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Year 299 AC/8 ABY
Kingslanding, The Crownlands
Tyrion settled into the Hand's chair, its high back dwarfing his small frame. He poured himself wine from the crystal decanter, noting how the afternoon light caught the ruby liquid like blood in glass.
The door opened without announcement. Only one person in the Red Keep possessed such audacity.
"Varys." Tyrion raised his cup in mock salute. "How refreshing to receive visitors who don't bother knocking. Perhaps we should remove all the doors entirely? Think of the carpentry costs we'd save."
Varys glided into the chamber, his silk like slippers whispering across stone. The eunuch's perfumed scent preceded him—lavender today, with hints of something Eastern. "My congratulations on your elevation, Lord Tyrion. Acting Hand of the King. Such a weighty responsibility for such a brief time."
"A moon, to be precise. Though given recent events, it feels more like a lifetime." Tyrion gestured to the chair opposite. "Sit. We have matters to discuss that require more than your usual dancing around the truth."
Varys lowered himself gracefully, arranging his robes with practiced precision. "Truth is such a dangerous commodity in King's Landing. One never knows who might be allergic."
"Speaking of dangerous commodities," Tyrion swirled his wine, watching the eunuch's face, "I hear Robert's bastards have been vanishing like morning mist. Eight at last count, all black of hair and strong of jaw. Strange how children can simply disappear."
Something flickered in Varys's eyes—not surprise, but perhaps acknowledgment. "Children disappear every day in this city, my lord. Fever, accidents, the occasional hungry rat."
"These particular rats seem rather selective in their appetites. Only dining on those with royal blood, however… diluted." Tyrion set down his cup with deliberate force. "You knew about this. You always know. Did you warn Robert?"
Varys's fingers found each other in his lap, pale spiders weaving invisible webs. "I may have tired to mention certain concerns to His Grace. Unfortunately, the Queen was near and made it quite clear that such concerns were... unwelcome. She can be most persuasive when discussing what subjects are appropriate for the King's attention."
"Threatened you, did she?"
"Let us say she reminded me that eunuchs are particularly vulnerable to unfortunate accidents. Falls from high places, poisoned wine, mysterious fires in one's chambers." Varys's voice remained pleasant, conversational. "The Queen has such a vivid imagination when it comes to potential mishaps."
Tyrion studied the spider's placid face. "And yet you said nothing about the tripled taxes on the North. Surely that fell within your purview as Master of Whisperers?"
"Certain people preferred that information reach the King through... specific channels." Varys spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "Lannister gold pays for most everyone of importance in this keep, Lord Tyrion. The servants, the guards, even some of the ravens, I suspect. When the golden lion roars, we lesser creatures must decide whether to flee or bow."
"And which did you choose?"
"I chose to survive, as I always do."
Tyrion leaned forward, his mismatched eyes catching the light. "Tell me, Lord Varys, do you serve the King or the Queen?"
The eunuch's smile was thin as parchment. "I serve the realm, my lord. The realm endures, regardless of who sits the Iron Throne or wears the crown. Kings and queens come and go like seasons, but the realm remains."
"How beautifully evasive." Tyrion reached for his wine again. "And does Lord Littlefinger share your dedication to the realm's wellbeing?"
Varys tilted his head, considering. "Lord Baelish has quite a history with certain noble houses. Did you know he once fought a duel for a lady's hand? Brandon Stark left him bleeding in the dirt at Riverrun, all for the love of Catelyn Tully." The eunuch's voice carried the faintest note of amusement. "Young Petyr learned that day that in this world, being clever isn't always enough. Sometimes you need to be strong. Or if you cannot be strong, you must be rich. And if you cannot be rich from birth, you must become so through other means."
"You didn't answer my question."
"Didn't I?" Varys's eyes glittered. "Lord Baelish serves Lord Baelish, first and always. The realm is merely the board upon which he plays his games. Speaking of games, there remains one more piece on the board you might find interesting."
Tyrion's pulse quickened. Another bastard? "Who?"
"A blacksmith's apprentice named Gendry. Strong as a bull, they say, with hair black as coal and eyes blue as the summer sea." Varys rose, smoothing his robes. "He works at Tobho Mott's shop on the Street of Steel. Though I suspect not for much longer. The rats you mentioned have excellent noses for royal blood."
After Varys departed, leaving only perfume and implications in his wake, Tyrion didn't hesitate. He called for his horse and Brown, though he kept his destination vague. The Street of Steel rang with hammer songs, each shop adding its voice to the metallic chorus.
Tobho Mott's establishment stood apart, marked by the helm of a knight worked in elaborate detail above the door. Inside, the heat struck Tyrion like a physical blow. Sweat immediately beaded on his forehead as he navigated between anvils and forges.
"My lord!" Tobho Mott himself appeared, wiping soot-stained hands on his leather apron. "How may I serve you?"
"I'm looking for your apprentice. Gendry."
Mott's face tightened almost imperceptibly. "He's working the bellows, my lord. Shall I fetch him?"
"No need. I'll go to him."
Tyrion found the boy, though boy was hardly accurate for someone built like a young bull, working the bellows with steady rhythm. When Gendry turned, Tyrion's breath caught. The resemblance was undeniable. Not just the black hair or blue eyes, but the jaw, the nose, even the way he stood. This wasn't merely Robert's bastard. This was Robert twenty years younger, before wine and whores had softened him.
"My lord?" Gendry's voice was uncertain, wary.
Tyrion glanced back at Mott, who had followed. "Leave us."
When they were alone, Tyrion studied the boy who looked more like a king than the king's supposed heir ever had. Joffrey with his golden locks and green eyes, cruel mouth and weak chin. Nothing of Robert in him. Nothing at all.
The confirmation hit Tyrion like ice water. Cersei's children were bastards. All of them.
The throne built on a lie, the realm balanced on deception. And this boy, this blacksmith's apprentice with royal blood in his veins, was living proof.
"Pack your things," Tyrion said quietly. "You leave within the hour."
"My lord? I don't understand. Have I done something?"
"You've done nothing but be born, and that's crime enough in this city." Tyrion pulled out his purse, heavy with gold dragons. "You'll take ship to Storm's End tonight. Lord Renly has need of skilled smiths, and the climate there is far healthier than King's Landing's."
"But my apprenticeship—"
"Is finished. Today." Tyrion pressed the purse into Gendry's confused hands. "There are men coming who mean you harm. Men who would see you dead simply for the blood in your veins. I'm offering you life, boy. I suggest you take it."
Gendry's Baratheon eyes searched Tyrion's face. "Why would you help me?"
Why indeed? To spite Cersei? To preserve evidence? Or perhaps because somewhere in his stunted chest, Tyrion still possessed something resembling a conscience?
"Because the realm has seen enough dead children," Tyrion said finally. "Now go. Tobho Mott will give you no trouble. I'll see to that."
As Tyrion watched the boy gather his few possessions, he thought of the storm approaching King's Landing. Not from the North, where Ned Stark rode with winter at his back, but from within. When the truth emerged—and truth always did, eventually—the Seven Kingdoms would tear themselves apart.
He'd bought the boy time, perhaps life. But he couldn't buy the realm peace. That commodity was far too expensive, even for Lannister gold.
Walking back through the Street of Steel, Tyrion wondered if Varys was watching from some shadow, cataloging this small act of mercy. The spider served the realm, he claimed. But what happened when the realm discovered its foundation was built on lies and murdered?
The bigger problem is how Robert react? And what does he actually know?
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Oldtown, The Reach
Jon needed air. The restricted archives beneath the Citadel pressed down on him like a tomb, dust motes dancing in the lamplight as Master Luke, Marwyn, and Alleras bent over another crumbling tome. They'd been at it since yesterday, translating fragments about the Long Night from languages Jon couldn't even identify. His eyes burned from squinting at faded ink, and his stomach growled its displeasure.
Luke glanced up, his blue eyes distant with concentration. "The Valyrian glyph here suggests a binding ritual, but Marwyn, you said the First Men had no such—"
"I am going to find something to eat," Jon announced, stretching muscles cramped from hunching over ancient texts.
"Yes, yes, take your time," Luke said absently, already turning back to the discussion. Alleras leaned closer, pointing at something on the page while Marwyn stroked his beard thoughtfully.
Jon slipped out, grateful for the cooler air in the main corridor. The Citadel's labyrinthine passages still confused him, but he'd learned the route to the nearest exit well enough. His boots echoed on worn stone as he climbed the spiral stairs, passing novices and acolytes who hurried about their duties.
The conflicting accounts they'd found troubled him. One text claimed the Others were defeated through sacrifice and blood magic. Another insisted dragonglass alone could harm them. A third, written in the Old Tongue, seemed to describe something about singing, though Marwyn admitted his translation was uncertain. No wonder Master Luke found it so engrossing—trying to separate truth from legend was like grasping smoke.
Jon emerged into late afternoon sunlight, blinking as his eyes adjusted. The streets of Oldtown bustled with merchants hawking their wares, sailors stumbling between taverns, and smallfolk going about their business. He'd spotted a decent inn two streets over yesterday, close enough that Jory could find him if needed.
A commotion ahead caught his attention. Near the Citadel's eastern entrance, a cluster of acolytes had formed a half-circle. Jon recognized the casual cruelty in their postures before he heard the words.
"Look at him waddle! Like a pig dressed in grey!"
"Ser Piggy, that's what we should call him. A knight of the Night's Watch!" The speaker was tall and golden-haired, with the kind of sharp features that suggested noble blood. His grey robes bore links of gold and silver at the collar.
"I heard him crying last night," another acolyte added. "The Crier and the Pig, what a combination!"
At the center of their mockery stood a heavyset young man in black wool, his round face flushed with humiliation. He clutched a leather satchel against his chest like a shield, eyes fixed on the ground.
Jon's jaw tightened. The temperature around him dropped several degrees, his breath suddenly visible in the warm afternoon air. The nearest torch—unlit in daylight—burst into flame with a sharp crack.
The golden-haired acolyte spun around, his smirk faltering. "What in the seven hells—"
"Problem?" Jon kept his voice level, though frost spread across the stones at his feet.
The acolyte's eyes narrowed. "This doesn't concern you, stranger."
"No?" Jon stepped closer, and the torch flame flickered wildly, casting dancing shadows despite the sunlight. "Seems to me you're having a bit of sport with someone who can't fight back. That concerns me plenty."
"Do you know who I am?" The acolyte drew himself up. "I'm Leo Tyrell, cousin to—"
"I don't care if you're the High Septon's favorite nephew." The frost crept outward, and Leo's cronies backed away nervously. One of them tugged at Leo's sleeve, whispering urgently.
Leo's face had gone pale, though he tried to maintain his sneer. "This isn't over."
"It is today."
The Tyrell boy hesitated, clearly wanting to save face but unnerved by the unnatural cold and the dancing flames. Finally, he jerked his head at his companions. "Come on. The pig's not worth our time anyway."
They retreated into the Citadel, shooting dark looks over their shoulders. Jon waited until they'd disappeared before letting the temperature return to normal. The torch guttered out.
The heavyset acolyte stared at Jon with wide eyes. "That was... how did you... thank you, truly, but—"
"Are you hurt?"
"What? No, no, I'm..." The young man swallowed hard, gathering himself. "I'm Samwell Tarly. Sam. I'm here from the Night's Watch, studying to become a maester." He clutched his satchel tighter. "And you're..."
Jon almost gave the false name they'd been using, then realized the futility. Word would spread through the Reach regardless after their summons to Highgarden. "Jon Snow."
Sam's eyes widened further. "The Bastard of Winterfell? Lord Stark's son?"
Jon tensed, waiting for the judgment, the dismissal. Instead, he felt something unexpected through the Force—awe, mixed with genuine curiosity. No disgust, no superiority. Just wonder.
"You're the one who refused Ser Barristan," Sam breathed. "They say you fought him to a standstill in the practice yard."
"Not quite a standstill." Jon found himself relaxing slightly. "Are you certain you're alright? That Tyrell shit seemed particularly vicious."
Sam's round face reddened. "I'm fine, truly. Though you've just made an enemy of Leo Tyrell. His cousin Margaery despises his cruelty, but he has friends among the acolytes. There will be consequences."
"That's a worry for another day." Jon studied Sam more carefully. Despite the obvious fear still trembling through him, Jon sensed and saw sharp intelligence beneath the soft exterior. "I was heading to find something to eat. Join me? I'd like to hear more about the Night's Watch."
Sam blinked in surprise. "You want to... with me?"
"Unless you have somewhere else to be?"
"No! I mean, no, I'd be honored." Sam fumbled with his satchel. "There's a decent inn nearby, the Quill and Copper. They serve excellent lamprey pie."
Jon's stomach turned at the thought of lamprey pie, but he nodded. "Lead the way."
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The Quill and Copper proved less crowded than Jon expected, with Jory already stationed at the bar, nursing an ale. When the older man saw them, he gave Sam an evaluating look, then just went back to his ale. Jon appreciated his discretion.
They found a corner table, and Jon ordered roasted capon while Sam chose the lamprey pie he'd mentioned. When the serving girl left, Jon leaned back in his chair. "What brought you to the Night's Watch?"
Sam's entire demeanor shifted, a shadow passing over his features. He glanced around nervously, then leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. "My father gave me a choice. Take the black or die."
The words made Jon's eyes widen. His hand clenched around his mug. "Your father threatened to kill you?"
"Lord Randyll Tarly doesn't make idle threats." Sam's voice was barely audible. "He took me hunting on my name day. Said I was no son of his. That I'd shamed our house with my cowardice. He gave me until sunset to decide, either join the Watch and renounce my claim to Horn Hill, or suffer a hunting accident."
"Because you prefer books to swords?" Jon couldn't keep the horror from his voice. His own complicated feelings about Lord Stark—about the lies, the hidden truth of his birth—seemed suddenly petty. At least Uncle Ned had protected him, loved him in his way.
"Because I'm craven." Sam's words came out flat, rehearsed. "I can't fight. I'm afraid of blood. I'd rather read than train at arms."
Jon thought of Marwyn, poring over ancient texts with more passion than any knight showed for combat. He thought of Master Luke's stories about the vast libraries among the stars, where knowledge was power greater than any sword.
"Your father's wrong." Jon kept his voice firm. "Maesters forge the chains that hold the realm together. They heal the sick, record our histories, send our ravens. The Night's Watch needs men who can think, not just swing steel."
Sam's eyes glistened. "Maester Aemon says something similar."
The name jolted through Jon like lightning. "Maester Aemon?"
Sam tilted his head, confused by Jon's sudden intensity. "Yes, at Castle Black. He's been kind to me, though he's blind now and very old. He's..." Sam lowered his voice even further. "He's the last Targaryen in Westeros. Well, the last anyone knows about. Aemon Targaryen, son of King Maekar."
Jon's heart hammered against his ribs. Another Targaryen. His Targaryen family. Someone who might understand the weight of his hidden name, the burden of blood that could never be acknowledged.
"He refused the throne," Sam continued, warming to his subject. "Multiple times. Chose his vows over a crown. He's brilliant, even at his age. Knows more about the Long Night than anyone living."
I need to meet him. The thought burned through Jon with desperate intensity. One of the last of his father's family. Someone who might have known Rhaegar, who could tell him about the Targaryens beyond Robert's hatred and Uncle Ned's careful silence.
"Jon?" Sam's voice pulled him back. "Are you well?"
Jon realized he'd been staring at nothing, lost in thought. "Sorry. You were saying about Maester Aemon?"
Sam studied him with those intelligent eyes, clearly noting the reaction but too polite to press. "What brings Lord Stark's son to the Citadel? If I may ask?"
"Information about the North. About what lies beyond the Wall." Jon pushed aside his swirling thoughts about Aemon. "Master Luke and I are researching the Long Night, trying to understand what's coming. But half the texts contradict each other, and the oldest ones..." He shook his head. "Even Marwyn can't translate some of them."
Sam's entire posture changed, straightening with excitement. "Truly? You're researching the Others? The Long Night?" He fumbled with his satchel, pulling out a worn leather journal. "I've been collecting accounts, comparing the legends. Did you know the Citadel has three different versions of how the Wall was built? And none of them agree on—" He stopped abruptly, flushing. "Forgive me. I get carried away."
"No, please." Jon leaned forward, sensing something through the Force—a click of rightness, like pieces falling into place. "Go on."
"Well, there's a text in Old Ghiscari that mentions the Five Forts in Yi Ti facing a similar threat. And another fragment that suggests the Long Night wasn't just in Westeros but worldwide. If we could cross-reference the Eastern accounts with our own histories..."
"You read Old Ghiscari?"
Sam ducked his head modestly. "A little. Languages come easily to me. It's the one thing I'm good at."
Jon smiled, the expression feeling strange on his face after days of dusty frustration. "Sam, how would you like to help us? We could use someone who actually understands these old tongues."
"Help you?" Sam's voice squeaked slightly. "You want my help?"
"If you're willing. Though I should warn you, some of what we're studying is..." Jon searched for the right word. "Unusual."
Sam clutched his journal like a lifeline, but his eyes shone with curiosity rather than fear. "After seeing what you did to those torches, I think I can handle unusual."
Jon raised his mug in a mock toast. "Then here's to unusual."
As Sam eagerly began describing a text he'd found about the last hero, Jon felt that strange sense of rightness intensify. The Force moved in mysterious ways, Master Luke always said. Perhaps it had brought them together for a reason.
Tomorrow, he'd introduce Sam to Luke and the others. Tonight, he'd listen to this unlikely brother of the Night's Watch speak passionately about ancient texts and forgotten knowledge, and try not to think too hard about meeting Maester Aemon—the great-great-uncle he'd never known he had.
The lamprey pie arrived, glistening with grease, and Jon was grateful he'd chosen the capon instead. Some things, even the Force couldn't help with.
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The Haunted Forest, Beyond The Wall
The wind cut through Robb's cloak like a blade of ice, carrying the scent of pine resin and something else—something wrong that made Grey Wind's hackles rise. They'd made camp in a small clearing halfway between Castle Black and Craster's Keep, the trees pressing close enough that their branches formed a dark canopy overhead. Snow had begun falling an hour ago, fat flakes that hissed when they hit the fire.
Qhorin Halfhand crouched beside the flames, his mutilated hand wrapped around a wineskin of mulled wine. The legendary ranger's eyes tracked Grey Wind as the direwolf prowled the camp's perimeter, and Robb caught the slight narrowing of his gaze.
"That's a fierce-looking beast you've got there, Lord Stark."
Robb felt his mouth curve into something that wasn't quite a smile. "He doesn't just look fierce. He is fierce."
Qhorin grunted, the sound carrying neither approval nor doubt. Just acknowledgment. The Halfhand had that way about him—economical with everything, words included.
Grenn sat nearby, still adjusting to his new black cloak, while Dalbridge and other rangers huddled one of the camp fires. The nobles of the North and their men kept their own fire a few yards away, close enough for safety but far enough to give the rangers their space.
"You knew Mance Rayder," Robb said, settling onto a log across from Qhorin. It wasn't really a question. Everyone knew the story of how the Halfhand had nearly caught the King-Beyond-the-Wall more times than any other ranger.
Qhorin's eyes went distant, focusing on something beyond the fire's light. "Aye. I knew him." He flexed his three remaining fingers around the cup. "Best ranger I ever served with. Could track a shadowcat through a snowstorm, climb any peak in the Frostfangs, sing any song you'd care to name. The wildlings loved him for that last bit especially."
"What changed him?"
"A wildling woman saved his life once. Healed him with their ways when our maesters would have let him die. He saw how they lived, free of lords and laws, and something in him... shifted." Qhorin's voice carried no judgment, just fact. "When he came back, he couldn't wear the black the same way. One day he was gone, and the next time I saw him, he wore a cloak of black wool and scarlet silk. He simply went back home."
The fire popped, sending sparks spiraling into the darkness. Robb watched them die against the snow.
"Be careful when you treat with him, boy." Qhorin's eyes found Robb's across the flames. "Mance is clever as he is dangerous. He'll speak pretty words and make you believe them, because he believes them himself. But he's trying to bring an army of thousands through the Wall, and that cannot happen."
Robb nodded slowly, feeling the weight of what lay ahead. "Lord Commander Mormont seems to think we can negotiate."
"The Old Bear's desperate. Can't say I blame him. We've got less than a thousand men to hold seven hundred miles of Wall." Qhorin took another sip of wine. "But Mance won't bend. Not truly. He might play at it, might even—"
"What about Craster?" Robb interrupted, eager to change the subject from the impossible task ahead. "How does one man live out here, dealing with both wildlings and the Watch, without fear?"
Qhorin's expression darkened. "Craster's got his ways. Nineteen wives, all daughters. The boys..." He paused, and Robb caught something flickering across the ranger's weathered face. "Well, Craster has no sons that anyone's seen grown."
Before Robb could ask what that meant, the Force screamed a warning through every nerve in his body. The sensation was unlike any other—cold, wrong, death walking where life should be. He shot to his feet, startling Qhorin so badly the ranger nearly dropped his cup.
"Arm yourselves! Now!" Robb's voice cracked like a whip across the camp. "Something's coming!"
The rangers moved with practiced efficiency, weapons appearing in hands before questions formed on lips. The Northmen men were slower but not by much, scrambling for swords and axes.
"What did you see?" Dalbridge demanded, arrow already nocked.
"Quiet." Robb held up a hand, straining to hear over the thundering of his own heartbeat. There… a shuffling in the snow, too regular to be wind, too wrong to be men. He pointed northeast, toward a thick stand of pines. "There."
Grey Wind snarled, the sound raising every hair on Robb's neck. The direwolf had positioned himself between Robb and the trees, muscles coiled like springs.
"I don't see any—" Harrion Karstark began.
Then they emerged from the darkness, and Harrion's words died in his throat.
The firelight revealed them in horrible detail: fifteen figures that had once been men, now shambling toward the camp with that awful, purposeful gait. Their skin was white as fresh snow where it wasn't black with frostbite. Some wore the remnants of black cloaks. Others had wildling furs. One had been a woman once, her long hair now brittle as icicles. But it was their eyes that made Rickard Ryswell whimper—bright blue, like chips of winter sky, burning with cold fire.
"Seven hells," the Greatjon breathed. "The dead walk."
Robb didn't hesitate. Master Luke's training took over, the Force flowing through him like a river breaking through a dam. He reached out with his mind, feeling the positions of every man, every wight, mapping the battlefield in three dimensions.
"Circle formation!" The command came out steady despite the terror clawing at his chest. "Fire in the center! Dalbridge, aim for their legs, slow them down!"
He grabbed his sword and charged. The first wight swung at him with inhuman strength, but Robb felt the blow coming through the Force and ducked, bringing his sword up in a perfect arc that took the creature's arm off at the elbow. The severed limb hit the ground and kept moving, fingers clawing at the snow.
"They don't die!" Grenn's voice pitched high with panic as he hacked at a wight that kept coming despite missing half its face.
Robb spun, extending his hand toward three wights converging on Ebben. The Force responded to his will, and the creatures flew backward, slamming into trees with enough force to shatter bones. The Night's Watch men stared in open shock, but Robb's companions from Winterfell just kept fighting, used to such displays by now but the wights started getting back up immediately, bones clicking and grinding.
The Greatjon cleaved a wight in half with his massive sword, but both halves kept crawling forward. "What manner of sorcery is this?"
Robb's mind raced. Steel didn't work. The Force could move them but not stop them. They needed...
The fire arrow whistled through the frozen air and struck true, punching through the wight's ribcage with a wet thunk. The creature staggered, then burst into flame like dry kindling soaked in pitch. It released a sound somewhere between a scream and the crack of ice breaking on a winter pond before collapsing into a pile of burning bones and rotted flesh.
It died.
"Fire!" The word tore from his throat as he lunged for the nearest torch, ripping it from its holder. The rough wood scraped his palm through as he burned the broken wight in front of him. "They burn! Use fire!"
The men scrambled for burning branches. Qhorin moved with deadly grace, his torch in one hand and sword in the other, herding wights toward the flames. But more kept coming.
Robb felt the Force surge through him, stronger than ever before. Without thinking, he raised both hands toward a cluster of five wights. The air between them shimmered, and suddenly the creatures were airborne, spinning in a tight circle above the camp.
He brought his hands together, and the wights collided in mid-air with a sound like breaking pottery. Then he directed them down into the bonfire. They hit the flames and erupted, their screams joining the crackling of burning flesh and old bone.
The remaining wights fell quickly after that, torch and flame ending what steel couldn't. When the last one stopped moving, reduced to blackened bones and ash, the camp fell silent except for harsh breathing and the pop of burning corpses.
Qhorin Halfhand stood very still, his torch still raised, staring at Robb with an expression caught between awe and calculation.
"What are you, boy?"
Robb lowered his hands, suddenly aware that he'd just shattered every secret his father had wanted kept. Grey Wind pressed against his leg, offering silent support.
"I'm Robb Stark," he said simply. "And we have bigger problems than my abilities."
He looked at the burning remains, at the faces of men who'd just seen the dead walk and their lord throw those dead through the air with nothing but will.
"If there are wights this far south of the Wall..." He didn't need to finish. They all understood.
The real enemy wasn't Mance Rayder anymore.