Land of the King
Chapter 24: Others, Rangers, and Lord Commanders
Cirion was in Aglaran's former chambers. As his closest friend and also commanding officer, the task of sorting out his belongings had fallen upon him.
Three months had passed since he had died. Sometimes he would stop and wonder if perhaps he could have saved Aglaran, if he could have found a way. Yet in his heart he knew that it was the right choice to leave his old friend. He could not let himself regret his decision.
Cirion's return to the Wall had been lucky. Any longer in the blizzard and he would have died. His return had informed the Night's Watch of the impending assault by the wildling leaders Gendel and Gorne and together with the Stark King of Winter, they had crushed the wildling force and slain both Gendel and Gorne, though rumours persisted that Gendel had survived and led the survivors back north through the tunnels, the southern entrance being sealed by the Night's Watch behind them.
Whether or not Gendel had actually survived was not known to the Watch, but no reports of him re-emerging in the north had come to them either. Officially, he was to be considered slain in battle until proven otherwise.
Cirion heard the knock on the door. "First Ranger, it's time."
Aglaran had not been the only casualty of the Night's Watch in the past few months, nor had he been the only ranger to die on that fateful mission. More had died in the battle against Gendel and Gorne. Yet perhaps the most devastating loss had not been caused by blade or bow, but rather old age.
The Lord Commander had passed in his sleep one day, and all the Watch mourned his passing.
As Cirion descended into the courtyard, he saw the entire garrison and staff of the Night's Watch gathered. Even officers from the other castles had come as well for this funeral.
As First Ranger, Cirion was the unofficial second in command of the Watch and was now the Acting Lord Commander, and so it was his duty to carry out the last rites of the late Lord Commander.
"His name was Wylis Woodfoot. He came to us from Bear Island, a noble and son of a lord. Yet completely by choice, he chose to surrender his luxurious noble life to become a sworn Brother of the Night's Watch, ever faithful. Fifty and one years he served as a man of the Watch, and for twenty and nine, he led us as the 334th Lord Commander of this Watch. And now his Watch has ended."
"And now his watch has ended," all repeated.
As the flames burnt the body of yet another of his friends, Cirion could not help but think of how bitter the Gift of Men was.
The world was even more beautiful than it had been in his youth, yet still just as cruel.
As far as the eye could see, the lands beyond the wall stretched on for eternity. Great mountains rose sheer to the northwest, rivers and vast forests covered the slopes and plains leading down to the sea in the east. Ever present in an everwinter without mercy, the white wind blew over all the lands and the snows fell, turning the ground into a sea of white.
From atop the Wall, Cirion could see a great distance, and yet not far enough. The long-sight of the Dúnedain failed him. He could not see what he needed most to see. For beyond even this frozen abyss, there was a land where the Sun's warmth never reached, where darkness reigned supreme and the grip of winter was unrelenting. And it was in that land that the enemy of mankind awaited.
He clutched the letter from his nephew. The winter storms had delayed the raven's flight but at long last a reply had come, bearing dark words on dark wings.
The eyes of the White Tower cannot see the land of winter.
His nephew's words had been brief and curt. The palantiri were not common knowledge, so to most anyone, the letter would have been cryptic at worst and assumed to be referring to spies at best.
Yet as a former prince, Cirion knew exactly what Beleg spoke of. And it was very, very concerning. If not even the seeing-stones could gaze upon that frozen land, then they were truly blind.
By the terms of his exile, Cirion was not allowed to return to Arnor, not even in circumstances like these, and he would be loath to destabilise the kingdom so soon after his nephew had reigned it in again. His First Ranger, Calimehtar, would be carrying his letters. Matters of import on this level could not be discussed in letters.
Once, long ago, Cirion's father, King Earendur had showed him a map of all of Westeros and revealed his great ambitions to him.
"Now my son, where is our kingdom?" his father had asked.
"Here Father," Cirion answered, pointing to the western hills, the region known as Malldolan.
"Wrong," his father replied, softly.
Seeing Cirion's confusion, he had laughed, "Forgive me, you are technically correct. At present, our kingdom covers only the western hills and the Iron Islands. Yet I doubt it will be so forever. It may be that in a thousand years, one who pointed only at the western hills and called that Arnor would be wrong.
It is my dream son, my ambition to see our kingdom grow to become the great nation I know it can become. We would conquer the barbarians that surround us and bring our benevolent and just rule everywhere we went, ushering in a new and great era."
Cirion had been stunned at his father's incredible ambition, "Can you do it?"
His father had been stunned, he had smiled sadly then, "No. Neither you or I will live to see my dream for Arnor come true. I envision a future where the Kingdom of Arnor is bounded by the swamps of the neck in the north, the Mountains of the Moon in the northeast, the Narrow Sea in the east, the Red Mountains of Dorne and the Summer Sea in the south, and the great Sunset Sea in the west."
Cirion had looked at the map and back to his father in shock. "Such a realm would be four times the size of our kingdom!"
His father had smirked, "Indeed. Imagine how wealthy and how prosperous it would be, with the gold mines of Malldolan, the fertile fields of the Reach, Oldtown, and the Riverlands, the wines of the Arbor and the woods of the Stormlands."
It had been perhaps a moot thought exercise, as in both of their lifetimes, they would be able to see only a fraction of the desired lands come under Arnorian control. Yet they had planned nonetheless.
First they had spoken of what they could do in both of their lifetimes. They had both agreed that it would be unwise at present to expand to their east into the vulnerable Riverlands without first securing their southern flanks. Furthermore, Minas Anor was far more defensible than Minas Ithil in the south was.
Their plans had thus primarily resolved around the conquest of the Kingdom of the Reach. It would be the work of the remainder of his father's reign, and Amlaith's after to pacify and consolidate the Reach.
Perhaps it had been then that his father had unknowingly planted the seeds of rebellion in the mind of his second son, speaking to Cirion and his future work in fulfilling the grand plan like he was his heir.
They had spoken then of how their future descendants could work on slowly conquering and consolidating the rest of the territories, building great fortresses in the passes of the mountains and along the Neck to defend their realm by land, and the construction of the greatest navy in the world to guard it by sea.
Years after that conversation, Cirion would follow his father to war, first in the Shield Islands and then later at Goldengrove where they broke the army and body of Garth Goldenhand.
But Cirion's father would not live to even see all of the Reach be annexed to Arnor, for his life was cut short by the poison of his third son who then proceeded to trick his naïve older brother into rebellion and the rest was history.
In his long years at the Night's Watch, Cirion had eventually realised that his father's plans would have made Arnor no better than the imperialists of Old Númenor. The same imperialists that the founders had warned them against, that Elendil and his sons had decried.
Cirion knew that there was no way he could stop Arnor from continuing to pursue his father's dreams. There was no way Beleg would not seek vengeance for Amlaith's death, and in doing so, he would complete the first part of his father's plans.
Yet, though imperialistic they would become, perhaps it was for the best that Arnor expanded. A stronger Arnor would be more easily readied for the storm that awaited them.
Cirion rubbed the scar on his chest. He could still feel the cold sting of the Other's blade sometimes. He had seen the true enemy, and he knew that be it in his generation, or a hundred generations from now, they would return. All he could do, was pray that the people of Arnor had not forgotten the lessons their ancestors had taught them or darkness would take the world.
Cirion's tenure as Lord Commander would see an unprecedented level of coordination between the Night's Watch and the Kingdom of Arnor. In those days, one in ten men in the Watch were sons of Arnor, and the Night's Watch was twelve thousand strong. King Beleg, against the advice of his council, granted the Night's Watch permission to use the famed black stone of Arnor in the construction of the new walls of the castles of the Night's Watch.
In an incredible feat, Arnorian builders cut a manmade harbour out of the mountains in the north near Westwatch-by-the-Bridge. Westport is famous in all the world for being seemingly built into the surrounding mountains for this very reason. During those years, a shocking amount of supplies would come to the Watch through Westport from Arnor, bolstering the strength of the Night's Watch.
Five and ten fortresses would stand guard, proud and tall, constructed from the strongest building material known to man, protecting all the lands south of the Wall for millennia to come.
Sadly, however, the alliance between Watch and Arnor would decline following the death of Lord Commander Cirion in 1460 and King Beleg in 1537.
It had been a long journey back to their homeland. His new brother was silent for the entire trip, but made no resistance to his efforts to lead him northwards.
At long last they finally came to the fortress of their people. A stronghold on the northernmost point of the world.
Tall and sheer rose the towers of ice from the ground, rising taller even than some of the mountains on the horizon.
Everywhere they passed scores of their people, who looked upon their new brother in shock and suspicion, but they ignored the onlookers. It was not their place to judge.
He led his brother down the stairs leading to the deepest and darkest place in the fortress, where their lord resided.
The room had been shaped such that it was in near total darkness save for the moonlight that could be reflected onto its white crystal floors and walls.
He knelt, though his new brother remained standing.
"I have returned my lord," he said, speaking in Skroth, the language of their people. Every word sounded like the breaking of ice, or the sound of wind blowing on snow.
A voice spoke from the darkness, "So you have. Where is your brother?" The way their lord spoke was similar yet also different. His voice was deep and radiated power. Though he could not take physical form in the world yet due to the chains of his treacherous siblings, his spirit was no less potent and his presence no less imposing than it had been the last time he had seen him whole and embodied.
"He was slain my lord, by his own arrogance and the obsidian dagger of the High Man. But a new servant has come to replace him, our new brother who hails from the land of the High Men."
"So he does. Come forward, Dúnadan."
His new brother stepped forward, uncertain of what was to happen.
"Who are you?" he asked in the language of his former people. The transformation was not yet fully complete and he had not yet learned their language. It was only a matter of time though, as soon as his new brother fully accepted the gift he had been granted and swore his eternal loyalty to their master, he would find himself in possession of powers he could never have imagined.
"It seems that my siblings were far more successful than I had thought if my name has been forgotten."
For the slightest instant, he could see his master's physical form manifesting, a smirk upon his shadowed face.
"You may call me, Lord Boreas."
Author's Note: Just to clarify but some semblance of Aglaran's true personality remains, though it is ever shrinking and being assimilated into the semi-hive mind of the Others. His fate was truly worse than death, becoming little more than an Ice Nazgul.
Also the name of the Eighth has finally been revealed so yay. Boreas is the name of the Greek God of the North Wind and the Bringer of Winter.
