To Guest: Thank you for the kind words. I hope you eill enjoy this chapter as well.


"It's colder than a whore's heart out here." Jem's complaint, rasped out in rough voice, reverberated through the small camp. His brother gave a grunt of agreement, holding both hands out, closer to the roaring fire. "Craster's shithole would have been better than this."

Rhaegar silently agreed, though he had little taste for the master of the keep himself. His hall, as it were, a mere collection of sticks and pelts, would have provided adequate enough protection from the damned cold. Yet the less they saw of the fellow, the better for them all. Richard and Myles he trusted well enough not to abuse the women about the keep. His other men, however, were quite a different tale. One could pester them for nigh on a hundred years to leave Craster's womenfolk to themselves, but it took one mere moment of looking away to find them with their hands up a skirt. Their number being greater and their weapons plentiful, such actions were often overlooked. But unless carefully herded the men could certainly add to the suffering of those unfortunates and Rhaegar rather though the creatures wretched enough as matters stood.

The men continued their hushed conversations as he stood. Richard threw him a questioning look to which he merely shook his head. Turning his back on the lot of them, he walked behind the line of trees, cursing the winter snows and the oppressive darkness closing in from all sides even within as small a distance from the fire as he had walked. Still muttering under his breath, he tugged his gloves off. From there on it was smooth sailing more or less, with only a small amount of trepidation. There was always a chance, he expected, a man might end up with his cock in hand permanently given the damnable weather. Thankfully, for a change, it turned out the gods did not intend to make a eunuch out of him.

Rhaegar returned to the camp's fire all in order, only half concerned at the howl of wolves ringing out in the distance. They would not approach an open fire unless truly desperate. But then these lands crawled with Wildlings. Any one of those would make an adequate meal.

They passed the night keeping watch and drinking steadily through skins of bitter wine. No matter, the quality of the draught made little enough difference. What mattered was that it kept them from freezing. That was all one could ask for without the protection of the Wall. He might have wished for better fare, he supposed, and the Lord Commander would have gladly offered it if he thought it opportune. But then what was the point; wine, particularly of the sort one might consider worthy, was not like to ease the true burden of the situation.

He woke sometime before sunrise to the sight of Myles poking at a modest fire. Most of the wood they'd managed to find had long since burned away. A soft greeting was exchanged as he climbed to his feet, shaking his cloak free of excess snow. The remainder of the camp followed along in due time until all men were on their feet, the group splitting apart.

"Report to the Lord Commander on the situation of the villages to the west, but do not alarm him unduly over the matter of travelling Wildlings." He said to Richard, giving Myles a hard stare, as though to warn him against such behaviour as well.

"But they are gathering; they would not have abandoned their homes otherwise. Just because we've yet to find the bulk of the army–" Myles stopped short as soon as Rhaegar held his hand up, crossing his arms over his chest. "How can I in good conscience ignore such suspicions?"

"Easily. You lack the concrete proof." The brothers of the Watch could withstand any pithy attack the marauding Wildlings managed to mount. Mance's lot, on the other hand, armed with dull blades and crude arrows, would incur quite heavy losses should the Lord Commander take it into his head to pursue the so called army. He had no taste for bloodshed, especially not the blood of women and children that was sure to be spilled. Rhaegar dismissed those notions from his head. He only had to see to the villages to the east and then he might return to Castle Black. The pounding in his head called to mind hid daughter.

Idly he wondered if Rhaenys' headcold had improved any, if her cough had lessened and if she'd managed to catch sight of Balerion's little kittens after all. That devil in cat-skin was a fierce little bugger with claws as vicious as a lion's. Why Rhaenys loved the beast so well was beyond him, but love him she did and had ever since she'd been a girl sneaking her way into his chamber even after her septa had forbidden her, with pleas for tales, Balerion in tow. More than once he'd wished to boot the feline without his bedchamber; except that he would curl into his daughter's lap after having shredded some tapestry or curtain and Rhaegar hadn't the heart to chase her pet away; not when she so sweetly asked for pardon afterwards.

No matter, doubtlessly a letter would await him and he could read it at leisure once he returned. He blessed Rhaenys' strict septa who had thought it quite imperative that he be made aware of his daughter and son's progress, then insisted that Rhaenys herself write when she grew old enough to know her letters. It was not much for contact, but it was better than naught.

Shaking his head to clear away all notions of like bent, he reminded himself that there were still matters to attend to. He saw to the departure of the small party, waiting until they were out of sight to turn to his remaining men. There were four of them, enough that they might take measure of the settlements ahead and make for the Wall with haste should they keep from dwelling overlong or antagonising anyone. Would that they did not encounter any trouble. A man could always hope.

The first of the pitiful collection of houses was quite the shocking sight. It wasn't the display of bleached bones beneath the weirwood tree, or the half-charred corpse of what looked to be a young child; those were familiar enough a custom that he no longer wondered as to why anyone would sacrifice their future in such a manner, especially when said future likely had wept and screamed through the whole ordeal. It was not even felled, rotting beasts scattered about. It was the lack of any living soul.

It was true that these people had been abandoning their homes and such, but to the west the houses did not yet have fresh straw laid out, or half skinned hares lying about, nor had he yet seen pots of half-cooked stew in any manner of abundance. Wildlings were hardy folk, he would grant them that; they would not simply take off with nary a care for their possessions. At the very least they would take what could be used, such as pelts and cloaks.

He made his way through a few of the homes until he came across a small hovel, half-buried in the ground, its floors covered in rags. A mound of furs stood in the corner, near it a piece of wood, half-whittled into a crude shape; some manner of beast by the looks of it. A dog or might be a horse; Rhaegar couldn't decide. He neared and picked it up, holding it close so he may better study the craftsmanship, little of it there was.

An eerire feeling overtook him. Throwing the carved wood back down, he abandoned the insides of the hut, relieved once he was in the weak sunlight without. Jem was waiting by the tree with the bones beneath, looking at the offerings. "Aught of note?" Rhaegar questioned, drawing closer to the man.

"Them bones spell out a curse." Jem's face remained impassive. Rhaegar raised one eyebrow at that. The old tongue was lost on them. Those who spoke it wrote it but rarely, either for lack of knowledge of any letters or because animal hide always seemed to have other uses. There were a few pieces he had seen in the old catacombs underneath Castle Black, housing a vast library, which even Aemon claimed to be of that sort. But no one had deciphered them, and he was not quite certain anyone would. Those runes had differed from the ones carved in the bones though. Not even a half-familiar sign could he see among the ones upon the ground.

An oddity, to be sure. "How do you figure?" Rhaegar questioned. Jem kicked at the bones and spat upon the ashes beneath. "Have you any knowledge of runes?"

"Runes?" The young man scowled. "Don't know nothing about no runes." He pointed to a couple of smoothed out bones with rounded patterns. "Those are them eyes of the old gods. Witchery meant to travel with a man and watch him." He then tuned to a collection of teeth, "As for these, they were taken from this lad 'ere." His head jerked towards the corpse. "I reckon they was bindings his soul to send on a hunt."

"Should you have kicked the poor boy's soul?" How did Jem even know the corpse was a boy? "If indeed 'tis not a most unfortunate lass." The other snorted, the look on his face indicating a great deal of contempt. "Speak freely."

"Ain't gonna feed 'em lasses to flames or slit their throat. Leastwise not until they breed and raise their damned brats. I reckon the women like that well enough, though." He wondered whether the boy's mother had liked it any, but felt it better not to bring up the topic. "Cursed buggers, the lot of 'em. Bloodthirsty bitches too."

"An interesting assessment," he offered. "You seem to know quite a lot about these rituals. Is there any particular reason for it?" Any scholarly explanation was forfeit and yet the gleam he saw in the man's eyes just then took him aback. He'd not expected the wave of rage he witnessed there.

"Were a tyke when I seen it happen to my brother. They took that child to one tree just like this. I was too old to serve for their purpose, but he were just the right age; soft and weak as the babe he was." Lips curling in a sneer, the young man glanced away, as though overwhelmed. Rhaegar gave him a moment before encouraging him to continue. "Tried to save him, I did. But there were men there stronger than me. A couple of 'em held me down and I got to watch as they pulled out tooth after tooth. He ended up with a mouthful of blood even before they slit his throat; poor thing were so scared he started puking his guts out. Ever heard a babe choke? Don't think I heard anything half as pitiful in all my life."

Stunned, Rhaegar shook his head. There was nothing he could say to that; indeed, naught he even wanted to say to that. "And your parents did not think to stop it?"

A bitter sort of chuckle prevailed in the ensuing silence before Jem spoke once more. "My stupid whore of a mother would have slit Twig's throat herself if she'd been asked. As for her man, he weren't bad or nothing, but I reckon he wouldn't've cared much were he around to see. Excepting might be he'd have insisted they cut the throat first and pull the teeth after."

The brothers of the Night's Watch had taken him in an orphan though, claiming to have no parents. Morbidly, Rhaegar wondered if the man sought to avenge his slain kin. "What did you do then, Jem?"

"They let me up after the blood was spilled. I went home, what else could I do? But I'd a plan. If the village wanted to serve the gods, I'd help the lot of 'em. Waited until my mother fell asleep and then slit her throat open. I'd have let her burn, only that I weren't sure the flames would kill her. Had to be sure. The rest of that shithole I burned down with a few good arrows and my father's bow."

Jem stared at him with a hard set of eyes; a silent dare to criticise him, he thought. Kinslaying was a grave sin, in the eyes of the old gods and the new. But then the Watch comprised of murderers, thieves and rapists. Very few of them had the justification Jem had. Rhaegar patted his shoulder in a sympathetic manner. He looked to the small corpse at his feet. "We cannot bury the body; earth's frozen stiff and we don't have the necessary equipment." Swords would not do in any event and he hadn't even the faintest intention to dull his blade for such a thing.

"The gods'll claim him soon enough." Jem shrugged. By then Olivar and Pike had returned as well, reporting that they'd seen not a soul.

"I don't like the look of it," Rhaegar said in the end. "It would be best to return now and send out more men. Wherever these people went, it looks like they left in a hurry and abandoned a lot of useful material which would have been of aid to any army. Come, let us hasten our return to the Lord Commander; it seems the equation had changed a bit."

He would not consider himself a fanciful sort, Rhaegar mused. But what he knew of magic and its strange rituals was that the dabblers had best be certain they had it all right down to the letter. Summerhall had been an eloquent lesson. A lot of outcomes might have been called forth by what had taken place within the small boundaries of the settlement, not the least of which was their little curse turning against its casters. If that was the case, then they had best not linger overlong.

His men were in agreement, both with regards to leaving and an earlier return to the Lord Commander. And so it was that with a somewhat heavy heart, he left behind the child in his cold grave, hoping Jem's words came true and the gods did claim him in some manner or another. After such a death, the last thing he deserved was to end up a feast for carrion. Although, if he were to think about it, that was the most likely fate awaiting the mite.

Casting back to Jem's take, he shuddered. He'd once felt a burning hatred towards his sire for a great many reasons. But his father, who must have been quite wrought when learning just what his son had been doing behind his back, had merely looked at him with deep shock and an abiding disappointment. He hadn't even yelled or threatened him. He had fallen into his seat, haggard face making him look a thousand years older than he truly was, and then he had wept.

His father, one of the cruellest men to have walked the kingdoms, had sunk his face in his hands and cried like a babe in arms. Lord Varys, naturally, had taken the whole matter over then, asking soft questions of him, pulling details and half-truths. He wasn't certain if his father had believed a word he said; he certainly would've believed none of it in his stead. But all the same, his sire had ordered him to take the black. His father had loved him enough to want him alive even when Rhaegar himself had made peace with the possibility of his little scheme seeing the man dead. It had been an uncomfortable sight. He wasn't certain what it was about weeping men that made one's insides roil.

It wasn't pity. It was not even primarily remorse, albeit some distant part of him had been chagrined to have caused his own father such pain. It had simply been distasteful. As though looking at a chamber where all the furniture had been carefully placed and noting just one piece slightly out of order. The wrongness of it was maddening; the knowledge that such was not supposed to be. It was the same with the tears of men.

Not all monsters were created equal, his mind supplied in the end. His father was, undoubtedly, barely fit for the title of human being, let alone ruler of the realm. But for a woman to sacrifice her child as callously as Jem's mother had; that was something else. His spine tingled with disquiet the more he considered it. Life beyond the Wall was hard. He'd seen enough of it to know as much. But most mothers held their babes close with loving, if not merely responsible, arms; they nursed them and guided them and made certain to protect them as best they could. He had seen enough women throwing themselves over their brats, snarling and spitting out curses, threatening bloody murder should anyone try to harm a hair on their head, to know where the true problem lay.

He would have certainly been more than prepared to drive his blade through any man or woman who threatened Rhaenys or Aegon; if he did not devise some other more painful method to dispose of such a person. He was his father's son, after all, and did not lack in the department of imagination. The admission was not quite as painful as he thought it would be. Rhaegar glanced up at the skies. It did not look as though the weather would turn sour. If they hurried they might even enjoy a journey absent heavy snowfall and frostbitten extremities. Drawing his cloak tighter about him, he called out to Olivar, "Have we need to hunt or is there enough to eat?"

"We could do with a bit more," the man answered. "But we could always eat less for a little while. We'll get our fill later in any event." He looked to Pike and Jem for their opinion.

"Best we march on; too dear to waste time on that." They had wine. Drink was more important in such instances. It would keep.

"Onwards then," Rhaegar said.

The party proceeded to trudge through the high snows, making steady progress throughout the day. The weather held, despite a few clouds threateningly rolling by. Neither wild beast, nor wild man happened in their path, much to his relief. By midday they had covered so much ground that pausing for a light rest seemed the thing to do, though the men were eager to be on the move as soon as may be.

"The less time spent in these frozen wastes, the better." Olivar cast those words into the wind, glaring at the horizon line as if expecting some manner of danger to spring forth thence. "I'll be right glad to see even Craster's ugly mug, if the leagues between us would vanish."

"I'll be right glad to see his larder," Pike put forth, kicking at the mound of snow just to his right. "He could stand to improve his hospitality and feed us better."

"Not when you so inconveniently darken his doorstep and discomfort his wives," the first returned lightly, glancing at his companions. He grinned. "Well, some of us, in any event," he said with meaning. "Others are better behaved."

Olivar Rivers, in possession of all his teeth, as far as one could tell, and blessed with an abundance of reddish-brown hair, had not seen more than two scores of winters. Rhaegar had it on the best authority; the man's own. He was the natural son of Ser Garman Goodbrook whose gods-blessed wife made life intolerable until the man finally gave in and sent his son to the Wall. In fairness to the lady's skill, such had only taken a couple of years. Of the sworn brothers without rank or origin, Olivar stood the most polished. Trading on his father's status, he had learned a great deal, not the least of which were manners. Still, even such unequal relationships as those encouraged within the Night's Watch did little to damped the man's mood or enthusiasm. Rhaegar could only conclude he was the manner of creature content with whatever his lot in life happened to be. An enviable trait.

Pike scowled. "Hear that, Jem? The fellow's putting on airs." Despite the glower and Jem's utter lack of reaction, Pike would never quite strike fear into the heart of any enemy. He was a short and thin and looked more apt to do himself injury holding a weapon than he was like to do any foe. For all that, Rhaegar knew him to be an excellent marksman. Unlike Olivar and Jem, he'd lived his whole life in nearness or at the Wall. Rumour had it that he'd been fathered by a ranger on some farmer's daughter. Others said the Scorpion had fathered him on a whore.

Rhaegar supposed both equally plausible; Qorgyle had been a Dornishman through and through. But for all that, he had kept the men well heeled and severely punished any infringement on the smallfolk. It was one of the things Rhaegar had appreciated about the man as soon as he understood how matters stood. Lord Commander Mormont was much the same, though unlike his predecessor he kept well away from Mole's Town and its brothel. Having not himself partaken of the buried treasures in Mole's Town, Rhaegar could not speak to the quality of the services or the wisdom of abstinence, albeit he did recall having once heard some of the men discuss a particular girl.

What had been her name? Lanna; that was it. Lissom Lanna, reputed to have kept a lovely figure after five or so children. A woman much in demand if the idle talk of men was anything to go by. Why, even Olivar with his habitual courtesy impiding his detailing of the experience, had been known to recommend her services to the untried youths at times hard-pressed for company. High praise indeed for a woman of her kind. Rhaegar gazed then at his men, observing their sport so as to distract himself from the directions of his thoughts. As a general rule, the more he thought of women, the closer he became to memories best left undisturbed, for his own sanity if not outright for his comfort. Many days had he spent at the mercy of such considerations that he would not countenance their return. Better to avoid it altogether.

The travellers came to a halt once more as the sun threatened to fall from its perch. As it would be folly to make their way through the night and having come upon a perfectly serviceable cave, they unburdened themselves at the entrance and made quick work of gathering twigs for their fire.

Supper was a humble affair, with just enough food given to each so that they wouldn't keel over and let the frost seize them. There was no particularly pleasant taste to speak of, since the plain fare had not seen neither hair nor hide of spices. Their drink remained equally poor as it had been throughout the journey and all that was left to comfort them were the blazing flames.

Protected from future caprice of the weather, the little fire rested firmly within the cave, warming its occupants and consuming its wood in quiet fashion. Faint cracking and popping only occasionally troubled to rise above a whisper. From his vantage point, Rhaegar could make out the stars strewn across the vast expanse overhead. The moon had come out as well, though its pale light seemed somehow sickly that night. Were he pressed to explain, Rhaegar would not know what to say. He frowned up at nature's offerings. It must simply be his imagination; burdened with too much care and such, he had forgotten how to enjoy the simple things in life. A branch snapped and splintered, calling his attention towards the flames.

A storm broke out overhead in the dark watches, heavy clouds drawing over the stars and the moon, ensuring that none would dare travel the wild plains. Rhaegar slept easier with the knowledge, paying no heed to the oppressive feeling settling upon his chest. The weather so oft brought out the melancholy in him that he'd learned to ignore it in favour of rest. The hard ground beneath cushioned him and his cloaked gave warm embrace; tired eyes closed, though one hand he kept ever on the hilt of his blade. The remaining senses picked up the usual smells and sounds, comforting him with the ordinary nature of it all.

He awoke to soft crunching noises. His first instinct, honed by many years of surviving unexpected attacks, screamed that he ought to be on his guard. Rhaegar sat up, eyeing the dying fire. He threw a handful more twigs to encourage the flames before standing to his feet. The whispered sounds would not let up so that he carefully toed Olivar awake and bade him listen. They agreed within a matter of minutes that someone had to be out there, likely trapped in the storm.

"It would be folly to go out there, much as I pity the poor buggers. Aside from which who knows whether 'tis not a party of Wildlings. Best not to let on we are around." Olivar moved back to ground, though he no longer lay on his side, but sat against the cave's wall.

Rhaegar remained standing, trying to pick up even the slightest of movements which might indicate someone begged aid. He speared the darkness and the flurry of snowflakes, but unfortunately his eyes were not so keen as to distinguish much. "It seems to be growing louder, he pointed out after a few moments. "Wake the others." Just because a Wildling were to stumble on them, it did not mean they should blindly trust he wouldn't slit their throats as they slept. Olivar must have listened for he heard Jem's foul curse followed by Pike's grumble. "Take up your arms and make ready."

Even as he spoke, the crunching and creaking grew in intensity. At long last he could make out the faintest of shapes in the immediate distance. Recognisably human, it drew closer and closer; despite that its features remained obscured behind a heavy white curtain and the veil of night. Rhaegar called out, using what little he knew of the Old Tongue. Though his grasp of the language was rudimentary at best, the common greetings were similar enough even to their Westron counterpart that they should prove easy to reproduce. The stranger, however, answered not, nor stopped at the sound of another's voice. It was that which gave him cause for concern so that he ordered his men back behind the paltry protection of their fire. The mouth of the cave forsaken, he no longer made any attempt to contact whoever was there, nor had he need to indeed.

In the glowing fire's enchanting light, a shocking revelation made its presence known. Blood turned to ice in his veins and the grip on his sword slackened momentarily. Never had Rhaegar been faced with such a thing. Speechless he stared at the ruins of what had once been a man. One might wonder at the queerness of his thoughts. The reason why Rhaegar could not quite conceive of such a guest as their own was rather simple. In his experience a half-crushed skull, caved in on itself, meant death. The curses of his men made plain the fact they too saw even as he did the unnatural display at the cave's entrance.

The creature, whatever it was, lunged within, latching onto Olivar who let out a shout of surprise mingled with horror. Rhaegar shook himself out of the strange mood which had overtaken him and struck out with his blade, chopping off one arm with a single blow. Unfortunately for him, the undead seemed not to mind the loss overmuch, nor slacked its attention to Olivar who fought against the arm with no moorings which obstinately held on. Jem jumped into the fray even as others of the monster's kind came upon them.

Neither strike of blade, nor blow of fist seemed to make much of a difference. And in terms of strength the creatures held power much in excess of humans, so Rhaegar learned when one of them grabbed hold of his shoulder and fair to broke the bones with its grasp. He managed to evade one of its brethren making for his throat when Pike's wild shriek of pain rose above the general mayhem.

"They're mauling me! Help! Help!" He bellowed yet again and then was silent, a rough crunch like snapping bone alerting Rhaegar of his fate. In the dim light he caught the unnatural angle of the man's neck.

In desperation, he braced for a forceful shove even as Jem's guttural cry and swift hush indicated another one of his men had been lost. Olivar shouted for aid. Rhaegar pushed against one of his foes, trying not to mind the pain in his shoulder. It grew apace until it acquired a sound of its own. Or might be that was his own voice, roaring out in anguish. The creature budged. Not much, might be less than an inch, but just enough that its heel was brought in contact with a tiny spark of blaze.

Such a burst of flame followed that he stumbled backwards. The foe never did let him go, so that his cloak soon burned where the being held on and Rhaegar fought to release himself from it. The cloth still burned so that once he was free, he hesitated not a moment in throwing it against some of the other creatures. They too caught fire and blazed like dry wood. Soon enough, naught was left of their foes. Even Jem and Pike, barely cold, burned away with haste, leaving only Olivar and himself in the desolate cavern.

Without the wind had begun howling and within the smouldering mess threatened to choke them. Rhaegar passed a hand over his face, trying to gather his wits, then learned, to his shock, that his blade was missing. He looked about amid the ash, but with the fire dying out very little could be seen. Might be 'twould be best to forsake it and go to Olivar who was not answering despite having been called several times already.

"Oli?" Less certain than before, Rhaegar advanced through the darkness. Aught moved in the shadows. He knelt and felt out the space before him. Flesh met his fingertips. A hand grabbed suddenly at his wrist and tugged. Rhaegar cried out with the pain, his shoulder screeching in protest. He steadied himself but barely, ramming a fist into the ground for balance. A faint apology made it to his ears. "Nay; you couldn't have known. Can you move?"

"Fucking whoresons, they broke my leg." That answered him well enough. "The bone's poking out; no way can I leave on in." Olivar took a shuddering breath, then in a firm voice said, "I cannot make it; but might be you can."

It took him a moment to understand what was being said. "Father's beard, I am not leaving you." Despite those words, he doubted he could make himself a few steps out into that blizzard, let alone carry another. The way he saw it, two men caught in the middle of a snowstorm with scant supplies and wounded to boot could expect only one outcome. Olivar dropped heavily, indication that the pain had conquered him. Abject horror claimed the other. He did not want to die. Rhaegar struggled to take a deep breath.

In the midst of desolation it was that he heard it once more and the last of his hope faded. Very faint crunches coming from somewhere without. There was no sword to use and little strength left. Nevertheless he forced himself to stand and turn around, for he would not die a coward, through he perished ingloriously. He wished he might have seen his children one last time. The thought that they should wonder and fret over his fate troubled him. But there was naught for it; fate had dealt her hand and it was up to him to prove his mettle. Straining his eyes against the shadow, Rhaegar demanded his foe waste no more of his time. "Come out and strike me!" With any luck his demise would be swift.

A pinprick of light surprised his tired eyes. Uncomprehending, he took one step forth. The light was drawing closer, steadily becoming brighter. And then, from out the shadow-realm stepped towards him a mounted rider. A giant of a man sat atop what looked to be an elk, to the best of his guess. He carried a light; a flickering flame protected against the weather by spun glass. "What deviltry is this?" How could any man face the storm, let alone journey in it?

"Fear not, brother; I am come to aid," a rattling voice answered. Rhaegar tensed. In the dim light, he could see very little, but allowed the stranger to pass into the cave once he had dismounted. The man's unconventional steed blocked the entrance as a new fire was built. In the blooming glow, Rhaegar saw that indeed the rags their would-be saviour wore matched very well the garb of their brethren. Put somewhat at ease, he acceded to the aid.

"How did you know to come to us?" He couldn't have seen the fires. They had been far too short for that. Neither could he have been following them; he'd have been spotted, especially on that beast of his. Not waiting to inspect the man further, Rhaegar turned to Olivar, intending to have a look at the leg. The bone truly had broken through. An uneven break and worse yet, one which seemed unlike to benefit from binding.

"The ravens told me. They have keen eyes." An odd answer. Rhaegar probed no further, his concern too focused on Olivar for more than a nod. "We must cut the leg at the knee. If we act fast, we might still save the man's life."

"Have you knowledge of leechcraft?" Despite his years of service, Rhaegar had never been interested in the arts of healing and knew only enough to bandage a wound and staunch the flow of blood.

"Nay; but I've two strong hands and a large blade." Suspecting that was his best bet lest they were willing to sacrifice the change of Olivar living for the certainty of his death. Rhaegar accepted and held the unconscious man down as the stranger brought down his blade upon the mangled limb. The only sound was the song of steel. Olivar did not wake.

Working a rudimentary binding fashioned out of sturdy cloth taken from his spoiled cloak, Rhaegar recalled quite suddenly that he still had no notion of who had come to their aid. "What is your name?" he asked of the man seated near a wall.

A shrug was his initial answer. "You may call me whatever you wish; I shan't mind." He threw a handful of twigs on the fire, which was when Rhaegar noticed that what he'd hitherto thought of as gloves were in fact hands; black as coal they were, but free of any cloth save their own skin. He started. The stranger followed his gaze, them in mild amusement, commented, "You find the sight strange, I trust."

Was it frostbite? But then how could be move them so well? Rhaegar checked himself. "Have you by any chance forsaken your vows, brother?"

"Not I; the vows are only binding until death." Had he not witnessed a shockingly short amount of time earlier decomposed corpses coming back to life, Rhaegar might have laughed.

Instead, he brought his hands closer to the fire and asked not after the man's identity. Best not to know. "What do you know about those things which attacked us?"

"Wights; dead things brought to life by the Others." Seeing was believing. Despite the reasonable, all things considered, explanation, Rhaegar could not help his chuckle. His shoulder jostled with movement, causing him to wince. "So long as the flesh lasts on their bones, they can be used in that manner. Only one foe can match them." A flame. Rhaegar brought a hand to his injured shoulder, slipping it beneath the collar of his garb. He brought it out covered with blood. His lucid companion offered to bind the gash for him. "If the gods have need of you, I trust you will survive."

So gracious was the offer that Rhaegar could not refuse. In short order, an improvised bandage rested against the deep gouges, though for his own part he could not guess how it helped. It seemed to him that every tiny movement brought a thousand stab wounds to bear in the flesh of his shoulder. No matter; 'twas as the stranger said. If the gods had any plans for him, he would live to see another day. If not, well, he hoped not to fall prey to such a fate as the monsters which attached them.

It was near to dawn when he fell asleep. The storm had quietened and their unnamed companion agreed to keep watch. Rhaegar suspected the dead did not require sleep. Such was his pain and exhaustion that dreamless slumber gave him rest. And when he woke, it was to new pain. His shoulder smarted and burned making him wish he might somehow excise that part of himself. Yet his concern was swift to turn to Olivar.

"He died in the night. Cold and blood loss." The stranger's voice held little by way of intonation. "Better take his cloak. We have a long way to go." He pilfered the body with a heavy heart, for even shamed, he did not wish to quit the world of the living.

"Should we leave him here–" The thought of Olivar roaming the snowy flats in perpetual thraldom sickened him.

"They shan't turn him; only those slain by them turn." He accepted the explanation, mostly as he had no way of proving otherwise and because he could not possibly dig a grave in his state.

"My elk will carry us as far as the Nightfort ," the living dead offered. It was the best one might expect and given the man's fire never seemed to burn out, Rhaegar had at least that bit of protection to count on, albeit he wondered what use the Nightfort would be when no brothers had manned it for many lives of men.

He climbed atop the beast with no aid, his pride bearing to the fore despite the severe pain. The ache in his chest was still greater and he dared not look behind, lest the lone corpse of Olivar appear to him at the cave's mouth. The gods forgive him, but he must put the horror behind him, at least for a little while until he had gained the ear of the Lord Commander and the whole sorry tale poured out from between his lips. Rhaegar steeled himself against the discomfort the animal's sway brought.

They travelled at a slow pace, taking but sparse stop during the day. In the night, the elk persisted doggedly upon its path. The further they went, the milder the cold seemed to grow. Rhaegar had never known such a beast as to walk undaunted through the snowdrifts.

At long last, when at the Nightfort, he was helped down onto solid ground. Disuse and a generally poorly state meant that as soon as he was left to his own devices, his knees buckled. Threatening to topple over, he reached out blindly for anything which might steady him.

It was his erstwhile saviour that came to his aid once more. Though he wore sturdy gloves, he could feel the unnatural coolness of the other's hand. Never in his life had he felt such a sting of cold. "My gratitude," he murmured under his breath.

With great difficulty, for not only did his shoulder pain him greatly, but his legs as well had grown disobedient, Rhaegar trudged forth through the piled-up snow which stood even in the absence of a storm just about knee-high. He struggled nevertheless to reach the shelter of an arching gate, stepping into what looked to be a man-made tunnel. He looked towards his companion, asking why he would not come further, for the mysterious man stood a few paces away and had not moved an inch yet.

"Further than this, I cannot travel. You will find aid within." Rhaegar protested, pointing out at long last that the Nightfort had no men. That fazed the stranger none. "A brother of the Night's Watch shall always find welcome at the Nightfort." And with those words, man and elk turned around and promptly departed.

Rhaegar quailed. He started after the lumbering beast and its rider, only to stop short. He would not survive long out there. Might be some gate could be found and its rotten wood might give way to pressure. He should be able to manage that much even in his deplorable state. Rhaegar leaned against the wall for support and began the long walk to wherever the passageway might lead.

Within mere minutes the air around him became stale and musty, the way any cellar might smell after years of disuse. No sign of life appeared to him and naught of movement could he see. The further he went, the darker his sight grew, though he knew it yet to be sun in the world above. The incline let him know at lengths he was diving underground. After what seemed an eternity, his path met an abrupt end. At a guess, he stood before a gate, but its wood was solid still and wonder of wonders, the lock held at his push.

And then, unexpectedly, he was given further cause for shock.

The gate had eyes. Wide, white eyes which then glowed as though with vacant sight. "Who are you?" The gate had a voice as well. Rhaegar barely resisted stumbling backwards, wondering what manner of fevered dream he had walked into.

"What mean you, who am I?" he demanded. It seemed too significant a question come from a gate to be mere opportunity for repeating bloodlines. He thought back on the words his guide had left him with. He stood a brother of the Watch and any such would find welcome at the Nightfort. "I am the watcher on the walls," he started out hesitantly. "I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men." Rhaegar fervently prayed 'twas the answer the gate wanted, for he had little desire to collapse at long last without it, as surely he must ere long.

"Then pass." The gate opened like none other he had ever laid eyes upon. Its mouth served for the point of ingress, widening more and more still until only a gap ringed by wrinkles remained. Rhaegar hurriedly stumbled past its threshold, falling into a blessedly dry and windless chamber.

He found his way easily enough without, coming to the light. In the Westron skies behind the Wall a pale sun shone. It seemed to him that he had grown even warmer than before. He did not dare take off his cloak, however, electing instead to climb his way down through the ruins.

Though no brothers could be found about, he knew that in the shadow of the Nightfort rested a sleepy little settlement. With some luck, he might find himself a horse and not be forced to undertake the remainder of his journey on foot. His good fortune held, when at last he'd come into the place. There was precisely one nag to be had, an old and skinny thing, suited for naught save might be feeding wolves, if they could but be pleased with so little. Its owner had cast it out to die of hunger; that was the word amongst the smallfolk lasses who happened upon him and were kind enough to speak to him after a goodly number of admiring glances.

"Take him and go, for Old Wymer shan't mind beyond being glad he's well rid of the burden." They remained long enough to give him farewell.

Rhaegar trusted in their advice and saw himself, with no saddle, upon the beast's back. Despite its foul appearance, the creature was mild-tempered and swayed him not overmuch. It would not hasten its paces beyond the slowest of walks, but he suspected having been left out to starve, it could not very well boast much strength. That was the reason for which when he finally found another settlement, he parted with some coin for a sack of grain and some unfathomably plain food for his own mouth.

The beast munched at its meal happily enough and might have likely had more would Rhaegar but allow it. "See me to my destination, and I shall reward you with a place in the stable and daily meals for however many days the gods give you." Whether the steed understood him or nay, together they covered a great deal of distance ere neither food nor drink gave Rhaegar comfort any longer and he was forced to consider the possibility the wound he'd been so long ignoring would at lengths not be overlooked.

'Twas difficult to assess the state of the injury, beyond his meagre knowledge of such matters. He recognised the colour should have dulled into bruising after so many days and suspected the vibrant red bode ill. Rhaegar pressed the spot ever so lightly, hissing out in discomfort at the sting. At the very least it no longer bled, though the gouges looked poorly healed to his, admittedly, inexpert eye. Having little on hand to aid him, Rhaegar opted to wash the wound with cool water and throw away the binding. Given its soiled state, it could be of no further use.

Yet even as he diminished in health, Rhaegar would not abandon his quest. He had to return to his Lord Commander and make known to him all that had passed. In due course, he found himself treading a familiar path, his strength all but sapped. With even pace, his pain grew more pronounced. It was thusly that he collapsed in nearness to Mole's Town and knew not that he was dragged away as the light waned by none other than his brothers-in-arms.

Having come upon him as they returned from errands, they recognised easily enough his claim to their aid. Hurriedly, they carried him back to the Wall amongst themselves and installed him within the Maester's bedchamber, for Aemon would hear of naught else. Under his watchful eye, his kin lost the meagre protection of his garments, revealing a tale of bruises and hurts which spoke of violence and, might be, great misfortune.

Aemon placed a weathered hand upon the man's brow and frowned at the heat radiating off of him. He then looked to the woebegone shoulder, trying to determine in the weak light what needed to be done. Alas that his eyes were not what they had once been and entrusted the worried Richard Lonmouth with describing the wound. That one and his friend, Myles, would not quit the chamber until Rhaegar woke, their own words.

"The colour is a deep red and there are stripes." Richard leaned in further. "To my eye, it looks infected. And no wonder, after so many days. What can be done, Maester?" Should it turn putrid, there was no guarantee their patient would live. Aemon admitted as much. "That I cannot accept! Tell us what to do."

"That wound of his needs cleaning. As my sight fails me, I must rely on the two of you to perform the task." He described the procedure in great detail. Milk of the poppy would be used to ease the pain of it, but not too much, for Rhaegar's breath had turned a mite too shallow. Then they would take turns tugging out all streaked flesh in thin strips. Too much and the blood flowed freely. Too little and the infection settled. "You must be wary of all that is not hale flesh, for it could well spell his doom."

They worked through the night, hardly to let up their vigil. All was done for the comfort of their brother and even the Lord Commander, upon hearing of his plight, ordered that no effort should be spared and all needful be provided them. Theirs was a gruesome task which needed steady hearts and minds, not to mention hands. Aemon was glad to learn Rhaegar counted among his friends such fellow; even as he had known them to be true before.

Their labour came to an end just as the grey morning asserted itself. The wound had been cleaned to the best of their abilities and then slathered with salves meant to keep the flesh from failing. Bandages had been secured over it and clean clothes provided. Rhaegar was not to be removed, for Aemon would content himself with a trundle bed, despite the thinner mattress. He slept little enough and even less that first day.

Most of his morning was spent seeing to the duties of his office, helped by his brothers. The Lord Commander came shortly after breaking his fast, eager to know the state of his ranger. "What do you think; will he live?" Jeor Mormont demanded brusquely. Some might count it impolite; Aemon knew it to be his customary manner.

"Time will tell," came his answer. His kin was not a frail old man, which counted to the good, but he had encountered trouble and severe trouble at that. "I would be much obliged, my lord, if you should allow him some time to heal once he wakes, ere you set out to finding what became of the other rangers."

"It stands to reason," Jeor declared. "Fear not that I should jeopardise his recovery. The state of him tells eloquent enough a tale; though in time I will naturally desire to acquaint myself with the details." A small nod followed the statement and the Lord Comamnder departed.

His egress gave little peace, as came after it the entrance of Richard who brought a thin broth for the slumbering Rhaegar. No sooner had the man sat than he called Aemon over. "Maester, I believe he is trying to speak. Come see."

The lips were indeed moving, though what sounds he made were much too faint to be deciphered with ease. "Draw closer to him and see if you cannot make out what he says," he urged the younger, who must have a keener ear than himself. Richard hastened to obey; his expression soured within moments. Aemon noted the change. "Well, what is it?"

Richard hesitated. "Naught; a night terror, by my count." The uncertainty prompted Aemon to inquire further into the matter. "No matter; the milk of the poppy must be playing tricks on his mind." At that, he would no longer accept any evasion and outright demanded to know the exact words his kin had uttered.

"Very well then; if you must know, he calls for her. That heartless jade, Lord Stark's daughter." Richard crossed his arms over his chest. "'Tis the milk of the poppy, I know it."

"Or his own heart; a man may disbar himself of pride when at death's door." Approaching Rhaegar's bedside, he took of his hands. "I see it displeases you. But why not let the man dream of what he would and be pleased that he rests?"

"Because he should not be dreaming of that traitorous witch." Richard's steady voice would not increase in volume even as he pointed out the ills of such an outcome. "A woman of that calibre deserves not to be remembered."

Unconvinced, Aemon let the matter slide. He too had known Lyanna of House Stark, long before Rhaegar stumbled upon her and lost his heart to her. He recalled the too-serious girl intent upon uncovering any and all secrets of the vast library housed at Castle Black. He also remembered very well her questioning of him and her confession, her desperate plea that Rhaegar should be looked after and kept in the dark. Aemon had done it because the realm, in his opinion, had no need of disputes over the heir to the throne.

Since Lady Lyanna claimed she was content to raise her son a bastard, he had been content to burn her missive and send for the boy the sole possession in his keeping which might match the value of her vow. A dragon's egg was no mean gift and he deemed more than enough to satisfy her, if what he had guessed her goal with any accuracy; no matter that he himself did not believe half of what the old library contained. She was not a dim creature, by any measure, and would guess his meaning well enough. Never again had she written him after and never had he troubled questioning any of her kin that happened to travel his way, be those visits few and far between.

Might be he ought to put quill to paper once more. Aemon considered the matter. What if she had never revealed to her kinsmen the paternity of her child? He could certainly get her in a lot of trouble. Might be then it would be best to keep all knowledge to himself and let matters take what shape they would. After all, his objective could better be reached should he give no indication of involvement.

In any event, letters would have to be sent to King's Landing whatever fate befell Rhaegar. With the King's mood who could guess how he might interpret delays in acquainting himself with his son's situation. Calling Richard away from Rhaegar's side, Aemon instructed him on what he was to write and to whom.

Before long he had returned to Rhaegar's side and there instructed that dreamwine be prepared for his use and an infusion of herbs for further washing of the wound. "Add no poppy to it, for he has already had some milk of the poppy, but sweeten it well with honey. As for the herbs, use but little of the marigold and goldenrod and a healthy helping of yarrow. Steep them into boiling water until they have softened."