Arthur found no peace that evening.
The confrontation with the Night's Watch earlier that day tested the limits of his patience and mental restraint. His attempt to burn the smoldering fury out through hours of intense, martial practice after the mess hall confrontation left his body weary. He retired to his cabin in the ship, and at the time felt spent enough to sleep.
He crashed atop his bed, wrapped the many thick fur blankets around himself and tried to get some. It was useless. He had lied down when the sun began to set and now, hours into the night, he was no closer to it. No matter what position he shifted to, the restlessness would not let go.
At some point, he lied on his back, gaze locked on the cabin roof shrouded in black. Arthur closed his eyes once more and tried to breathe. When this did not work, he counted each inhale, hoping the repetition would bore him into sleep. His eyes snapped open on the county of seventy, and he could stomach lying down no more. With a swift motion, he pulled the blankets off and sat on the bed's left side, his head cast downward. Arthur stared at the vague outlines of his own palms in the dark. The frigid wind blew outside, and he keenly felt it bite into his flesh. His bare feet atop the wood all but screamed for him to lie down or put his boots on.
Those women and children suffered worse. The dark thought he had tried to bury through fatigue overcame him anew. Defenseless, freezing out in the woods. And those bastards left them there.
Arthur's fingers curled into tight fists, strong enough to crush a man's throat. I let them off too easily. I should have beaten them all until their faces were as black as their cloaks. Until their own brothers couldn't recognize them...
He did not know how long he sat there, imagining the well-deserved thrashing he could and still had apple opportunity to deliver when the pain was recognized. Arthur had tightened his already weary fingers so tight, the spent muscles there protested with a tearing sensation. His jaw, clenched too, audibly popped as he suddenly relaxed it. His heartbeat like a war drum and drowned out the wind outside.
Arthur shivered and realized a profuse sweat had broken out over his whole body. He wiped most of it away with a cloth on his nightstand. Next, he poured a cup of Dornish Red and drank it in a single gulp. It did little to improve his mood while he sat in the quiet dark, the black thoughts gnawed away at him still.
Dawn was sheathed and put next to the nightstand. Arthur stared at it and considered more doing more practice. There's no point. He soon concluded. I swung the damned thing all afternoon. What good will more of it do me now?
Arthur sighed and swayed the cup in his hand back and forth. The soles of his feet grew cold and numb, the chill prickling away at his already frayed patience. The cabin became more oppressive to him with each moment. Dark thoughts became conjoined with memories of his pathetic service until Arthur couldn't stomach it anymore.
I'll go mad if I stay here.
With that final thought, Arthur lit a torch and swiftly clothed himself in many layers, banishing much of the cold. The rest he took care of by downing two more wine cups ere he marched out of the cabin. Dawn, he left behind. If the Night's Watch pissed him off again, he wasn't sure he'd be able to keep it sheathed.
He marched out of the cabin, stomped out of the ship's bowels, his footfalls resounding through the wooden floor and walls. The frigid air bit into his exposed cheeks the moment he stepped onto the deck. He suppressed both a curse and a shiver as the wind picked up, gently rocking the ship beneath him.
A pair of sentries patrolled the length of the deck and greeted him. Arthur barely acknowledged them and tersely answered in-kind. They didn't speak to him again, which was fine. For no reason he could discern, Arthur chose to make the bow of the ship his destination.
He stood there a long while, leaning lightly on the rail as his eyes swept over the darkened silhouette of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. The castle's shape was faint, a hunched and jagged shadow against the deeper black of the horizon. Only a scattering of lights along the battlements and the central keep offered any clarity, their weak, flickering glow barely cutting through the shroud of clouds overhead. The stars were nearly hidden, faint pinpricks of light struggling against the thick gloom, and the moon was absent entirely, leaving the world below cast in a heavy, oppressive darkness.
The sea lapped quietly against the ship's hull, a rhythmic sound that seemed louder in the stillness of the night. Occasionally, a stronger wave would rise and slap against the docked vessel, sending faint ripples across the black water.
Arthur watched the distant castle as if it were a living thing, crouched and waiting, its quiet presence somehow heavier than any roar or tumult could have been. The wind shifted, carrying the tang of salt and the faintest traces of smoke from the castle's hearths.
He inhaled deeply, the cold air biting at his lungs, grounding him in the present even as his thoughts threatened to wander again.
... I wish Oswell was here. Arthur thought with no small amount of melancholy. Many thought his sworn brother a loud brute, mistaking his brashness for lack of intellect. But Oswell saw and knew more than most, and Arthur deeply missed his wisdom that night.
Howland, he did not know well enough to confide in such matters. And Jaime? The lad still saw him as a hero, a knight without stain. Sometimes, when speaking to him, Arthur almost felt like his old self, in the times before he accepted the white cloak.
There was Pycelle. Arthur considered it for a long while. The Grand Maester knew well what Aerys did; he'd seen to the queen's many injuries. And though he appeared a scholarly old man, he was shrewd and once a creature of politics, like most others in the Red Keep.
It was not his only breach of vows, for Arthur also knew that he once took women half his age to bed. He and the other Kingsguard regarded him with private scorn, and neither he nor Oswell was pleased to have him selected for the Harrenhal task.
Yet, in the time since then, the old man had proven his worth a dozen times over. He braved the fiery halls of Harren's former stronghold; he'd dealt a crippling blow to the Wraith's powers and saved Oswell from certain doom. He took no more whores to his chambers, and whatever games he once aided Tywin in seemed entirely excised from his mind.
It almost sounds like a story from the tales: the cowardly old man finds his courage and purpose. Arthur concluded with a weary sigh. He's a worthier knight than me.
Even at this hour, Arthur was certain that his friend was busy toiling away at something to help them gain an edge, however small, against the Others in the castle's libraries. No, let him work or rest. He has enough tasks to weigh upon his mind. No need to burden him with my failures.
And so, Arthur remained atop the deck, alone and unmoving in the night, with naught but his regrets and anger to keep him company.
Eventually, the growing cold forced him to retire back to his bed. He slept but poorly. His dreams were memories, distorted by a frantic pace and exaggerated by horrid shapes of people he knew. Arthur awoke a dozen times, expecting the night to have passed only to realize he might've slept half an hour at most.
By the time someone knocked against his doors the next morning, Arthur groaned and stuck head under the pillow. The polite knocks, which sounded like war drums to his ears, kept going.
Keep doing that, and I'll bash your head through them.
"Ser Arthur?" Jaime's voice came from the other side. "Are you awake?"
Too bloody long. Arthur groaned and forced himself to sit up. The beams of sunlight pained him and he could not force his eyes to open a long while. "I am Jaime, is something amiss?"
"It's Howland," Jaime answered. "He's found it—the Weirwood Gate beneath the castle!"
Arthur felt a momentary jolt of interest refresh him. No doubt the whole of Eastwatch was in a stir because of this news. He felt no more eager to stomach the black brothers' presence now than a few hours ago, but this was a pivotal discovery, and he would not miss it.
"Give me a few minutes, and I'll be ready."
And in short order, he was. Dressed and armed, he opened the door to find Jaime leaning against the opposite wall. The lad's smile faded slightly at the sight of him, and this Arthur couldn't begrudge. The Stony Dornishmen were a good deal paler than most of their kinsmen, and no doubt Arthur's poor sleep did little to improve his looks.
He managed a strained smile in greeting. "Let's be off."
Jaime, thankfully, made no attempt to inquire as to the cause of his strained appearance. Instead, he gave a brief summary of the discovery: Howland had toiled all through the night, leading members of the Watch down into the forgotten pathways of the castle. News had reached the castle scarcely half an hour past, and many rushed to see the end result.
They encountered Pycelle by the sparring yard ring and walked toward the great gathering of black brothers converged before the Salt Tower's entrance. It was an old, ugly, weatherbeaten thing, nestled close to the westernmost edge of the castle, hugging the sparkling, early morning ice of the Wall like a child to a parent's leg. It was used as a place for prisoners, with its frost cells claiming the lives of many wildlings.
How many of them were innocents? The black thought soured his mood at once, and he eyed the black brothers blocking his way into the tower with thinly veiled disgust. "Stand aside. We've business inside."
Several heads turned, eyes widened, jaws slacked open, and in short order, they all parted before him as though he were infected with Greyscale.
Inside, they were greeted with a great chasm, a vast hole torn through with shovels and pickaxes. The pit yawned before them, and were it not for the torchlight of a kneeling black brother, Arthur would have mistaken it for a sheer drop. Instead, the orange hues revealed an old staircase, made of stone black enough to be mistaken for obsidian—an old path into the forgotten depths of the Wall, covered and forgotten long ago.
"I'll take that," Arthur said, claiming the torch for his own. The black brother thought better than to protest and stepped away. Arthur glanced at his companions, then nodded toward the entrance.
The tunnel was of surprisingly great height, tall enough for them all to walk without the need to bend or crouch. It was wide, too, enough for the three of them to march shoulder to shoulder. He couldn't be certain, but Arthur thought he noticed flickering shapes along the tunnel's walls—strange glows that could not simply be tricks of the eyes from fire touching stones that hadn't felt it in millennia.
"Runes," Pycelle muttered, watching them with keen interest. "Faded, yes, but there, see? Unmistakable, from the days of the First Men and the Children."
Arthur paused and pushed the torch closer to a left-hand section. He squinted and saw them better: letters and symbols, in a tongue he'd never seen before, carved into hundreds, thousands of shapes. Some were so small and faded he could scarcely see them; others were as large as his fist. And they all glowed, a faint white color, he noted, not too different from Dawn's own shine.
"Gods," Jaime breathed. "There's so many of them, so old... Older than my entire House. If Tyrion could see this now, you wouldn't be able to shut him up about it for months."
"Believe me," Pycelle replied. "The compulsion is hard to resist."
At this, the two of them laughed, and even Arthur managed a chuckle. They walked several minutes more; the runes grew more prominent, their faint lights stronger. Yet they were dwarfed by the white glow ahead. The tunnel widened; its ceiling rose still higher.
Men of the Night's Watch stood before the source of the light in a great cluster numbering close to twenty. Pyke was there, and the castle's Maester, along with other senior members. Howland stood at the forefront of the group, and all eyes were trained on the Gate.
The Weirwood shone as though moonlight itself came through it. Its withered, wrinkled face towered over the assembled men; its eyes were firmly shut, and its mouth was slightly agape, as though asleep. Through its parted lips, Arthur felt a small but piercing rush of wind
flow into the tunnel and cut through every layer of clothing he had. He suppressed a shiver and watched the tiny form of Howland approach the tree.
Quiet gasps and murmurs broke out when it suddenly moved.
The eyelids snapped open, revealing a pair of blind eyes. Most of the black brothers stepped back, their fear palpable in the air. Arthur watched with keen interest as its lips moved wordlessly, as though forgetting how to speak; its gnarled exterior groaning from the effort, the sound echoing the length of the tunnel.
"Who…" The Weirwood spoke in a voice that seemed as old as the earth itself. "Who are you?"
The black brothers whispered; some thought to leave, judging by the glances they shot between the Gate and the tunnel. Arthur took a single step forward and glowered at them. "You'll stay and witness this."
In the twin glows of orange and white hues, he saw them pale and fall silent. At the head of the group, he noticed Howland whisper something to Pyke. The commander stared at him and took a while to muster his courage, judging by his furtive steps. He looked up into the blind eyes of the tree.
"I am…" Pyke began in a frail voice, then shook his head and cleared his throat. "I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers. I am the shield that guards the realms of men."
"Then pass."
The lips opened wider, the bark groaning with tremendous effort. The sound carried through the tunnel with powerful force, as though a forest had come alive and marched down its length. The mouth widened still; it almost appeared it would devour Pyke, who stumbled back. The Gate's face retreated next to its advancing lips until there was naught left of it but a great gaping maw of wrinkles on the corners of the tunnel.
"Just like at Harrenhal," Jaime muttered, no great shock marking his voice or face.
The black brothers were far less composed. Their stunned silence hung in the air. None of them dared to move or speak. Arthur pushed his way through them and halted by Howland, who was busy aiding Pyke to get back on his feet. Despite the day-and-night-long effort, the young lord seemed not the least bit exhausted.
I'll have to ask him what his secret is. Arthur thought, looking at the mouth-ring that was once the weirwood tree. "Is everything alright with the wards? Is there no danger of the Others passing through here?"
Howland had explained that wards built into the ancient, far deeper sections of each castle were key to the sorcery preventing the Others and their wights from passing. Old places that would require considerable effort to dig up and find, and that was without potential collapses or damage to the foundations. Yet their states could be checked through the web of runes that ran through the tunnel pathways and by the health of the weirwood gates.
"The children's work has faded here, but the defenses hold," Howland nodded, then looked at the stone walls. "It is a pity, though; I would like to inspect all the castles myself…"
"Our task is elsewhere. Let the men of the Watch mind their own defenses," Arthur turned to the still-shaken Pyke. "Commander, I want every man stationed in this castle to come here and swear their oaths before the Gate. I don't wish for even the tiniest shadow of doubt to cloud their judgments as to what lies ahead. Not again."
Pyke's wrath seemed to flare for a moment, his eyes flashing in the lingering white light of the bark. Arthur cared not if he liked his tone or words and made it plain with his gaze alone that he'd suffer no debate on the matter.
Whether it was shame, self-preservation, or good sense, it mattered not. Pyke's gaze could not hold, and he nodded. "I'll send ravens to the other castles, tell them what to look for and how. I'll have my lads add everything they know."
"I will help, of course," Howland said in a conciliatory tone. Arthur caught his worried glance. "It is not as simple as merely checking for runes carved into the stone."
"Fine," Arthur said. "But get some rest. We will be departing soon and can't afford to start this journey exhausted."
Soon, the large gathering made its way back down the tunnel. Howland busied himself by exchanging words with Pyke and the maester. The black brothers whispered among themselves, casting fearful looks down the tunnel, watching the runes with wariness.
Pyke made himself busier still, barking orders to the men, informing them of their new duty for the day and the night they'd spend in the Salt Tower's frost cells if they didn't comply.
Would that he had punished them before, Arthur thought, finding some relief in the thought of one of the murdering bastards curled up and shivering in misery.
"Ser Arthur," Jaime said. "How about a sparring match? We've still some time before breaking our fast."
"Actually, Jaime," Pycelle replied. "I believe our friend would do well with some rest. It appears the northern cold does not agree with him. Luckily, I've seen some drinks on hand that will help soothe his woes."
"I'm fine."
"It does no good to be weary before our journey starts, Ser. We must rest well while we can. Wouldn't you agree?"
Arthur gave him a look and didn't fail to notice the tiny smile visible through his thick white beard. Knowing he had no counter to that; he chose to relent. "Aye, you're right. I think I will retire back to my cabin a while longer. Apologies, Jaime; we can spar this afternoon."
The lad seemed not to notice anything amiss; he smiled in that confident way of his. "That's better, actually. It's no fun beating you when you're not at your best."
"How would you know? You've never bested me at all."
At this, they shared a laugh, then parted ways. Arthur watched as Jaime approached members of the Watch and chose to spar with them instead. He was halfway tempted to stay and watch them fall on their arses when Pycelle tugged at his sleeve.
"I meant it; you must rest." The Grand Maester's voice lost all mirth. "It is plain to see that yesterday weighs heavily upon you. You should have come to me last night if you couldn't sleep."
"I'll get some now," Arthur replied and tried to ignore a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach telling him he wouldn't. "If you've some drink or potions to aid me, I'd be glad of it."
They walked from the sparring yard, where steel rang, and back to the ship. They were close to the docks and far from anyone else when Pycelle spoke again.
"It would be easier if you slept in the chambers prepared for you. Faster for the rest of us to reach you."
Arthur's grip on Dawn tightened momentarily. "I'll not sleep there. It's warmer aboard."
"Warmth isn't the issue, I think."
They walked down the docks, the ship growing closer. An uncomfortable silence hung in the air, and Arthur found himself increasingly nettled by Pycelle's wordplay and the fact that he kept his gaze trained forward, at the cold, swaying sea.
"Fine," Arthur halted and planted himself before the old man. "You didn't come here just to put leaves in my wine; speak plainly."
Pycelle did not speak at once; his old fingers played with his beard in rhythmic motions, as though he were pondering some great question. "I know why it is that the black brothers have earned your ire. I understand it well, but all the same, I must ask you to refrain from creating hostilities with them."
Arthur gripped his pommel tightly and glowered at Pycelle. If the old man was deterred by this, he didn't show it in the least. "They deserve worse than my ire."
"Some of them, no doubt," Pycelle replied with a nod. "With or without the Others, the actions of some of them are deplorable, loathsome by gods and men alike. These men are some of the most experienced we have when it comes to fighting on the Wall or the threats beyond it. Eastwatch, in particular, will play a crucial role not only in the supply chain for the future war but in ferrying men to and from danger. Tensions between us and the Watch, which we represent, will only divide and weaken us."
"Their stupidity will weaken us far worse than any of my words," Arthur shot back. "They've already murdered a hundred women and children. Do you trust them not to indulge their vicious cruelty again, not to sabotage the war effort in other ways?"
"The enmities between black brothers and wildlings run deep, very deep, if you pause to ask them," Pycelle continued in the same, thrice-damned reasonable tone. "I have spoken to quite a few of them here and can tell you that no small number of men here have lost a great many relatives and friends alike to raids before ever taking the black."
Arthur laughed at this, loud and mirthless. "Any bastard can use their misery and pain to justify their actions. They lost a son, so it is right to murder another's in revenge? Spare me."
"Are there cruel fools here? Certainly, just as there are those who doubt or regret their actions and those who did not participate in the wildings doom. But cruel, innocent or remorseful, we will need their help all the same."
A small part of Arthur supposed that was true enough. Indeed, the entire Watch did not condemn those people to doom at best and undead servitude to monsters at worst. All the same, no punishment was doled out and this he could not stand by.
"Let a vicious bastard get away with his crime once and he'll do it again, worse even. I..." He caught himself then halted; his chest tightened until all air seemed squeezed from his lungs. I know that all too well.
"A man's failures need not be the end of him."
Arthur flinched as if struck, then looked Pycelle in the eye to find pity there. "What?"
"Aerys's actions were loathsome; everyone knew it, and no one did anything to stop it. You may think the Kingsguard solely responsible for the inaction, Arthur, but we were all accomplices in his madness. We all failed our duties, in one regard or another."
"You…" Arthur replied, clenching and unclenching his fists. "Bringing a whore to your chambers isn't the same as my failing, Pycelle. Not even close." The wrathful words spilled out, and Arthur suddenly found little care in speaking of it so openly. "I was there many nights, I could've run him through, pushed him down some stairs. Anything. I didn't. Do not think to compare your failures to mine."
Pycelle stood resolute before him, undeterred as ever. If anything, his pity only grew, and Arthur's fury burned at the sight of it. I don't fucking deserve it. Stop giving it to me!
They stared each other down for what felt like hours. The Grand Maester's jaw tightened, and his lips parted as though he meant to say something. But whatever it was, it died unspoken, replaced only by a weary sigh.
"I can see words alone will do no good now. Very well. Then, as a friend, can I at least ask you to act as though you hold no ill feelings toward the men of the Watch? We depart in two days and need their knowledge to survive the journey ahead. You are our leader, and your duty lies in seeing us through this enterprise."
I don't need you to remind me of my duties, Arthur almost snapped, but held his tongue. As much as he hated to admit it, Pycelle was right about that, at least. Their stay there was brief, and the path waiting for them was treacherous. Whatever his other faults were, Arthur did not abandon or fail his friends.
"Fine," he acquiesced; the word pained him. "I'll keep my displeasure to myself. You have my word on that."
Pycelle stared at him for the span of a few heartbeats, then nodded and began walking onto the deck. "Come, then. You need rest. I have some concoctions that will give you a few hours of peace."
Peace? The word felt seemed very alien to him, a phantom. I doubt it, but I'll settle for a little rest if nothing else.