[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 41 - 45

Chapter 41: The Fallen Night's Watch

Eight thousand years had passed since the Long Night swept across the world, a darkness so profound that a generation knew nothing but winter. When at last that ancient disaster subsided, the Wall rose in the far north of the Seven Kingdoms.

Built of ice and massive stone, it stretched for hundreds of leagues across the northern border, soaring seven hundred feet into the cold sky. It was said that ancient spells were woven into its foundations, that the children of the forest had helped raise it with magics now forgotten to the world of men.

From that day forth, the Night's Watch had kept their vigil upon those frozen battlements.

The Wall became the realm's greatest bulwark against what lay beyond—the wildlings who called themselves the free folk, and the Others whose very existence had faded into legend.

As all men knew, or thought they knew.

The journey from Winterfell to the Wall was no simple undertaking. More than six hundred miles of harsh terrain separated the two, and the farther north one traveled, the more severe and desolate the land became. The winds grew sharper, more eager to steal the heat from living flesh.

Joffrey's party of nine had been traveling north along the Kingsroad for twelve days.

At the outset, they had numbered only six: Joffrey, Tyrion, two attendants, Jon Snow, and Benjen Stark, First Ranger of the Night's Watch.

Then Yoren had joined them, bringing with him two sullen rapists bound for the Wall.

Yoren's duty was to wander the Seven Kingdoms, seeking recruits for the Watch. In these latter days, when the order had fallen so far from its former glory, he found few volunteers of noble character. Instead, he gathered criminals from dungeons across the realm, men who chose the black over the headsman's axe or the noose.

The two rapists hailed from the Fingers in the Vale. They were ragged and filthy, and every movement they made betrayed a nature both brutish and cruel.

Yet these men were but typical examples of the recruits who now replenished the Watch's dwindling ranks.

Jon Snow felt a renewed sense of gratitude after observing them.

So the Night's Watch had truly become this wretched. Fortune had smiled upon him when he accepted His Highness's invitation to King's Landing—what hope for a decent life would there have been otherwise?

Though they had yet to glimpse the Wall's imposing silhouette, Jon had already sensed the grim reality of the order's decline.

King's Landing would be infinitely preferable.

Jon could not help but glance at the Crown Prince, who rode comfortably atop his massive lion, enjoying the northern landscape with casual appreciation. A twinge of envy passed through him.

Joffrey suffered none of the journey's hardships.

He had Rain as his mount, magic to keep him warm and to hunt with ease, servants to attend his needs, magnificent vistas of snow-capped mountains and ancient forests to admire, and Tyrion's wit to pass the long hours on the road...

The only blemish on this idyllic scene was the unfortunate company they were forced to keep.

Jon's gaze drifted to the rapists, and whatever small hope he might have harbored for the discipline and integrity of the Night's Watch withered completely.

It was no wonder that in thousands of years, no Others or monstrous threats had ventured south of the Wall. The legendary foes had become nothing more than fireside tales told to frighten children.

Without the Others, the only threat beyond the Wall was the backward wildlings. And the immense barrier was more than sufficient to prevent any large-scale crossing. The scattered few who managed to slip through were rarely able to venture beyond the North's borders. Small wonder, then, that the Seven Kingdoms no longer supported the Night's Watch as they had in millennia past.

An order deprived of fresh blood and proper resources could only decline, growing more corrupt with each passing generation until it faced extinction.

Yet Joffrey understood a truth that others did not: the Others were no myth, the Long Night would come again, and the Night's Watch would soon face its true purpose.

He knew he must take their plight seriously.

When he ascended the Iron Throne and stabilized the realm, the Night's Watch would be reborn under his patronage. The criminals who now comprised the brotherhood would find themselves assigned elsewhere.

Benjen Stark pulled on his reins, and the sturdy garron beneath him reluctantly approached the fearsome lion.

"In a fortnight, we shall reach Castle Black," he said, his voice as cold as the northern wind. "It's not too late for His Highness to reconsider this journey. The brothers of the Night's Watch have little use for empty condolences. Bread, wine, steel, men—what can you truly offer us?"

Perhaps due to his distrust of House Lannister, Benjen had maintained a frosty demeanor toward Joffrey throughout their journey.

Joffrey met the First Ranger's scrutinizing gaze without flinching. "The Others have long since vanished, and the wildlings pose no significant threat. The Night's Watch should express gratitude for whatever support the realm provides, rather than complain that it falls short of your desires."

"Besides," he added with a hint of steel in his voice, "I remain the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. Does my personal visit count for nothing in your estimation?"

Benjen snorted, preparing to offer a sharp retort.

Joffrey raised his hand in warning. "How interesting. A pack of rats has come to scurry through our forest."

The prince's keen perception had already been demonstrated on multiple occasions during their journey. At his words, everyone drew their swords and peered into the dense woodland to the left of the road.

Amidst the subtle rustling of leaves and snapping of twigs, shadowy figures materialized between the ancient oaks and towering pines.

Joffrey glanced to the opposite side. "There are more approaching from this direction as well."

Benjen pivoted, pointing his sword's tip toward the right side of the road.

After what seemed an eternity, though it was merely the space of a few dozen heartbeats, thirty or forty disheveled figures had surrounded them.

Most were men, armed with a hodgepodge of crude weapons: short knives, spears tipped with bronze, notched longswords that had seen better days, and bows fashioned from green wood. They wore the standard garb of wildlings—furs and hides stitched together with varying degrees of skill.

A low, rumbling growl split the silence.

A snow bear, its massive form rivaling that of Rain, padded onto the road. Upon its back sat a gaunt man whose eyes rolled wildly in their sockets. The bear's gaze glinted with an unnatural intelligence.

A skinchanger.

The two rapists betrayed their fear openly, while the remaining attendants gripped their short swords with trembling hands.

Joffrey's expression grew serious. The situation was more complex than it first appeared. Wildlings were to be expected in these northern reaches, but how had a skinchanger and his snow bear crossed the Wall? Such a thing should have been impossible.

Tyrion attempted to defuse the tension through diplomacy. "Free folk," he called out, "with such numbers at your command, surely you could live peacefully. Why resort to such base actions as highway robbery? No one need be harmed here today."

A bald man barked with laughter.

"Half-man," he sneered, "you dare speak thus? Your pathetic band is outnumbered five to one. We could destroy you with a single breath. Who, precisely, do you imagine will be harmed?"

Tyrion committed the man's face to memory, saying nothing.

Joffrey studied the bald man's attire with narrowed eyes. Though filthy and worn nearly to rags, the garment had once unmistakably been a black cloak.

Black. A deserter from the Night's Watch.

The prince's gaze swept across the assembled wildlings. At least seven or eight wore the faded black of the Watch. Most of the others were clad in mismatched leathers, crude and irregular. A few wore garments clearly originating from the Seven Kingdoms—stolen from travelers less fortunate than themselves, no doubt.

Another man, this one sporting a matted beard, stepped forward. "We seek only coin and valuables. Lay down your weapons, and we shall spare your lives."

Not a man among Joffrey's party believed such hollow assurances.

The prince quickly assessed their situation. Five archers, thirty-two armed men, a snow bear, and its skinchanger master.

The odds were decidedly not in their favor. They could not hope to survive through intimidation alone.

That left only one option: combat.

"Hold!" Joffrey shouted with feigned desperation. "I am the heir to Winterfell! Spare our lives, and any amount of gold or silver can be negotiated!"

All eyes turned toward him, momentarily distracted by the prospect of greater wealth.

In that instant, Joffrey's hand moved with blinding speed, drawing seven throwing knives and launching them in rapid succession at the wildling archers.

The air sang with their passage. Five archers dropped their bows almost simultaneously, Joffrey's blades buried deep in their skulls. They collapsed to the frozen ground, their eternal rest beginning before they even understood what had occurred.

The wildlings erupted in rage. "Kill them all!" came the cry from dozens of throats.

The clash began in earnest.

"Jon, Benjen—charge to the right!" Joffrey commanded.

Rain carried the prince and Tyrion into the forest, massive paws crushing the undergrowth as the great beast tore through half a dozen wildlings who stood in their path.

The lion's attack created a momentary gap in the encirclement.

Jon, Ghost, Benjen, and Yoren instantly seized the opportunity, spurring their mounts after the prince.

The remaining members of their party, slower to react, were overwhelmed in seconds. Blood and flesh scattered across the snow-dusted road as the wildlings fell upon them with savage fury.

A dozen pursuers crashed into the forest, following their prey for several hundred yards before losing sight of them among the trees.

For a brief moment, it seemed the danger had passed.

The wildlings who remained on the road scrambled to claim the spoils of their victory—horses, wagons, provisions, and other treasures abandoned in the hasty retreat.

Those who had given chase soon returned, eager to claim their share of the plunder.

Then came a low, rumbling growl.

The snow bear crushed a human skull between its massive jaws with a sickening crack.

The skinchanger opened his mouth, but the voice that emerged seemed to belong to the bear itself.

"Find them," he commanded, his eyes vacant as his consciousness rode within the great beast. "Find that lion."

The wildlings, suppressing both their anger and their fear, reluctantly returned to the forest in search of their escaped prey.

Chapter 42: The Snow Bear's Hunt

The tall, ancient trees of the Wolfswood stood like silent sentinels, their thick canopy perfect for the deadly game of hunter and hunted now unfolding beneath their boughs.

The free folk moved with practiced caution, maintaining tight formation as they pursued their prey. Twenty-five warriors advanced in concert with the massive snow bear, its powerful muscles rippling beneath thick white fur as it sniffed the air for the scent of their quarry.

Blood had already been paid as toll for this venture. Though only five of their number had been sent to kneel before whatever gods the wildlings kept, none harbored illusions about the dangers that awaited. The direwolf and that other monstrous beast—a lion of impossible size—were not foes to be faced alone. No sane man would seek such a confrontation willingly.

If not for the skinchanger's compulsion, they would never have dared pursue those who had already proven themselves deadly. If not for his unrelenting commands, they might already be fleeing southward toward warmer, more prosperous lands and the stone fortress of Winterfell.

The southron kneelers insisted Winterfell belonged to the North, but that was folly. Compared to the true North beyond the Wall, these lands were as southern as the shores of Dorne.

But such thoughts were as useless as wishes for summer in the depths of winter. The free folk had no choice but to press forward into this forest where death awaited.

The snow bear padded forward, tracking the scent of their enemies while the wildlings followed with wary steps, their footfalls muffled by the carpet of fallen leaves and soft earth.

An eerie silence had descended upon the forest. No birds called from the branches above, no insects chirped from the undergrowth, no wild creatures stirred in the distance. The only sounds were those made by the hunting party itself—the crunch of leaves, the soft jingling of crude weapons, the occasional whispered word.

The free folk could smell the stench of their own fear, mingled with the metallic promise of danger.

Who, truly, is the prey here? many wondered silently, exchanging nervous glances.

Some could not help but recall their fallen comrades who had perished beneath the claws of that golden monster: the reddish-yellow viscera amid shattered bone, the terrible struggle of men cleaved in two at the waist, the mingled stench of blood and fouler fluids, the horror frozen in the eyes of the dead.

Those who now carried bows remembered their predecessors, who had fallen with throwing knives buried in their skulls. That golden-haired lordling had been merciless in his violence.

The archers felt their throats tighten with regret. This was but a hastily assembled band, not a proper tribe with bonds of kinship and loyalty. The archers seemed marked for death, likely to be the first to fall should battle commence anew.

Throughout the party, a single question burned: why was the skinchanger so determined to hunt these kneelers? What prize could be worth such risk?

Elsewhere in the forest, Joffrey pondered the same question.

The skinchanger's presence in these lands was already a puzzle that defied easy explanation. Such relentless pursuit must conceal some deeper purpose, some conspiracy as yet unrevealed.

Whatever the truth might be, the immediate concern remained paramount: the enemy must be defeated.

After securing his horse—a skittish beast unaccustomed to the scent of wildlings—Joffrey placed a shattered piece of steel in his palm, his face serene with concentration.

The true hunt was about to begin.

Tyrion waved his dagger through the air with nervous energy, his mismatched eyes gleaming with a mixture of fear and vengeful desire. "Nephew," he said in a low voice, "when the time comes, leave that bald man to me. You understand? A Lannister always pays his debts."

Joffrey rolled his eyes at his uncle's posturing.

Had he not been concerned for the safety of Tyrion and the others, he would never have ordered their strategic withdrawal. He would have settled matters there on the Kingsroad, leaving none alive to tell the tale.

"From this moment forward, you will all follow my commands without question," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "Is that understood?"

Benjen silently drew his short sword, the gesture answer enough.

Joffrey nodded, satisfied. "Good. If we work in concert, these wildlings will perish here in this forest, while we shall not shed a single drop of blood."

He focused his awareness on the information transmitted by the shattered steel fragment in his palm. The range of his mental powers remained limited, but with the other fragments scattered throughout the forest serving as conduits, he could track the wildlings' movements in real time.

After a moment's contemplation, Joffrey outlined his plan.

"We shall ambush them here."

Through his information runes, he shared images of the terrain and ambush location with the other four men.

"Jon, you and Ghost will move with me. Benjen and Yoren shall be responsible for taking prisoners and ensuring Tyrion's safety."

Jon nodded his acceptance, but Benjen and Yoren stared at the prince with undisguised astonishment, their eyes wide as saucers.

"What manner of sorcery is this?" Yoren asked, his voice trembling with awe and fear. "Have the gods themselves granted you power?"

Joffrey doubted they had even remembered their original mission, so shocked were they by this display of his abilities.

"Perhaps it is not the gods who have blessed me," he said carefully, "but it must be the grace of some great, supreme being. In any case, I have received this boon, which shows that the Seven Kingdoms are deeply favored by fate."

He placed a hand on Benjen's shoulder, his gaze direct and honest.

"I understand your concerns, Benjen Stark. The Others are real, not mere legends from wet nurse tales. That is why I decided to journey to the Wall. The threat of the Others approaches, and the Seven Kingdoms remain woefully unprepared—but this matters not. I shall unite the realm, and humanity will ultimately triumph."

Benjen's assessment of the crown prince underwent a profound transformation in that moment.

"We move immediately," Joffrey commanded.

As they set forth, he added, "Leave some alive for questioning. I trust you have sufficient experience to manage this. Ensure that not a single wildling escapes to carry tales northward."

Benjen and Yoren struggled to compose themselves. "As you command, Your Highness."

The hunters took their positions with practiced efficiency.

Joffrey and Jon concealed themselves within the dense canopy of an ancient oak, hidden by the thick foliage.

Ghost and Rain lay prone beyond the ambush point, muscles coiled and ready to join the fray at the perfect moment.

Benjen, Yoren, and Tyrion established a position further back, prepared to intercept any who might flee once the initial assault began.

The wind whispered through the trees, causing leaves to rustle with a sound like distant rainfall.

The wildlings immediately tensed, scanning their surroundings with wary eyes. The skinchanger kept his gaze alert, while the snow bear, momentarily freed from his control, let out several agitated growls.

There were too many scents, too intermingled—the beast could not pinpoint their quarry's exact location.

The wildlings detected nothing unusual in the forest around them.

But they had already entered Joffrey's mental domain.

From this moment forward, every movement of every wildling would be known to him, every breath and heartbeat sensed through his magic.

The prey was firmly entangled in the hunter's net.

Joffrey silently drew five throwing knives, the steel glinting dully in the filtered sunlight.

It would be wise to keep the skinchanger alive if possible; even if killed, the man's consciousness might flee into the snow bear's body, complicating matters unnecessarily.

The remaining archers still presented the most immediate threat and must be neutralized first.

The wildlings drew steadily closer. Sixty yards became fifty, then forty, then thirty. Joffrey waited no longer.

Several small shadows flashed above the wildlings' heads, moving faster than an eye could follow.

The wildlings panicked, attempting to dodge the unseen threat.

The archers had no chance to move. They simply crumpled, falling into the carpet of leaves, bows still clutched in stiffening fingers.

The skinchanger's body collapsed instantly, his eyes rolling back to show only whites as his consciousness fled into the snow bear. The beast's gaze, suddenly more intelligent and filled with malice, fixed upon Joffrey's hiding place with uncanny precision.

Rain charged forward, tearing through the wildlings that stood between him and the bear. Men were ripped apart in seconds, their screams cut short as the massive lion's jaws closed around throats and limbs.

The snow bear turned to face the golden challenger and rose to its full height, towering nearly fifteen feet tall on its hind legs. Its massive paws, tipped with claws as long as daggers, raised high in challenge. Its maw gaped wide, revealing rows of yellowed teeth like a wall of waiting blades.

In less than the span of a heartbeat, the two beasts collided with a sound like thunder.

Lion claws and bear paws became a blur of motion, while their fanged mouths sought vulnerable flesh. Roars and howls grew louder and more ferocious with each passing moment, sending chills through the bodies of all who heard.

Ghost joined the fray, darting between the legs of a wildling to disembowel the man with a single savage bite. The direwolf's pristine white fur became spattered with crimson droplets.

"Jon," Joffrey called out as he leapt from the canopy, "come and see what blood looks like on a true battlefield."

His sword flashed once, and a terrified wildling's head tumbled from his shoulders. Blood fountained from the severed arteries, spraying Joffrey's fine leathers.

This was no tournament melee or practice yard skirmish. This was life and death, played out with steel and sinew.

Jon drew a deep breath, steeling himself, then joined the battle with his sword drawn.

The free folk, not yet ready to surrender to despair, exchanged quick glances before charging toward the golden-haired lordling. Their battle cries echoed through the forest as they rushed forward.

If they could capture this one, they might yet survive the day.

Eight warriors against one southron boy—they could not imagine failure.

But their confidence shattered like brittle ice against the reality of Joffrey's prowess.

His sword cut through their crude weapons as though they were made of parchment, not bronze and steel. No blade or axe could withstand a single strike from that fearsome weapon.

Two warriors were cleaved in two with a single sweep, their upper halves sliding from their lower with grotesque finality.

The wildlings' terror grew. The noble youth seemed impervious to harm—he had been stabbed more than once, yet not a drop of his blood flowed. More terrifying than even the White Walkers of legend!

Three points of red light flashed from the prince's blade, and more wildlings fell, reduced to scattered pieces of flesh and shattered bone.

He cannot be human, they thought with growing horror.

The wildlings' resolve collapsed entirely. The snow bear was now covered in bloody wounds and burns, while the giant lion's fur remained frustratingly pristine, as untouchable as its master appeared to be.

Several wildlings cast down their weapons and fell to their knees in surrender, while others turned to flee in blind panic.

Benjen and Yoren moved forward to intercept the fleeing men, their swords making quick work of those who refused to yield.

Joffrey lowered Dragonflame's tip and turned his attention to the snow bear.

Rain had been infused with the mirrored images of fortification, restoration, and growth runes—what threat could a mere snow bear pose to such a creature? As expected, the great white beast was rapidly losing its will to fight, overwhelmed by the lion's relentless assault.

Joffrey was about to command Rain to show mercy.

Suddenly, the snow bear let out a series of haunting roars that echoed through the forest. Its massive body stiffened for a moment, as though responding to some unseen command. Then, disregarding its grievous injuries, it lunged toward the prone form of the skinchanger.

Several sickening cracks split the air.

The skinchanger's body shattered beneath the bear's massive paws, crushed beyond all recognition.

The snow bear then collapsed to the ground, its strength spent, the strange intelligence fading from its eyes as it drew labored breaths.

Joffrey narrowed his eyes and gazed up into the clear northern sky.

There were no ravens to be seen, yet he could not shake the feeling that they were being watched by eyes far more ancient and knowing than those of the wildlings or their skinchanger.

Chapter 43: The Black Hand Outside the Great Wall

Black soil and white wood—these were the only constants in the cave that stretched endlessly beneath the frozen earth.

Here, far beyond the Wall, beneath unnamed hills locked in eternal winter, lay a labyrinth of interconnected caverns that plunged deep into the heart of the world. No living man had ever explored all the dark passages that wound through this subterranean realm.

"The dead grow ever more numerous," came a voice like water flowing over smooth stones, sweet and high-pitched, more akin to a mournful song than human speech.

The speaker resembled a child, though she was anything but. Large eyes that shifted between gold and emerald watched the world with ancient patience. Her hair, a wild tangle of colors, was interwoven with twigs, leaves, and tiny flowers that should not have survived in such lightless depths.

She wore a cloak fashioned of living leaves that whispered when she moved, and her dark brown skin was dappled like a doe's flank. She was one of the children of the forest, the first inhabitants of Westeros, though in their own tongue, they called themselves those who sing of the earth.

From a throne carved into the heart of an ancient weirwood, the Three-Eyed Raven responded, his voice a hoarse whisper that seemed to emanate from the very roots of the tree.

"The servants of the Great Other have indeed awakened," he croaked, "but hope remains. The dead they command cannot breach the spells woven into the entrance of this place."

The White Walkers—the Others of legend—could transform the slain into wights, servants bound to their terrible will. Thousands upon thousands of the dead marched at their command, a tide of rotting flesh and ancient bones that threatened to engulf the world of men.

The child of the forest gazed at the old man with eyes full of concern. He was ancient beyond reckoning, his withered body gradually merging with the pale weirwood. Roots grew through his limbs and torso, and his flesh had begun to transform into bark and wood. Only a single crimson eye remained to him, along with long white hair that fell past his waist like a frozen waterfall.

This was the Last Greenseer, the final keeper of the old powers.

Once, greenseers had been the wise men and women of the children of the forest, but as their kind dwindled toward extinction, they had been forced to seek those rare humans born with the gift—the ability to see through the eyes of the weirwood trees and look across vast distances of space and time.

Brynden Rivers. The old man who had once given them hope, but who now seemed unable to prevent the final darkness that approached.

"Greenseer," the child said softly, "perhaps we shall all return to the earth with you when your time comes."

She knew the truth that neither wished to speak aloud. The man had long since exceeded any natural lifespan. Only his unwavering will and the power of the weirwood had sustained him these many years, but even such formidable magic had its limits.

Perhaps in a few months, or a year or two at most, the old man would finally embrace his eternal rest.

Yet Brynden Rivers—once called "Bloodraven" by those who feared him—had not surrendered to despair.

"No," he insisted, the roots around him trembling slightly with the force of his conviction. "I have found a new greenseer who will serve after I am gone. He will accomplish what I could not, and he will help the world thwart the designs of the Great Other."

She knew of whom he spoke. Brandon Stark, a boy blessed with the rare gift, had received the old man's attention since birth, watched through a thousand eyes as he grew.

Unfortunately...

"Has not the child journeyed further south?" she asked. "To the plains that were once great forests in the time before?"

Bloodraven's single eye flashed with a mixture of hatred and regret.

This is not how events were meant to unfold, he thought bitterly. I watched over him for so many years—how could matters go so awry?

The weight of failure was almost unbearable to him.

He was Brynden Rivers, the infamous Lord Bloodraven, a man of noble dragon blood. His deeds had become the stuff of legend during his lifetime, whispered from Dorne to the Wall and beyond.

Men said he had a thousand eyes and one, that he practiced foul sorceries in the dark of night, that his very breath could steal a man's soul.

So what if they did? The slanders and fears of lesser men only proved that his existence was too significant to ignore.

Even after being exiled to the Wall, stripped of all that was rightfully his, he had risen to become Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.

Time had caught him at last, as it catches all men.

The gods had shown him favor when, in his seventieth year, he encountered the children of the forest beyond the Wall, the last remnants of a vanishing race.

Fate had smiled upon him. He had become the greenseer of the Haunted Forest, the Three-Eyed Raven who saw all that transpired beneath the sun. Though he could no longer walk upon the earth, he could fly. He had ten thousand eyes, a hundred thousand, a million. He could view the entirety of the world through the eyes of every raven, every crow, every creature that lived and breathed.

I am not ready to die. Not yet.

Brandon Stark represented his best hope—perhaps his only hope. Through the boy, he could begin anew, utilizing the might of the Seven Kingdoms to stand against the advancing White Walkers. Perhaps even to reclaim the dragon's throne that had been denied him.

"The course of fate has been diverted by one who should not exist," he said, his voice gaining strength. "If we can but correct this aberration, the boy will embrace the destiny that awaits him."

The child regarded him with eyes that had witnessed the passing of centuries. "How might we correct such a deviation?" she asked, her melodic voice betraying no emotion.

"This interloper possesses abilities not of the mortal realm," Bloodraven replied. "Fire, steel, and sight beyond sight. He may be the trial we must overcome before the dawn can break."

Bloodraven recalled the visions he had glimpsed through his far-reaching sight.

"You alone among your tribe understand the Common Tongue of men," he continued. "I need you to undertake a journey. Take several of your strongest kindred and bring this anomaly to me."

After a moment's hesitation, the Last Greenseer decided to reveal one of his most closely guarded secrets.

"Take my raven with you," he said. "It will locate the human skinchangers who dwell in the forest. These individuals will prove valuable allies in your quest."

The child saw the desperate hope that burned in the old man's single eye.

For countless years, her people had hidden from mankind, concealing themselves in the deepest woods and the darkest caves. Now, the greenseer asked them to actively confront a human of terrible power?

The one who should not exist. She tried to envision what manner of creature this might be.

Fear fluttered in her ancient heart, but she knew her duty. The greenseer's vision encompassed all things; his wisdom transcended that of any living being.

"I understand, Greenseer," she said with a slight bow of her head.

Perhaps this journey would unfold without difficulty. She turned and began to walk from the chamber, each step careful and measured.

Behind her, the old man's voice drifted like smoke through the stillness of the cave. "Take this sword with you," he whispered. "The humans you encounter will likely have need of it."

She turned back and beheld a slender longsword, its blade as black as a starless night.

She had wandered the world of men for more than two hundred years. She knew the legendary weapon by its ancient name.

"Dark Sister," she breathed, a hint of awe in her melodic voice.

The black raven took flight, soaring from the cave entrance into the frozen waste beyond.

The children of the forest followed close behind their winged guide.

Many dead lay buried beneath the heavy snow outside the cave's entrance. The aura of life that emanated from the small party swiftly awakened these dormant sentinels, and throughout the snowfield, pale blue eyes flickered open in grotesque faces.

A host of wights rose from their icy graves, lurching toward the children of the forest with unnatural hunger.

Does the Great Other watch us even now? she wondered.

Her own companion was a small, clever fox that darted between the shambling corpses. The other six members of her tribe rode beasts better suited for battle—a pair of shadowcats whose claws could tear a dead man to ribbons with a few swift strikes, and several wild boars whose powerful bodies carved a path through the wights like a plow through summer soil.

The raven circled overhead, untroubled by the grim scene below.

They broke through the encirclement with surprising ease.

She released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. These appeared to be merely mindless dead, not under direct control of a White Walker.

Wights fully commanded by one of the cold gods were far more cunning. Combined with their overwhelming numbers, such foes would have posed a significantly greater challenge.

The raven wheeled toward the southwest, its purpose fixed.

Her companions looked to her, their ancient eyes filled with a curious mixture of excitement for the journey ahead and apprehension for the unknown dangers that awaited them.

She sang to them in the True Tongue, the first language ever spoken in the dawn of days: "The earth blesses us, the forest blesses us. The Last Greenseer has found his heir. We go to correct the path of fate, and our people shall flourish once more as in days of old."

Trusting in the wisdom of the greenseer, the children of the forest left their final sanctuary and ventured into a world that had all but forgotten their existence.

"Hear me!" bellowed a man of imposing height, seated atop a shaggy mammoth whose tusks had been adorned with bronze rings and strips of dyed leather. "Since the lord has given his command, all must obey without question! None shall act without proper authority!"

The free folk erupted into chaos at these words, each clamoring to make their opinions known, none willing to heed the counsel of others.

The children of the forest observed this display with bewilderment.

The singer was not overly surprised by the spectacle. Her long years wandering the fringes of the human world had taught her much about the peculiar behaviors of men. Those who dwelled beyond the Wall lacked the rigid hierarchy of their southern kin, but neither were they given to sustained conflict amongst themselves. She knew that time would eventually calm these turbulent waters.

The allies that the raven had guided them to were all assembled, and soon their combined force would march toward the Wall.

She felt a surge of confidence as she surveyed their numbers.

More than five hundred strong fighters had answered the call, along with over thirty skinchangers whose consciousness could flow into beasts of every kind—wild boars, snow bears, shadowcats, mammoths, direwolves, gray wolves, foxes, eagles, ravens, and wild dogs.

Surely no single man, no matter how unnatural his powers, could withstand such a force?

She allowed herself a small, pleasant smile as she contemplated the journey ahead.

Chapter 44: Soul Sacrifice

Tyrion could not suppress the smile that spread across his mismatched features.

Nine captives knelt upon the frozen ground before them, their breath forming small clouds in the bitter northern air. Seven men and two women—all of whom had taken up arms against them, all of whom had blood on their hands.

By some stroke of fortune—or perhaps misfortune, depending on one's perspective—the bald man who had hurled insults at Tyrion's stature had survived the skirmish. The dwarf's mind danced with delicious possibilities for how he might repay such courtesies.

Yoren approached, his weathered face impassive as he carried a grisly trophy—a string of severed heads that swung from a leather cord like grotesque fruit.

"Thanks to Your Highness," the grizzled recruiter of the Night's Watch announced, "these wild dogs are finished. The Wall shall have a few more decorations upon its battlements."

Joffrey regarded the man with a measured gaze. "Perhaps we need not be quite so harsh in our assessment," he said. "After all, two among their number are deserters from the Night's Watch. Can we truly call them wild dogs when they once stood among your brothers?"

His emerald eyes fell upon the two men in question, their black garments faded but unmistakable.

The deserters slumped in defeat, offering no denial of their treachery.

Benjen Stark snorted with cold contempt. "Worse than dogs!" he spat. "I doubt they've forgotten my face, though they might wish they had. Your Highness, I ask the honor of executing these traitors myself."

Tyrion interjected quickly, "Leave the bald one to me."

Before Joffrey could respond to either request, he addressed the prisoners directly. "Tell me what you know," he commanded. "Whoever provides the most valuable information may yet live to see another dawn."

A flicker of desperate hope kindled in the eyes of the deserters.

They had learned the golden-haired youth's true identity during the battle. If they could somehow secure the Crown Prince's pardon, would even the Night's Watch dare gainsay such royal mercy?

The two men exchanged a swift, calculating glance.

The bald giant was first to speak, scrabbling forward on his knees. "Your Highness, I confess I abandoned my post at the Wall," he said, words tumbling forth in his haste. "But you must understand—I was patrolling beyond when I encountered the Others themselves! Becoming a wildling was my only choice for survival."

The second deserter, a gaunt man with iron-gray stubble, was only a heartbeat slower. "Stiv, how dare you spin such falsehoods before His Highness?" he cried, his voice dripping with feigned outrage. "I, Warren, have done wrong, aye—but at least I have the courage to admit my crimes honestly!"

Joffrey regarded them both with an expression as cold and unyielding as the Wall itself.

"Enough of this mummery," he said. "I seek information, not confessions. What manner of men you are and what crimes stain your hands is of little concern to me."

His gaze hardened. "Who was the skinchanger who led your band? How did you assemble your force? What drove you to pursue us with such determination? What transpires beyond the Wall? Have you encountered others with unusual abilities?"

Warren responded immediately, his tone obsequious. "Your Highness shows great wisdom in your questions. The skinchanger was called Varamyr, though wildlings named him 'Sixskins.' He once commanded three wolves, a snow bear, and a shadowcat, but brought only the bear when he crossed the Wall."

He licked his cracked lips nervously. "Mance Rayder—the King-Beyond-the-Wall—recruited Varamyr to strengthen his army against the Others... or perhaps against the Wall itself. Few have true faith in either endeavor."

Stiv interrupted, eager to provide his own testimony.

"Many wildlings flee southward in fear of the Others," he said. "Most travel in small bands of a few souls or perhaps a dozen at most. Varamyr used his snow bear to force several such groups to serve his purposes. That is how we came to march under his command—not by choice, but by compulsion."

He spread his bound hands in supplication. "As for why he attacked Your Highness, I swear by the old gods and the new, he never spoke his intentions aloud."

"Varamyr kept his own counsel throughout our journey," Stiv continued. "Save when taking sustenance, his spirit dwelled almost constantly within the snow bear's body."

"Oh!" Warren's eyes suddenly brightened. "There was something most strange—when Varamyr's consciousness inhabited the bear, his human body could still speak! I have never witnessed such a feat in all my years beyond the Wall."

Upon hearing this, Joffrey felt the final piece of a puzzle slot into place.

A skinchanger of sufficient strength might control multiple bodies simultaneously, but this Varamyr clearly lacked such ability. Who, then, had controlled him? Or worse—who had controlled both the skinchanger and his bear at once?

Only one answer presented itself: the Three-Eyed Raven.

Well played, old bird, Joffrey thought with cold amusement. Your hostility toward me reveals your fear. You truly comprehend neither who I am nor what I am capable of.

Benjen stepped forward, his patience wearing thin. "Speak!" he demanded. "How did the snow bear cross the Wall? It could not have climbed seven hundred feet of ice, nor sailed across the Bay of Seals on some wildling coracle!"

The two deserters fell silent, having exhausted their knowledge of matters beyond their involvement.

"Lord, I know the answer you seek."

The taller of the two wildling women suddenly spoke, raising her head to offer Joffrey and Benjen a knowing smile.

Benjen's expression soured further. "Speak plainly, spearwife," he commanded.

Among the free folk, women who took up arms were known as spearwives—though to Benjen Stark, any wildling who bore weapons against the realm was simply an enemy, regardless of their sex. His heart harbored not a drop of mercy for such foes.

"I have a name, lord," the woman replied with surprising dignity. "I am called Osha. And might I suggest—His Highness has not yet spoken. Perhaps you should await his command."

She had discerned the true power structure within the group all too quickly.

Joffrey regarded the woman with renewed interest. He recognized her from his knowledge of what should have been—in that other path of fate, she would be captured by Robb Stark and later become a guardian to Bran and Rickon during their flight from Theon Greyjoy's betrayal.

"Tell me what you know, Osha," he said. "I share Lord Stark's curiosity about how a beast of such size breached the Wall."

"As you wish," she replied, desperation for survival evident beneath her calculated composure. "I witnessed it with my own eyes. Varamyr's snow bear entered through an abandoned passage that cuts through the Wall itself."

Benjen's face flushed with alarm. "That's impossible!" he snapped. "Would you dare point out this supposed secret passage?"

Osha's lips curled into a slight smile. "Most willingly, lord. Provided His Highness allows me to reach the Wall with my head still upon my shoulders, Osha will lead you directly to it."

Joffrey's gaze swept across the remaining wildlings. "Does anyone else wish to share what they know? This moment is your final opportunity to purchase your lives with words."

Panic spread through the kneeling captives.

They had fled their homes beyond the Wall only to find themselves prisoners, no longer the free folk who answered to no masters. One by one, they prostrated themselves, begging for clemency.

"Lord! Your Highness! Spare my life! I shall serve you in any capacity you require!"

"I know the lands beyond the Wall better than any man here! Lord Benjen, I would guide the Night's Watch and offer all assistance within my power!"

"I have seen Mance Rayder with my own eyes—the Watch has need of such intelligence!"

"Your Highness, show mercy! I am prepared to swear fealty to you until my dying day."

Joffrey shook his head with feigned regret.

He doubted any further valuable information could be extracted from this rabble.

Nevertheless, he had already collected more than thirty items—weapons and clothing—from the wildlings during and after the skirmish. Though the retracing rune could not directly probe the memories of people or animals, many scenes from the past could be gleaned through personal possessions. Perhaps something of value might yet be discovered.

And then there was the snow bear itself.

Though Joffrey had spared the creature, it could not speak its secrets. He had placed an information rune mirror upon the bear, hoping in time it might learn to communicate through this magical conduit.

He had attempted contact through the information rune, but received only primal emotions in return—fear, confusion, and resistance.

"Uncle," Joffrey said, turning to Tyrion, "this magnificent though somewhat dull-witted beast is yours. Speak with it often. I look forward to learning what secrets you might uncover."

Tyrion immediately grasped his nephew's meaning. "Fear not, good nephew. Under my expert tutelage, I promise the creature will recall even how many mouthfuls of milk it suckled as a cub."

With undisguised excitement, the dwarf made his way toward the snow bear. At last, he would have a mount to match his outsized reputation.

Joffrey exchanged meaningful glances with Benjen and Yoren. "Rise, Osha," he commanded. "Your service begins now."

The remaining six wildlings watched in horror as the brothers of the Night's Watch bound them roughly and arranged them in a row upon their knees.

The two deserters waited in nervous silence for their final judgment.

Joffrey's mind turned to the various clues he had gathered over the past months. The time had come to test his theory.

"Stiv, Warren," he said, his voice carrying the finality of judgment, "I regret that this shall be the last time I speak your names. You should not have betrayed your sworn brotherhood, nor should you have offered falsehoods to your prince."

The deserters collapsed in despair, their incoherent pleas lost in the cold northern air.

Had they lied? Joffrey knew the answer well enough.

Benjen Stark, at last granted his wish, dragged the two traitors into line with the other wildlings, one in each iron grip.

"Consider yourselves fortunate," he told them grimly. "You shall receive a clean death, free from lingering pain. Your former companions were not afforded such mercy."

Joffrey drew Dragonflame from its scabbard. The blade ignited with searing crimson light that cast eerie shadows across the snow.

"These three belong to me," he announced, indicating his chosen victims. "Each of you take one. When I count to one, we shall strike as one."

Tyrion positioned himself behind the bald man who had mocked him, a thin smile playing across his lips.

Joffrey raised Dragonflame high above his head, its light bathing his face in blood-red hues.

"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," he proclaimed, voice carrying across the silent forest, "I, Joffrey of the House Baratheon, Heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone, hereby sentence you to death."

"Three!"

The condemned closed their eyes.

"Two!"

The executioners tightened their grips.

"One!"

Dragonflame and five other blades fell in perfect unison.

Hot blood erupted from severed necks, spraying several feet through the frigid air. Steam rose from the crimson pools as eight heads tumbled across the snow, desperate eyes freezing in the moment of death.

The consciousness of eight humans fell into eternal silence.

An invisible force rippled through the air—present for the briefest moment before vanishing like morning mist. The light emanating from Dragonflame seemed to intensify, burning more brightly in the aftermath of death.

That invisible force was Source Energy.

Joffrey withdrew the ruby pendant hanging around his neck. After careful examination, he confirmed an unmistakable increase in the Source Energy contained within the gem.

He had found his answer.

Source Energy struggled to maintain its existence in the material world, but it could be stored within suitable vessels—gems, runes, and other such mediums—where it could be transformed into magical power.

More crucially, it could be brought into this world through a person's soul or thoughts, if only for the briefest instant after death.

Joffrey had discovered a method to harvest from the magical web of creation itself.

Chapter 45: The Wedding of Khal Drogo

In accordance with the ancient traditions of the Dothraki, the wedding of Khal Drogo and Princess Daenerys Targaryen was held beneath the open sky, upon the vast grasslands that sprawled beyond the walls of Pentos.

Daenerys felt fear coil within her like a serpent.

The Dothraki believed that all momentous events in life must be witnessed by the heavens above—including the joining of man and woman in marriage, and the consummation that would follow. Nothing hidden from the stars, nothing concealed from the sky.

How could it be like this? she thought, her heart fluttering like a caged bird.

Fear permeated her very being. Fear of this wedding arranged without once seeking her consent; fear of the bronze-skinned warrior who sat beside her, speaking a harsh tongue she could not comprehend, who had scarcely deigned to look upon her face; fear of what she would be forced to endure beneath the vast canopy of stars once darkness fell.

Confusion, terror, and uncertainty enveloped her like a shroud.

She was, after all, merely a girl of thirteen namedays.

This savage spectacle bore no resemblance to the wedding she had imagined in her girlhood dreams.

More than forty thousand barbaric "guests" reveled in drunken abandon below the dais, their alien customs bewildering to her Westerosi sensibilities. Women, children, slaves, and countless animals surrounded this temporary palace of woven grass and leather.

She gazed out upon the gathering and saw only strange, foreign faces—men and women with copper skin and almond eyes, their chests often bare beneath vests of painted horsehair and bronze medallions. They tore at roasted horseflesh with their teeth and drank fermented mare's milk from bladders and horns, spilling as much as they swallowed.

The assemblage gorged itself upon the bounty of the grasslands, quick to shove and quicker still to draw steel at the slightest provocation.

Amidst the cacophony, Daenerys had never felt more alone.

Though Khal Drogo laughed and shouted from his place of honor upon the high platform, his attention was fixed not upon his bride but upon his bloodriders carousing below. No one addressed her, as though she were a ghost at her own wedding feast.

She looked down to where Magister Illyrio and her brother sat at a lower table, close enough that she could see Viserys's face darkening with each passing moment, yet too distant for her to exchange even a whispered word.

Beside her brother sat Ser Jorah Mormont, his expression even more solemn than usual. Did he, too, find this spectacle distasteful?

The drums thundered with savage rhythm as bare-breasted women performed wild, sinuous dances before the Khal's dais. Daenerys quickly averted her gaze, willing herself to ignore the display.

A Dothraki warrior approached one of the dancers, then another, until two men seized the same woman between them. Strange, guttural challenges erupted from their throats.

In the space of a heartbeat, curved arakhs gleamed in the fading sunlight, their blades flashing like lightning as they cut through the gathering dusk.

These scythe-like weapons hung at the hip of every Dothraki warrior; Daenerys had seen hundreds since the morning sun had risen.

Now she would witness their deadly purpose.

After several breathless moments of flashing steel and harsh battle cries, one arakh described a perfect arc, slashing across a man's waist with terrible precision. Spine and abdomen parted, the body nearly severed in twain. The defeated warrior crumpled to the ground, his entrails spilling forth in a grotesque tide of crimson and green, quickly covered by the dust of the trampled earth.

Not a single voice called for the bloodshed to cease.

Magister Illyrio had warned her in his unctuous tones: "A Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths is considered a dull affair."

Daenerys sensed that before the sun rose again, many more than three would have joined the night lands.

Slaves carried away the corpse with practiced efficiency, while the victor casually pulled the dancer who had been the cause of the dispute into his lap, his bloodied hands already exploring her body. The wedding festivities continued without pause, as though nothing of note had occurred.

Servants approached the high dais bearing platters of exotic delicacies. Khal Drogo and his princess were offered the first choice of each dish before the platters made their way to Magister Illyrio and Viserys below.

With each round of food that arrived, Viserys's self-regard suffered another blow. He did not consider Khal Drogo his superior in rank, let alone his sister who sat above him on the dais.

"Your Grace, I pray you be at ease," Alyn murmured, presenting a platter to the exiled prince. "This is merely a courtesy extended to the principals of the wedding feast. The Khal understands full well how exalted your station truly is."

Alyn sought to prevent the Beggar King's wounded pride from disrupting the wedding. His carefully laid plans required more time to unfold.

Viserys seized upon this explanation eagerly. "I knew as much," he declared. "Drogo is not without sense. I am the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms—of course he comprehends the proper order of precedence."

His thin lips curled in a sneer. "For the sake of my sister's wedding, I shall overlook the impropriety... this once."

Alyn nodded in silent agreement, privately relieved that the prince's words had not carried to the high dais, and that Khal Drogo had no understanding of the Common Tongue.

Unlike the princess, Alyn found much to appreciate in the day's proceedings.

The chaotic arrangements sprawling across the grassland, the palace woven of grass, the simple wooden dais, the various wedding customs, the guests permitted to bear steel openly—even the casual deaths—all suited his purposes admirably.

Drogo's khalasar was vast beyond reckoning.

Forty thousand warriors and countless women, children, and slaves had gathered upon this plain. The logistical challenges of feeding and managing such a horde were immense.

Drogo could not personally oversee every aspect of his realm. He relied upon lieutenants known as kos to command the various khās that comprised his khalasār.

With the Khal at the apex and his kos as the pillars of his authority, the power wielded by his forty thousand mounted warriors was sufficient to make the city of Pentos tremble behind its walls.

The magisters had doubled the city's defenses in response to the Dothraki presence. Yet none would wager that such preparations would prove adequate should Drogo turn his horde against the city.

Pentos was widely acknowledged as the weakest of the Free Cities. The peace treaty imposed by Braavos stipulated that the Pentoshi could maintain no more than twenty warships, hire no sellswords, contract with no free companies, and field no army beyond the city watch.

What use were high walls when those within lacked the means to defend them?

Alyn silently thanked the Crown Prince for his counsel. The substantial disparities and tensions between the Dothraki and Pentos presented an opportunity he intended to exploit.

The feast had reached its zenith.

Alyn and Ser Jorah Mormont exchanged a meaningful glance before slipping away from the throng.

Jorah found himself wrestling with mounting concern.

In the span of mere days, the exiled knight had expended more energy than in the previous several years combined.

Varys the Spider had tasked him only with observing the Targaryen siblings and passing along whatever intelligence he gleaned. The eunuch had never requested that he take direct action.

It had been an arrangement of mutual benefit, but Jorah now suspected the Spider's influence at court might soon wane. The power of the Iron Throne itself seemed the wiser wager.

Alyn posed a far more complex challenge. The Crown Prince's man had demanded that Jorah act as intermediary, that he participate in killing, that he serve as protector.

The knight's gaze drifted to the kos seated across the gathering. Bono, Jhaqo—these lieutenants had not directly moved against Alyn, but did Drogo know of their whispered plots?

Jorah's hand strayed to the hilt of his longsword. Let there be less bloodshed this night, he thought grimly. And let none of it be mine.

The sun sank toward the western horizon, painting the grasslands in hues of gold and crimson.

Khal Drogo rose to his feet and clapped his massive hands together. Instantly, the drums fell silent, the shouts died away, and the raucous feasting noises ceased as though cut by a knife.

Drogo extended his hand to Daenerys, helping her to her feet. The ceremony of presenting the bride price was about to commence.

Viserys approached the dais, leading three young women by leather cords bound around their wrists.

Two were Dothraki with copper skin, almond eyes, and hair as black as midnight. The third was a Lyseni girl with hair like spun gold and eyes as blue as a summer sea.

"Good sister," Viserys began, his voice carrying a note of triumph, "these are no ordinary slaves."