The wind belted through the sky with a howling fury, his hood struggling, his dark brown hair flopping viciously. Here, seven-hundred-feet above the world, Ned could see the rolls of mist and lone clouds brush against the Wall and freeze. The forest line spread for a hundred leagues north, a great fog coming down upon the horizon like a thick veil, the dark oranges of dawn shadowed, a summer storm brewing in the edges of the air. Here, a man could stand atop the world, and be burned by the sun, for the strong winds threatened to carry him to the stars.
To the south, the Kingsroad bustled in the early morning, each end erected with encampments of a dozen different colours as far as a mile. Castle Black struggled beneath the weight of the northern parties, never so lively nor teeming with men and arms. Banners threatened to fly with the rushing winds, the roaring cries of giant men and bears turned to the faintest whispers upon the outskirts where Ned lingered.
He reached out, as if clamouring for the horizon, ignoring the pricking of the wind at his ungloved hand, his father's burned ring rattling on his finger. For a glimpse, a single flash of a second, he could see Benjen. Lying in the snow, a trail of blood behind him, his brother's cold hands crawling for a forest beyond sight. He could see it all, his snarling blue eyes lingering on pale shadows, on dead flesh, his paws quick, his claws sharp, his mind beastly. And it was an old memory, an old dream. But the same pain, the same grief. One that screamed so loud, it would rustle the tallest trees of the Haunted Forest below, so loud the mountains would turn away in fear.
"M'lord," a thin crow called, hooded and huddled, pulling at his black cloak tightly, eyes squinted so tight Ned could hardly see them, "The last party be arriving now. Best be heading down before the wind takes us. I don't much like my chances out here." Rolling thunder leagues away trickled after them. It sounded like drums upon a battlefield; soldiers waiting in eager lust, in crushing fear, in pools of regret with each beating mallet.
The lift shook furiously, creaking tauntingly, "A poor way for a man to meet his end," Ned remarked, holding the steel bars tightly.
"I wouldn't say that, m'lord. The gods may take it for a challenge. I've only one guess to who they'll test it on first," the dour watchman muttered, peering to look down before cursing himself. The courtyard was teeming with men armoured in chain and boiled leather, colours far too foreign for the grim black of the Night's Watch. Banners were carried by lone guards; flayed men and rising suns joined with roaring giants and mermen. Finally, the lift fell the last few inches with a thud, another crow waiting just outside. "Oi, Edd. Lord Commander wants you stationed above." He threw Edd another cloak, thicker and as heavy as a hound, the man's sigh and ramblings fading away.
Lord Commander Mormont stood stoney in the centre of the yard, his dark robes thick with a black bears fur upon the shoulders, padded leathers upon his chest, gloves and boots made of scratched moleskin, his cloak falling onto the ground, Maester Aemon stood beside him, hooded and hunched like a woods witch, wind whipping his garbs across his face, though still listening as silver-grey steeds ambled before them, their riders dismounting. Ned could see a raven circling above them, shrill and shrieking but rendered silent against the harsh air.
"Did you find what you sought?" Aemon asked quietly, his blinded eyes murky, but focused on the lords in front.
"It is far too late for that, maester." Ned replied solemnly, a similar melancholy in his tone, his hands tracing the woven designs of the pouch upon his belt absentmindedly.
One by one, the lords and vassals of the North pooled into the courtyard, sending away their steeds and men at arms, all grim-faced and gritting, eyes pointed up. The Wall was ice, a man's blood growing colder for every second he lingered in its shadowy gaze. Even the thickest skins of the north could not deny it, each of them peering at it for a second too long, shivering, staring at it for hours upon the Kingsroad; the North's greatest accomplishment, and their greatest mystery.
"Lord Stark," came Rickard Karstark, armoured in a pale plate armour from the chest up, each piece circled like the sun atop old chainmail and beneath ragged grey furs. Lord Karstark was a stern man, a proud man. And he revelled in it, his garb the same worn upon the Trident, in Pyke, but worn well, scratched and cut and faded. His beard grew greyer by the year, his face thinner and gaunt than Ned remembered.
"Rickard," he said, coming to a firm handshake, "The road was not too harsh?"
"She is a long one," Rickard replied with a small nod, his hands rough and cold, his beard and hair lightly covered with snowflakes, "But well worth it. I saw my son, Torrhen, off to Winterfell. My daughter is wroth with me, for Torrhen was ever her favourite. But I thank you, again, my lord, for the honour. We are kin, Stark and Karstark. Well past time our blood bonds as brothers do. Your son may be young, but he's a good head upon his shoulders. And my boy is a fine lad."
"Aye, he is welcome company. We'll return to find them amok in the yard, I've no doubt there."
"Rickard Karstark!" boomed the Greatjon, loud and boisterous, a horn of ale as large as a man's head in his hand. He'd spent the entire morning wrestling and sparring in the yard, black brothers fearful and circling him as if he were a wild beast.
"Jon," Rickard said bluntly, clearly repressing a deep sigh.
Greatjon only laughed, slapping the man on the back and leading him away, "Ah! Cold as the bloody Wall, this one. Come on, then, join us in the hall."
And it was almost a market line, as if Ned were an armourer selling his wears. Wyman Manderly wore long turquoise silks decorated in tridents and seven-pointed stars, all beneath the thickest white furs Ned had ever seen. He brought gifts in carts to share along the Watch, the lords regarding him politely, the men with eager thanks. Roose Bolton's stare was cool, implacable, his hands without warmth nor cold, his tongue quiet. Rodrik Ryswell's words were short and irritable, his horses and his sons shivering. Jorah Mormont greeted his father with a tight hug, thick green furs atop his silver plates, an ancient sword clawed upon his belt. Glover, Flint, Locke, Hornwood, even the mountain clans of Wull and Norrey all gave their greetings and their thanks and their sacred stares for the Wall, waiting in the once-abandoned Shieldhall.
But he could not find the lizard-lions of his old friend. No. For the crannogmen dwelled in their swamps and their damp homes and rarely paid any mind to visitors. Ned had known it well, for in all his loyalty, Howland was a guarded man, who's answers only spawned a thousand more questions and a dozen more secrets. Messages upon messages, letters and riders, and yet the responses were far and few. Sleepless nights had taken Ned for years, dreams lingering above like a cloud, shadowed and stormy, dangerous and dark. And in those nights of terror and tears, even before the days of the direwolf and his midnight malice, Howland had spoken of the sight, of the seer. Old stories and old legends; the warg and the beast, one. His grandmother's stories, Nan's stories, Howland's stories.
But they are not stories any longer. And so Ned had tried once more. Parchment sealed and signed in the Stark name. A command, a Lord's request, a plea. Returned, to his honest surprise, by a brown and white blotched owl with eyes of golden curiosity. Howland's words were short, simple, but chilling, a crushing fear creeping beneath Ned's skin. You are wounded, the letter wrote, inked in a deep red, stained almost like blood. There is a beast by your side, a beast behind your eyes. You cannot see. But you will, at all our peril. He had burned that letter, aye, but the words were branded still. You will, you will, you will.
Knowledge was a crannogman's craft, their most coveted secret. And peril was a pain Ned knew well.
"Shall we?" The old maester asked, wobbling away without a care to hear their replies, the Lord Commander trailing along with a guiding hand.
The Shieldhall was lit poorly, howling winds flowing freely against dark stone and extinguishing torchlight, stewards standing by awkwardly. In the dim day, you could hardly see the blackened ceilings littered in cobwebs and cracks and rats taking home in solitude. The long trestle tables were dusty, worn, but seated now with nearly a hundred men, coloured brightly in the banners of their lords and blood. Broken withered sigils covered almost every crevice; lions, owls, dragons and griffins and krakens and crabs, wolves and moose and
stallions, owls, harps, spears and scorpions, the hall was alight with faded rainbows in the flickering flames. Walking through the hall, the eyes of noble bears, suns, giants and mermen and horses and gauntlets and the flayed man watched him intently. He took no seat, standing level with his men, the Lord Commander and maester sat upon splinted old thrones a half- dozen steps higher than the rest.
The black brothers pooled in slowly, standing at the edges of the hall, almost hidden in the shadow of stone, watching with trepidation. Jory and his guards came soon after, the dark- rippling of Ice in hand and given silently, strapped against Ned's back. But last to arrive is the beast,so dark and blended so well a man would never see it, if not for its great lumbering size, larger than any wolf ever seen, with eyes as blue as a summer sky. The gasps and squawking chairs soon fell to silence, the direwolf's crown of black fur tight beneath Ned's gripped gloved fingers.
"My lords!" The silence is shattered, Ned gestured for mead and ale to be shared, "My lady wife would tell me that we convene far too soon for her liking. I only wish… I could bear this meeting with kinder tidings. The faces I see today are wearier, older. And I fear the counsel which I share and seek will do us little favours."
Rickard Karstark's voice is clear and blunt, "Then it is true, Lord Stark, this is a war council?" The men grumbled, the watchmen shuffling awkwardly. The word takes time to settle.
A shrill shriek echoes throughout the hall, "War! War! War!" cried a raven upon the Old Bear's shoulder, his caws soon drowned with corn.
"To war, then?" The Greatjon stands, slamming his hand on the table, "Ha! These are glad tidings, I say. Our lands have been pillaged by damned wildling scum for too long! I've half a mind to put an axe in this Mance Rayder's skull myself." His beard was loose and scruffy, his face red with rage, simmering and old and waiting to burst.
Jorah Mormont scoffed, his dark beard blended with his thick bearskin cloak that fell into the floor, "Rayder? What of the Giant's Bane? His ilk come as far south as the Valley of Caves. Damned bastard has no fear of the sea." The man's deep-set eyes fell upon the Lord Commander, words shared silently.
Galbart Glover stood next, his voice softer and steady, said with a short nod to Ned, "Aye, he's no fear of the Northern Mountains either."
"Build a keep out of stone and you may have better luck," said the snorting Rodrik Ryswell, face trapped in a bitter boredom, a mug of ale by his lips.
The Lord Commander grunts, his raven squealing in annoyance, "Are you northmen? Or green boys who lose your wits with a single sip of mead?" Half the hall quickly fell to pointless argument, Ned's eyes closed tightly, his blood rushing hot, his neck twitching and teeth aching.
"Speaking of which, talks of war and wildlings could do with some good wine—"
"—a true northern drink, boy. You won't find any wine up here—" "Forgive my son. We've a merman's sensibilities—"
"—use is a merman in battle? You going to ride out with your sons, Wyman? Or shall we pull a cart for you?"
The North was a hard land, Ned mused, and its people wore it well, blunt and harsh. Cunning and clever where it wished to be, but devoid of cordiality when reckless rage took pursuit.
A sharp but quiet voice cut through the battle from the edge of the hall, a black brother hidden in shadow, grey and shrewd and half illuminated by the torchlight atop his head, "You'll find no glory out there. Hold your tongue, and you may find some wisdom in your lord's words."
The Greatjon grunted, a second away from baring his blade. "Qhorin," called Jeor, sharp and swift. "Lord Umber," growled Ned, his shadow moving swiftly, the Greatjon falling into his chair, his knuckles white as he squeezes the wood until it shatters in his hand, the blood dripping on the floor quietly. The direwolf's claws sit upon his chest, its mouth closed, but its eyes locked with the giant's. The men watched carefully as the direwolf slowly retreated, the Greatjon's face furrowed, blood staining the floor.
Ned exhaled loudly, his breathe misty and cold. He unsheathed Ice loudly, a beastly strength of ten men flowing freely, held high and shining as bright as a falling star for a flicker of a moment, before impaling the sword into the stone floors, the loud crack sending waves of startled obedience across the hall.
"We are not the south. We do not gossip with vipers and lions and share poison from our tongues. End this enmity, you are lords, not boys," Ned squeezed the bridge of his nose hard, Ice still trapped, a dull rage not of man in his stomach, "I am no stranger to their blight upon our people. Wildling raids have grown violent, desperate. More in three moons than the last decade alone. And Mance Rayder, deserter and oathbreaker that he is, has united half the wildling clans quicker than it took the last hundred Kings-Beyond-the-Wall. And he is well on his way to unite the rest." He met their cool faces with a tough reassurance, his words falling quiet quickly. "War with the wildlings may come in due time. But you are not fools, nor are you hard of hearing. There is no place here for pretend. I know which words wander with the wind." And the hall falls to a silent death, none wishing to speak, to utter a word and bring the truth to life. Ned took a step, and another, his direwolf almost silent, but watching, waiting.
"They are children's tales, Lord Stark," Jorah Mormont uttered, his voice barely a whisper, but booming in the quiet of the hall, each man as still as stone, faces as grim as the granite dead.
"Are they?" Maester Aemon asked. Ned turns to find the old maester smiling, head high with a profound glee written across his wrinkled face, "Do… the stories only exist… behind closed doors and in a maid's whispers? Or do they stand before you?" All eyes turned to Ned, and for a moment, he wondered if this is what a King must feel upon a throne.
He finds the Mormont Lord frowning, "They were stories to I as well. But my brother," he inhaled deeply, "Benjen," the name comes with the weight of the Wall, "had his suspicions. And in his foolish bravery, he sought the truth with only the trust of his Lord Commander and a handful of men. Now, he is dead. With only a warning left to his will."
"Your brother was a fine ranger, Lord Stark. His death is a tragedy we—"
Ned's voice was harsh, and without compromise. "My brother died screaming, Lord Manderly. His skin as cold as ice. I lost my father and Brandon to the whims of a monster. And Benjen claims the same."
"Not a monster of man," said Lord Bolton, quiet and discerning, face smooth and oddly unwrinkled.
Ned shook his head, lips tight, "No. But… shall I dishonour his warning because we… fear finding truth in them? Wildling or… not, the Night's Watch cannot bear this burden alone. Never in a dozen generations has it grown so weak. Nineteen castles on the Wall, and we can scarcely man three of them! Half of the rest have fallen into ruin. Even the rats will not enter the Nightfort or Greyguard as they are now. The south may ignore it; they send their rapists and their murderers and let it become an obscurity, a jape. But I do not seek to follow a southron's footsteps. And we cannot call ourselves Northmen and allow it to fall further into disrepair, to withhold our shoulders and our arms."
Lord Manderly stood, nearly taking the table with his girth, "My lord, what of the Crown? It is no secret that Jon Arryn and the King are good friends of the Stark's. Shall they not share this burden, and their coin, with us?"
"You think the King will send gold dragons for ghosts?" A young man jested, seemingly bored, the Lord Ryswell glaring at him fiercely.
The Lord Commander rose with a huff, smashing his ale onto the table roughly, the drink spilling onto the floor, "Wildling villages up the coast north of Hardhome are empty. Intact, but empty. Food and clothes left behind. We've bodies without wounds, without blood," the Old Bear growled, spitting and stubborn, "I've a dozen rangers, so frightened the maester tells me they may never speak again! Don't dare to tell me what a ghost is, boy." A sinister air enveloped the hall. It tasted like disbelief, like fear.
"The Crown will hear of it, aye. But there are few among the court I trust as well as the men I stand before. What say you, Lord Manderly?"
The merman nods deeply, raising his mug in toast, "I say your wisdoms speak true, Lord Stark. Better our fortunes and our fates stay steady in our own hands."
"What is our path forward then, my lord?" Lord Medger Cerwyn asked, soft-spoken and without a trace of doubt in his voice.
"Man the Wall. Gather our builders and our stewards and bring life to stone. If it is an invasion the wildlings seek, or an exodus, we must man the Wall, with not a castle to spare."
"And what of your brother's warning?"
Ned paused, "I cannot… sit idle and surrender the future to uncertainty. A great ranging shall come to pass, but I will not ask the Watch to fly into the fray alone. Iwill join them. Iwill lead it, if that is what my people ask of me. We must discern the truth." It is a declaration, and perhaps a death wish. For the unforgiving scapes of the winter lands held many a monster, not of man nor legend, of nature; of earth and tree and beast and river. But his choices were less than sparse, and his dreams spoke of a dangerous doom, daunting and dastardly, blood of a brother spilled, blood of a son, a daughter, a wife, a realm, threatened by the same winter blade.
"But first," calls the Maester, "You must… listen."
"Aye," said Ned solemnly, a line of black brothers coming forth, each ranger a different story, the same story, each with tales as terrible as the last. Somewhere in the hours of stammered words and half-remembered fears, a man could find the truth in their tongues, as plain as The Wall itself. But it is hidden to them, Maester Aemon's old words lingering in his mind. Of pretend,the game men play to covet their ignorance tightly, for you cannot see the horror with your eyes closed. Then, you could pretend it did not exist, and never did.
Soon enough, the crows tell their stories and vanish from the hall. There is no mead left to be drank, nor ale, nor meal or laugh, nor even a snide insult and booming temper. The hall emptied into a cold solitude, Ned lingered as dust made hearth again upon trestle tables and within darkened rafters. The torchlight had flickered away, pale embers burning faintly. The wind had fallen silent, Ice almost moulded into the ground, as bright as the sun, as dark as a new moon, stealing all light into its dark smoky ripples.
Forged in the fires of the old Freehold, but named for a legend as old as history. Ned's hand lingered over the pommel. His father had cherished Ice fiercely, and in old memories, he remembered the long hours of Brandon in the godswood, huddled with his father with blood upon the blade. And in his sorrowful return to Winterfell, the blade, and all that it carried, had been thrust upon him in conviction. Taller than a man, and heavier than hounds. There were times Ned could not lift it, almost impossible to grasp. But when his blood boiled, bestial and blazing, Ice was as light as a needle, a blade now for battle, not ceremony. His hands danced with the hilt, the sword in the stone singingas he unsheathed it from the floor, letting the blade rest in his hands, his palm bleeding.
Across the rows of tables down a straight path, the direwolf sat plainly, every strand of hair shaping a perfect silhouette, two sapphire orbs glowing, piercing. It looked at Ned and his blade with a smile, almost. He wondered if it was taunting, or in admiration. The beast and peril, Howland had said. Intertwined, conjoined like tragic lovers. And it had come to Ned on a perilous day, a bond born in grief, in a brother's rage. Jon Snow's dark waves soft in Benjen's hands, his eyes wet. "She was my sister, too," he had whispered, a kiss upon the bastard's brow. "She was my sister, too," he had roared, hands red on the Kingsroad, Ned's nose bloodied, tears burned upon Benjen's cheeks. And from the fog of the forest line, a shadow crept silently, claws clean against Ned's chest, snarling, staring, a crow's cry echoing through distant canopies.
The daylight withered quickly behind dark clouds, the Wall grasping at any streams moonlight that sifted through the sky's grey overcoat. Rain droplets swiftly fell, melting loose piles of snow that littered yards and rouges and towers. Thunder followed soon after, the sky cracking open as bolts of lightning carried the Gods rage. The Lord Commander led them to a small vault at the base of the Wall, colder than the rest of the castle as mist rolled off the Wall, a dozen cells carved into the ice itself. Most of them were filled with barrels, clay pots and shelves sparsely filled with spare cuts of venison, beef, pork, and lamb, the rest empty or containing handfuls of apples, leeks, pears, carrots, turnips, and bags of dry flour.
The last two were large enough for men, barricaded with three wooden planks.
"This was a last resort," Jeor said, the lords of the North gathered in tight circles behind Ned, "But he became a danger to the other men. Took a man's ear and hand clean off a day after he returned. The maester says he may recover." The man's sorrow was not lost on Ned, nor was the doubt lined in his voice. The barricades came off, the door ajar by less than a dozen inches, iron chains holding them back. Inside, a man huddled in the corner, curled like a frightened child, rocking himself gently, whispering frantically, endlessly, almost in prayer, as if staving away a monster. His black garbs covered him completely, the ends of his gloves ripped, his fingers missing or bleeding by his own doing. He was thin, gaunt, almost like a corpse, loose strands of hair turned a pale white.
"His name… is Gared," the Old Bear sighed, "One of our finest rangers. Sent him on a ranging with four other men to a village by the Milkwater, chasing odd sightings. He'd been gone for weeks, and we'd thought him dead. He… we found him, in cave not far from a keep of a wildling we oft trade with. Half-naked, frightened half-to-death. By then, the frost had taken most of his skin. The maester did what he could, kept him warm in the thickest furs we could find, in hopes that he could heal, tell us what he saw."
The Greatjon pushed forward, "Why the damned cell? You find him near frozen and imprison him with blocks of ice? Is he meat or a man?" The rest muttered their agreements, Lord Bolton watching keenly.
"You take me for a fool? We have tried. The undervaults beneath my tower were secured for him. But his skin… the ice… he screams without it. Wails like a child." Like Benjen, Ned thought grimly. His brother's body had burned at the touch of warm skin, at the touch of blood. Wailing into the night, the Wall weeping. "I saw them," Benjen muttered. Them, them, them, the same words the ranger Gared whispered.
"He's a dead man walking, then," Rickard said, face furrowed.
"Not yet, it seems," Roose hummed, expressionless, words without interest or emotion, but eyes locked on Gared.
The Lord Commander shut the door harshly, the noise startling the trapped ranger into a frantic pounding. They waited for his cries to grow silent, dread lingering in the air. "He is but one," he gritted, gruff but frowning with shame, "The worst of them, aye. But I've a dozen good rangers turned into silent mummers, afraid of their own damned shadows!" He calmed himself, slowly, "The other men are terrified. They deny orders! Desert in waves in the night. Rangers at the Shadow Tower have refused to venture beyond the Wall for two moons, now. Eastwatch for a week. It cannot last."
"'Tis unnatural, unholy," Lord Manderly remarked with a disgusted frown.
"He's lost his wits. What else?" Lord Ryswell snorted, hesitating almost, as if he did not believe his own words, the rest quiet, leaving the ice cells with a foreboding silence.
The day turned to night quickly after, the lords retiring, formalities forgotten, camps beneath the Wall damp from the raging storm. Ned's hands wrapped around old sheets in the corner of the Maester's chambers, wooden walls lit by a lone candle, long and crafted with strong- smelling tallow. The week before Robert's letters had arrived for the Greyjoy's folly, Ned had wept in this very room, his brother's body yearning for a single breath. His skin ruined and cracked, peeled away by a formidable cold, his toes and fingers gone, black stumps left in their place, his ears and the tip of his chin chipped away, his eye and even his manhood rotted and sickening. It was burned into his mind, into his dreams and his waking hours.
"Sleep, my dearest one," Ned bummed gently, eyes shut tight, cloak and sword set aside, a mug of ale in hand, "Moonlight, I am come. Beyond the hill, and over the field, I will abide. Beneath the snow, the wolf howls, where I—" His voice cracked, a swell of memory pouring in. He shook them away, taking the drink and downing it quickly, before pouring another.
"A lullaby," said the maester, entering, slow of walk and holding onto walls and shelves and desks, "It sounds sweet, but sad." Ned helped Aemon gently, guiding him to his wool featherbed, the maester plopping onto it with a great sigh, still dressed in his maester's robes. Ned removed his long chains, forged in gold and tin and iron and silver, long and heavy, placed gently upon a desk.
"I learned it from my sister," Ned continued, sat beside Aemon now, "She was not one for song. A listener, not a singer. A song was a rare occasion. Ones I did not appreciate." Lyanna found song a secret pleasure, or so Benjen had wistfully admitted, "I remember carrying my boy after the war. He would cry rivers under the sun. Nothing would calm him but my sister's song." And he remembers her blood soaked bed, and her hoarse voice, singing as softly as she could. The babes' cries faded away in her arms, and Ned knew then that she would die.
And he could do nothing. Only promise.
"He was always a wilful babe. Clingy, ha. Never tolerated a moment away from me. Many a year later, I found him singing the same song to my daughter. Another wilful babe." It had taken moons before Jon would sleep comfortably in Winterfell. He had never known a cradle, only the nook of his father's neck. Even in Starfall, with their silk featherbeds and ocean breeze, the boy would wail in Ned's absence after mere moments.
"He sounds like a sweet child." Ned stared at the maester sadly, at his cloudy grey eyes and his near toothless smile, sweet and reassuring.
"He is," Ned replied, turning away, not bearing to shame the old man any longer.
Aemon's wrinkled old hands brushed against Ned's knee, shaking and shivering, "Read to me, will you? I have sent my… steward away… for the night." He pointed to old letters strewn across his desk, brown and tan, ripped at the corners with small blotches of yellow stains. There were dozens of them, some written in the finest inks and cleanest writings,
sealed in the faded mark of a three-headed-dragon, only a single head and remnants of the tail remaining.
"From… Egg," Ned whispered, tracing the word at the bottom of a short letter, "Marked in the year two-hundred, fifty and nine after Aegon's Conquest."
"Oh, yes, yes… before… the fire." The maester murmured beneath his breath in a language foreign to Ned. "Egg… my brother, he loved his letters. He would write to me of every little adventure he had. Every… tanner or septon or orphan. Even the… squires he would brawl, ha. And at the end of the parchment, Ser Duncan would scribble whichever message he had, always short and often illegible. Egg had taken to teach the man, and it had worked, yes. I can still remember the little squiggles he would write in his words… ever since a child. And he kept the habit hearty even as a man… the squiggles, yes."
Ned shifted uncomfortably. It felt wrong, for he often forgot which name the maester had once carried. The very name he had bled to destroy, a dynasty left in tatters.
"Perhaps you are too tired, maester."
The maester waved him off, breathing deeply, "Nonsense… nonsense. I am never too tired for Egg. I must… never be too tired. He was… like you. A dreamer."
"What did he dream of?" Ned asked quietly. The maester had once told him Prince Rhaegar had dreamt fiercely, feather quill scribbled upon a hundred letters. It felt eerily familiar, but left Ned wondering what Rhaegar Targaryen's dreams spoke of. What did we bleed for?
"Of a good land," his wrinkled hand drifted to the open letter in Ned's own, blind, but still finding a single word on the parchment, "Of dragons." There are no dragons, Ned thought at first, his mind quickly drifting to the Queen's young children. Viserys would be a boy of six- and-ten, and the girl, Daenerys, seven or eight. Yet in all the rumours that flew north, he heard nothing of the Targaryen children. Let them live a life of peace. Find a home far from that wretched city. It made him think of Sansa, and her beautiful auburn hair that smelled sweet like her mother's. And his son, Bran, with swirling blue eyes and fat little cheeks. It made his insides twist and prickle, knowing the cost of this journey would be time, and his children's laughter left only to his imagination.
The Lord Commander broke their short melancholy, weathered and with his raven snug against his furs. He took a seat beside Maester Aemon across from Ned, sinking into his seat deeply, his hands together in his lap.
"I have seen the men off for the night. Unhappy, many of them," the Old Bear poured himself a small mug of ale, one of many for the day.
"It was expected," Ned replied.
"My own son believes I am not fit for the Great Ranging. 'Let me take this burden in your place, father.' As if he knew what it meant," he took a swig, finishing the mug in almost one go, droplets sifting through his long white beard.
"Perhaps he is right. The men will need a stern hand." "I owe a duty to my men."
"And there will be men here," Aemon remarked, voice hard, "I am not made of steel. I cannot command them as you do."
Jeor huffed, "Half the lords take this for a fool's game. The rest… they see the truth, but blind their eyes with blood."
Ned hummed, "Hm. The Greatjon is intent on the ranging. Whether a penchant for wilding blood or the truth, I do not know. I will take Roose Bolton, also. I will need his cunning," it was a quiet cunning the Leech Lord possessed, quiet and calculated, "Rickard Karstark is a stubborn man, as is Rodrik Ryswell."
"They will accept it with time. They have no other choice," Aemon muttered, eyes closed, "Death is cold… and men fear the cold. That is why we erect castles with thick walls. That is why we gather around fires beneath the dark night. That is why we huddle with cloaks sewn from the hides of beasts. Let them dwell, let them pretend. They are men, with blood as warm as your own. When night falls… when winter comes, they will fear the cold, just as I do."
"Hm," Jeor nodded gravely, "Your beast has taken for the forests of the Gift." Ned bristled, "Let him."
The Lord Commander eyed him curiously, "Aye… we will meet with a First Builder Yarwyck on the morrow, then."
Ned nodded, watching the Old Bear dwell a moment longer before leaving for his own chambers, buried beneath the weight of a black brother's duty, his raven left behind with his head tucked neatly into its long feathers, eyes shut in a dreamless sleep. He pulled the covers snugly over the sleeping maester, setting his letters aside neatly and extinguishing the candle. And in the dark, where even the embers are turned to ash and cold, Ned swore he could hear the cawing of a crow. It sounded like a bell toll, ringing for horror.