It has been many days since bodies of Othor and Jafer Flowers, or what remained of them, were hauled back from beyond the Wall. Ser Allister Thorne, his face scarred with old battles and deep grudges, stood guard by the storeroom door. He has been doing this for every night following the orders of his superior. Lord Commander Mormont's order had been absolute, the corpses are to be sealed until Maester Aemon could examine them and yet, the old Maester Aemon had not so much as crossed the threshold since the day the bodies were carried in. He had come only once to note the death of men of night watch in his ledger and then closed the door with a look, Alliser had not seen on the old man before, fear turning into certainty.
However the silence of Castle Black, that he had come to enjoy was soon ripped apart. As a guttural roar ripped through the air above him, the wall of castle shook so violently that dust drifted from the stones overhead. Thorne's ears rang with the sheer loudness of it. He almost spun on his boots, his instinct honed by decades of service and every cynical urge screaming at him to rush outside, to see the cause of the earth-shaking commotion. Instead he remained rooted in his place, the words of Maester Aemon's sounding in his ears, "Guard this door, Ser Allister, and make sure no man enters or leaves." That quiet intensity, in those blind eyes, had been more commanding to him than any battle shout.
After five minutes of silence, Grenn, a new recruit, with a size of an ox and clumsiness of a child comes scrambling down the steps nervously. His face had an expression that struck him, not of fear but a look of breathless awe that smoothed away his awkwardness into a momentary dignity. "Commander Mormont has called for you in his solar, Ser Allister," Grenn panted, stopping quite a distance from the door.
Thorne wanted to throttle the boy, to get the news from him of what had happened outside but he knew. His years of experience told him that whatever the Old Bear wanted him for was tied directly to that deafening noise. He gave a curt nod to the boy. "Make sure the door remains closed."
When he finally emerged into the courtyard, his knees went week. Poised outside the main gate with its massive neck arching high enough to peer over the gatehouse itself, was a red dragon. And sitting, calm and still by its side in the snow, was a white direwolf of a boy he had mocked not many moons ago.
"Ser Allister." The low voice of Ser Jaremy Rykker in an equally stunned face as him continues, "...it seems our prince still lives."
Alliser said nothing, he only stared and then they both rush up to the Lord Commander's solar. The room was crowded with several experience men of Night's Watch all of whom looked by the hearth side nervously. There by Maester Aemon's side sat the white-haired boy, no, not a boy, but the King, even at first glance he looked like Rhaegar's son. Both were speaking in low, urgent tones, the old Maester speaking in soft tones and placing his hand on the King's in confidence. As their conversation ended, a flicker of profound peace, or perhaps a resolution, passed over the young King's features.
Aemon after talking to his uncle turns his gaze over the gathered men, Eddison Tollet, Bowen Marsh, Donal Noye, and Allister before settling on Lord Commander Mormont, who seems to be observing him all this time. "Is everyone here, Lord Commander?" he finally asks.
Jeor Mormont gives a stiff nod, bowing slightly. "Every man important enough for the regular function of the Wall is present here, Your Grace."
A satisfied smile touches Maester Aemon's lips hearing the title, to his nephew.
"You know who I am," Aemon asks softly.
"I knew Ned Stark when he was no higher than my knees, Your Grace" Jeor grunts, the years of wisdom etched around his eyes. "That boy never had a single bone of the lechery or brashness his elder brother had. I always knew he hadn't fathered a bastard but Brandon could have but your presence here, with a red dragon and that direwolf... it leaves no question. You are the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna, are you not?"
Aemon nods, a flicker of respect in his eyes at the Old Bear's fast conclusion.
Jeor starts again, with a grim face. "I know what Tywin and his band of bastards did with Princess of Dorne and her babes. Ned saved you from the butcher."
Allister Thorne, pieces the puzzle together from the talk and couldn't stop the words slipping from his lips. "Who then sends his nephew to the Night's Watch to save his friend's crown, while destroying the only living line of Rhaegar?"
Lord Commander Jeor sighs heavily, cutting off any further talks, and turned to the guest. "I hope you are not here to ask for our allegiance, Your Grace. The Night's Watch does not interfere with the politics of the south, nor with their wars."
"I am not, Lord Commander," Aemon, replies shaking his head. "I just came for some confirmation from Maester Aemon, since I was in the North already."
Before Mormont could press him for the nature of his confirmation, the door burst open. Grenn tumbles in, his new-found composure utterly gone. He doesn't bothers with apologies either.
"Lord Commander! There's noise! Gods, there's noise coming from the storeroom!"
Every head snaps to Maester Aemon, who had ordered to put the corpses under locks in there. The old Maester, in turn, looks at the King, his nephew who had told him to do this, should the dead rangers ever be found, before he left the Night's watch.
A solemn looks settles on Aemon's face. "It seems the dead have returned, Lord Commander."
The tension in the room was palpable and before anyone could question the dragon-rider's words, Aemon draws his sword from its sheath, a Valyrian steel, many realizes with a jolt seeing ripples on it.
"Come with me," Aemon commands, his voice steady. He walks out of the solar, the men of the Night's Watch scrambling behind him to follow, drawing their own steel swords.
As they reached the courtyard, a woman emerged from the library of Castle Black by the side of Maester Aemon's room, moving silently to the King's side. She seem dressed in rich leather and a cloak behind her.
"Did they rise, Your Grace?" she asked, falling in step beside the King, drawing her own sword.
Aemon gives a grim nod. "They have." He then turns to Lord Mormont. "Do we have chains, Lord Commander? Heavy iron?"
Jeor's face turns into bewilderment with sudden requirement of chains and looks to Donal Noye by his side. Donal Noye answers before Jeor could speak. "I'll fetch them," he said gruffly, already marching toward the armory, his remaining one hand holding hammer.
Jeor then catches up to Aemon as they descend in the underground storeroom. "You told my Maester to keep the bodies here? You knew of their coming?"
"I dream sometimes, Lord Commander," Aemon answers, keeping his voice steady. "It is through dreams I knew they would wake up from their death as creatures of stories many of us had heard when children. I dreamt of Long Night coming back, now I know for sure." He offers him a half-truth, the one he and others could digest. The truth of his rebirth was for his own and for none to hear.
They soon reached the door and Aemon turns to the ranks of men clustered behind him. "The lady and I will rush inside to restrain those creatures. The rest of you will chain them, they can claw out your life with just their hands so work in haste and make sure to chain their limbs and mouth tight."
The clank of heavy iron announces Donal Noye's return, followed by men hauling thick chains. Aemon nods to Grenn with curt nod, as the recruit fumbles with the key, and the door soon burst outward, almost wrenching it from its hinges with a inhuman force.
The first corpse, Othor, standing in the tattered remains of his black cloak, stumbled out, his eyes shining in inhumane blue colour. It was fast and Aemon met it instantly, not with a slash of his Valyrian sword, but with a powerful and brutal kick to the chest. The force was enough to send the reanimated wight hurtling back into the darkness of the storeroom, colliding with the other wight behind him.
"Don't slash them with your sword!" Aemon roars to Shiera, who enters behind him to engage with other one. Aemon seizes the fallen wight, his hands holding the shoulders of the wight down and using his weight to stops him from moving, stopping the snapping of his jaw towards his arms with the flat side of his sword as brothers of Night Watch rush in with chains. The creature's nails scraping the stone as it claws and twists around trying to snap at his face.
"Faster!" Aemon snarls as the men finish wrapping its arms, its legs, its neck in thick chain.
Shiera, meanwhile, fought the second wight near the back of the room dodging dead man's wild swipes with his crude nails of his. Aemon seeing the first one chained, charges towards Jafer Flowers from the side, slamming his shoulder into the thing's bony torso. It was a use of pure force over finesse, as the monster flew to the wall, crashing on to it. The shock of the impact was enough to break the wight's focus from Shiera, to him but before it could rise from the ground, men of Night's watch were on him. It takes six men to hold it down as it lay bound by chains, still writhing at his place, blue eyes staring at them in hunger to kill.
Eddison Tollett with his face ashen but wits apparently still intact, stands from securing the last link of chain, dusting off his black sleeves in disgust.
"And here I thought," the man drawl's, his voice in a dry rasp of sarcasm after the silent aftermath, "that the direwolves and dragons were the end of magic in the world. Seems the gods, or whatever that let them lives has a dreadful sense of humour."