Westwatch Keep.
When they entered the cellblock, there was a large platoon of black brothers staying guard in their quarters. Probably more than usual judging by the lack of extra seats. Some of the men of the Night's Watch were standing awkwardly to themselves.
Mormont followed Commander Tarth with Benjen at his side, and they passed by the guards and headed towards the largest of the ice cells at the end of the narrow hallway.
One side of the hall was of the same ice as the Wall, while the other was grey granite stone. The lack of consistency had given the ice cells a permanent luminescence in the dark.
He heard the crowd of whispering voices and loud snoring coming from behind the thick iron bars as they approached. Once they were finally there, Starag had seen all of them in the dim torchlight.
Sixty-three different bundles of mismatched animal pelts, fur, and cloth. Most were in pairs or even in groups of four or five for the families. Still, they all seemed like a unified bunch when they all glanced his way.
Mormont felt their eyes scanning both him and Benjen and while they certainly lingered on the First Ranger, more than enough had stared at Starag with initially fearful eyes. They were scared of the mountainously muscled man who only had the one piercing lightning blue eye…
Tarth had hesitantly unlocked the cell. At the same time, one from the collective band of wildlings had stood up sharply on both feet and strode over to them.
This must be that man Ulfgar… Mormont figured. He certainly had the confident stride of a leader and the hard iron stare of a man who has taken the mantle of responsibility…
"Tarth." Ulfgar Wolfsheart had greeted with a harsh, yet warm voice. He was a short man, and he was likely far older than any of them, perhaps in his late sixties. Despite this, his salt and pepper hair and beard had more black than silver. And his hard dark brown eyes were chiseled with crow's feet.
"Ulfgar." Ser Endrew had greeted back in kind. "Some men have come to ask questions about your… village."
What pointless chatter that had been going on throughout the cell had stopped upon Endrew's words being uttered. Everyone stared at him in cold fear. And about these dead men… Tarth's unspoken words might as well have been shouted in the closed room.
As for Ulfgar, he simply nodded firmly. His hard brown eyes looked to both Benjen and Mormont himself. "Aye, I'll answer them… But not in front of the children… They haven't gotten much sleep."
Those terms were more than agreeable for everyone involved. They took the older man from the cell, locked it, and then found another smaller square room with thick walls and a large door.
Sat in the middle of the room was a long table, likely for interrogations. Though there was a thick layer of dust on the long slab of pinewood.
They had chairs brought in, and Ser Endrew had more coffee brewed to fuel them for the next few hours.
Now, both Mormont and Benjen sat opposite the wildling. The older man was rather calm for one who had grown up so far from polite civilization. He sat upright in his seat and had his elbows posted on the firm wooden table, his hands joined together with his thumbs pointing up at the ceiling.
Plain and honest confidence. Mormont knew it-no… he could smell it off this man the instant he'd met him.
When one was a professional in all aspects of their life, it became far easier to spot others who carried themselves in a similar collected manner. For Starag Mormont, he knew that this man Ulfgar Wolfsheart, though a wildling, was not the usual savage who had come to rape and pillage. He was old enough to have the stone-cold patience and temperament of someone who had killed plenty of men throughout his life and had gotten rather good at it, too.
"Do you know who I am?" Benjen had asked first.
Ulfgar merely cracked a smile. "I do. You're Benjen Stark… The First Ranger of the Crows… I hope you'll forgive me if I do not bow…"
Mormont snorted. This man had nice manners for a wildling.
The First Ranger was not amused. He continued. "Then I trust you know why I'm here…" His question was more of a statement.
The older man nodded. "I have a good feeling for these kinds of things." He said, and then looked calmly up at Mormont. "Apologies for my poor manners, but I do not know you. I take it you are not a Crow…"
Mormont shook his head lightly. "No. I'm not." He removed the pipe from his mouth and held out his hand. "I am Lord Starag Mormont of Bear Island. But you may call me Starag."
Ulfgar's face had hardened somewhat. "Mormont… You're the spawn of King Crow?" Now only his mouth was smiling. Not practiced enough, apparently…
"I am." Starag had nothing to hide. He was blunt with his words. "And I've likely killed plenty of your kin when they've invaded my island. But we're not here to discuss that. We're here to talk about whether or not your people will make it out of this place alive. Do I make myself clear?"
The older man had given a firm nod in response. "I do."
Mormont would not take the lives of children, but he had no qualms against leaving the rest of them to the mercy of the Night's Watch if they were in fact lying about this whole charade.
He'd have to press the older man. Make him believe that they were both ruthless men willing to do anything.
"Good," Starag said icily. "Now start from the beginning. Why did you come here?"
Ulfgar had made it detailed, but brief. Or at least it sounded brief. The older man likely had years of practicing the art of storytelling, and he'd single-handedly made his harrowing tale into the kind of story that was told often to frighten children, for fear that they would disobey their parents.
"We were attacked during the night… Another blizzard had come in, but we get them often enough on the Shore, so we thought nothing of it…" He started out with his rich, calm voice. "Our village is-was a big one, but we often held grand feasts during the evening when activity would begin to die down…"
Benjen sat forward. "How big was your village? As small as Whitetree? Or the size of Hardhome?"
The older man had paused and thought of the question. Then, "Perhaps… 3000 or so…"
Benjen simply whistled upon hearing the figure. "You know how to count?" Mormont asked with a raised eyebrow. Most people-except for highborn nobles- couldn't even read. How could a wildling on the far side of the Wall know how to count numbers?
"Aye," Ulfgar smiled grimly as if recounting a long and distant memory. "My father was a Crow before he became one of us. He taught me how to read and write. Said he was from the South. I don't know where specifically, however."
A Stormlander by the look of him. Mormont figured. Though it was hardly important to the matter at hand. "Continue, then."
Ulfgar nodded his appreciation and did so. "Everyone would pitch in for our feasts… We often ate seal, venison, crabs, and plenty of white fish, all fresh… And then we'd feed the rest to our dogs." He paused briefly, and the warm light left his brown eyes completely. "But this one night… Everything had quickly turned to shit…"
"The blizzard had been so thick that we could barely see in front of ourselves, and all the fires in our village had snuffed out, even the ones inside our wooden buildings. That… was when they came…" Ulfgar's brown eyes had blazed coolly in the torchlight as he looked up at Mormont.
"They?" Benjen rubbed his bearded chin and looked at the older man with a questioning gaze. "You mean these… dead men?"
The wildling had nodded firmly. "Aye. Even over the wind, I could hear the screams of my people echo along, their voices joining the long howl… And when they came for us, I was ready with my sword."
"It was a tall thing, of cold rotting flesh and bone. I… don't think it had a face, only the two blue eyes that glared at me…" He said softly. Ulfgar then made to pull at his coat but stopped when both Mormont and Benjen placed their hands on their swords.
Ulfgar held up his hands in surrender. "I mean you no harm. I don't have any weapons."
Mormont nodded for him to continue. The older man showed the bare skin on his shoulder. There was a long red line cut diagonally across the skin. Though it looked to have been treated by now.
The wildling continued as he returned to his pose from before. "It had gotten me here on my arm, but my son had cut the damned thing clean in half with his axe. When we made to escape… it crawled after us."
"Crawled?" Even Starag was surprised. "How? You said your son had cut it in half."
Benjen too had looked to the wildling for clarification.
Ulfgar had gritted his teeth, likely trying to find a proper way to say it. "He did, but those things… They aren't living. Not like you and me. These things don't feel anything. They can't feel pain, because they aren't alive. They are just flesh and bone. And nothing else."
It was the rapt sincerity in the older man's voice that had concerned Starag greatly. Even a wildling as sophisticated as this old man couldn't spin a convincing lie like this one…
No, he simply had to be telling the truth… Or believed that he was telling the truth…
Years ago, Mormont had considered the possibility of the Others existing. The Wall was proof enough, was it not? Add to the fact that the wildlings-even when united- had never been able to stand against the North.
Was this an… An ability that the Others commanded? To wield the dead as a club, so as to bludgeon the living? To soften them up before that inevitable draw before the final kill?
What was the term called again… Necromancy! That was it. But that shouldn't be possible. Magic- if it even existed in the first place- had died out in Westeros a long time ago.
And yet… Surely the existence of the Others also disproved that claim… If they did indeed wield magic…
Mormont couldn't be off in his own rambling thoughts now… He had a job to do, and that was that. He'd just have to have Torywn- and perhaps even Rhaenys- compile some research once he got back home.
Meanwhile, he returned his attention to the present and continued listening to Ulfgar.
"-And then we had piled onto the boat and cast off…" He said with a haunting voice. "Even from far out in the water, as the blizzard cleared, I saw all of them… dead men and women I once called kin, standing on the shore… Watching us… And then I saw It."
"It?" Mormont sat forward and took the pipe out of his mouth. He was far more interested in the matter than even Benjen. "What do you mean by "It"?"
Ulfgar's once hard brown eyes had shaken slightly as he recalled the vivid memory. "I mean… I saw one of… Them."
"You…" Benjen began hesitantly, piecing together the idea behind Ulfgar's hollow expression. "...saw one of the Others?"
"Aye… I did." The wildling had nodded. There was not a single hint of dishonesty in the man's features. Nothing. "It… It smiled at me… Like we were old friends having spent years apart…"
Mormont knew the look on Ulfgar's face well enough. He'd seen too much. Or perhaps he wasn't supposed to have survived this whole ordeal, but the Other had let him go, knowing the memory would simply drive him mad…
It was a cruel enough fate to befall anyone. And it made Mormont all too aware of what he was potentially dealing with…
The Others were not simply using the dead against the living, and neither were they just a bunch of myths and legends come to life…
But they were also cruel. Ruthless. Brutal. Efficient. Professional. They wouldn't bother doing the job themselves. They could reanimate their dead prey and use them as a mace against other humans. Besides that... He knew absolutely nothing about them…
That was the worst part.
Mormont knew that his next, and likely final question for the evening, would not be a light one on Ulfgar Wolfsheart. But it was one that he'd needed to ask anyway…
"Ulfgar… Where is your village along the Frozen Shore?" Mormont had inquired. He needed to be ice-cold for this part.
The older man fixed his gloomy gaze at the pinewood table. "Aye, yes… It's a few leagues from here… Down by the southwestern coast. About a few days ride on a boat." Then he began to wonder just why the question had been asked. "Why?"
Starag Mormont felt Benjen's eyes fall squarely on him, and even those of Ser Endrew Tarth, who had stood quietly and kept to himself in the far corner of the room.
"Because…" He began slowly. "I want you to take us there. We need to see what happened with our own eyes. And if there's anything else we can learn. Because if what you say is true… Westeros- not just the North- is in grave danger…"
Had the Others known that Ulfgar would come to the Night's Watch? And then had the Others known that the Night's Watch would then take in the wildlings? Not likely… But Mormont wasn't one to underestimate his foes.
There was a strong possibility that this was all a trap… One sprung expertly by the Others in order to lure in the leadership of the Night's Watch… One sprinkled with enough doubt to set in, but plenty of curiosity to draw in the flies to the spider's web…
And had the Others counted on Mormont himself being here? Or was he an outlier? An unknown tangent? Someone who was not meant to be there?
It was all intangible details. Mormont simply didn't know enough… But his instinct was telling him to go, even if he desperately did not want to go…
Ulfgar had taken on a grave expression. "I… understand…" He nodded reluctantly. "But… what about my people?"
None of the other three men had answered the question. The possibility of the wildlings continuing to stay with the Night's Watch was out of the question. There was simply too much bad blood between the both of them.
Thankfully, Mormont had remembered his earlier flash of inspiration. He sat forward and blew a puff of smoke out of his mouth. "If you take myself and Benjen to your village, and you do speak the truth… You and what's left of your people may find suitable land on Bear Island."
Ulfgar's eyes had turned proud and hard at the proposition. "We do not kneel. We are free folk."
"No, you're not," Mormont said sharply. He let the ice enter his voice and pointed his pipe at the older man. "If you were free, you'd be able to cross the Wall with the leave of the Night's Watch. If you were free, you'd have a choice in the matter. Either you take your chances with the Crows, or you relocate to Bear Island, and abide by my rules and laws. It makes no difference to me."
He continued. "I won't ask you to kneel. Your people will be isolated from Frostgate and Bear Keep. You'll be kind and cordial to my men. If any of your people commit a crime, you will give them to me for proper and swift judgment. And if my people are going to war, your best fighting men and women will join them. Do you understand?"
The old wiry wildling had sat back in his seat, and pondered the offer again and again in his head…
For a good few moments, not a single word was spoken in the small square room. Ulfgar Wolfsheart must've realized he had only two options ahead of him. Or, more accurately, one choice…
And one choice was about the same as no choice…
Finally, the older man glanced up at him with a hard, biting frown. A look that came with a bitter acceptance and newfound resolve. "Aye, I do."
They both firmly shook hands and agreed to their binding pact.