Aemon

"I don't like this." Alliser Thorne did not sound like a happy man as they rode through the tunnel. "I know that it has to be done. But that doesn't mean that I have to like it."

Aemon smiled thinly. At least Thorne was a man who stated his mind clearly. And at least he was speaking his mind in the tunnel and not in the midst of the Wildling camp.

"None of us like it," Qhorin Halfhand muttered. Benjen Stark had summoned him to Castle Black before his departure for the South and the old ranger had been deeply shaken by his first sight of the head of the wight. "Doesn't feel right."

"Has to be done though," The Lord Commander grunted. "With the Others coming with an army of wights we can't risk their numbers growing any further. This must be done. And based on what we've heard about the old days… this war with the Wildlings is something that our ancestors would never have wanted."

Various grunts greeted this pronouncement. And then they rode on, out of the tunnel and out into the open air. It was a fine day, he could tell by the lack of snow and by the very faint warmth on his face from the sun.

On they rode, with the riders to each side of him warning him about the ground ahead, into the Haunted Forest, where the ground was thick with old fallen leaves and pine cones. After a while they reined in.

"Company," Qhorin muttered. "Wildlings."

"We are here as arranged," Jeor Mormont called out. "We are here to parlay."

Aemon heard the sound of feet in the leaves ahead. "Aye," said a voice. "We are here to take you to Mance Rayder. Under terms of parlay. We'll not harm you."

"As if you could lay a fucking finger on us," Alliser Thorne muttered, too softly for anyone but Aemon to hear him. "Gods, but this is ironic."

"Lead on," the Lord Commander commanded, and on they went. From the sound of it there were more wildlings in the trees and Aemon sighed a little. A flight of arrows and they'd be all dead and the Night's Watch would be headless.

Deeper into the forest they went – and then he smelt the first wisps of smoke. Somewhere ahead of them was an encampment. When he heard the words "There's a lot of the buggers," from Qhorin he knew that he was right.

As they approached the encampment he hear the sound of rising voices. The Wildlings were gathering. And by the sound of some of their voices there was some confusion in the air.

"That's the oldest man I've ever seen," he heard one say, a girl with a very Northern accent. "And his eyes – what's wrong with his eyes?"

He turned in her direction. "They no longer work, young woman. But my other senses have adapted to their loss."

"How did he – I mean… what good is a blind Black Crow?"

"He's the Maester of Castle Black, Ygritte. And he's worthy of a great deal of respect. Maester Aemon. I am glad to see you looking so well." The voice was a familiar one.

"Mance Rayder. It has been many years since we last met. I believe that I still had my sight then."

"Aye." A cough of discomfort. "I am heartily sad that you lost the use of your eyes. I remember how much you loved to read."

There was a cough to one side. "Mance."

"Qhorin." Ah. Of course. The two had once been friends. "And the Old Bear himself, as well as Ser Alliser Thorne. Welcome all. No Benjen Stark though?"

"Rayder." The Old Bear sounded curt. "We must speak."

"Aye, we must. There are some you need to meet as well." There was a pause, as if he was looking about. "Here. These are Tormund Giantsbane. And The Lord of Bones, also known as Rattleshirt." The introductions were punctuated by the sound of raucous sniffs from one side and what sounded like bone grinding on bone from the other. "And we will talk in my tent."

From the smell of the tent that he was gently guided to its construction must have required a lot of seal fat. Oh and skins that had been cured, very likely by an expert. He was escorted to a chair made from wood. After a few moments a goblet of some kind was placed into his hands. "There you go Maester Aemon," said Rayder kindly. "Something warm for you. My wife swears by it. It's got five types of herbs and I think one moss. Good for you though."

"My thanks," Aemon replied softly before taking a sip. It was, indeed, delicious. "Thank her for me please."

"So you have a wife now," Ser Alliser said sourly. "When you broke your Oath you didn't do it by halves did you?"

There was a slight pause and then a scrape of a chair, as if someone had seated themselves in it rather firmly.

"I did what I thought was right at the time," Rayder said in a voice that sounded as if he was trying to be very patient. "As I do now. I went South weeks ago to meet with Lord Stark. After I heard the Call. I know now that he knows of the full danger that we face. That we all face."

Another short silence. Qhorin broke it. "You asked why no Benjen Stark. He's heading South as we speak, bearing the head of a wight. A present for the Lords of Westeros."

"He must be on a bloody fast horse then. It's still full Summer down South and a wight's head will rot fast there. Faster as he reaches places like Dorne."

"Ah," Aemon said drily. "Fortunately our ancestors were wiser than us in that regard. We have been making discoveries in Castle Black. Amidst other places. And one of those discoveries was a set of cages large enough to hold the hand – or the head of a wight. Apparently they slow decay. They were made by the First Men."

"I have one here," Jeor Mormont rumbled. Aemon could hear folds of cloth being disturbed and then sound of a cage being placed on a wooden surface. "Benjen Stark found the first up near the Fist of the First Men, at a long-hidden place called Overlook."

"So that's what he was there for," Mance said. There was a scrape as he presumably picked the cage up. "Tormund, you said that your scouts had seen him near there."

"Aye," said a new voice, presumably that of Tormund. "They said he was wandering about there. Said that he met The Wanderer there as well."

"He was looking for wights there," The Old Bear rumbled. "He found them, thanks to this Wanderer. Coldhands he calls himself. There's a tale there. He… he was once a Stark. He's hundreds of years old, at least. Benjen said that he had some kind of duty or task."

"Our people have always known about him," muttered Tormund. "He wanders the Haunted Forest. Rides an elk. We were always told never to bother him. Don't know why."

"That cage… I've seen one of those before," said a new voice. "Up near Hardhome. In one of the caves. Broken though."

"Is that so, Rattleshirt?" Rayder sounded like a man thinking deeply. "Damn it. I wish would had known of these before. I could have taken one with me to Winterfell."

"How far South are they spreading?" Ser Alliser barked. "In what numbers? And how many Others are there? What do your scouts say?"

Rayder sighed. "We avoid them. If we have to observe them it's from a distance. No-one in their right mind goes anywhere near them, Thorne. Not if they want to live to report back."

"I did not know that your people were such fainthearts," Ser Alliser said with more than a note of scorn in his voice. "Surely you observe the enemy?"

"The enemy can lie under your fucking feet and rise from the snow and choke the life out of you before you know it!" Tormund roared. "What do you know of wights, Southerner? Real wights, not heads in cages? Shambling men and women with faces that you once knew? Could you kill a friend who had been turned? Could you? I have! You know nothing!"

"Enough!" Aemon roared the word with a savagery that surprised him. "Enough. There is too much at stake for us to start to squabble like children. Mistakes have been made in the past. We know from our records now that once the Wildlings – the Free Folk as you call yourselves – acted as scouts for the Night's Watch, in the days just after the building of the Wall. That once we were united in fighting against the Others. Those days must return, if we are to stand a chance in the war that is to come. We all know the stakes. We must allow you South so that your people do not add to the army of wights that the Others have assembled. That for the Wildlings it is a matter of flight – or a fate worse than death."

A rather embarrassed pause followed. "Your pardon, Maester Aemon," Ser Alliser muttered eventually. "I was just… we need information."

"And my people need to get South of the Wall," Rayder said quietly. "The Others are pressing Southwards with every day that passes. The Free Folk need to escape them. We need your tunnel at Castle Black."

"You'll need more than our tunnel," The Lord Commander answered. "How many Wild- how many of your folk are coming South?"

"I can call on a hundred thousand."

"I heard that you mentioned that number before. But how long would it take your hundred thousand to pass through the one tunnel at Castle Black?"

The pause that followed was longer than the last one. "That's a very good point," Rayder said eventually. "Add on the giants and their mammoths… it would be a bit tight."

"How many giants have you got?" Qhorin asked.

"More than we had a month ago. Their numbers doubled when a group came in from the Frostfangs." A short silence. "They… brought something surprising. Someone surprising. A Child of the Forest."

Aemon felt his jaw drop in shock. "Truly?" He asked the word with more than a hint of squeakiness in his voice. "A Child of the Forest? I thought that even you Wildlings had lost sight of them?"

"We had," Tormund almost whispered. "Almost shat myself when I saw that face. Heartstring, that was its' name. Had a warning for us."

"It said that the Enemy – the Others presumably – were preparing something by the sea, South of the Frostfangs," Rayder said quietly. "Also said something odd. Said that Tormund and I had to go to the Nightsfort. We have to help a man through a hidden gate there, with two others. A man with a golden mind and a boy who died and fell through time. Something about fixing the links between magic North and South of the Wall."

Shock rippled through him. Robb Stark. They were talking about Robb Stark. And now he was on very dangerous ground. The news of what had happened to that boy was restricted to just Benjen Stark and himself at Castle Black. Ned Stark had insisted on that. He needed to talk to Stark about that. The Old Bear needed to know.

"There is indeed a hidden gate at the Nightfort – the Black Gate," he said quietly. "Few, it seems, know of it. As for the other two men… this has the sound of prophecy. And such things are… dangerous. Prophecies are never what they seem to be. I must think about this. Think very deeply about this. What else did this Child of the Forest say?"

"It seemed to be delighted that Ned Stark holds the Fist of Winter. Which got the son of the Thenn very excited. The Thenn are coming South. All of them."

"All of them?" Now it was Qhorin's turn to sound astonished. "I thought that they'd never leave that Valley of theirs?"

"The Stark holds the Fist. So he commands them now. That's what they said."

Yet another brief silence. "Well now, that should make life interesting," Ser Alliser said drily. "Ned Stark with a small army of Thenns at his beck and call."

"Something happening," Rayder said quietly. "Something very old is waking up. And there are powers involved that both awe and frighten me."

"All of us feel the same," Jeor Mormont muttered. Then he sighed. "Right then. Lord Stark is on his way to Castle Black, where he has summoned the Lords of the North. He will explain to them what he has ordered, as he has written to me to request. You are to be allowed South of the Wall and into the Gift and the New Gift. We have men out now working out where you are to go. Let me make some things very clear. No raiding is to be allowed. No rape, no murder, no thieving. A long winter is coming and we will need everything we can get our hands on in terms of food grown and preserved. Things are different South of the Wall. Ways are different. I'll not lie to you, it'll be hard. Hunting will be a bit different for a start. And as for growing crops – have any of your people grown wheat or barley? Oats even?"

"Some," Mance replied. "You'd be surprised what can be grown in some places North of the Wall. We've been doing it for thousands of years. But I take your point. When can we start coming through the Tunnel at Castle Black?"

There was a rasping noise that meant that Jeor Mormont was rubbing his beard with one calloused hand. "In a few days' time. We need to open up the other tunnels and gates in the nearest forts on the wall. Deep Lake, Queensgate and Oakenshield are at least half-manned now and in decent repair. That'll make four tunnels. Add on the Nightsfort with this mysterious Black Gate and that will be five. With Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and the Shadow Tower as well, that makes seven. And we'll try to open a few more."

"Some of our people are at Hardhome as well. If ships could be sent there, then that would make passage South easier."

"I'll have Cotter Pyke send some ships there. He has quite a few these days. A lot of volunteers for the Wall have arrived since the Call went out. A lot of help."

"Your pardon Lord Commander," Aemon broke in. "Master Rattleshirt – you said that Hardhome had the remains of a cage? Could there be more there?"

"Maybe," came the reluctant answer. "Hardhome has been a ruin since the night it burnt. No-one knows how or why to this day. There might be some more cages in the caves. It's a cursed place. There are bones everywhere in some places. Why do you need more cages?"

"We know so little about them," Aemon mused. "Not even what metal they were made from. Just that they were made. The more we have the more proof we can send South that wights exist. Even the smallest proof might help."

"Well then," Rayder said with a certain grim satisfaction, "If you need the heads of wights to take back with you I believe that we have three at least. My Lord of Bones here struck the heads off a group of three wights two days ago. I had him keep them just in case for this meeting, in case you needed proof. You can send them South now. That should convince even a Dornishman."

Sarella

Father would be annoyed at first at her change to their plan, but after he got her letter he'd understand, she thought as she looked across the railing at the trees on the far coast to the West. They were clawing Northwards using quite a bit of sail and she hoped that the Captain knew his business. He said that he did, and the fact that he happened to be of the Salty Dornish meant that she took him at his word. They were certainly flying along.

She'd been quite intrigued by her mission when Father had told her about it. The more she travelled North the more that intrigue deepened into something else. She had met so many people, all talking about the same thing, in so many different harbours. The Call had been sent out. The Others were coming. The Stark had called for aid. They had to do something to help out.

What had sparked this? The fact that some – but not all – of the Houses of the Stony Dornish had also heard this Call was interesting. It implied that those who had heard the Call had the blood of the First Men in them. Which made sense, based on the legends. The First Men had fought the Others, therefore it made sense that their descendants would hear this Call. The problem was that surely the Others were legends?

Well, she had to keep an open mind, and that was what Father had stressed. To find out what was going on, to absorb as much information as possible and then send it all back to him. She was to get to Winterfell as fast as possible.

But she wasn't at Winterfell. She had started off heading for White Harbour, but after a few days she noticed that two of the passengers were not what they seemed to be. They appeared to be a pair of merchants from the Summer Isles. They were not though. The boy, oh, he had Summer Isles blood, she could tell just by looking at him, but it was mixed with something else. He was a grave boy, serious and dutiful. When he smiled it almost came as a surprise.

The other man was the reason why she had changed her destination, which was now to wherever the Seven Hells they were now eventually headed. She had recognised him at once. Father had made all of her sisters memorise the faces of every Lannister in the main line at Casterly Rock. This one had come as a surprise though as he was supposed to be dead. Gerion Lannister was supposed to have sailed into the Smoking Sea of Valyria years before and then vanished without a trace, just as so many others had also done the same. Uncle Doran had banned Dornishmen from trying to get to Valyria. It was tempting, given the treasures that they had stored up there – but the price was too high. No-one ever returned from that place.

Until now. Interesting. He'd lost an eye and was older, but it was him, she knew it.

And what was even more interesting was that even in White Harbour, away from Dorne, Gerion Lannister kept hiding his identity. Jason Hill, he called himself, whilst his son was Patrek. She knew the boy's true name though – Allarion. Why would a Lannister need to hide his identity though? Where had he been? Where was he going?

She had observed them both, very carefully, using every trick, every stratagem that she had wormed out of Father. Changing her appearance was easy. Making sure she was not seen was trickier. Gerion Lannister may have lost an eye but he had gained guile.

Anyway, she was now in one of the disguises she had created beforehand. She had bound her breasts, cut her hair severely, removed her earrings and put on the robes of a novice at the Citadel. As far as everyone – bar the Captain – knew, she was a novice called Alleras and she – sorry, he – was headed to the Wall to gather information for the Maester he was training under.

She'd only had to threaten one sailor so far with her knife, after he had admired her arse and then commented on how much a boy like him might learn from a real man.

She looked back at the shore. She'd written to Father from White Harbour and she hoped that he got the letter soon. It wasn't just the fact that Gerion Lannister was still alive. The bay of White Harbour had been full of ships. The Company of the Rose had arrived there and word had it that their mysterious leader was a Stark. Word also had it that Lord Manderly was headed to Castle Black, to meet Lord Eddard Stark and the rest of the Lords of the North. Something was happening, everyone was talking about it, even if few could agree on what it was.

Gerion Lannister had looked about, listened, talked to his son intently about many things, including the need for good furs, and had then taken ship – this ship – bound for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.

She'd passed on one last thing to Father in that letter. Gerion and Allarion Lannister were guarding something. She didn't know what, but they were guarding something.

Life was not going to be boring. At least she had bought new clothes as well. With a lot of fur on them. The North was fucking freezing.