The maps spread across the great table in the Lord Commander's solar were a testament to ignorance. Jeor Mormont stared down at the crude sketches and faded parchments, each one a reminder of how little they truly knew about the lands beyond the Wall. The largest map, drawn by rangers decades dead, showed the Haunted Forest as a vast green smudge marked with the words "Here be Giants" in faded ink. Another, more recent, attempted to chart the movements of wildling clans, but the information was months old and likely worthless.
"Three hundred men," he said aloud, his voice a low growl in the empty room. His raven, perched on the back of his chair, tilted its head and croaked "Men, men, men," as if mocking the paltry number.
Three hundred. It was every man the Watch could spare without leaving the Wall completely defenseless. It was also woefully inadequate for what he meant to do. To parlay with Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-Wall who had united a hundred fractious clans under one banner. To find proof of the dead that walked. To somehow prevent the end of the world with a force smaller than most lords' household guards.
A knock at his door interrupted his brooding. "Enter," he commanded.
Maester Aemon stepped inside, his movements careful and deliberate. Behind him came Ser Alliser Thorne and Bowen Marsh, the First Steward, their faces set in the perpetual grimness that had become common since the night of the attack.
"The supply reports, Lord Commander," Marsh said, setting a sheaf of parchments on the table. "As you requested."
Jeor glanced at the numbers and felt his jaw tighten. Grain for two weeks. Salt pork for ten days. Arrows enough for a single major engagement. "This is what we have?"
"This is what we can spare and still leave the Wall provisioned," Marsh replied, his voice apologetic but firm. "If we take more, the men who stay will be eating leather by winter's end."
"The ranging could last months," Thorne said, his voice carrying its usual note of disdain. "If we mean to find Mance Rayder and negotiate with him. If we mean to search for proof of these... tales."
Jeor's eyes flicked to Thorne, cold as winter iron. "You doubt what you saw with your own eyes, Ser Alliser?"
"I saw corpses that moved. I saw sorcery." Thorne's voice was flat. "I did not see an army of the dead marching on the Wall. We chase shadows while real enemies gather."
"Forty thousand wildlings are not shadows," Maester Aemon said quietly, his blind eyes fixed on some point beyond them all. "The reports from our rangers have been consistent. Mance has done what no King-beyond-the-Wall has ever accomplished. He has made them into a single host."
"Which is why we need to stop him," Thorne insisted. "Not talk to him."
"With three hundred men?" Jeor's voice carried the weight of command and bitter experience. "Against forty thousand? That's not a battle, Ser Alliser. That's suicide."
He stood and moved to the window, looking out over the Wall's courtyard. In the pale morning light, he could see his men preparing. Sharpening weapons, checking gear, the methodical preparations of soldiers who understood they were marching into danger. What they didn't understand was just how deep that danger ran.
"The dead walk," he said quietly, more to himself than to the others. "And we have no proof but ashes. No weapons but steel that cannot kill them. No allies but each other." He turned back to the room. "How do we convince the lords of the realm to send aid against an enemy they will not believe exists?"
"We find proof," Aemon said simply. "As we discussed. A wight. Intact. Something that cannot be dismissed as wildling tricks or northern superstition."
"And where do we find such proof?" Marsh asked. "The creatures that attacked us were burned. The hand... crumbled to dust."
Jeor moved back to the table, his finger tracing the northern edges of the maps where the parchment simply ended in blank space. "Here," he said. "In the places our maps do not show. In the lands the wildlings have abandoned." His voice dropped to a whisper. "In the places they fear to speak of."
The room fell silent. They all understood what he was saying. To find proof of the Others, they would have to go where the Others had been. Where they might still be.
"The Fist of the First Men," Jeor said, his decision crystallizing as he spoke. "We'll gather there. It's defensible, central. From there, we can reach the Milkwater, the Skirling Pass, the deeper parts of the Haunted Forest. And if Mance means to treat with us, he'll find us easily enough."
"And if he means to kill us?" Thorne asked.
"Then we die having tried to save the realm," Jeor replied. "Better than dying in our beds while the world ends around us."
He began rolling up the maps, his movements sharp and decisive. "Ser Alliser, I want every man who rides with us to know how to make fire. Quickly. I want oil, pitch, anything that burns. I want torches prepared for every rider."
"Fire arrows?" Marsh asked.
"Fire everything," Jeor said grimly. "If we encounter what I think we might encounter, steel alone will not suffice."
Thorne's expression was skeptical, but he nodded. "It will be done."
"Maester Aemon," Jeor continued, "I want you to send ravens to every lord in the North. Not about the dead - not yet. But about the wildling threat. Make them understand that forty thousand savages united under one banner is a danger to every settlement from the Wall to Winterfell."
"And if they ask for proof of that threat as well?" Aemon asked mildly.
"Then we give them Mance Rayder's head," Jeor said, though the words tasted like ash. He knew it would likely come to that. The parlay was a desperate hope, but he was a realist above all else. "One way or another, we will return with something the lords can understand."
After the others left, Jeor sat alone with his preparations and his doubts. On his desk lay the duty rosters, the supply lists, the careful calculations of a military commander preparing for an impossible mission. But beneath it all lay the knowledge that ate at him like a canker.
He pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and began to write, his quill moving with deliberate strokes:
Mance Rayder, King-beyond-the-Wall, from Jeor Mormont, 997th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. The Wall has stood eight thousand years between your people and mine. But there are older enemies than wildlings or kneeler. I would speak with you under a banner of peace. Meet me at the Fist of the First Men when the moon turns full. Bring your words, not your swords. The realm has greater concerns than our ancient quarrels.
He stared at the words for a long moment, knowing how they would sound to his own men. Treating with wildlings. Acknowledging Mance's stolen crown. It would be seen as weakness, perhaps even treason. But if there was even a chance...
"Qhorin," he called to the shadows.
The Halfhand emerged from the doorway where he had been waiting, silent as a ghost. "Lord Commander."
"I have a task for you. A dangerous one." Jeor held out the sealed letter. "I need this delivered to Mance Rayder. Personally."
Qhorin took the parchment without hesitation, though his eyes held questions. "It will be done. Though finding him will not be simple. He moves his host constantly."
"You're the only man I trust to get close enough to deliver it and live to tell of it," Jeor said. "Take whoever you need. But Qhorin..." He met the ranger's steady gaze. "If you cannot find him, or if this goes badly, the ranging continues as planned. We will not wait for your return."
"Understood." Qhorin tucked the letter inside his cloak. "And if he refuses to meet?"
"Then we learn that answer too," Jeor said grimly. "One way or another."
The real enemy was not the wildlings. The real enemy could not be defeated by conventional means. And somewhere in the vast, unmapped north, that enemy was growing stronger while he prepared to march three hundred men into the dark with little more than hope and determination.
A commotion in the courtyard drew his attention back to the window. A lone rider was approaching the gate, his horse lathered and blowing hard. The black cloak of the Night's Watch. Jeor squinted, trying to make out the man's identity in the distance.
The gate horns blew once - a brother returning.
Jeor descended to the courtyard, his boots ringing on the stone steps. By the time he reached the yard, the rider had dismounted, and Jeor could see his face clearly.
Benjen Stark pushed back his hood, his expression grim but determined. In his eyes, Jeor could read the success and failure of his mission south in equal measure.
"First Ranger," Jeor greeted him. "I trust Lord Stark received our message clearly?"
"He did," Benjen replied, his voice carrying the weight of difficult conversations. "And he will help, as much as he can. But there are... complications."
Jeor nodded grimly. There always were. "Walk with me," he said. "Tell me everything. And Benjen..." He paused, looking his First Ranger in the eye. "Tell me honestly. When we ride north in a fortnight, do you think we'll be coming back?"
Benjen's smile was sharp as a blade and just as cold. "Does it matter? The realm won't survive if we don't try."
As they walked toward the Lord Commander's tower, Jeor found himself thinking that perhaps, in the end, that was answer enough. The Watch had always been about making the hard choices, the necessary sacrifices. If three hundred men could buy the realm time to prepare for what was coming - or proof of what it faced - then it was a price worth paying.
Even if they were the ones who would pay it.