(Cue the intro!)
GAME OF THRONES - MAIN TITLE
- COMPOSED BY RAMIN DJAWADI
(0:00 - 0:05)
LOCATION: DARGONSTONE
In a humble abode situated just beyond the outskirts of the village of Dragonstone, the esteemed Red Priestess of R'hllor, Melisandre, found herself engaged in fervent prayer before a blazing fire, offering homage to the revered Lord of Light. She had journeyed to this place under the explicit guidance of her divine master, with the purpose of locating Azor Ahai, the Prince That Was Promised. It had been prophesied that the imminent arrival of the Long Night was nigh, and with each passing day, the Night King grew ever more formidable.
Several months prior, Melisandre had arrived at Dragonstone, driven by her unwavering commitment to disseminate the sagacious and sacred teachings of R'hllor. Initially, her presence garnered little attention, but in due course, she managed to amass a considerable following. Remarkably, she even succeeded in persuading Stannis Baratheon and his kin to renounce their allegiance to the Seven and embrace the one true deity.
While the inhabitants of the Seven Kingdoms and their rulers occupy themselves with their daily conflicts, the followers of R'hllor are aware that the true adversary is amassing strength in the distant regions of the North. The deities worshipped by the populace, in their misguided devotion, remain indifferent to the imminent obliteration that awaits them.
Only the Lord of Light demonstrates the concern necessary to rally his adherents and endeavor to salvage their world. In the estimation of Melisandre, R'hllor is deserving of veneration for his proactive measures.
Empowered by her prophetic visions, the Red Woman possesses unwavering certainty that Stannis Baratheon is the long-awaited Prince that was promised. She spares no effort in persuading him of this truth. The man possesses all the requisite qualities to lead the living in their battle against the hordes of the deceased.
Although Stannis Baratheon was a man of unwavering determination, the notion was gradually permeating his thoughts; particularly upon discovering the truth regarding Robert Baratheon's alleged offspring. In due course, he shall assume his rightful position as the esteemed representative of R'hllor and the emblematic figure to rally the Kingdoms together in order to confront this imminent peril. Upon the conclusion of her homage, the Red Woman's eyes abruptly opened wide.
She was overwhelmed by a vision bestowed upon her by the flickering flames. These visions depicted a man adorned in peculiar green armor, traversing the realms with a purpose of his own, yet there was an inexplicable allure about him.
Underneath that armor was nothing but pure rage and hatred, and unmatched power; so much so that Melisandre grew wary of him. The visions then tell a great war orchestrated by an insect of a man and the stranger took no sides as he butchered all those who stood in his way – be they of noble or vile intentions – and he did so with brutality and cruelty that not even the most vile of monsters could ever hope to achieve.
Upon being released from this vision, Melisandre found herself breathing heavily. Whoever or whatever that man may be, even R'hllor himself appeared to be cautious of him. It was evident that he posed a threat, not only to the Kingdoms, but also to the Lord of Light.
Melisandre found it difficult to fathom such a notion. How could any man possibly pose a threat to the mighty R'hllor? Yet, here was a vision sent directly by the Lord of Light. How could she possibly deny its significance?
She could not allow this man, this...beast, to roam freely and bring about the destruction of the entire known world.
What could she do against…
The Footsteps of Doom.
LOCATION: WOLFSWOOD
Robb Stark struggled to keep his eyes open. The warm embrace of his blanket cocoon seemed like a welcoming haven against the icy winds whistling down the woods of Wolfswood. The rest of his family was already asleep, bush-whacked from the long night journey. With a weary sigh he rested his back against the tree trunk.
Owls hooted mournfully somewhere overhead. A gentle breeze stirred the dry leaves around him, sending them dancing up and down in a slow circle. Crickest played music from the grass. Robb could feel himself falling through the peace of the moment, carried away by the fire's dancing flames. He could feel himself floating in the air, maneuvering through the towering tree trunks, drifting beneath a night sky to the distant horizon.
Robb blinked. He scanned his surroundings. Everything was still in place; the forest around him was quiet, the campfire still alight, tents were set, horses tethered, and the sounds of both his family and armored men peacefully sleeping filled the air. He distracted himself with thoughts of the dreams he had, where his mind stored countless images that sometimes faded away or became blurry when he tried to remember them.
One dream, though, remained firmly ingrained inside his head. Robb vividly remembered finding himself at the center of a wide spread field blooming with flowers, the petals fluttering gently on the wind. Blades of grass danced along the edge, creating a pleasant swaying motion. Robb felt content and at peace at the time, he almost thought he was in heaven. Not a day went by where he wished he could go back to that dream.
His second dream, however, was something he would never forget. It had started off peaceful, but soon turned violent. He remembered finding himself at the battlefield's center; a bloody field littered with the corpses of fallen foes. Robb had been surrounded by enemy combatants, yet the battle had ended far too quickly for his liking. Robb felt the urge to reach out for help. Yet no one was present. The atmosphere was filled by swords clashing together, the cries of dying men, the shrieks and wails of dying horses, and the grunts of pain. His world rush up and rolled as his head was cut from his shoulders by the slash of a man's sword. Robb barley slept after the horrific dream.
The third dream Robb remembered fondly. It featured a woman clad in white, standing in the middle of the road. Her golden hair framed her face beautifully; it shimmered brightly despite the darkness of the night. The woman held a small basket in her arms. She smiled warmly at him. The sight made his heart swell with joy. Robb watched as she started forward, reaching out to him.
And then he woke.
Robb ran his fingers through his dark curly hair and exhaled. He wished that third dream lasted longer. He couldn't get that mysterious woman out of his mind for months; her warm welcoming smile, her beautiful golden hair and gentle hands. He wished he could hear that angelic voice again. But it wasn't meant to be. There will come a day that he can find a woman; one that makes his heart sing. But that day hasn't yet come.
Suddenly, the fire crackled and popped merrily in front of him. He realized that someone else was awake.
As if sensing his awakening gaze, Jon Snow looked toward him. Their eyes met briefly in acknowledgement. Neither spoke for some time, simply enjoying each others company. Jon started towards him and sat down next to him.
"Nightmares again?" Asked Jon.
Robb nodded, "I'll always have them. I guess you know that better than anybody."
"That you do," replied Jon as he pulled a flask from his satchel, taking several gulps of water and passing it back to Robb.
After drinking from the flask, Robb passed it back over to Jon. Taking another swig and wiping the sweat and dirt off his forehead. Neither of them said anything else, for their conversation has lapsed into silence once again. They lay there side by side, gazing upward through the canopy, lost within their own memories, and yet somehow connected.
Finally Robb broke the spell between them. "So, what brought you up?"
Jon shook his head.
"I couldn't sleep," answered Jon.
"Well, at least we both can watch the campfire together," Robb remarked with a hint of humor.
Jon chuckled. "Yeah, I guess."
"Well, don't start without me boys."
The pair turned their gazes in time to see the ward, Theon Greyjoy, approaching them while bringing his hand over his mouth to stifle a yawn. He pinched the bridge of his nose and stretched his neck.
"Tell me Theon, you couldn't sleep either or did the Snapping turtles assaulted you in your dreams as well?" Robb questioned with a knowing smirk.
"They didn't invade my dreams! I just had nice ones," retorted Theon, rolling his eyes.
"You mean the ones where you're in bed with a whore women?" asked Robb.
"Yes," confirmed Theon.
Robb and Jon shook their heads in unison.
"And in case you're wondering, yes, I'm still shaken up over those damn Snapping Turtles," Theon declared. "That's the last time I'm ever going skinny dipping in a pond. Those damn things almost chomped off my balls."
Robb chuckled in response. "Wouldn't that be quite unfortunate considering that lake is filled with giant lizards?"
"Not funny."
"I think you should consider yourself lucky since you escaped unscathed."
Theon crossed his arms over his chest, "I know."
"Maybe next time you would take my father's heed seriously, Theon." Jon suggested. "It's not wise for a ward to drop their guard."
"He's right, Theon," added Robb. "When in the heat of battle, it's important to stay alert at all times. You never know when an attack may come. If you let your guard down even for a second – you could die."
Theon smirked, "Oh I know, you need not to remind me."
Somewhere in the far off forest, there was a heavy thump.
Robb and Jon jumped to their feet. Theon whirled his body around to the direction of the sound; a second thump followed soon after. They heard the sound of rustling brush and snapping branches. A flock of birds exploded from the distant tree tops and spiraled upward, akin to a flurry of shadows swirling across the pale face of the moon. It seemed like a giant rock was striking the earth, making it slightly rumble. More powerful with each successive impact.
Those were footsteps, and they were getting closer.
The trio unsheathed their swords and stood ready for whatever might be in their way. They stood in silent anticipation until the sound grew louder and closer. The muffled footfalls reverberated through Robb's bones. He was amazed that his family were able to sleep at all.
The footsteps stopped rumbling and the forest descended to silence.
Something was standing ten feet away beyond the campsite. John took one step forward and saw from behind the tents the figure just beyond the campsite. The silhouette of a seven feet tall behemoth slowly marching forward. Each footstep left a trail of dust behind their feet.
The behemoth drew closer and the campfire's orange glow illuminated the figure's body. It was easily seven feet tall, muscular and imposing, clad in dark green armor from head to toe. Its armor gleamed underneath the flickering fire's light. Jon ran his eyes over the flat, green surface of the armor the figure wore, his eyes followed down, finding lighter patches across their chest and signs of battle scars on the arms, only deeper, and more brutal. Its armor looked battered and worn out. But the aforementioned armor was something Jon never seen before.
He had observed numerous illustrations of Knight's armor from various books, yet none of them portrayed any form of armor resembling this. The armor appeared ancient and weathered, as if countless years had passed without any form of upkeep or safeguarding. Jon sincerely struggled to grasp the sight before him.
The armored behemoth halted its movement in close proximity to the campfire and remained motionless for a brief moment. After a few moments, the behemoth gradually settled down, assuming a cross-legged position while facing the fire. The behemoth gazed at the flickering flames for what seemed like an eternity.
Jon exchanges knowing glances with Robb and Theon. They could practically feel each other's alertness and bewilderment; it was almost palpable. Robb could see that Theon was also on edge, his muscles tensing every now and again.
All of them stood quietly observing the behemoth.
Robb began to approach the behemoth with a measured pace, his hand firmly grasping the hilt of his sword. As he drew nearer, he endeavored to discern any discernible features on the armor, regardless of their familiarity. The behemoth remained motionless as Robb approached, and with caution, he positioned himself beside the knight, lowering himself to a kneeling position. Theon followed closely behind. Both of them gazed upon the armored figure in silence. The armored behemoth, in turn, remained motionless, fixated on the path ahead.
"Excuse me, stranger," Robb started
with an authoritative tone, speaking in the Northern accent he used often in front of people. "May I ask who you are and why you have trespassed on our land?"
Silence reigned supreme in the clearing as Theon and Jon watched as the armored behemoth didn't grace him with an answer. They noticed that the knight still didn't move, nor react to Rob's question. This caused both Jon, Robb, and Theon to frown.
"Where do you hail from?" Theon questioned.
Still no response.
"What is your name?" Jon added.
The armored behemoth glanced at Jon over their shoulder. The trio couldn't see the armored figure's face due to them wearing a helmet. The behemoth grabbed a sharp rock next to their feet and without hesitation stabs said rock on the dirt, slowly carving letters down. Once the figure was done they threw it to the side, and placed their gauntlet on the left side of the dirt next to the writing.
Jon and Theon crouched next to Robb, getting a chance to read what was written in the stranger's hastily scribbled carvings:
Doom Slayer
The words sent chills down Robb's spine but also left him in wonderment. What a haunting title 'Doom Slayer?' the name echoed in her head. He turned his attention back to the knight before them.
"I presume that's your title, yes?" Robb inquired, looking at the armored behemoth with a raised brow.
The armored figure nodded.
"Very well, Doom Slayer," Robb proceeded with a smile. "If it isn't too much of a bother, could you tell us your true name instead of a title?"
Robb frowned when the armored stranger didn't grace him with a response. Silence
fell over the clearing once more and remained unbroken save the crackling of the small campfire nearby. The atmosphere became tense between the three brothers. No words were spoken, not even when the wind howled through the trees and sent the leaves fluttering across the clearing. Theon's lips parted to speak, but he held himself back from doing so, when the armored stranger spoke.
"William." William answered, his voice rough and slightly deep.
Theon crossed his arms.
"Your full name?" asked Theon with a raised brow.
William glanced at the ground. "Blazkowicz," William replied. "William Joseph…Blazkowicz…the Third."
Jon gazed at William with wonderment, Internally repeating his name in his thoughts. Blazkowicz. He noted how foreign, otherworldly even it sounded.
"Well, sir Blazkowicz," Theon broke the awkward silence, attempting to alleviate some of the tension. "What brings you here to our camp? Ya 'headin somewhere?"
Barely giving Theon a single glance, William continued staring into the flickering flames.
"I…don't know." William responded.
Jon sat down on a rock five feet away from William.
"I've never seen armor quite like yours before. Do you happen to come from one of the Seven Kingdoms?" Jon inquired. William kept staring intently at the flames. Jon and Robb exchanged wary looks.
"No." William responded, their eyes trained solely on the flames.
"If not the Seven Kingdoms, then where?" Theon asked curiously. William remained speechless and stared silently into the fires.
When Theon tried asking again he felt a hand on his shoulder. His attention immediately shifted to Robb. Robb shook his head slightly, indicating that he should let him take control. Robb turned his gaze back to William.
"We won't bother you with too many questions, so we will save them in the morning. But I need to know something." Robb stated, getting down to one knee next to William. "If we go to sleep, we won't have to worry about you cutting me and my family's throats. Right?"
William glanced at Robb. Though Robb couldn't see William's eyes behind his helmet, he could feel his cold gaze staring deep into Robb's own. The coldness in William's stare unnerved Robb.
"No," William responded solemnly.
Robb nodded. "Okay."
LOCATION: THE HAUNTED FOREST
"We should start back," Gared urged as the woods began to grow dark around them. "The wildlings are dead."
"Do the dead frighten you?" Ser Waymar Royce asked with just the hint of a smile.
Gared did not rise to the bait. He was an old man, past fifty, and he had seen the lordlings come and go. "Dead is dead," he said. "We have no business with the dead."
"Are they dead?" Royce asked softly. "What proof have we?"
"Will saw them," Gared said. "If he says they are dead, that's proof enough for me."
Will had known they would drag him into the quarrel sooner or later. He wished it had been later rather than sooner. "My mother told me that dead men sing no songs," he put in.
"My wet nurse said the same thing, Will," Royce replied. "Never believe anything you hear at a woman's tit. There are things to be learned even from the dead." His voice echoed, too loud in the twilit forest."
"We have a long ride before us," Gared pointed out. "Eight days, maybe nine. And night is falling."
Ser Waymar Royce glanced at the sky with disinterest. "It does that every day about this time. Are you unmanned by the dark, Gared?"
Will could see the tautness encircling Gared's mouth, as well as the restrained ire that flickered within his eyes, concealed beneath the voluminous black hood of his cloak. Gared, having dedicated four decades of his life to the Night's Watch, from his youth to his adulthood, was unaccustomed to being treated with levity. However, there was an additional element present beyond wounded pride. Will discerned it acutely; a palpable unease that teetered precariously on the edge of trepidation.
Will expressed his uneasiness, as he had spent a total of four years stationed on the Wall. The initial occasion he was dispatched beyond its boundaries, he was overwhelmed by a flood of ancient tales, causing his stomach to churn with anxiety. However, he found amusement in reflecting upon this experience afterwards. Having participated in a hundred expeditions since then, the perpetually shadowy expanse known as the haunted forest by those residing in the southern regions no longer instilled any fear within him.
But that was until this night, something was different.
There was a certain quality to this darkness that caused his senses to heighten. For nine consecutive days, they had been traveling, initially towards the north and northwest, and then once again towards the north, venturing further and further away from the Wall. They were diligently pursuing a group of wildling raiders. Each passing day proved to be more arduous than the one preceding it. Today, however, was the most challenging of all. A frigid wind blew from the north, causing the trees to rustle as if they were living beings. Throughout the entire day, Will had an unsettling sensation that he was being observed by something, something cold and unyielding that harbored no affection for him. Gared experienced the same disquietude. Will desired nothing more than to hasten towards the safety of the Wall, but it was not an emotion to be shared with one's superior.
Especially not a commander like this one.
Ser Waymar Royce was the youngest son of an ancient house with too many heirs. He was a handsome youth of eighteen, grey-eyed and graceful and slender as a knife. Mounted on his huge black destrier, the knight towered above Will and Gared on their smaller garrons. He wore black leather boots, black woolen pants, black moleskin gloves, and a fine supple coat of gleaming black ringmail over layers of black wool and boiled leather. Ser Waymar had been a Sworn Brother of the Night's Watch for less than half a year, but no one could say he had not prepared for his vocation. At least insofar as his wardrobe was concerned.
His cloak was his crowning glory; sable, thick and black and soft as sin. "Bet he killed them all himself, he did," Gared told the barracks over wine, "twisted their little heads off, our mighty warrior." They had all shared the laugh.
It is hard to take orders from a man you laughed at in your cups, Will reflected as he sat shivering atop his garron. Gared must have felt the same.
"Mormont said as we should track them, and we did," Gared said. "They're dead. They shan't trouble us no more. There's hard riding before us. I don't like this weather. If it snows, we could be a fortnight getting back, and snow's the best we can hope for. Ever seen an ice storm, my lord?"
The lordling seemed not to hear him. He studied the deepening twilight in that half-bored, half-distracted way he had. Will had ridden with the knight long enough to understand that it was best not to interrupt him when he looked like that.
"Tell me again what you saw, Will. All the details. Leave nothing out."
Will had been a hunter before he joined the Night's Watch. Well, a poacher in truth. Mallister freeriders had caught him red-handed in the Mallisters' own woods, skinning one of the Mallisters' own bucks, and it had been a choice of putting on the black or losing a hand. No one could move through the woods as silent as Will, and it had not taken the black brothers long to discover his talent.
"The camp is two miles farther on, over that ridge, hard beside a stream," Will said. "I got close as I dared. There's eight of them, men and women both. No children I could see. They put up a lean-to against the rock. The snow's pretty well covered it now, but I could still make it out. No fire burning, but the firepit was still plain as day. No one moving. I watched a long time. No living man ever lay so still."
"Did you see any blood?"
"Well, no," Will admitted.
"Did you see any weapons?"
"Some swords, a few bows. One man had an axe. Heavy-looking, double-bladed, a cruel piece of iron. It was on the ground beside him, right by his hand."
"Did you make note of the position of the bodies?"
Will shrugged. "A couple are sitting up against the rock. Most of them on the ground. Fallen, like."
"Or sleeping," Royce suggested.
"Fallen," Will insisted. "There's one woman up an ironwood, half-hid in the branches. A far-eyes." He smiled thinly. "I took care she never saw me. When I got closer, I saw that she wasn't moving neither." Despite himself, he shivered.
"You have a chill?" Royce asked.
"Some," Will muttered. "The wind, m'lord."
The young knight turned back to his grizzled man-at-arms. Frost-fallen leaves whispered past them, and Royce's destrier moved restlessly.
"What do you think might have killed these men, Gared?" Ser Waymar asked casually. He adjusted the drape of his long sable cloak."
"It was the cold," Gared said with iron certainty. "I saw men freeze last winter, and the one before, when I was half a boy. Everyone talks about snows forty foot deep, and how the ice wind comes howling out of the north, but the real enemy is the cold. It steals up on you quieter than Will, and at first you shiver and your teeth chatter and you stamp your feet and dream of mulled wine and nice hot fires."
"It burns, it does. Nothing burns like the cold. But only for a while. Then it gets inside you and starts to fill you up, and after a while you don't have the strength to fight it. It's easier just to sit down or go to sleep. They say you don't feel any pain toward the end. First you go weak and drowsy, and everything starts to fade, and then it's like sinking into a sea of warm milk. Peaceful, like."
"Such eloquence, Gared," Ser Waymar observed. "I never suspected you had it in you."
"I've had the cold in me too, lordling." Gared pulled back his hood, giving Ser Waymar a good long look at the stumps where his ears had been. "Two ears, three toes, and the little finger off my left hand. I got off light. We found my brother frozen at his watch, with a smile on his face."
Ser Waymar shrugged. "You ought dress more warmly, Gared."
Gared glared at the lordling, the scars around his ear holes flushed red with anger where Maester Aemon had cut the ears away. "We'll see how warm you can dress when the winter comes." He pulled up his hood and hunched over his garron, silent and sullen.
"If Gared said it was the cold …" Will began.
"Have you drawn any watches this past week, Will?"
"Yes, m'lord." There never was a week when he did not draw a dozen bloody watches. What was the man driving at?
"And how did you find the Wall?"
"Weeping," Will said, frowning. He saw it clear enough, now that the lordling had pointed it out. "They couldn't have froze. Not if the Wall was weeping. It wasn't cold enough."
Royce nodded. "Bright lad. We've had a few light frosts this past week, and a quick flurry of snow now and then, but surely no cold fierce enough to kill eight grown men. Men clad in fur and leather, let me remind you, with shelter near at hand, and the means of making fire." The knight's smile was cocksure. "Will, lead us there. I would see these dead men for myself."
And then there was nothing to be done for it. The order had been given, and honor bound them to obey.
Will went in front, his shaggy little garron picking the way carefully through the undergrowth. A light snow had fallen the night before, and there were stones and roots and hidden sinks lying just under its crust, waiting for the careless and the unwary. Ser Waymar Royce came next, his great black destrier snorting impatiently. The warhorse was the wrong mount for ranging, but try and tell that to the lordling. Gared brought up the rear. The old man-at-arms muttered to himself as he rode.
Twilight deepened. The cloudless sky turned a deep purple, the color of an old bruise, then faded to black. The stars began to come out. A half-moon rose. Will was grateful for the light.
"We can make a better pace than this, surely," Royce said when the moon was full risen.
"Not with this horse," Will said. Fear had made him insolent. "Perhaps my lord would care to take the lead?"
Ser Waymar Royce did not deign to reply.
Somewhere off in the woods a wolf howled.
Will pulled his garron over beneath an ancient gnarled ironwood and dismounted.
"Why are you stopping?" Ser Waymar asked.
"Best go the rest of the way on foot, m'lord. It's just over that ridge."
Royce paused a moment, staring off into the distance, his face reflective. A cold wind whispered through the trees. His great sable cloak stirred behind like something half-alive.
"There's something wrong here," Gared muttered.
The young knight gave him a disdainful smile. "Is there?"
"Can't you feel it?" Gared asked. "Listen to the darkness."
Will could feel it. Four years in the Night's Watch, and he had never been so afraid. What was it?
"Wind. Trees rustling. A wolf. Which sound is it that unmans you so, Gared?" When Gared did not answer, Royce slid gracefully from his saddle. He tied the destrier securely to a low-hanging limb, well away from the other horses, and drew his longsword from its sheath. Jewels glittered in its hilt, and the moonlight ran down the shining steel. It was a splendid weapon, castle-forged, and new-made from the look of it. Will doubted it had ever been swung in anger.
"The trees press close here," Will warned. "That sword will tangle you up, m'lord. Better a knife."
"If I need instruction, I will ask for it," the young lord said. "Gared, stay here. Guard the horses."
Gared dismounted. "We need a fire. I'll see to it."
"How big a fool are you, old man? If there are enemies in this wood, a fire is the last thing we want."
"There's some enemies a fire will keep away," Gared said. "Bears and direwolves and … and other things …"
Ser Waymar's mouth became a hard line. "No fire."
Gared's hood shadowed his face, but Will could see the hard glitter in his eyes as he stared at the knight. For a moment he was afraid the older man would go for his sword. It was a short, ugly thing, its grip discolored by sweat, its edge nicked from hard use, but Will would not have given an iron bob for the lordling's life if Gared pulled it from its scabbard.
Finally Gared looked down. "No fire," he muttered, low under his breath.
Royce took it for acquiescence and turned away.
"Lead on," he said to Will.
Will threaded their way through a thicket, then started up the slope to the low ridge where he had found his vantage point under a sentinel tree. Under the thin crust of snow, the ground was damp and muddy, slick footing, with rocks and hidden roots to trip you up. Will made no sound as he climbed. Behind him, he heard the soft metallic slither of the lordling's ringmail, the rustle of leaves, and muttered curses as reaching branches grabbed at his longsword and tugged on his splendid sable cloak.
The great sentinel was right there at the top of the ridge, where Will had known it would be, its lowest branches a bare foot off the ground. Will slid in underneath, flat on his belly in the snow and the mud, and looked down on the empty clearing below.
His heart stopped in his chest. For a moment he dared not breathe. Moonlight shone down on the clearing, the ashes of the firepit, the snow-covered lean-to, the great rock, the little half-frozen stream. Everything was just as it had been a few hours ago.
"They were gone. All the bodies were gone.
"Gods!" he heard behind him. A sword slashed at a branch as Ser Waymar Royce gained the ridge. He stood there beside the sentinel, longsword in hand, his cloak billowing behind him as the wind came up, outlined nobly against the stars for all to see.
"Get down!" Will whispered urgently. "Something's wrong."
Royce did not move. He looked down at the empty clearing and laughed. "Your dead men seem to have moved camp, Will."
Will's voice abandoned him. He groped for words that did not come. It was not possible. His eyes swept back and forth over the abandoned campsite, stopped on the axe. A huge double-bladed battle-axe, still lying where he had seen it last, untouched. A valuable weapon …
"On your feet, Will," Ser Waymar commanded. "There's no one here. I won't have you hiding under a bush."
Reluctantly, Will obeyed.
Ser Waymar looked him over with open disapproval. "I am not going back to Castle Black a failure on my first ranging. We will find these men." He glanced around. "Up the tree. Be quick about it. Look for a fire."
Will turned away, wordless; there was no use arguing. The wind was moving. It cut right through him. He went to the tree, a vaulting grey-green sentinel, and began to climb. Soon his hands were sticky with sap, and he was lost among the needles. Fear filled his gut like a meal he could not digest. He whispered a prayer to the nameless gods of the wood, and slipped his dirk free of its sheath. He put it between his teeth to keep both hands free for climbing. The taste of cold iron in his mouth gave him comfort.
"Down below, the lordling called out suddenly, "Who goes there?" Will heard uncertainty in the challenge. He stopped climbing; he listened; he watched.
The woods gave answer: the rustle of leaves, the icy rush of the stream, a distant hoot of a snow owl.
The Others made no sound.
Will saw movement from the corner of his eye. Pale shapes gliding through the wood. He turned his head, glimpsed a white shadow in the darkness. Then it was gone. Branches stirred gently in the wind, scratching at one another with wooden fingers. Will opened his mouth to call down a warning, and the words seemed to freeze in his throat. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps it had only been a bird, a reflection on the snow, some trick of the moonlight. What had he seen, after all?"
"Will, where are you?" Ser Waymar called up. "Can you see anything?" He was turning in a slow circle, suddenly wary, his sword in hand. He must have felt them, as Will felt them. There was nothing to see. "Answer me! Why is it so cold?"
It was cold. Shivering, Will cling more tightly to his perch. His face pressed hard against the trunk of the sentinel. He could feel the sweet, sticky sap on his cheek.
A shadow emerged from the dark of the wood. It stood in front of Royce. Tall, it was indeed, and gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh pale as milk. Its armor seemed to change color as it moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, everywhere dappled with the deep grey-green of the trees. The patterns ran like moonlight on water with every step it took.
Will heard the breath go out of Ser Waymar Royce in a long hiss.
"Come no farther," the lordling warned. His voice cracked like a boy's. He threw the long sable cloak back over his shoulders, to free his arms for battle, and took his sword in both hands. The wind had stopped. It was very cold.
The Other slid forward on silent feet. In its hand was a longsword like none that Will had ever seen. No human metal had gone into the forging of that blade. It was alive with moonlight, translucent, a shard of crystal so thin that it seemed almost to vanish when seen edge-on. There was a faint blue shimmer to the thing, a ghost-light that played around its edges, and somehow Will knew it was sharper than any razor.
Ser Waymar met him bravely. "Dance with me then." He lifted his sword high over his head, defiant. His hands trembled from the weight of it, or perhaps from the cold.
Yet in that moment, Will thought.
He was a boy no longer, but a man of the Night's Watch. The Other halted. Will saw its eyes; blue, deeper and bluer than any human eyes, a blue that burned like ice. They fixed on the longsword trembling on high, watched the moonlight running cold along the metal. For a heartbeat he dared to hope.
They emerged silently from the shadows, twins to the first. Three of them … four … five … Ser Waymar may have felt the cold that came with them, but he never saw them, never heard them. Will had to call out. It was his duty. And his death, if he did. He shivered, hugged the tree, and kept silent.
The pale sword came shivering through the air.
Ser Waymar met it with steel. When the blades met, there was no ring of metal on metal; only a high, thin sound at the edge of hearing, like an animal screaming in pain. Royce checked a second blow, and a third, then fell back a step. Another flurry of blows, and he fell back again.
Behind him, from right, to left, all around him, the watchers stood patient, faceless, silent, the shifting patterns of their delicate armor making them all but invisible in the wood. Yet they made no move to interfere.
Again and again the swords met, until Will wanted to cover his ears against the strange anguished keening of their clash. Ser Waymar was panting from the effort now, his breath steaming in the moonlight. His blade was white with frost; the Other's danced with pale blue light.
Then Royce's parry came a beat too late. The pale sword bit through the ringmail beneath his arm. The young lord cried out in pain. Blood welled between the rings. It steamed in the cold, and the droplets seemed red as fire where they touched the snow. Ser Waymar's fingers brushed his side. His moleskin glove came away soaked with red.
The Other said something in a language that Will did not know; his voice was like the cracking of ice on a winter lake, and the words were mocking.
Ser Waymar Royce found his fury. "For Robert!" he shouted, and he came up snarling, lifting the frost-covered longsword with both hands and swinging it around in a flat sidearm slash with all his weight behind it. The Other's parry was almost lazy.
When the blades touched, the steel shattered.
A scream echoed through the forest night.
A/N: And that's chapter 2 young readers! I'll admit, I wasn't sure how I wanted the last part of this chapter to end but after reading a bit of the book I decent this very scene should be enough. Next chapter will be worked on soon so stay tuned until then!