Jeor

"Sorry for being late," he said as he quickly moved into the room, the other members of his… well, fuck no he wouldn't call it a 'Small Council' despite how many times Thorne muttered that's what they were. Small Councils were for the damn South, not the North. And they were for Kings and that wasn't what he was either. He was just an old man trying to help his home who'd ended up in a position of power once more.

One he hated.

Jeor had joined the Night's Watch not merely because he had wanted to do right by Jorah. He remembered how his father had been, having had him so late in life: an old man who ruled from a bed, coughing up blood. How the old man had managed to sire Maege, he'd never know; not that he WANTED to know, even after all these years and maturing as much as he had… some things were still disgusting to think about. But Jeor hadn't wanted to be like that so when he had begun to feel long in the tooth so he had given up his title and his sword and gone to the Night's Watch.

Most thought the reason he'd chosen the watch was to ensure that no matter what happened he couldn't change his mind or be seen as a threat to Jorah's rule. After all, if Jeor wed a woman and had a son he could be used against Jorah. After his son's disgrace he had wished that he had done just that. Found some poor girl who wasn't the most beautiful but was kind and sweet and deserved to be settled for life. Get her to produce a son and then inform her that, so long as she was careful, she could be with whoever she wished, he would accept that. But no… he had joined the Watch. And for a far different reason.

It was his lifelong dream.

Jeor had known since he was 8 years old that he wanted to be a member of the Watch. To stand on the Wall, protecting the North from the threats that lay Beyond the Wall. He had already tasted combat against the wildlings at five, after a raiding party had attacked him and some warriors who were just trying to fish. He had slaughtered one and not flinched. He knew what battle brought. And he had understood what the Watch truly was thanks to a trip to the Wall… he'd claimed it was to support the men up there in his role as Heir of Bear Island but in truth he just wanted to pretend for a while that he was one of them. He wasn't blind to their faults. How far they had fallen. But much like his First Ranger there was something in his blood that begged to be there. Pleaded and whispered. Every night when he'd gone to bed at Bear Island his dreams hadn't been filled with endless feasts, grand hunts, or his dear wife's great bouncing tits.

The Wall had been in his dream. Singing to him. Asking why he wasn't there.

Jeor had never joined expecting to be Lord Commander. Honestly he had no desire to be Lord Commander either. He had hoped to train the lads in the yard, to find a way to make them better than what they were, to show them that what they were when they came to the Watch no longer mattered and here they could have honor. Become a father to them, someone they could come to with their fears, and help them grow into true brothers of the Watch. When his strength left him he could have then moved to assist the maester… yes, he wasn't the most scholarly but he could read and write. He could have taken messages and seen to the books.

But Set Alliser had been already made the Master-At-Arms (a shit one at that and Jeor's greatest regret was that he still hadn't been able to find a way to move the man to a different position and find someone better to train the Brothers) so Jeor had been prepared to act as a steward. That would have been fine with him as well… he was too old to be a ranger but he knew how to do the tasks that kept Castle Black running. He was willing to empty chamber pots and clean rooms and help other men dress. That didn't bother him. He had seen himself growing older but serving as a wise council for the next Lord Commander. He had thought it should be Benjen Stark, for the man was young and passionate about the Watch and had been taught how to rule. It would be fitting for the man to be Lord Commander and he at his right.

But then, two days after he'd arrived, before he'd even been able to unpack the meager few belongings he'd brought with him, Lord Commander Qorgyle had died choking on a potato and the Black Brothers had been gathered to select who would rule them. Jeor had stayed quiet, feeling it wasn't his right to argue for who should be Lord Commander as he had just arrived. And thus he hadn't been able to stop Benjen from declaring that Jeor should be Lord Commander and all the others rapidly agreeing due to his experience as Lord of Bear Island and defending against the Wildlings…

…fuck it. They had picked him because he was the safest choice that would lead to no fighting and most of them didn't want the job. Even Thorne had admitted that he'd never want to be Lord Commander as it was a shit job.

He shook himself from his thoughts. 'Bah, no reason to sob over things long done,' he thought as he settled into his chair.

"Only a few minutes more," Othell commented while Alliser merely glowered. The man had always been surly, from what he'd been told, and every year of his life seemed to make him more so. The Rebellion's victory and Ser Alliser forced to take the Black when he refused to bend the knee. Being unable to become First Ranger due to Benjen holding that spot and thus forced to train the new recruits, something he both loathed and loved for its chance to torment. Sometimes Jeor thought he was bitter he hadn't died in the womb.

'And now the Free Folk,' he thought, already knowing that they'd be in for an argument there.

"Have we heard from Benjen yet?" Jarman asked.

Malladore shook his head. "Too soon. They would have only just arrived within a week or two and a ship needs time to bring the message back."

"Not like they are in danger," Othell stated with a smirk. "What with two Others to aid them."

"An Other and a Wildling with powers," Alliser muttered. "And she has more reinforcements."

"Ygritte will not harm Benjen," Jeor stated. "I know she won't."

"Aye, because you are so friendly with them now," Alliser stated as he shot a glance at the only non-brother in the room. For his part Mance Rayder merely smiled, doing nothing to aggravate the man… which ironically did more TO aggravate him. Jeor noticed that Bowen was nodding his head in agreement though with Alliser's venom.

'Damn it all,' he thought. Alliser and Bowen had been the two that had caused the most problems for him when he'd agreed to allow the Free Folk to cross into the Gift. For Bowen it was a long held hatred; when he had been a young man there had been a lass he had fancied. A beautiful thing, from the way he told it when he was deep in his cups, that he had longed to just dance with. Not even marry. Not even kiss. Just a dance. That would have been good enough for him. But then an ambush had happened to her party on the way to some feast and she had been killed. And though while everyone had claimed it was simply bandits Bowen had held as the iron truth that it was the widlings that had killed her. The story seemed to grow every year; he remembered when he'd first heard it they had captured her and raped her. Just the week before it had been they not only raped her but forced her to carry her child which they then slaughtered in front of her. He imagined that in a year's time it would be that she had been held prisoner for years and had no arms and legs and produced seven babies that were bled to complete a Wildling Ritual.

'As for Alliser… the man just needs something to hate,' he thought to himself.

He didn't say any of that out loud, of course. Instead he ignored Alliser's comment which he knew annoyed the man far more than any mocking insult ever could.

"Another issue has arisen within the Stewards," Bowen said. While he agreed with Alliser and hated the Wildlings the man was, at his heart, a coward. Or perhaps better said that he was too emotionally fragile to stand up to Jeor. And if he did it would be with tears in his eyes. "They question the recruits that will soon be arriving."

"What do you mean?" Jeor asked.

"As you know, a lord-"

Jeor cut him off. "If I know it then there is no need to repeat it. Get on with it."

Bowen swallowed at that. "Lords send recruits, as does the King. But there are two Kings in Westeros. Is there not a risk of accepting recruits from Lord Stark? Do we not run the risk that King Tommen will retaliate?"

"King Eddard," Mance said with a smile that had Jeor groaning internally. "Unless we are calling King Tommen by something other than his royal name."

"You think that because you declared yourself King Beyond the Wall you understand kings?" Thorne said with a low growl.

"Merely that it is respectful. After all… the Night's Watch is neutral. One could argue that the First Steward is breaking that neutrality by selecting one King to support." That caused Bowen to begin to stammer, his red face growing more crimson as he tried to justify his comments.

Jeor shot Mance a look only to receive a challenging eyebrow raise in return. That made the old man sigh; Mance had the right of it. 'Bowen, despite being of the North, has always had his dreams be in the South. He follows the Seven, the only of his family to ever do so in their long line and a point of contention between him and his nephew, the current Lord Marsh who refused to acknowledge his uncle. He tends to gravitate to Southern recruits and when I was submitted by Benjen to become the new Lord Commander Bowen had instead spoken of them selecting Thorne instead, even as Thorne protested.' Jeor sighed. 'Of course he'd side with the Lannister bastard.'

"It does not matter who is king," Maester Aemon said, his old and gnarled voice at once causing all to grow quiet. No one envied Aemon and wished to swap fates with him… but all admitted how he could command a room without raising his voice. "It never has. The Night's Watch accepted recruits from the Kings of the Rock, the Gardner Kings, and even at times the Princes of Dorne while the Starks were Kings in the North. We even have reports that once a Pentosi Lord sent us recruits. The coming of my ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, did nothing to change that. During the Dance of the Dragons the Watch accepted men from both sides. Same for the Blackfyre rebellion. The actions of the Seven Kingdoms do not matter to us. Our eyes must always be to the North."

All of them murmured at that even though they knew the old man was wrong. Even Maester Aemon knew he was speaking lies. The Night's Watch always had to keep one eye to the South because their actions affected them greatly. A weak Lord Stark meant that they would be lacking in supplies and aid. War meant the possibility of a boost in recruits… but also in men that were sent to them that would cause trouble; the rebellion of Rimegate was well remembered even 200 years past.

"But in the name of neutrality we must be careful," Bowen pointed out. "That is what worries some of my stewards-" And Jeor knew he actually meant himself, "-and causes them to glance not to the North but the South. Tywin Lannister is not a man known for taking slights easily. I am merely suggesting that, perhaps, we do not accept prisoners from the North for now… or if we must we do not make them take their vows. It would not be good if we took a Westerlander's son as a member of the Night's Watch and angered Lord Tywin. You would not want to have the Rains of the Wall to play in every hall, now would you?"

Before Jeor could answer though… Maester Aemon began to chuckle.

It was such an odd sound to hear from the blind Maester. He was a friendly enough man but he didn't laugh often. He was comforting, steady. Not one to tittering and giggling. And yet there he was, giving a soft dry laugh to what the First Steward had just said.

"I don't think we need to worry about that," Maester Aemon finally said. "I just received the raven this evening, before this meeting began." From the folds of his robes (and Jeor would forever wonder just HOW many pockets the old Maester had hidden in his garments) he pulled a slip of paper out. "Lord Tywin Lannister is dead."

Jeor leaned back in his chair.

He had been there when Robert Baratheon had battled Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident. He had been one of the few able to watch the battle; in the greatest of ironies not many actually saw much of the fight, for most of the soldiers on both sides had been busy staring in wonder as Eddard Stark, the Quiet Wolf, had taken out the four sons of Lord Oswald Brune, all by himself. All had known that Brandon Stark was a skilled warrior but the punishment that Eddard had given those four strong lads, especially after the youngest had made the mistake of saying Brandon deserved to die…

But Jeor had seen Robert fighting Rhaegar and moved his horse to intercept the Prince should he bring Robert down. Others might have thought their cause doomed if Robert fell but Jeor remembered they weren't fighting for his crown… they were fighting for Lady Lyanna.

Sometimes he wondered what life had been like if Ned…

He had been there though. He had seen the blow Robert gave Rhaegar that ended the fight. A savage blast that caved in his breastplate and sent his rubies flying into the ford, forever giving it the name it would bear til the end of time.

That blow… seemed now in Jeor's eyes to be a love tap compared to the mental blow of learning Tywin Lannister was dead.

'The Old Lion… it always felt like he would live forever. That he would somehow surpass Walder Frey and manage to live through heirs and the heirs of his heirs and the heirs of heirs of heirs. That he wouldn't die through sheer force of will.'

He looked about the table and saw the others were just as shocked by the news. Several of the men opened their mouths only to snap them shut. Others were just so pole-axed by what they had heard that they couldn't even move, not even blinking as they took in the smiling maester.

"He… what?" Jeor finally managed to get out.

"He is dead," Maester Aemon stated. "According to the raven he died a few weeks ago when he threw himself from the Tower of the Hand."

Jeor's world was spinning even worse now. "Tywin Lannister… killed himself?"

"That is what the message says." Aemon seemed please. "It also-"

Bowen though cut in. "There must be a mistake. Or this is a forgery. Perhaps the Starks sent you a false raven!"

Aemon twisted in the First Steward's direction, a glower on his features. "It is no mistake. I know the ravens well and know which ones come from the Capital."

"You can't even see-" Bowen began.

"Hold your tongue," Alliser of all people snapped in annoyance.

Others might have been shocked by the surly man defending the blind maester. But… Aemon was the last Targaryen and Alliser had been a loyalist. More than once Jeor had found the two deep in conversation in Maester Aemon's chambers; it was possible Aemon was the closest thing to a friend that the Master-At-Arms had.

"Why are you pleased about this?" Bowen asked, leaning forward, eyes narrowed. "This is a great upheaval in Westeros. A good man is dead."

Jeor looked about and for the first time realized that without Benjen around he'd found himself surrounded by Southerners. Only Mance could truly be counted as of the North, as even Bowen, being a Northman, was in love with all things Sothern.

'No wonder we struggle,' he found himself thinking. 'We've brought the damn Southern Politics to the North!' It was fine when it was the matters of the Wall and the Wildlings and all that. But now that they found themselves discussing matters beyond their chilly little spot in the world the old loyalties returned and reminded them all just who they were.

"A good man?" Aemon asked with a fire that, even with age, reminded everyone he was Blood of the Dragon. "The man who decided to murder women and children, including babes still at their mothers' breasts, by drowning them in a mine for the sins of their husbands and fathers? When said men offered to surrender and take the sword if he would only spare their wives and daughters? The man who lingered before Duskendale, allowing my nephew Aerys to go mad in a cell? The man who refused the call to arms my great-nephew Rhaegar gave for him to honor his oath to the crown… and was too craven to stand with the North until the last moment? Who refused men like Ser Alliser, allowing them to suffer, or your family Bowen? The man who ordered the Mountain to bash in the skull of my great-great nephew Aegon and his other creature to RAPE my great-great niece? You sit there and ask me to honor THAT MAN as someone who was good?" He snarled suddenly and Jeor had the quick, irrational fear that Aemon would suddenly rip off his skin and from the wrinkles and liverspots would come a young powerful dragon that would burn them all.

"Yet… yet you say nothing of Ned Stark-" Thoren Smallgood began only for Aegon to growl low in his throat.

"Eddard Stark was enraged by the deaths of those children. He would have had them fostered and allowed to grow up. Perhaps in exile or perhaps in the North, taught to honor Robert. Of all the men in that throne room that day the only one to speak for the children was Eddard Stark. To that I owe him a debt."

Bowen, who had been handed the Raven Message, looking up in sudden surprise. "The man who issued this…"

Aemon smiled slightly again. His anger was still there, which made the smile far more sharp, but it was better than the snarl he had been wearing. "Yes, I was getting to that. King Tommen the First has named as his new Hand and Regent Jon Stark."

"…Stark?" Alliser said, tongue lingering on each letter.

Thoren turned to Jeor and whispered, "Contact the Citadel. If our Maester is falling for such a clear trick-"

"It is my EYES that do not work, Ser Thoren, not my ears!" The old man slapped at the table with a gnarled hand. "That came from a Raven of King's Landing and is written in Grand Maester Pycelle's own hand."

"Stark," Alliser repeated.

"His bastard son was sent to Iron Pointe and was legitimized and made its heir by Lord Antony Stark. Lord Antony is a loyalist," Aemon stated.

"A clear error-"

Jeor raised his hand. "I think we need to take a break. Tempers are running a bit too hot."

"But we just-" Bowen began.

"Aye," Alliser stated, rising from his chair as Jeor did. "A good thought." He went to Maester Aemon, speaking softly to him and after a moment the Maester gave a choppy nod and allowed Alliser to guide him away.

It was only when Mance walked up to him that Jeor realized that the others had left, leaving the two of them alone.

"Do you ever find it amusing that the two of us only feel truly comfortable in each other's presence?" Mance asked lightly. "I can't be around many of the Free Folk I once sat in council with, as they fear now that this is a great trap. And you…"

"Aye," Jeor muttered. "That wasn't the best display of our unity."

"I don't know," Mance said with a smile, "I found it a comfort." Jeor glanced at him. "The Free Folk think the Night's Watch is just a bunch of mindless slaves, doing whatever you command without a thought in their head. They aren't joking when they claim that the cold has frozen your balls off and shrunk your brains… they truly believe you do things like that to them in order to get them to obey you. I think if they could have seen all of you arguing and feuding with each other they'd remember that you are just… people."

"Hmmm… maybe," Jeor grunted, moving towards the door. "But I have been hoping that seeing all of your people pass through the tunnels and realizing that there are women, children, and innocent men who just want to keep their families safe would make all the Black Borthers remember that we are only supposed to stand against the true monsters among your numbers and not all. And that hasn't happened yet."

"And that hasn't happened yet," Mance echoed.

Jeor paused, snagging two bottles of ale that had been brought with the latest delivery of supplies. A rare treat and one he knew he was going to need. "Come… I want to clear my head and I know the perfect spot."

~MC~MC~MC~

"Whenever I looked upon the Wall these last few years I always saw it as some terrible obstacle that I had to overcome." Mance took a sip of his ale. "I'd forgotten that it can be beautiful up here."

The two of them were seated at one of the watch shacks that broke up the great expanse of the Wall, seated on a bench looking down at the Haunted Forest. The air was cold and crisp and certainly had a bite to it but it remained one of Jeor's favorite spots.

"When I close my eyes and the wind blows just right I can believe I'm back on Bear Island," he said. "Even from the highest window of the castle you could feel the seaspray on your face."

"Do you miss it?" Mance asked.

"Aye," Jeor admitted. "I know it is in good hands and I would never abandon my post… but aye, I miss it greatly." He shook his head at that. "Tis why I have never made a move to go back, to see my family. I am afraid that I wouldn't be able to leave. I long to be here but I long to be there as well now. I am a man split in two. I honestly don't know how Benjen is able to return to Winterfell as he does."

Mance merely nodded at that. "I am sure he is fine. At minimum Steve will protect him."

"Steve is heading towards a land he has never been too… and is lacking thousands of years of knowledge. And he has one of the most black-humored Brothers of the watch, the Giantsbane, and a just transformed female Other to deal with. All he has is Benjen and Wolfsbane to help him." He shook his head. "Bugger, they are all doomed."

Mance could only laugh at that and soon Jeor found himself joining in.

"So… here we are," Mance finally said. "Sitting on the top of the world with an ancient enemy in front of us, war behind us, and our own groups unable to get the sticks out of their asses and trust each other right down below." He let out a scoff. "If I wasn't worried about the length of the fall I'd say we should jump."

"Maybe me," Jeor said with a huffing laugh. "You at least have a wife waiting for you."

"Aye, there is that," Mance said. "She would find some way to catch me just so she could yell."

Jeor took another sip of his ale. "Mine would be waiting on the other side-"

A growl filled the air and the two started when a massive saber cat clawed its way over the edge and landed on the Wall.

Time seemed to freeze for Jeor. He sat there, bottle halfway to his lips, eyes unable to even blink as he stared at the beast. It was as large as a horse and black as pitch with flames running along its body. Even an entire party of Black Brothers could never hope to bring down such a thing and that wasn't getting into it being ON FIRE.

And, of course, there was the matter of its rider.

THAT caused Jeor to go for his sword.

The… man… on the sabercat's back was tall and strongly built, wearing black burnt leathers. But there was no flesh on his head, nor muscle either. Instead his head was wreathed in flames and burned wildly around the pale white skull where his face should have been.

"Fuck!" Jeor startled, readying his blade to attack.

"…shit," the rider said, staring at the two of them. Jeor wasn't sure HOW he had done it but somehow the rider managed to make his skull look… concerned. "I told you that we should have gone up a mile right of here!" He waved his hand in said direction and his massive sabercat mount... shrugged.

"Merooow."

"Oh, don't give me that," the rider snapped. "Just admit you were wrong!"

"Merooow."

"You're worse than Winter, you know that?"

Jeor didn't let his sword drop, even as he stared at the strange creature that was arguing with his mount. He didn't know if he'd be able to hold off this new terror the Others were unleashing upon them but he had to try… perhaps buy Mance enough time to send word down to the men below to prepare for battle. They had found that Valyrian Steel worked on Wights and Steve had mentioned that Longclaw made his body ache just by being near it so it was possible the blade would defeat this thing of fire…

…but he just didn't know.

'Night falls…' Jeor thought, 'and so my Watch begins.' He swallowed. "I don't know who you are, demon, but I-"

Mance instantly clapped his hand over Jeor's mouth and forced his head down, much to his shock.

"We have sinned," Mance said even as he forced Jeor to look down at the sabercat's paws, unable to see the rider anymore. His other hand moved to press on Jeor's wrists, guiding him to lower the point of his sword towards the ice below them. "We have sinned," Mance repeated, "but our sins were made with the best of intents. And those that were not… we work to correct. To make right."

The rider was silent for several moments.

"Then you may continue on," he said, his voice solemn and grave. Only, in the next instant, for him to say in a more befuddled tone. "That was different…"

And then Jeor saw the saber cat leap forward and by the time he looked up the rider and his mount were gone.

Mance nearly collapsed back onto the bench they had been sitting on, body lax and boneless as he looked out at nothing, eyes unseeing and uncomprehending.

"…what the fuck was that?" Jeor demanded, knowing his companion knew EXACTLY what they'd just encountered.

"The Free Folk speak of a legend," Mance got out. "Never saw it myself… though that doesn't matter because what we saw was… well, it had to be fucking it." He shook his head, trying to use the motion to clear his thoughts. Jeor sat down next to him, resting Longclaw against the bench before he grabbed an unopened bottle of Northern Ale and popped off the cap against the bench before passing it to the former King Beyond The Wall. Mance accepted it with a silent nod and took a long pull from it before passing it back to Jeor; he barely wiped it off with his glove before he took his own deep swig.

"Did we just let a creature of the Others pass?" he asked. He needed to know if warnings had to be given-

But Mance shook his head hard at that. "The opposite," he said. "Or if it once was with the Others it no longer is. Or is like Steve…" Mance looked up at the night sky. "Fuck, give me a moment to get my head on straight."

Jeor remained silent.

"The Legends state that in times of danger and strife, when men forget the Old Ways and behave like beasts, the Old Gods will choose a champion. One who had sinned as well, who had committed crimes against the living… and against himself. And they will turn him into their Champion, who will travel the world seeking out evil and punishing it while saving the innocent and sparing the repentant."

Jeor nodded at that.

"I suppose," the Lord Commander stated, "considering we've heard two Others having sex we can't argue with phantom men working for the Old Gods."

"No," Mance said, for the first time since the skull-headed figure had appeared managing a smile, "no we can not."

"…does he have a name? That Champion?"

Mance nodded.

"The Ghost Rider."