The keep's hall was exactly what you'd expect: crowded and dark, windowless and smoky, with straw and sawdust strewn about the floor, smelling faintly of dung.
Lit by flickering torches and warmed by sputtering hearths, two long tables ran from end to end, the empty space between them packed with sand, and shields and weaponry adorned the walls, as did the occasional threadbare tapestry – an especially classy specimen depicted a topless lady, suckling babe in one hand and battle-axe in the other, ripping some unfortunate Harlaw's throat out with her teeth.
I wouldn't have been surprised if Grendel suddenly burst in.
Dinner, too, was the typical Northern fare. Shanks of boiled mutton, loaves of black bread, bubbling pots of turnip stew – watery, stale, and bland, respectively. Hardly inedible, but certainly nothing to write home about.
And the umpteen daughters and nieces and cousins, their cheeks and fingers slathered in grease, tore through it all like a pack of hyenas.
Halfway through the meal, while I sat there nursing my transmuted wine, one of them – tough and lean, cauliflower ears, black hair tied in a messy braid – slammed her horn of bitter, lukewarm ale onto the table, surged to her feet, and launched into a rambling diatribe against the relation sitting directly across from her; who – callused and pug-like, thighs as thick as a stump – countered by tossing her utensils, and then a philippic of her own.
To the cheers and laughs and whistles of the rest, they then hurdled into the patch of sand – evidently a fighting pit, à la Medieval Times – and started wrestling.
Soon, the fat one lay dazed on the ground, blood streaming from her broken nose, and another Mormont promptly threw her hands up and challenged the winner – so on and so forth for the rest of the night.
The whole thing was very contrived.
In Westeros, men fight the wars, rare aberrations (i.e. myself) excluded – even here, the proverbial Themyscira, that held true. For all their reputation, and the prodigious skill they'd fostered in lieu of the conventional singing and sewing, the ladies of Bear Island simply hadn't a place on the battlefield, as their Lord hadn't seen it fit to give them one.
Displays like this, however performative, were therefore just as much entertainment – and a bizarre form of social jockeying (catty militarism, I think, is the best way to put it) – as they were justifications, rationalizations, desperate reassurances. They came, in other words, from the same place as practice spars, or peacetime military reviews: a way for idle swords to prove, if only to themselves, that their blades were still sharp, and that all the time spent honing them hadn't been wasted.
I'll admit, I pitied them a little.
Though the less said about the heap of moldy deer pelts they offered me as a bed, the better.
Thankfully, blessedly, it didn't take long for shore leave to grow stale (Bear's Cove, after all, only had so many taverns and wenches), and for the sailors to realize that the sooner they reached the Wall, the sooner they'd finally be rid of me. After four days of rest, with the ship freshly repaired and provisioned – "Don't say I never give you anything," I smiled at the captain – we sailed east around the island's southern coast, then into the Bay of Ice proper.
Compared to the first leg, this part of our journey passed fairly uneventfully. The weather had noticeably cleared, the sea had noticeably calmed, and thanks to the trashing I gave it, the Drowned Arse could only really balefully seeth at us. In truth, the only obstacle of note was the clutter of thick, jagged icecaps, and the crew pretty handily swatted those away with their hooks and pikes and such.
Things only grew interesting as, bearing northeast, we voyaged along the craggy foothills of the Southern Frostfangs, and into a yawning cleft in the rock that the ever-imaginative locals simply referred to as the 'Gorge.'
Spanning the Gorge at its widest point, the Bridge of Skulls (fun for the whole family!) was named for the calcified bones that littered the pale, filmy river Milkwater below. As we drifted under its derelict shell, tattered banners and crumbling stone, an unnatural chill seized the passengers and crew – no matter how tight they buttoned their jackets, or huddled around buckets of smoldering coals, it clung and scraped and pierced, thorny vines strangling their souls.
I myself got off just fine – transcendence, mortal frailty, you get the idea.
If the South's spiritual essence (or ethos, or aura, or vibe – it's hard to articulate something so ephemeral) was barren and hollow, and the Iron Islands' spiteful and possessive, then the far North's was desolate and melancholic; as though the earth itself, cold and still, was mourning some erstwhile greatness, and lamenting extinguished dreams.
It felt like a cemetery.
Sails limp and oars wary, we spent the next week tiptoeing around the rocks, while the men, as if watched, nervously glanced over their shoulders – until the westernmost edge of Wall, in all its cyclopean bulk, thrumming a ghostly Cherenkov blue, reared above the cliffs and snaked through the mountains; the Gorge constricted to a tight slot, winding stairs carved into the limestone; and that gnawing chill – if only for now – abated.
The ship moored at the lopsided slab – rough-hewn shale topped with a handful of bollards – that served as the castle's dock, and its entire complement, the prisoners shackled together, slowly, carefully disembarked, before processing up the stairway; narrow and steep, lacking handrails, slick with mist and rain, it made for slow going.
The Stormchaser cast off and scurried away without so much as a by-your-leave.
About halfway up, an Ironborn missed his step and slipped, knocking over the one in front of him, and the two then plunged over the edge. Bound as they were, a number of their fellows were hauled down with them before the chain, by sheer happenstance, snagged within a fissure, and one of the guards managed to cleave it with his hatchet. All in all, nearly fifty of them – on top of the ones already lost by disease and ill-treated battle wounds and the Drowned God's chicanery – dashed their heads upon the rocks, or splattered on impact, or, burdened and fettered, drowned in the sloshing waters.
Oh well.
C'est la vie.
It took a sprinkling of thwacks over the head, and a couple shouts of "Keep up!" to get the Ironborn moving again.
Like a candle through the fog, the Shadow Tower – a small cluster of dilapidated huts stooped around a spindly belfry, cloudy windows glowing and bricks worn smooth, the bell long since rusted to uselessness – loomed at the top of the escarpment, right at the foot of the Wall.
This specific garrison, I'd been told, comprised mostly of clansmen from the nearby hill tribes, lured into joining by the promise of (comparatively) steady meals – I didn't care enough to audit the demography, but swathed in leather and fur and wool, sporting bushy beards and bronze longaxes, they leastwise looked the part, and foreseeably scowled and grumbled at the soaked, shuddering Ironborn chain gang. In their minds, the humiliated former lords were untrustworthy liabilities, and they silently agreed that their soon-to-be 'brothers' would tragically find themselves the victims of unlucky, unforeseeable, unpreventable 'accidents.'
The odd one out was the elderly commandant, Ser Denys Mallister, who, strutting up to us in a velvet doublet, fixed the prisoners with an aloof stare, the slightest hints of smug satisfaction tugging at his lips.
House Mallister – for which, despite the black cloak, the man still ostensibly held some loyalty, if his silver eagle brooch was any indication – had a long, contentious, grievance-ridden history with their piratical neighbors, dating back to time immemorial: invasions and raids, abductions and rapes, not a single box had been left unchecked over their millennia of rivalry.
And what self-respecting aristocrat, when push comes to shove, wouldn't relish the opportunity to bully his family's ancient enemy?
Denys primly, gracefully bowed, his smile softening to something more convivial. "Welcome, Your Grace. I must say, you've been the subject of some fascinating rumors, as of late."
I affably dipped my head, and replied with a stock witticism. "Nothing good, I hope."
"Hah!" Positively chuffed, he peered upward at the clouds, raindrops streaming down his lined face, then clapped his hands together. "Come, Your Grace, let's retire from this dreadful cold" – a good-natured chuckle – "and reconvene somewhere toastier."
"Let's."
For the rest of the afternoon, then long into the evening, the two of us enjoyed a pleasant, inoffensive, mind-numbing chat about nothing of import in his study-cum-bedroom (and that's not a euphemism – Denys had his vows, and I standards). Come midnight – "The hour of the bat," he observantly remarked, grunting as he rose from his seat. "We haven't the lodgings for one of your station, I'm afraid, but I will gladly lend you my quarters." – Denys turned in – "No, no, it's quite alright," I shook my head. "Might sit by the fire for a bit, if that's fine with you." – and I finished off the canon of Great Westerosi Novels (and my sack of borrowed reading material) with A Caution for Young Girls.
The Ironborn weren't quite so comfortable, having been shunted beneath the castle (more of a compound, if I'm being honest) into the cramped, twisting, waterlogged catacombs, which dated all the way back to, and were scarcely renovated since, the Wall's original construction.
Early the following morning, down in the courtyard, just as the sun peeked over the mountaintops, the Watchmen whipped the prisoners awake, spitting and jeering and tightening their shackles, and I recited the appropriate farewells, gifting Denys a bottle of sherry I'd liberated from Pyke's cellar.
Up earthen ramps and (yet more) stone stairways, rickety ladders and winch-drawn cages, the column ascended to the top of the Wall – some 70 feet wide, paved with wood planks and gravel, peppered with catapults and trebuchets – and marched for Castle Black.
V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V
Grubby hands wrung my neck, untrimmed thumbnails pricking my throat, as sharp knees dug into my chest and beads of sweat dribbled onto my forehead.
"Can I help you?"
The slovenly mess of an Ironborn – my assailant, if that wasn't clear – recoiled with an aborted shriek. Eyes widening in horror, fingers loosening their grip, he flumped back onto my abdomen for a moment, gaping and gulping, until his teeth clenched and lips peeled and arms heaved to beat my brains out with a crooked lump of iron that used to be a manacle.
Points for optimism.
A flash of will, and he hung in midair, coughing and sputtering and clawing at his collar. I lazily stirred from my borrowed bedroll – have to see about something more permanent. Maybe a Harry Potter tent? – and crossed my arms, shooting him a raised eyebrow.
"Speak up."
Spit bubbling and veins bulging, his cheeks turned purple.
"Ah, pardon me."
The pressure slackened just enough for him to eke a rasping breath.
"I'll … k-kill … you … cu – "
I snapped his neck, and my would-be killer sounded a final agonized groan as his head slumped and body slackened.
"Right," I sighed.
With the Ironborn's corpse floating limply behind me, I stepped through the door of the austere, half-frozen, drafty little waystation, out onto the exposed summit of the Wall.
Flurries howling through the hills, twinkling stars framing a waxing moon, the prisoners had apparently staged a mutiny: a handful, I assume, at some point smothered their sleeping minders and swiped their weapons and keys, then went about smashing the other's chains until the whole lot was free to maraud about our campsite.
Thoros, left arm dangling broken at his side, had pressed himself against the battlements, and the sallow, exhausted, poorly-armed foemen, a few of their comrades reduced to blackened husks, warily kept their distance, understandably reluctant to brave that flaming sword of his; Ed, conversely, had been caught unawares, dragged screaming into the center of the mob, then beaten and stabbed and torn apart – there's nothing more reviled than a Quisling, after all.
On reflection, I might've been sleeping a little too deeply.
That's the trouble when your body's a living statue, flesh marble and form mutable: everything has to be set manually, with no small amount of trial and error.
I flicked my hand, sending the corpse hurtling through the air; it skipped across the ground, before rolling to a stop right at the feet of the nearest mutineers; stunned, they froze, Adam's apples bobbing, and the crowd – which up to now had been roaring and chanting and revenging themselves upon their jailors – fell deathly silent.
"Among you savages, as I understand, it's considered bad manners to renege on your commitments."
Fifteen seconds, then thirty, passed in silence.
I shrugged. "Not that it really matters to me. This isn't my Wall, or Watch – hell, world. I'm only a passing tourist."
For a moment, I drummed my fingers on my thigh, before taking a few steps forward.
"But it's the principle of the thing."
With a sneer, I pinned a glare on one of the few Ironborn with a sword and helmet (presumably the ringleader, or at least a core conspirator).
"Mind walking through your grand plan?" Even if I tried, I couldn't have spat it more derisively. "See, I'm rather curious as to what, exactly, flits through that tepid mush you call a brain, because, so far, nothing I've seen from any of you has inspired much confidence in your abilities."
Seriously, where would they even have escaped to? The hundreds of miles of tundra to the south, ruled by men who constitutionally despised them, or the desolate wasteland to the north, teeming with unwashed primitives? And with what food, or water, or clothing?
I can respect a Hail Mary, but this was just suicidal.
"Your … " He swallowed, and held out a hand as if calming a rabid dog. "Your Grace, please, I have money in the Iron Bank. If you just … "
I tuned him out.
Almost impressive, really, how utterly cynical they were – it honestly boggles the mind that this civilization of opportunistic sociopaths could've survived even a year, much less 8,000.
Was there something in the water?
Did the spiritual rot have a mental component, too?
Are people, regardless of time or place, just that awful?
Within an instant, the prattler's flesh vaporized, and a smoking skeleton clattered to the ground – the mutineers, to a man, shrieked and scrambled back, nearly doubling the distance between us, and exposing Ed's mangled carcass.
I crouched beside what remained of him, prompting the crowd to retreat even further. Eyes gouged, skin peeled, fractured and mauled and dismembered, he, suffice it to say, didn't exactly make for a pretty sight. Allowing myself another sigh – he was mine, dammit, shithead kid or no – I pressed a hand where his heart used to be, and started pumping grace straight into the cavity.
Bones snapped back into place as ligaments rejoined, muscles regrew, and shattered limbs reconnected; finally, when his body had fully reconstituted, and his heart once more beat in his chest, he let out a hoarse gasp, new golden eyes wrenching open.
Ye dead, who let live …
Ed's expression ran the gamut from terrified to livid, eventually settling on a sort of fragile bewilderment.
"W-wha – "
"Later."
I straightened and addressed the crowd.
"I've had just about enough of you people. Your baseless pride. Idiotic ambitions." A contemptuous lour. "Constant interruptions."
I chose not to use my hammer – sometimes, the situation calls for Godfrey's style of bare-knuckle grappling, and its wonderful way of scratching certain itches.
V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V/\V
Two miles as the crow flies from Castle Black, amidst the oak and fir of the Haunted Forest, at the end of a hard dirt trail that crept through the tangling underbrush, nine sanctified weirwoods grew in a perfect circle; trunks bone-white and leaves blood-red, their grotesque faces gurned and leered at an altar, etched with the likenesses of Hugor and the Seven, which sat in the center of the grove.
"Night gathers," the once-Lord Botley mumbled, kneeling at the altar, his arms tied behind his back, "and now my watch begins … "
The Drowned God maintained no earthly shrines – his congregation, instead, prayed and worshiped and (most pertinently) swore their vows on the cruel, roiling seas, battered by the salt and wind.
" … all the nights to come." A jerk of his chain, a prod of a watchman's spear, and Botley stumbled away, the once-Lord Sparr forced to his knees in his place. "Night gathers … "
Traditionally, Ironborn brothers were posted at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, the small fleet's only anchorage, where their skills and experience proved invaluable.
" … all the nights to come." Sparr wandered over to the proverbial finished pile, though the next in line, the once-Lord Merlyn, struggled and cursed at the guards until a spear ran him through, and he collapsed in a puddle of steaming blood. The once-Lord Volmark, eyes squeezed shut, cowered before the altar. "N-night gathers … "
However, this bunch, the few dozen survivors of the mutiny, simply couldn't be trusted near the ocean (for reasons I hope are obvious) – so better the wrong Gods, Lord Commander Mormont reasoned, than no Gods at all.
"We'll be back in a month, two at most."
Mormont didn't quite raise his eyebrow at me – far too reserved for that – but it was a damn near thing.
I offered a consoling smile. "I don't mean to spurn your hospitality, but we're on fairly urgent business."
He took a deep breath, shivering from the cold – that chill had returned with a vengeance (evidently, the Wall had a spiritual element to it, guarding the kingdoms of men from the decay festering in the North) – then frowned. "Your Grace, once more, I beg you reconsider. These lands are dark, untamed – more fit for the dead than living. I cannot guarantee your safety, certainly not if you continue to refuse a ranger escort."
" ... burns against the cold, the light that brings … "
"They'd just slow me down." I bobbed my head towards Thoros and Ed, mounted atop their horses. "Besides, I've already got my hands full with these two."
Mormont didn't seem convinced; I rolled my eyes.
"I'll be fine. And on the off chance otherwise" – I flashed my eyebrows with a chuckle – "well, it won't be my problem anymore."
" … pledge my life and honor … "
With a half-wince, he dolefully shook his head. "I cannot abide needless death, doubly such in my power to prevent."
Whistling, I summoned Typhoon and hopped up into the saddle. "Que sera, Lord Commander. Everybody kicks it eventually." I grinned. "So why bother worrying?"