The private dining room of Commander Pyke was as austere as expected, much like the rest of Eastwatch.
It barely matched the size of Jaime's chambers back at the Tower of the Hand and was made of the same black, weather-beaten chill stone as everything else at the Wall. There were no tapestries or decorations—just bare rock.
A fire crackled in the nearby hearth, casting shadows across the windowless room alongside a handful of freshly lit torches. Outside, the wind howled and waves crashed against the shore, slipping into the room through unseen cracks.
A large wooden table, aged and worn like the walls, sat in the center of the room. Its dark oak surface was marred by cracks and what Jaime recognized as knife marks. The chairs around it were plain and hard, though they were covered with various animal pelts to offer some measure of comfort.
Pyke sat at the head of the table, barely moving his mouth as he devoured a whole chicken leg. Ser Arthur sat to Pyke's immediate left, with Jaime and Pycelle filling out the remainder of the table. Howland was somewhere beneath the castle with a group of black brothers and Eastwatch's Maester, going through its underground pathways to find the place where the magic of the Wall was most concentrated.
The meal prepared for them consisted of salted meats, bread, and a stew of a greenish color that Jaime was in no hurry to try. The pear brandy, however, was much to his liking. It helped that Pyke had seated them close to the hearth, where the heat from the sizable flames warmed their backs. Jaime almost didn't feel chilly—almost.
"Food to your liking, m'lords?" Pyke asked, downing no small amount of ale. "Not much luxury to be found at the Wall, but."
"Your hospitality is impeccable, Commander," Ser Arthur replied. "Particularly the brandy—from Tyrosh, I believe?"
"Aye, something brought here during the time of my predecessor. Them Essos folk know their drink," Pyke finished his mug, wiping droplets of brandy from his chin with his sleeve. "Now that the pleasantries are done with, let's get to what brings you here."
Jaime raised an eyebrow at that—more at the sudden shift in topic than the idea of cutting through idle lunch chatter. Not one to mince words, is he.
From the depths of his cloak, Pyke produced a large, furled brown-yellow parchment and rose from his seat. He pushed the cutlery and crockery in front of him aside and spread a map of the Wall and a large swath of the nearby lands across the center of the table.
Unlike the maps they'd seen back at King's Landing, this one held far more details of the lands beyond the Wall. Jaime had assumed the wildlings were wanderers—nomads who never stayed in one place. Yet as his eyes took in the names of what were clearly villages, hamlets, and campsites spread across the nearby Haunted Forest, the shores along the Shivering Sea, the Bay of Seals, and beyond, he was surprised to see well over thirty names written down.
"There's plenty more of them, m'lord," Pyke said. It took Jaime a moment to realize the commander had spoken to him. "In caves, valleys, and other places we'll never know or find."
"And how many are still inhabited?" Pycelle asked.
"Can't speak for Castle Black or Shadow Tower, but here? Few. Reports started reaching me months ago—rangers finding places out in the woods where battles happened without a body in sight. Intact hamlets and campsites left for the snow and ice to claim. There used to be plenty of fishing tribes along the coast. Now? Nothing."
Pyke traced his forefinger along the map and pointed to a handful of larger names and places. "There are small keeps and halls beyond the Wall, old abandoned places of the Watch. Near as we can tell, many clans are gathering at those places, even fighting over them. Rangers who've gotten close enough to check tell me they're burning great fires, day and night. Someone's put the fear of death in them."
Someone? Jaime gave him a puzzled look. "It's the Others who've got them running scared."
Pyke gave no immediate answer, pausing as if searching for the right words.
"You don't think it's them?"
"…I'll not deny my doubts, m'lord," Pyke said after a sigh. "Aye, some strange things have happened. Who raids someone else's lands and homes and steals nothing? How are we not finding a single corpse amidst the sites of slaughter?"
"You believe it's another King beyond the Wall?" the Kingsguard asked.
"Aye, I do," Pyke answered. "Maester Gawen agrees with me, and so do many of the men under my command. We've checked the records of past Kings beyond the Wall. The pattern's always the same: a wildling meaner than the rest appears, kills enough of the others for the survivors to bend the knee, and then marches on the Wall. Tribes getting butchered, forced to flee their lands—much of it has happened before."
Jaime had a witty remark at the tip of his tongue but held back. It wouldn't do to antagonize Pyke, and as he paused to consider it, he realized it wasn't an unreasonable position. I've been surrounded by strangeness of all sorts lately, he thought. I've grown accustomed to it, but to an outsider, the four of us heading out to find an old giant's tomb in some faraway frozen pit does sound quite mad.
"But don't mistake my lack of trust in your word as proof of lack of effort," Pyke continued. "The Lord Commander told me to aid you in this endeavor, and I'll do everything in my power to."
"That was never in question, commander. Rest assured of that," Ser Arthur nodded. "Yet the uncertainty among you and your men must be removed. A threat more terrible than you realize will march on the Wall and slay your brothers long before that battle comes to pass. Your men must know what awaits them as they sail the coasts and range through the forests." He smiled and touched the pommel of his sword. "Luckily, we've brought some proof with us."
Pyke's grim expression cracked for once, his eyes widening in surprise, his lips parting. "Proof, you say?"
"We don't have a captive Other or wight, but sorcery is very real, and we can show it to your men in a way that should leave little room for doubt."
The grimness in his features returned, stronger than before. He looked at each of them, then down at the map spread across the table. Jaime didn't need to see the fleeting fear and worry crossing his face to know what he thought. We're about to show him there are far worse things to fear than a would-be wildling king.
"M'lords," Pyke said after a brief pause. "If your proof is as strong as you claim, then it's a boon and a thrice-damned shame we hadn't seen it sooner. My men... they haven't taken kindly to the new orders regarding how to deal with the wildlings."
Jaime remembered that meeting well. For hours, there had been heated debate about what to do with the wildlings. Leaving them beyond the Wall was simply unacceptable. Yet, as Lyanna's father had made plain, there was little love between the northmen and the wildlings. Many lords, particularly those closest to the Gift, had suffered personal tragedies at the hands of raiders. The Night's Watch fought them endlessly. Letting them pass through the Wall seemed equally impossible.
Plans and ideas had been presented, but nothing conclusive had been decided, at least by the time they left King's Landing. The most they'd done was send word to Lord Commander Qorgyle, informing him of the threat from the Others and advising that hostilities with the wildlings should cease whenever possible.
"We are aware of the deep-seated enmities between the wildlings, the northmen, and the brothers of the Night's Watch," Pycelle said, stroking his beard. "We understand that such deeply rooted hostilities cannot cease easily, but for the safety of the Seven Kingdoms, they must."
"You are a learned man, Grand Maester, and aye, the king knows, but do any of you truly understand?" Pyke countered, his voice growing gruffer. "You are not of the North. You haven't lost friends, family, and homes to the wildlings, but we have, since before our grandfathers' grandfathers drew their first breaths. The wildlings see us all as kneelers and black-crow murderers. Let them south of the Wall, and many will pillage, rape, and burn their way through the Gift and beyond. If the Others are truly back, many in the Watch will gladly let them do what they please with the wildlings."
Until the dead start crawling over the Wall and add them to the horde, Jaime thought, holding his tongue with effort.
"When the order from Castle Black came for us to cease hostilities with the wildlings," Pyke continued, leaning forward and pressing both gloved hands on the map, "you cannot imagine the wrath that overcame the men here. The damned meeting turned into a brawl. More than a few had to be put in the ice cells to cool off—or receive visits from the maester. If we'd taken our lunch at the hall today, you'd have earned yourselves no small number of icy, hateful looks."
"There's more to it than that," Jaime pointed out. "You said it's a shame you and your men hadn't seen our proof earlier. I noticed one of the ships in the docks had suffered damage—recent, from the looks of it. Did the wildlings attack your ships?"
"Wildlings don't have the means to attack our ships. The damage you saw was... done by Tyroshi slavers," Pyke answered at length. "They always come with the spring. My men intercepted them on patrol five days past, just off the shore at the base of Storrold's Point."
Pyke's finger fell on the nearby peninsula, where a place called Hardhome was prominently marked at its tip. "Bastards tried to flee, even killed two of my men with arrow fire before Donnor, my most able captain, drove them ashore. Killed the lot of them and set fire to the ship afterward."
The commander fell silent again, and Jaime felt an ill feeling creep up his back like an oily snake as he waited for him to continue.
"Wildlings are tough bastards, even their spearwife women don't go quietly or easily. Back when I still patrolled the shores, the largest haul I ever saw was twenty-five at most," Pyke looked each of them in the eye, his face like stone. "There were over a hundred wildlings aboard, women and children all. Not a single fighting man among them. Before they lost their heads, the slavers said the men practically begged the Tyroshi to take them away—far away from the North. That something evil was stirring in its coldest places, and that they'd all be safer in some foreign summer land than with their husbands and sons. Didn't even ask for anything in return, just told them to haul them all away."
Seven fucking hells, Jaime thought, imagining all of them chained and imprisoned in the bowels of the ship. Mothers holding onto their children, brothers and sisters frightened and worrying what would become of them. Or maybe they weren't. Mayhaps some of them were glad, anything that put distance between them and the Others.
"You said your men set fire to the ship," Ser Arthur broke the ensuing silence, his voice calm. "What of the captives? What did they do with them?"
Pyke looked unmistakably uncomfortable. Jaime saw the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes didn't quite meet any of theirs. No, they couldn't have. The terrible thought came to him and wouldn't vanish. They couldn't have burned the ship with the wildlings inside, could they?
Just as Jaime was about to give voice to the horrid notion, Pyke forestalled him by speaking first. "They pleaded with my men, begged them to take at least the children to the Wall. Said they'd serve the crows, that they'd be good kneelers—anything to get them away from the... frost demons attacking them at night. Donnor told them to piss off. A few spearwives tried to attack but they were cut down... some fled into the Haunted Forest. The rest cried and begged for their aid even as Donnor and the rest sailed away..."
"They left a hundred innocent people at the Others' mercy?!" Jaime knocked his chair almost into the hearth as he rose. His hands clenched into fists as he glared at Pyke across the table. "Without protection, without food? What madness is this?!"
"Jaime," Pycelle said, tugging at his sleeve. "It is terrible, I know, but—"
"It's not terrible!" He bellowed, right in Pyke's face. "It's murder! Your brothers left those people to a fate worse than death! They'd have been better off burned and sunk with the ship than this! They've sixteen castles they've done fucking nothing with for centuries—room aplenty to let a few frightened families use as shelter—and they left them all—"
"Jaime." Ser Arthur's voice cut through his yells and anger like Valyrian steel. Jaime turned to the senior knight and, at once, felt his rage cool at the look on his face.
He had seen Ser Arthur happy, determined, even weary after they'd interceded in the fight against Harren. This was none of those things—it was a gaze that could have rivaled even his lord father's in quiet intensity.
"There's no need to shout, lad. We will make a great many things clear shortly." Ser Arthur turned that look on Pyke, and the commander flinched under it. "Your men are in the dining hall at present?"
"A-Aye."
"Good. The more of them that see our proof now, the better. Now, lead us to it."
"Y-Yes, m'lord." Pyke gathered the cloak from the chair, placed it around his shoulders, and walked first, Ser Arthur marching after him. Jaime traded looks with an equally stunned Pycelle before they, too, followed them out of the main keep.
They were out in the cold courtyard within minutes. The wind howled about them, sending flakes of snow and dirt hurtling through the air. Black brothers patrolling the grounds followed their progress, and Jaime could feel their gazes from every direction as they watched the group cross to the mess hall.
Pyke pushed open the doors and entered, Ser Arthur right at his heels. The first thing that struck Jaime was the smell of the place—smoke from a great open hearth that dominated the center of the room swirled lazily in the air, mingling with the steam of bowls of hot stew. Dozens of long, weathered tables marked with deep cuts and ancient ale stains littered the hall, while barrels of supplies were stacked in the corners of the room.
A great orange light rose from the hearth, with crowns of torch rings flickering around the circular pillars holding up the roof. Jaime had heard a great murmur of voices before they entered, but that died at once as they became the sole focus of the black brothers lunching within. He counted perhaps fifty men, scattered around the hall that easily could've held a dozen times their number or more. Some looked at them curiously, but more than a few didn't bother to hide their contempt or suspicion.
"Commander," Ser Arthur said with the same voice that brooked no discussion, "tell your men to step away from the hearth. And to remove their crockery, lest I break it all."
"A-Aye," Pyke said, taking a few steps forward before bellowing out, "Men! Our guests from King's Landing wish to show you something of import! It concerns... recent tidings we've discussed! Step away from the hearth, and take your dishes with you!"
The hard looks from the men burned hotter still, but they obeyed, splintering into smaller groups and hanging closer to the edges of the room. Ser Arthur turned his head toward Jaime. "Give me Steelfang. I'll return it once I'm done."
"You won't need me for this?"
"I can bash two swords together well enough, lad. Now, give it."
Jaime paused for a moment, eyeing Ser Arthur's outstretched hand before, with a swift motion, removing Steelfang from the scabbard hanging at his left leg. The sight and sound of bared steel drew murmurs from many of the black brothers, some of whom tensed up—Pyke included.
"My thanks." Ser Arthur took the sword and strode to the center of the room, just a few paces away from the hearth. In another motion, almost too fast for Jaime to follow, he unsheathed Dawn as well, the ancient greatsword glowing with a pale light in his hand. Even the orange hues of the flames could not dim it.
"What is he doing?" Pyke asked, his eyes darting from Ser Arthur to his men, tensely watching him stand there like a marble statue against the flames and shadows of the hearth.
"Giving you your proof."
"Men of the Night's Watch," the leader of their party spoke in a loud, clear voice. Slowly, he circled in place, looking at the gathered black brothers. "I am Arthur, of House Dayne, sworn Kingsguard to King Rhaegar, the first of his name. And I am told you are... displeased with your recent orders."
His voice, clear at the start, grew colder with each passing word.
"I understand," Ser Arthur said in a tone that implied no such thing. "You think it all madness, folly. Break bread with the wildlings, the Others return. You are angry, mayhaps you even feel betrayed by your superiors. Allow me to aid you."
He held Dawn to his side and lifted Steelfang overhead like a hammer ready to fall upon an anvil. Ser Arthur struck the two blades against one another, once, then twice. Before the third blow fell, the runes along both swords glowed, drawing the eyes of every man there except Jaime and Pycelle. The two of them bent their knees and braced themselves.
The surge of Power struck with even greater force than at Harrenhal. Like great bells, the ringing of steel against steel assaulted their ears with such force that Jaime was certain he'd hear the sound for hours to come. Energies of pale and blue colors mingled and blasted in all directions. Chairs flew, tables skidded across the black stone floor. The smoke and steam were blasted into nothingness, and the great fire at the center of the hearth was dimmed to a shadow of its former self.
Pyke would've stumbled on his arse had Pycelle not caught him. Jaime might have helped him too, but felt no compulsion to do so. The black brothers closest to the hearth stumbled and fell on their backsides. The rest desperately flailed to stay on their feet like awkward children at their first feasting dance.
When the noise finally ceased, Jaime heard more men rushing toward the hall, some with swords drawn. Pyke, recovering from his stupor, quickly regained composure and bade them to stop.
"Sorcery is real. The cursebreaking of Harrenhal happened, and the Others have returned." Jaime looked back to Ser Arthur.
He stood tall next to the dying hearth, with two runeblades glowing in each hand. With many of the lights dimmed or snuffed out, great shadows fell over him, though not enough to wholly obscure his face. Jaime saw the look in his eyes and felt a chill run through him harsher than the coldest northern winds.
As Ser Arthur circled the hearth to meet the eyes of the onlookers, he gazed at them all not just with hate, but with murderous rage. And they knew it. Fear overcame their shock, and Jaime saw nearly every man take a reflexive step back. Some shakily fumbled at their belts for their axes and blades, to no avail.
He can't want to kill them, could he? Jaime thought, trying and failing to shake the notion from his mind. He stepped forward to speak, but when Arthur's gaze landed on him, Jaime could do naught but stare back and gulp.
"They will march on the Wall," Ser Arthur continued, "and every wildling you kill out there will return as a wight to butcher you like the curs I know some of you to be. Remember that when you leave defenseless women and children to their doom."
Then he turned back to the entrance, his footfalls stomping like hammers in the ensuing quiet. Jaime reflexively tensed when Arthur's right hand moved in a swift motion and he sheathed Dawn.
"Here." Ser Arthur handed Steelfang back to Jaime, then stormed out of the mess hall. Everyone parted in his wake as though he were infected with greyscale.
"W-What," One of the men from the hell sputtered out after a brief silence, and sent a puzzled look at Pyke. "C-Commander, wh-what was that."
"You stupid as well as a cunt, Donnor?" Pyke snarled. "You heard the man, and hear this too: anyone disobeys Lord Commander Qorgyle's orders about the wildlings will be exiled north of the Wall naked as they day they were born and chased into the Haunted Forest."
Many recoiled as if struck at the thought, and their terror would've been plain for a blind man to see.
"Now, get that fire burning and finish your lunches. You've news to spread to your brothers I expect."
As they left the mess hall, Pyke walked with him and Pycelle in the courtyard. Ser Arthur was nowhere to be seen. Already, many who'd witnessed the Power surge rushed from the hall, eyeing Jaime's blade with silent awe and terror ere they went out of sight.
"Can we expect more trouble from them?" Pycelle asked as though nothing at all happened. "You see now why poor relations with the wildlings cannot continue."
"Morons can always cause trouble in the moment, when their prides and angers are aflame," Pyke answered, then sighed. "But I expect the Kingsguard put a good enough fear into them now to know better."
He certainly put it into me, Jaime thought, still feeling the tension as keenly as he had minutes ago. So lost was he in recalling the event that he scarcely noticed Pyke bidding them farewell and returning to his keep for some matter or other. It wasn't until he faintly heard Pycelle call out to him that Jaime finally shook himself free of his stupor.
"A-Aye, what?"
"I asked if you were alright, lad," the Grand Maester said, folding his hands into the depths of his long, brown cloak. "You seem... shaken."
"How are you not?" Jaime replied incredulously, then leaned closer. "He was this close to killing the lot of them. He might've managed it too with those swords."
Pycelle looked at him with something close to pity. "Ser Arthur is a man like any other, Jaime. Fury can threaten to claim him too."
I know that. Jaime almost replied with no small measure of anger. It's just... I suppose I thought him too good to ever indulge in it. Nothing else we've seen or heard has brought him to this point.
"If anything," Pycelle went on, looking at some distant point southward, "he showed remarkable restraint, considering..."
"Considering what?"
As though caught saying something he shouldn't have, the Grand Maester looked at Jaime, then shook his head. "No, it is not my place to say."
"Say what?" Jaime gave the older man a cross look. "What's going on here that I'm not privy to?"
"It is not a secret from you, my friend," Pycelle said in a calming voice. "All I will say is that Ser Arthur has had to... tolerate certain cruelties done to another during his service in the Kingsguard. Ere we left King's Landing, he had almost come to blows with a very dear friend because of this. With this in mind, this was a remarkable show of restraint on his part."
Cruelties? Jaime had heard nothing of Ser Arthur coming to blows with anyone. Then again, castle rumormongering wasn't something he indulged in—that was Cersei's favorite pastime—and relations between them had stayed decidedly cool even after his return from Harrenhal.
No, there was something else. It was the day the Harrenhal Five met atop the Tower of the Hand, when Geralt had revealed his Signs to them.
"Your oaths also tell you to protect others in this castle. Or is the queen's well-being not important?" That's what Geralt had said. And Arthur had bade him to stop. Jaime had almost forgotten that, what with all the excitement, wonder, and danger that followed thereafter. Or did I make myself not think about it...
At once, the image of a miserable, beaten pair of Arthur and Oswell came to his mind's eye, and a great many things made terrible sense to him.
"Neither Arthur nor Oswell have spoken of it," Pycelle said. "And I would ask that you not inquire too deeply into it. If Arthur wishes to share his woes, you'd best let him do it on his own terms."
Jaime said nothing, watching as Pycelle turned and began to walk back toward the main keep. Tolerate certain cruelties? The words lingered, heavy as the northern chill.