[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 51 - 55

Chapter 51: Black Gate

The ancient Nightfort had been born alongside the Wall itself, and like a faithful shadow, had declined in lockstep with the Night's Watch. Abandoned for more than two hundred years, every breath drawn within its crumbling halls tasted of decay and emptiness, and every vista revealed scenes of ruin and desolation.

Under the bloodied glow of the setting sun, Joffrey and his companions stepped through a breach in the outer wall, their footfalls disturbing fat gray rats that scurried away into shadowed corners.

What do they live on? Joffrey wondered idly, watching the vermin flee. No one knows.

"Hurry and lead the way," Benjen commanded, his voice tight with mistrust.

He and several black-clad brothers kept close watch on Osha's every movement, hands never straying far from the hilts of their weapons.

Osha walked silently ahead, relying on her memory and faint markings upon the frost-heaved ground to find the path to the kitchens, where the well—and the steps within it that led to the fabled Black Gate—awaited them.

Joffrey's body rose and fell in rhythm with Rain's powerful strides. To be honest, he found riding the lion rather enjoyable now that he had grown accustomed to it.

Tyrion's gaze remained almost constantly fixed upon his own left wrist, as if he might peer through skin and flesh to glimpse the tiny sparkles of magic that pulsed within.

The device implanted there was called "Magic Net Core 1.0 Official Version."

Indeed, the Imp had become Joffrey's second test subject. Jon Snow was his third.

Through these experiments, Joffrey had reached a crucial conclusion: the location of the core's implantation had no effect whatsoever on its ability to collect and convert Source Energy or Magic Energy.

In other words, Osha's version of the core—implanted directly into her brain with such brutal efficiency—was now relegated to limited-edition status.

After all, placing the device in the wrist or other readily accessible areas was far more acceptable—and easier to promote and popularize—than the alternative of stuffing it directly into a subject's brain.

Yet the modifications to the "Magic Net Core 1.0 Official Version" were not limited to placement alone.

After creating Osha's prototype, Joffrey had quickly realized the impending difficulty he faced: a critical shortage of Rune Energy.

Among the three pillars of magic—Source Energy, Rune Energy, and Magic Energy—Rune Energy had emerged as the most significant bottleneck to widespread adoption.

Although the precise origin of Source Energy remained unknown, it was clear that it could be continuously absorbed through runes and converted into Magic Energy, and could be briefly manifested in the material world through human thought for use and storage.

Magic Energy was derived from Source Energy and would naturally increase in proportion to the availability of Source Energy.

Only Rune Energy remained problematic—it could only be accumulated slowly through the runes or rune reflections in the consciousness; runes in tools were useless for this purpose. The accumulation had to be done by living people.

This posed an extreme disadvantage for the initial popularization of magic.

Creating a core like Osha's required consuming seven units of Rune Energy, which demanded the combined accumulation of seven rune reflection owners (or mages) for an entire day.

Joffrey estimated that by year's end, there might be two to three hundred mages throughout the realm. The approximately two hundred units of Rune Energy they could provide daily would be sufficient to create only a few dozen cores—a number so insignificant as to be meaningless in the grand scheme of his ambitions.

Therefore, the new core took a different approach and eschewed rune reflections entirely.

Its material was selected from gems or crystals capable of absorbing and storing Source Energy independently, and the communication function was powered by constantly consuming information Magic Energy, which required regular recharging.

Simple to the point of crudeness, yet effective.

Though the functionality was hardly diminished, it did reduce the core's operational lifespan and energy storage capacity.

Looking at the situation optimistically, this limitation could also serve his purposes better—allowing closer control of the user's movements, requiring regular replenishment of Magic Energy, facilitating consistent collection of Source Energy, and preventing unexpected loss of control.

Viewed from this perspective, the limitations were not flaws but features. Perfect!

Tyrion, however, clearly did not share this sanguine assessment.

He could not resist complaining to Joffrey through the information rune reflection: "This core is completely useless to me!"

It was indeed largely useless to a man of Tyrion's particular talents and needs.

Joffrey immediately changed the subject. "Has your snow bear learned communication magic yet? What knowledge has it shared?"

"This is critically important and directly relates to our safety!" he added with grave emphasis.

Tyrion curled his lips skeptically. "Snowball's utterances are nearly incomprehensible. It might be trying to tell me that two people had somehow entered its body before we encountered it."

Joffrey assumed an expression of profound seriousness.

"Don't underestimate this information. If I'm not mistaken, that person could be none other than the infamous Bloodraven—Brynden Rivers himself!"

"The sorcerer with a thousand and one eyes?!" Tyrion's japing manner fell away, replaced by genuine concern.

"The very same," Joffrey confirmed. "He has acquired even more eyes since those days, countless watchers spying upon the Seven Kingdoms from afar. It's entirely possible that Bloodraven is observing us at this very moment from somewhere on the Wall."

Joffrey actually believed this might be true.

In terms of motivation, the true intentions of the Three-Eyed Raven were difficult to discern with certainty, but Joffrey operated on the principle that the entity was hostile to his plans until proven otherwise.

Regarding strength, the Three-Eyed Raven had dwelled beyond the Wall for many years. With the weirwood network as his eyes and the powers of a greenseer taught by the Children of the Forest, he was not an adversary to be underestimated.

The raven's mystical sight was indeed formidable and might well be capable of tracking their movements with precision.

And then there was the Wall itself.

Joffrey raised his head and peered through broken sections of the Nightfort's ceiling at the dim, gray-blue serpent of ice that stretched across the northern horizon.

The magic-suppressing runes embedded in the Wall severely limited his own magical abilities, and he had no clear understanding of what might await them on the other side.

Perhaps wildlings lurked outside, preparing an ambush? Or the enigmatic Children of the Forest?

Joffrey consoled himself with the knowledge that the Three-Eyed Raven himself was unlikely to be physically present.

Bloodraven, having merged with a weirwood tree deep in the haunted forest, could hardly move from his living throne and could only issue remote commands—a fact that made him both less dangerous in the immediate sense and more frustrating as a long-term adversary.

It was regrettable that the sorcerer could not be eliminated in the short term.

Joffrey's schedule allowed little flexibility, and he lacked the time required to venture deep into the haunted forest to confront the Three-Eyed Raven directly. Furthermore, he had insufficient intelligence regarding the strength of the Others, who were gradually becoming more active beyond the Wall. Acting rashly would demonstrate hubris rather than courage.

He was still in the developmental stage of his plans. Recklessness would be folly.

"Your Highness, my lords," Osha said, interrupting his thoughts, "this is the entrance to the secret passage." She pointed toward a well several meters in diameter that gaped darkly in the center of the room.

Joffrey returned his attention to their immediate surroundings and realized that Rain had already carried him into the great kitchen of the Nightfort.

The enormous brick ovens stood open and empty, like the maws of slumbering beasts. Many rusty meat hooks hung from the blackened ceiling, and rows of scarred and stained butchering tables lined the soot-darkened walls.

It was, in most respects, an ordinary castle kitchen. Yet it was here that the infamous "Rat Cook" had allegedly chopped an Andal prince into bloody morsels and used one of these very ovens to bake the flesh into meat pies, which the prince's own father had unwittingly praised for their savor before the gods struck down the cook for his violation of guest right.

Those familiar with the tale could not help but feel a chill of dread in this place where such abominations had occurred.

Joffrey looked toward the center of the kitchen, where a pale, twisted weirwood sapling had forced its way through cracks in the stone floor and grown toward the ceiling. Directly beneath the bone-white tree lay the dark maw of the well, its depths invisible.

Benjen cautiously leaned against the well's rough-hewn edge and peered into its depths. "There are indeed steps carved into the well wall," he confirmed, surprise evident in his voice.

Tyrion approached, maintaining a prudent distance from the edge. "Heh, it appears bottomless," he observed with nervous humor. "Can these steps truly accommodate a snow bear's bulk? I confess to some trepidation."

Joffrey dismounted from Rain with a fluid motion. "What are you waiting for?" he challenged. "Let us descend and discover the truth for ourselves."

One by one, the group began to climb down into the well.

The descent was like sinking into the depths of a cold sea.

With each downward step, the damp walls grew colder beneath their hands. The visible range diminished steadily until darkness enveloped them completely, and the empty shaft in the center of the well increasingly resembled an abyss that might swallow them whole should they lose their footing.

They could only cling desperately to the well wall, advancing with painful slowness.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly. Gradually, their eyes adjusted to the darkness. After what felt like hours, they finally glimpsed their destination: the legendary Black Gate.

Though named the Black Gate, it was fashioned from white weirwood, like all the sacred trees of the old gods.

The wood had been carved into the visage of an ancient man who had perished thousands of years past. It seemed to emit a faint white luminescence in the surrounding darkness.

But the light that Joffrey perceived was not white at all.

Suddenly, the face opened its eyes.

"Who are you?" it asked, its voice as thin as autumn mist, yet it echoed continuously in the silent confines of the well.

Joffrey nodded to Benjen. "The oath," he prompted quietly.

Benjen straightened his back slightly, and without hesitation recited: "I am the sword in the darkness, 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, the shield that guards the realms of men."

The face regarded him for a long moment before responding: "Go then."

Then, slowly, its mouth began to open wider and wider, until it gaped like the entrance to another world entirely...

Chapter 52: Ghost Shadow Forest

Night had fallen deep and black over the ruins of the Nightfort. Though they had confirmed the existence of the secret passage, the exhausted party chose not to continue their journey. Instead, they climbed back to the well's mouth and made what camp they could among the crumbling stones.

With the first pale light of dawn, they descended once more.

This time, they passed through the grotesque weirwood face that guarded the Black Gate. The face's mouth opened impossibly wide to allow their passage, the sensation of crossing the threshold both unnatural and strangely intimate, as if they were being swallowed by some ancient entity.

Beyond the gate lay a narrow tunnel that sloped gradually upward. The path was damp and smelled of earth and strange, old magic.

They approached the surface step by step, the light ahead growing from a pinprick no larger than a grain of rice laid horizontal, to a crescent moon, then a full summer sun, and finally an expanse of sky framed by towering trees.

They emerged into the heart of the Ghost Shadow Forest.

Benjen turned his head and surveyed their surroundings with dismay. "The trees grow unchecked. Are we truly so near the Wall already?"

The Night's Watch had long maintained a tradition of clearing any tree that dared sprout within a thousand yards of the Wall. Yet here, outside the abandoned Nightfort, the Ghost Shadow Forest had encroached almost to the base of the ice itself.

Joffrey's gaze was drawn to the countless weirwood trees that dotted the forest, their bone-white trunks and blood-red leaves standing in stark contrast to the evergreens.

No wonder they call it the roosting place of crows, he thought. There are too many eyes here.

He sighed, then leaned against the trunk of a nearby weirwood, tilting his head back until it rested against the pale bark. Immediately, a flood of images cascaded through his mind—glimpses of times past when others had stood in this very spot.

Someone had indeed preceded them here, and not merely humans.

A Night's Watchman who had ranged ahead suddenly shouted, his voice tight with alarm. "First Ranger! There's blood here, a great deal of it—and the bodies of our brothers!"

Benjen turned and plunged into the forest with long, urgent strides. The other black brothers followed close behind, hands flying to sword hilts and daggers.

A familiar stratagem, but effective nonetheless, Joffrey mused.

He picked his way carefully through puddles of half-frozen meltwater. "Uncle, Jon, let us see for ourselves what has transpired. Take care where you step."

The scene that greeted them beyond the treeline was grotesque.

At first glance, it was impossible to determine how many men had died there. The snow was littered with pieces of flesh, large and small, abandoned upon the white canvas and frozen into macabre sculptures of crimson ice.

"At least five good men," Benjen pronounced in a voice barely above a whisper, his face grim as he surveyed the carnage.

Tyrion frowned deeply. "Is it common for black brothers to meet their end in these woods?" he asked, his mismatched eyes narrowed with suspicion.

The Nightfort had stood abandoned for two hundred years, yet the corpses lay not far from the entrance to the secret passage. Tyrion sensed conspiracy in the air, thick as the scent of old blood. Was Bloodraven truly still observing from afar?

One of the Night's Watchmen lifted a severed head from the snow, his expression rigid with shock. "I recognize this man! He suffered Instructor training stick alongside me before being sent to bolster the garrison at Shadow Tower. He belongs to Shadow Tower's complement!"

Another black brother ventured, "Perhaps they were a patrol dispatched from Shadow Tower, pursued by wildlings and driven to this desperate place."

"More likely they encountered wildlings who had just emerged from the secret passage themselves," countered a third.

An eager ranger crouched beside a partially dismembered corpse. "The brothers met their fate not long past—no more than three or four days ago by my reckoning. The wildlings responsible cannot have traveled far. We are mounted; we might overtake them within a day or two of hard riding!"

Benjen remained silent for a long moment before turning reluctantly to face Joffrey. "Would Your Highness prefer to withdraw to the safety of the Wall before we proceed?" he asked, duty warring with his desire for vengeance.

A clever question, Joffrey reflected. Who could maintain dignity while admitting fear after such an opening?

Joffrey recognized the nature of Benjen's inquiry. As First Ranger, how could the man retreat in the face of this brutal challenge? Yet the Night's Watchmen's unanimous eagerness struck Joffrey as suspicious. Did none among them harbor doubts?

Joffrey glanced at the rangers who had spoken, noting their faces carefully. "We shall advance together," he declared. "Wildlings are not to be feared by those who understand their ways."

The rangers demonstrated their woodland craft, examining subtle tracks half-hidden by fresh snow. Against all odds, they discovered clear traces of passage.

The party moved northwest at speed.

Their progress proved swifter than anticipated. By midday, they had located the wildlings' open-air encampment.

Benjen lay flat upon the snow behind a low ridge, silently observing the distant figures moving about their cookfires.

At Benjen's insistence, Joffrey retreated with Tyrion and Jon, concealing themselves among the trees to avoid alerting their quarry prematurely.

The three spoke in hushed tones, their words cloaked by magic from unwelcome ears.

Tyrion shifted uncomfortably. "Are all Stark minds cast from the same rigid mold? I wager there's treachery afoot here," he muttered.

Jon remained silent, torn between loyalty to his prince and to his blood. Benjen was, after all, the uncle who had shown him the most warmth in his difficult childhood.

Joffrey affected indifference. "A journey without surprises grows tedious. Perhaps after today's events unfold, we shall make acquaintance with creatures of legend."

"What legendary creature?" Tyrion asked, catching the subtle implication in the prince's words.

"Three... two... one... Direct your gaze leftward," Joffrey instructed.

Tyrion twisted his neck to look, and numerous figures—some tall as men, others small as children—materialized at the edge of his vision.

"To arms!" he shouted in warning.

Benjen, crouching at the vanguard, had scarcely begun to turn when several of his black brothers made their move. Daggers flashed in the cold northern light, plunging into the throats and hearts of the loyal watchmen. Blood sprayed across the pristine snow, painting it in ghastly patterns.

"No!" Benjen cried, swinging his sword at the traitors, but they retreated with practiced swiftness, melting into the mass of wildlings that had appeared in the distance.

"Hahaha, Benjen Stark, there's no escape for you this time!" a coarse voice called.

A score of wildlings emerged from the encampment, advancing with predatory confidence. More figures gradually materialized from the forest behind them, their numbers growing with each passing heartbeat.

Benjen moved deliberately to Joffrey's side, his blade still drawn.

"Traitors!" he spat. "Scarface, Redhand, Ragmaw, Rime—why have you forsaken your vows?"

The men he named offered no response. Instead, the wildling leader answered for them, his voice thick with the accent of the far north. "Benjen, what you don't understand is that there remains a Lord beyond the Wall. The Night's Watch breaks no oath by pledging fealty to him."

Joffrey addressed the man directly, his voice carrying across the snow-covered ground. "You speak of the former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch—the Three-Eyed Crow, Brynden Rivers. Is that not so?"

He continued without waiting for confirmation. "Deliver a message to your master, wildling. Tell him I shall pay him a personal visit... provided you survive to carry my words."

The assembled wildlings exchanged glances and laughed, the sound harsh in the cold air.

They showed no urgency to attack. They had sufficient numbers to surround this place, to cut off any hope of retreat.

Joffrey displayed equal patience. He was waiting for certain smaller figures to draw near enough that escape would become impossible. Only then would he make the acquaintance he sought.

Tyrion's breath caught in his throat as realization dawned. "These must be the Children of the Forest spoken of in ancient texts!" he whispered with academic excitement.

They stood no taller than Tyrion himself, with oversized ears and eyes the color of molten gold. Their skin was deep chestnut, dappled with spots like a fawn's coat. Each hand bore three fingers and a thumb that ended in a sharp, curved claw.

Tyrion's chest heaved with exhilaration. Here before him stood living legend made flesh!

"Good nephew," he urged, "ensure you capture several alive. The sensation they would create throughout the Seven Kingdoms... ha! They would make a greater spectacle than any dwarf!"

One of the Children stepped forward—a female, from what Joffrey could discern. She rubbed her three-fingered hands together and spoke in halting Common Tongue. "Humans, withdraw your discourteous words. We come only for the one who stands among you who should not be. Surrender him without resistance, and you may depart unharmed."

The wildling leader echoed her sentiment. "That's right, that's right. Lay down your steel and you'll keep your lives."

Joffrey surveyed their predicament with calculated calm. Before and behind them stretched hundreds of wildlings. To their left and right gathered the Children of the Forest and dozens of beasts controlled by skinchangers—wolves, bears, shadowcats, and more. Above, eagles and ravens circled like living storm clouds.

He deliberated on the most efficient method to eliminate the threat.

At present, he commanded 500 units of Fire Mana. He knew that a single unit could bring ten tons of ice-water mixture to a roiling boil—approximately one million kilocalories or more than four million kilojoules of heat energy. This equaled the thermal output of a kilogram of wildfire.

Should he inject it directly into the wildlings' bodies? Such an approach would require him to close distance with the enemy and evade their attacks—inelegant and needlessly risky.

Perhaps breathe fire like the dragons of old? No, the targets were too dispersed for such a method to prove decisive.

The wildlings grew impatient. "Surrender now, boy!" one shouted. "Kneel, and I'll grant you a merciful death!"

Joffrey favored the man with a benevolent smile.

Art is explosion, he thought, recalling a phrase from another life.

He crouched and pressed his palms flat against the solid sheet of ice beneath them.

One hundred and fifty units of Fire Mana divided into fifty portions, each integrated into the ice beneath the feet of the wildlings, the Children, and their beasts.

With a single thought, hundreds of tons of ice instantaneously expanded into superheated vapor, erupting from within layers of solid ice.

BANG!

Tssssss~

Steam, redolent with the aroma of roasted flesh, billowed upward in a surging white tempest.

Shattered chunks of ice rained back to earth from the sky, many still entwined with wisps of mist or strings of bloodied tissue.

Tyrion drew a deep, astonished breath.

The air around them had grown as warm as a summer afternoon in King's Landing—unnaturally, frighteningly hot in this land of eternal winter.

Chapter 53: Leaf

"May I call you Leaf?"

The one who should not exist strode across the devastated landscape toward her, his smile as bright and dangerous as Valyrian steel. Melted snow dripped from his fine golden hair.

The searing white mist had begun to dissipate, and droplets of moisture fell from the branches above, trickling down her spotted face—warm and strangely comforting against her skin.

A glance upward revealed that the forest of ice and snow had been transformed into something akin to a rainforest after a summer storm, steam rising from every surface.

But when she lowered her gaze, the reality of what had occurred could not be denied. The ground was a tableau of horror—half-melted ice, crimson-tinged puddles, blood-soaked chunks of flesh, scattered weapons, blackened soil, and broken, splintered trees all combined to paint a grotesque portrait of death and devastation.

The two southron humans moved methodically among the wounded, ending the lives of northerners who had not yet fully perished. Her own people—what few remained—looked upon the scene with terror and bewilderment etched upon their ancient faces.

She looked skyward once more. The ravens that had circled overhead had vanished without a trace, abandoning them in their hour of need.

"The Three-Eyed Raven is not as formidable a greenseer as legends suggest," the golden-haired youth observed casually, as if discussing the weather. "He likely foresaw none of this. Then again, who among us would have predicted that ice and water could erupt with such fury?"

She bowed her head to Joffrey, ancient pride bending before necessity.

"Leaf, speaking for the Children of the Forest, surrenders to you," she said, her voice like autumn leaves rustling in a gentle breeze. "I implore you to spare them; the blame for this folly rests solely with me."

Joffrey studied her gold-green eyes with unconcealed fascination. "It is said that the green or red eyes among your kind signify the gift of greenseeing. Have you never sought to become a greenseer yourself?"

Leaf tilted her head slightly, a gesture both human and alien. "I lack the necessary qualities, do I not?"

"Bloodraven is malevolent to his core," Joffrey continued. "Surely you know his history—a man who embodies the worst aspects of human cruelty. How can you permit such a creature to hold dominion over your dwindling people?"

Leaf lowered her gaze and offered no response, though her three-fingered hands twitched with unspoken emotion.

"We need not be adversaries," Joffrey said, his voice softening. "Leaf, do you truly comprehend who stands before you?"

The one who should not exist, she thought, but did not speak the words aloud.

Tyrion knelt awkwardly in the snow, his mismatched eyes gleaming with strange fervor as he proclaimed: "Before you stands the heir to the Iron Throne, Prince of Dragonstone, Lord of the Lightbringers, messenger spreading the gospel of the gods, Azor Ahai reborn, destined to defeat the darkness and bring an endless summer, Joffrey of the House Baratheon, may he reign forever!"

Ah, truly? Leaf thought with mild bemusement.

She blinked her ancient eyes innocently and hesitantly offered the blessing, "May he reign forever," though the words felt strange upon her tongue.

Joffrey stepped closer, his boots crunching on the blood-soaked ice. "The gods have not forsaken you. I can serve as protector to the Children of the Forest. Under my guidance, all living creatures may unite against the long night and the calamities wrought by dark powers."

He gestured expansively. "Your companions may return to your tribe and convey my intentions. With the throne's protection, the lands of the south can once more become your homeland."

"Of course," he added magnanimously, "you may all accompany me southward if you so choose."

Leaf felt utterly bewildered. Have I somehow convinced him of our worth? Have I spoken words I do not recall? Are humans now possessed of such mercy?

Having no alternative, she translated his offer verbatim to the five surviving members of her tribe, her musical language flowing like water over stones.

Joffrey listened patiently as they conversed in their melodious tongue, so unlike the harsh sounds of the Common Speech or even the flowing cadences of High Valyrian.

His decision had not been made in haste. The Children of the Forest possessed extraordinary magical aptitude, were gentle in their nature despite their fearsome appearance, enjoyed lifespans that dwarfed those of men, and faced immense pressure to sustain their dwindling race. What purpose would be served by driving them into extinction?

As for his newly acquired titles, since he had committed to this performance, he might as well embrace it fully. Messenger of divine gospel, Azor Ahai reborn, the hero-king destined to usher in eternal summer—the legendary aura that had inspired countless souls to willing sacrifice now suffused the air around him like perfume.

And the burning sword "Lightbringer" described in ancient texts might well be interpreted as his dragonflame blade, if one were inclined toward such beliefs.

"Your Highness," Jon called, excitement evident in his usually solemn voice as he approached bearing a dark blade. "Valyrian steel! The wildlings somehow possessed such a priceless treasure!"

Joffrey grasped the hilt, feeling the perfect balance of the weapon. "Uncle," he said to Tyrion, "surely you can divine this sword's name."

Dark as a tendril of smoke, with a slender blade designed for a woman's hand or a man of slight stature—this could only be Bloodraven's legendary weapon.

Tyrion nodded, recognition dawning in his eyes. "Dark Sister, one of the two ancestral swords of House Targaryen, once wielded by Queen Visenya herself, lost when Brynden Rivers took the black."

"Would you have it for your own, Uncle?" Joffrey inquired.

Tyrion chuckled ruefully. "It is slender, yes, but not short. Has my generous nephew somehow forgotten my stature?"

Joffrey turned and presented the sword to Jon Snow. "Keep it in your care for the present. Perhaps Grandfather Tywin will appreciate this gift, now that the Lannister ancestral sword 'Brightroar' has been lost for centuries."

The melodious conference among the Children of the Forest gradually subsided. Leaf approached with two members of her tribe, their movements graceful despite their wariness.

"Your Highness, we are prepared to enter your service," she announced, her voice carrying a note of resignation beneath the formal words.

The remaining three Children of the Forest concealed themselves partially behind the trees, observing the proceedings with naked apprehension.

"Excellent. I believe you will find the southern lands much to your liking." Joffrey seized the opportunity to stroke Leaf's coarse hair, noting how she suppressed a flinch at his touch. "Please convey to your three friends the need for caution on their journey. The ravens may prove to be their enemies rather than their allies."

Will they? Leaf wondered silently. She no longer knew whether she could trust the ancient greenseer who had guided her people for so long.

Was he watching this tableau even now, through the eyes of birds or trees?

Surrounded by the bone-white trunks and blood-red leaves of the weirwood trees that dotted the forest—the sacred trees upon which her tribe had depended since time immemorial—she experienced a sense of estrangement and disquiet for the first time in her long existence.

The pale moon had just begun its ascent into the night sky when the victorious party returned to the Nightfort through the Black Gate.

Benjen Stark sat apart from the others, feeding a small fire with broken pieces of furniture. He chewed mechanically on a piece of dry flatbread, occasionally taking deep swallows from a skin of sour red wine.

The Children of the Forest—creatures he had believed existed only in Old Nan's tales—had become their captives. Benjen wanted to feel triumph or at least satisfaction, but such emotions eluded him.

He was the sole ranger remaining from their expedition. His own sworn brothers had plunged daggers into the backs of their comrades. Whom could he blame for such treachery?

Ironically, it was Tyrion Lannister—the man with whom he had established the least rapport—who approached to offer consolation.

"Consider the favorable aspects of our encounter," the dwarf suggested, settling himself awkwardly beside the First Ranger. "We dispatched several hundred wildlings and skinchangers. Henceforth, your rangers' patrols will face significantly reduced danger."

He offered a twisted smile. "One might argue we have saved dozens of lives this day."

Benjen's mouth twitched mirthlessly. A simple analysis of events would reveal that these wildlings and Children of the Forest had come solely for the Crown Prince, yet the Night's Watch had paid the blood price in their stead.

Children of the Forest.

His gaze drifted to the three diminutive figures huddled near Prince Joffrey.

These creatures were undoubtedly the architects of the attack, yet they now enjoyed the prince's protection as if no hostilities had occurred.

Benjen felt a powerful urge to seek vengeance for his fallen brothers. Yet he remained motionless, listening as the Crown Prince conversed with the ancient beings as if they were honored guests rather than prisoners.

"Leaf, how many of your kind remain in the world?" Joffrey asked, his tone surprisingly gentle.

Leaf sipped delicately at a bowl of mushroom soup. "There remain perhaps three score singers like myself," she replied, using the term her people used for themselves. "And several thousand of our kin who dwell within the land, trees, and beasts."

Joffrey's expression revealed that he was comparing this information against some prior knowledge. More than sixty, he thought. They stand upon the precipice of extinction.

"What are your people's views regarding unions between close kin?" he inquired, the question seemingly emerging from nowhere.

"Ah," Leaf responded, seemingly unperturbed by the strange query. "All such arrangements are possible among us; we do not observe the rigid prohibitions that govern human pairings."

Very good, Joffrey thought. This suggested that the offspring of the Children of the Forest who mated with close kin were unlikely to suffer the physical and mental deterioration that plagued human offspring of such unions. Perhaps their race might yet be salvaged from oblivion.

Joffrey sliced a piece of roasted venison from the haunch that turned slowly above the fire.

"Upon our return to the south," he told Leaf, "you shall reside initially within the godswood of the Red Keep. Though modest in size, it will suffice for your immediate needs."

"When the appropriate time arrives..."

His voice trailed off as his thoughts turned southward.

The exploration of the Wall was complete, with even the legendary Children of the Forest now in his grasp. The time had come to redirect his attention to King's Landing.

King Robert had already reached the Crossing on his journey north, with only the Neck lying between him and Winterfell.

And what of Varys? Though the Spider had shown little overt reaction to the calamitous news from Pentos, how could such a creature ever be trusted?

The moment to return had arrived.

Chapter 54: Privy Council Meeting

Varys sat alone in his modest chamber, surrounded by shadows and silence.

Perhaps for secrecy's sake, or perhaps to spare the nobles the discomfort of his eunuch's presence, this isolated dwelling that clung to the Red Keep's outer walls had become the exclusive domain of successive Masters of Whisperers.

But Varys knew its secrets, as he knew all the Red Keep's mysteries.

The labyrinthine tunnels that honeycomed the earth beneath the castle, the "little birds" who nested within the hollow walls of noble chambers, the hidden passages connecting the various rooms of the Tower of the Hand to the outside world, the treacherous paths descending from the castle heights to the rocky shores below...

With a mere pull of the concealed lever in his bedchamber and a descent down the stairs hidden beneath the innocuous flagstones, all these became the Spider's most formidable weapons in the great game.

Only Petyr Baelish did he consider a truly dangerous opponent.

The hasty extinction of the Targaryen dynasty had buried the Red Keep's secrets alongside dragon skulls and forgotten loyalties, leaving only the spymaster himself privy to their existence.

But Baelish was different. This cunning man disdained the honor and appearances that other courtiers valued above all else. From the moment he arrived at court, he had courted minor nobles, small merchants, and even the Red Keep's lowliest servants, gathering information with insatiable hunger.

Using his position as Master of Coin, he had established brothels and taverns throughout King's Landing, bestowing favors upon the humble and forgotten within the Red Keep, eventually becoming the second beneficiary of the castle's ancient secrets.

This fact caused Varys no small disquiet.

Petyr, who cared only for himself, Petyr, for whom power was the sweetest wine—what if this man should discover Varys's true secrets? Would he choose to make them public?

Varys did not know the answer, though he had once considered it an impossible hypothesis.

Who could possibly discern his true identity?

But three days past, he had received disturbing news: Khal Drogo was dead, Magister Illyrio was dead, Dothraki scimitars had laid waste to Pentos, and the dragon siblings had vanished like morning mist.

The Dothraki broke the sacred contract of guest right?! Who orchestrated such madness?

The message had mentioned the crown prince ex-squire Alyn and Ser Jorah Mormont, but could these two truly be the architects of such devastation?

Joffrey?

Varys found this difficult to believe. All intelligence suggested that the Crown Prince remained arrogant, willful, and woefully ignorant.

The boy had exchanged the lives of elite soldiers for a lion, forced singers to compose songs in his honor, openly conducted his so-called "King's Game" before even ascending the throne, taken the Stark children deep into the crypts of Winterfell without permission, and insisted on separating from the royal party to visit the Wall.

Only his sudden interest in swordsmanship with the Kingslayer could be considered wise—no, not even wise, merely sensible.

How could such a pampered youth orchestrate the destruction of a Free City?

Varys's thoughts turned quickly to the envoy who had accompanied Alyn to Pentos to purchase dragon eggs—one of Littlefinger's many creatures.

Does Petyr know something I do not?

What benefit could he possibly derive from Pentos's destruction?

Varys had pondered these questions for two full days.

Now, at last, the fog had begun to lift.

Though he had read it countless times, Varys examined the note in his pale, soft hand as though seeing it for the first time, committing each word to memory before it must be destroyed.

This was the latest intelligence delivered that very morning: Jester, Beauty, with squire, Bear Paw on ship sailing west.

"Jester" referred to Viserys Targaryen, the beggar king.

"Beauty" was Daenerys, who should have wed Khal Drogo and, when the time was ripe, led tens of thousands of Dothraki screamers to trample the Seven Kingdoms, causing the lords and smallfolk alike to yearn for the return of the true dragon.

"Squire" was a new code name, but Varys understood it designated Alyn.

"Bear Paw" was Ser Jorah Mormont, once a valued informant, whom Varys had now struck from the list of allies and placed upon the list of those marked for silent death.

The message contained only this single sentence, yet Varys extracted volumes of meaning from its sparse words.

Viserys and Daenerys—these two were the true targets of the conspiracy's mastermind. The catastrophe that had befallen Pentos was merely collateral damage, an acceptable price.

Varys knew that Petyr had always been conscious of his low birth.

Baelish's ancestral holding was a rocky wasteland upon the smallest finger of the peninsula known as The Fingers in the Vale, a place so desolate it was nearly uninhabited—hence his mocking sobriquet "Littlefinger."

Because of his humble origins, the Tully sisters whom he had loved or who had loved him had married into greater houses and become ladies of significant domains.

Because of his family's lack of standing, his path to advancement had been fraught with obstacles and ridicule. Only after demonstrating remarkable aptitude as Master of Coin had the cutting remarks receded somewhat into the shadows.

Could he be the assassin? Did he seek a Targaryen wife of noble blood to elevate his own status? Did he wish to create chaos? Or merely curry favor with the king?

Varys traced each line of reasoning to its logical conclusion, yet always sensed some fundamental flaw in his understanding.

Regardless, he had at last discovered the whereabouts of the Targaryen siblings. Even if his suspicions proved incorrect, he could discern the truth by observing their final destination.

The hour grew late.

Varys destroyed the note with practiced efficiency, adjusted his flowing sleeves, and emerged from his gloomy dwelling into the oppressive heat of a King's Landing summer.

A meeting of the Small Council was convening in the modest chamber behind the Iron Throne, though neither king nor Hand was present to guide the proceedings.

The assembled ministers regarded Varys with expressions ranging from curiosity to contempt as he entered.

"The Spider's web seems to have grown slack," Petyr remarked with silken malice. "I learned of this matter the day before yesterday."

Lord Renly's handsome face bore clear displeasure. "Varys, you have grown negligent of late. The destruction of Pentos is no small affair, yet you bring this to our attention only today."

Varys lowered himself deliberately into his accustomed seat, its dark wood seeming to embrace his substantial frame.

"My lords, I beg your forgiveness," he said, his voice as smooth as honeyed milk. "The bloody sack of Pentos is indeed no secret, but I had not wished to burden you with matters beyond our immediate concern. Today, however, I bring tidings of greater significance."

A flicker of interest passed across the assembled faces.

Grand Maester Pycelle erupted into a fit of theatrical coughing. "Varys," he wheezed, "good ser, it is most dreadfully warm. Have pity on an old man—cough—and proceed without delay."

Varys exchanged measured glances with each of his three colleagues before bestowing a particularly sweet smile upon Lord Baelish.

"I bring glad tidings. The Targaryen siblings are neither dead nor fled beyond our reach."

He distributed handwritten reports with meticulous care.

"Ser Jorah Mormont, who yearns to return to his ancestral home, and Alyn, formerly squire to our Crown Prince, have secured them and even now sail toward our shores."

Renly and Pycelle perused the documents with varying degrees of interest before passing them to Petyr's waiting hands.

Varys's gaze followed the parchment's journey. "I know not which lord's handiwork this fortuitous turn of events represents," he said with careful emphasis. "Pray enlighten us, that we might offer proper congratulations."

Petyr's expression remained as fixed and unreadable as a carved mask.

"Lord Varys, do you speak truly?" Renly asked, unable to suppress a sigh. "My good-brother will likely revel in this news for a full year."

Grand Maester Pycelle stroked his long white beard with trembling fingers.

"If these tidings prove accurate, it heralds a great blessing for all Seven Kingdoms," he pronounced. "Our people need no longer fear Targaryen vengeance from across the Narrow Sea."

Varys clapped his hands together softly. "Indeed. According to their reported course, we might gaze upon the last remnants of the fallen dragon dynasty within a sennight. Cause for celebration, to be sure. His Grace will undoubtedly reward those responsible with appropriate generosity."

Petyr smiled but offered no comment.

"My lords," Varys suggested, "perhaps we might dispatch a royal fleet to intercept them before they reach port, lest some unfortunate accident befall these valuable prizes."

Petyr signaled for a cup of Arbor red. "I could not agree more heartily," he said, his gray-green eyes betraying nothing. "What say you, my lords?"

Varys's proposal received unanimous approval from the council.

A corpulent man of servile demeanor presented the Grand Maester with iced honey milk.

"My thanks, good apprentice," Pycelle murmured, taking a delicate sip. "My lords, if no further matters require our attention, I propose we adjourn today's proceedings."

Varys observed Littlefinger's retreating form in silence.

With a fleet dispatched to meet the approaching vessel, the Targaryens could hardly escape the court's vigilant eye. What further schemes could Petyr pursue? What additional advantage might he extract from this situation?

Could I have been mistaken in my suspicions?

The Crown Prince, Joffrey Baratheon.

Varys remained alone in the Small Council chamber long after the others had departed, as still as the stone dragons that adorned the castle walls, lost in troubling thoughts.

Chapter 55: He Saw It

He had seen a White Walker.

He had fled south directly from the Haunted Forest, only to be captured in the New Gift.

Gods be damned, he thought bitterly. Only one step away from the North proper!

They had not executed him immediately. His former brothers explained they would use his head as a reminder that deserters of the Night's Watch would meet no gentle fate.

This reprieve had granted him a few more days of life, but each breath had come with the dual torments of fear and anticipation.

Gods, he wondered, is waiting for death always so excruciating?

At times, he thought it would have been better to perish in the New Gift, or even to die a glorious death in the Haunted Forest. Yet sometimes hope would flare unbidden in his breast, a foolish notion that something—or someone—would intervene to spare him.

And now, Castle Black loomed before him, its black stone walls a promise of finality.

The time had come.

Rough hands dragged him from the back of a swaybacked garron. One end of the hemp rope binding his wrists was held by a sullen brother in black, while a strong hand clamped upon his shoulder from behind, forcing him forward into the yard.

He ceased his struggles and instead gazed blankly at the surroundings that had once been his home.

The towers and walls of Castle Black stood gray and black against the pale northern sky. No man of the Night's Watch would ever call them beautiful, yet now they seemed to him the finest castle in all the known world.

The ice and snow cut like knives, and the meager fires that burned in the courtyards were so frail they might expire at any moment. Nearly every year, brothers lost fingers, toes, or ears to the merciless cold—yet now he would gladly have dwelled here for a thousand years or ten thousand.

More and more black brothers emerged from their quarters. None bothered to speak to him; he saw only indifferent, mocking, vicious, or excited expressions on faces that had once been familiar to him.

Yet he longed for one last chance to break bread with these men, to endure another frigid night upon the Wall. He wished desperately to visit Mole's Town one final time, if only once. This time, he would plant his seed in the deepest place, regardless of whether the woman would raise the child that might result.

Thump.

Two gauntleted hands forced him to his knees. Pain shot through his legs, and the snow beneath him was bitingly cold against his worn breeches.

But none of these discomforts mattered anymore. They merely confirmed that he still lived, that he could still feel pain and temperature and the rough warmth of the gloved hands upon his shoulders.

"Simon."

He saw the Lord Commander's lips opening and closing, speaking words that seemed to come from a great distance. "The gods have granted you this right. Speak your final words, meet your judgment with dignity, and go to the gods as a man of honor."

His gaze fixed upon "Longclaw" in the Lord Commander's hand—a Valyrian steel sword that would make a clean stroke through neck and spine.

Some unnameable impulse drove him to struggle once more against his captors' grip. "Lord Commander, I saw a White Walker! The Others are real, not mere stories from wet nurses. They exist beyond the Wall!"

He attempted to rise, but the hands upon his shoulders forced him down with bruising strength.

"My lord, I fled only from terror! Grant me another chance, I beg you. I will venture beyond the Wall again! I can find the Others for the Night's Watch!"

The black brothers gathered to witness the execution exchanged uneasy glances.

This was not the first deserter this year to claim such things, and more than one ranging party had vanished without explanation. Wildlings lacked the strength to eliminate skilled rangers so completely.

Could something truly stir in the frozen wastes beyond the Wall?

The Lord Commander's gray-white beard trembled slightly as he regarded the condemned man. "Have you concluded your final words?"

At this, all strength fled the deserter's limbs.

The two brothers holding him forced his head down upon a thick wooden stump serving as a block. A large stain of dark, rust-colored blood filled his vision, and the smells of earth and old death filled his nostrils.

"In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm..."

As death approached, his thoughts turned to his distant home.

He remembered golden wheat dancing like waves in a summer breeze, the rich floral fragrances of meadows in bloom, his father who would ruffle his hair at every opportunity, his mother whose warm, soft embrace smelled of fresh-baked bread and whose clever hands crafted sweet honey cakes, and the village girl whose eyes spoke volumes that her shy lips could not.

"...I, Jeor of House Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, sentence you to die."

The long sword rose high, cutting through the air with a sound like a whispered prayer.

He closed his eyes.

The drumming of hoofbeats grew steadily louder, as if approaching from just ahead. Am I already dead?

He opened his eyes and craned his neck forward to look.

Black cloaks, gray furs, red and gold silks—and then he saw it: a small chestnut-colored creature unlike any he had ever beheld.

"A Child of the Forest," he heard the Lord Commander murmur in disbelief.

Hope surged within him once more. "It's true! What I told you is true! There stands a Child of the Forest! The Others lurk beyond the Wall..."

Clang.

He watched with detached fascination as bright blood spurted from his own neck. The Lord Commander's voice reached him as if through water: "Perhaps you spoke truly, but you should not have fled your post upon the Wall."

His head rolled several times upon the frozen ground. In the final instant before eternal darkness claimed him, his fading vision captured the delicate, spotted ankles of the Child of the Forest who had arrived too late to save him.

"Lord Commander, we have returned," Benjen Stark announced, his voice hollow with exhaustion.

The First Ranger glanced at the headless corpse, adding quietly, "Only us."

Jeor Mormont shifted his gaze from the diminutive figure of Leaf. "What transpired? Come, we shall speak in the hall."

Joffrey guided Leaf forward, stepping carefully around the spreading pool of blood.

"The secret passage proved real enough," he explained. "Who could have guessed that wildlings would be hunting these gentle creatures beyond the Wall? The savages were hardly willing to allow our departure. The outcome, Lord Commander, you see before you."

Joffrey exchanged a meaningful glance with Benjen, who maintained his silence.

"I see." The Lord Commander sighed heavily. "Now large sections of the Wall must remain unguarded once more."

He fixed Joffrey with a penetrating stare. "Your Highness, I implore you to impress upon the court the gravity of our situation. Mance Rayder, who styles himself 'King-Beyond-the-Wall,' gathers a wildling army even now. And it seems the Others may be more than nursery tales meant to frighten children."

Joffrey assumed an expression of solemn responsibility. "You have my word. I shall advocate vigorously on your behalf. The Night's Watch will receive no fewer than five hundred fresh recruits within half a year."

"You have my gratitude for your understanding, Your Highness."

The Lord Commander's gaze returned to Leaf with undisguised wonder. "This one is truly a Child of the Forest?"

Leaf executed a graceful bow. "Lord Commander, I speak your tongue. You may address me as Leaf."

Boom!

The assembled men of the Night's Watch could not suppress their astonishment, as though they had witnessed a beast of burden suddenly break into poetry.

Though all the ancient stories depicted the Children of the Forest as beings of wisdom and power, who among them could view such an alien creature as an equal when confronted with its strange appearance?

The Lord Commander swiftly signaled for the crowd to disperse and led the Crown Prince and his companions away from curious eyes.

The black brothers watched reluctantly as the Child of the Forest entered the Lord Commander's Tower, the heavy oaken door closing firmly behind them.

After a moment of stunned silence, their restraint shattered completely. They leapt about, shouting and embracing one another, venting the wild excitement that coursed through them, as though they had emerged victorious from some legendary battle.

To behold with their own eyes the Children of the Forest—beings they had believed existed only in Old Nan's tales—made all their hardships seem suddenly worthwhile.

"What are Your Highness's intentions going forward?" Lord Commander Jeor inquired, offering a steaming cup of honeyed mead to the Crown Prince. His tone carried a hint of wistful anticipation.

Joffrey accepted the drink with a smile. "Life upon the Wall has proven unforgettable, but my royal father has already traveled half the distance to Winterfell. I promised to rejoin the caravan before it reaches King's Landing, so I must depart with all haste."

The basilisk venom remains unutilized, he thought to himself. He would need to intercept the King in the Riverlands farther south, and before that, he must hasten to a location no more than two days' distant to resolve certain complications.

"I shall take my leave at first light tomorrow."

The Lord Commander's weathered face softened slightly. "I wish Your Highness a journey without incident."

Joffrey raised his cup in salute. "I thank you for your kind words, Lord Commander."

And the Red Keep, he thought, his mind turning southward. The time approaches.

Activating the Mirror Rune, Joffrey perceived Hanna, far away in the Red Keep, seated before her looking glass. Her face appeared drawn and tense in the polished silver surface.

He sent her the final signal through their mystical connection:

Action in seven days.