When one of the men who had left the Wall for the Heart Tree with the prince arrived, gasping for breath and claiming that the prince had tamed a direwolf larger than a war horse, Jeor had been skeptical. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if the man had taken too much of the flask, but the raw panic in his eyes and the desperation in his voice made him pause. Exiting his solar, he made his way down the wooden steps and across the yard, moving through the tunnel with purpose. As he emerged on the opposite side, he stopped dead in his tracks.
The subordinate hadn't exaggerated. Not a single word had been a lie. But what he hadn't been prepared for, what no one had warned him about, was that the prince wasn't merely standing near the beast—he was riding it! As though it were the most natural thing in the world.
"I'm sorry, Lord Commander. I think the Old Gods sent her to me," Rick said sheepishly, his words carrying an awkward apology.
Well, at least he has the decency to be ashamed. But gods, how does one even begin to react to something like this?
Jeor stood still, his mind scrambling for some rational response. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out immediately. Finally, after a moment's hesitation, he sighed deeply and looked at the prince with an exasperated glance.
"I promise that, as long as no one attacks her or me, she will behave," Rick continued, his voice earnest, yet tinged with uncertainty.
Oh, for the love of the Old Gods, here we go. Bloody hell… Starks and their damn direwolves. Just when I thought I had seen it all.
Jeor's mind was awash with the chaos of it all, and yet, a strange sense of resignation settled over him.
Aaah! Fuck it! I'm too old for this shit.
He let out another heavy sigh and motioned with his hand for Rick to follow him inside, trying not to look directly at the enormous beast that was clearly comfortable in its position.
"Come on, let's get inside before she decides to start chewing on someone."
___________________________________________________________________
"I admit, her fur is the greatest thing I have ever touched," Maester Aemon confessed, his fingers delicately gliding through the thick, soft coat of Freyja, a smile forming on his old face.
"I know! Right?!" Rick beamed with enthusiasm, completely oblivious to the way Aemon's words had drawn a mix of amusement and a touch of envy from the others.
"Ahem. Can we focus on the matter at hand here?" Jeor Mormont interjected, though his voice faltered slightly as he, too, momentarily lost himself in the pure luxury of the direwolf's fur. "It is quite remarkable, I admit. But please, can you explain what exactly happened, Rick?"
Rick's eyes momentarily glazed over as he recalled the moment in the forest. "Well… The closer we got, the stronger the feeling of… reaching out to something, I had." He paused, searching for the right words. "Like something was calling to me."
"Reaching?" Jeor asked, brow furrowed, trying to make sense of the prince's cryptic description.
"Yeah. When I did reach out," Rick's voice dropped to a near whisper as he relived the strange sensation, "I heard a voice. I couldn't tell if it was male or female, young or old, but it said—" He paused, steadying his breath, "—'Child of ice and fire, your journey is just beginning. Find the first one. Learn and bring forth dawn to the world. Spread our words. Give us eyes, give us ears. She will guide you.'"
The silence that followed was thick, palpable. Jeor blinked, processing the words that Rick had just shared. "What the fuck does that mean?!"
Rick shrugged helplessly. "I don't know, but it felt... important."
Aemon, still gently stroking Freyja, seemed lost in thought. After a moment, his eyes narrowed in contemplation, then he spoke slowly, as if piecing together the fragments of an old puzzle. "I may know…" He hesitated for a moment before continuing. "The 'child of ice and fire' is you, nephew, of course. You have the blood of both Valyria and the First Men. The journey beginning, well, perhaps that's a reference to your quest to find the Three-Eyed Raven."
Rick nodded slowly but said nothing.
"'Find the first one'..." Aemon's voice trailed off, and he hesitated. "I can't be sure about that part. But the next phrase..." He stopped and looked at Rick, then at the others in the room. "It's something I've heard before."
"What?" Jeor prodded, eager for clarification.
Aemon sighed, steepling his fingers. "It's related to the prophecy of Azor Ahai."
"Azor Ahai?" Rick echoed, unfamiliar with the name.
"The Last Hero," Aemon said, his voice almost reverent. "The one who defeated the Others eight thousand years ago. There are prophecies, many of them, about him. One goes like this: 'After a long summer, when an evil, cold darkness descends upon the world, and a red star bleeds, amidst smoke and salt, to wake dragons out of stone, Azor Ahai shall be born again.' And this Azor Ahai, he wielded Lightbringer and fought the Others in what became known as the War of the Dawn. It was during this war that night became eternal—hence the Long Night."
Rick frowned. "I'm five and ten, barely. There's no way I'm Azor Ahai reborn."
Aemon's expression softened but did not waver. "I wouldn't be so sure."
Rick groaned. "Come on, uncle, really?"
Aemon gave a wry smile. "Azor Ahai had many names. One of them was the Prince That Was Promised, and his is the Song of Ice and Fire. Tell me, do you know anyone else who fits that description? Especially now, in these troubled times?"
Rick opened his mouth, only for the words to freeze on his tongue. "Visenya Targaryen," he said, but his voice held no certainty, only frustration.
Aemon shook his head. "She's a princess, not a prince, my boy."
Rick sighed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "Lord Commander, a bit of help here would be appreciated."
Jeor shook his head with a smirk. "It's way above my pay grade, lad."
Rick raised an eyebrow. "You're not paid!"
"Exactly," Jeor muttered, shaking his head in mock resignation. "But I admit, there are many... coincidences. But without more answers, it's impossible to say what's true and what's just another legend."
Aemon nodded sagely. "You're right, Lord Commander. We shouldn't place too much weight on a prophecy just yet. If it's true, it will come to pass regardless. But there is one thing I do know for certain: the 'she' who will guide you... I believe she is Freyja." He gently ran his hand down the direwolf's thick fur, causing her to nudge against his touch in approval.
"Freyja?" Rick repeated, glancing down at the enormous wolf lying peacefully by his side.
Aemon smiled, his eyes twinkling as he continued. "Yes. She appeared just after the Gods spoke to you. And as I've heard it said before, 'the Old Gods speak through the beasts.'" He looked up at Rick with a soft yet knowing expression. "Perhaps she's meant to guide you in more ways than one."
Freyja gave a contented huff, pushing her massive head into Aemon's hand, clearly enjoying the attention, as the others watched in stunned silence.
Rick sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the thoughts pressing down on him. He was tired—not just from the journey, but from the endless turmoil swirling in his mind. His uncle's words echoed in his ears, the weight of the prophecy hanging over him like an invisible storm cloud. Half of the Old Gods' message remained a mystery, the part he could not interpret lingering like an unanswered question, gnawing at him. But the other half—what it did reveal—was enough to send a chill through his bones. A savior. A messiah. Those were words that felt completely foreign, even suffocating, to him.
He wasn't even a man grown yet, barely five and ten summers, and already he was being thrust into a role he never sought. Was he really meant to fight the greatest enemy of the living? The thought of it made his stomach churn. The idea that the fate of the world might rest on his shoulders filled him with dread. There was no way—no way—he could live up to such expectations.
And yet, his uncle had made a point. If the prophecy was true, it would come to pass whether he liked it or not. There was no escaping it. But if it wasn't true? If it was just another fantasy spun by old men around a fire? Then there was nothing to do but live his life, free from this burden. But even that didn't feel right. Why did prophecies exist at all if they were either true and inevitable, or false and meaningless? They seemed like some kind of twisted game, a riddle with no solution.
He glanced down at Freyja, her massive, silvery form resting beside him, her blue eyes watching him with an almost knowing gaze. What do you think, girl? he thought, staring into those eyes that seemed to hold more wisdom than he could ever comprehend. Are you the one the Gods were talking about? Will you guide me to the Three-Eyed Raven?
The only answer he got was a happy bark, followed by an enthusiastic wag of her tail, her white fur rippling as she shifted closer to him. Rick couldn't help but chuckle. It was impossible to stay serious around her for too long. "I guess that settles it," he muttered to himself, shaking his head as he scratched her behind the ears. "By tonight, I think I'll be done with the copy of the plans for the ballistae. I'll leave at dawn tomorrow."
With that, their meeting was concluded, and Rick set about fulfilling his promise. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, he had not only finished the copy of the plans for the ballistae but had also taken the time to add several notes of his own. He made sure the designs were more fitting for the Wall's unique structure—he knew well that anything built at the Wall had to be strong enough to withstand the harshest conditions. As the ink dried on the final page, he felt a brief sense of accomplishment. It wasn't much, but it was something, and for now, that would have to be enough.
However, getting Freyja inside the room had proven to be a much more challenging task. The massive direwolf was far too big to move through a door with any ease. Her size made it almost comical, but, like a shadow weaving through the night, she managed to crouch and twist her way inside. Her movements, though awkward in the narrow spaces, were surprisingly graceful, each one a testament to her natural agility. The sight of her squeezing through the doorway left Rick both amused and awestruck.
And waking up in the morning, surrounded by nothing but soft, warm white fur, had been... well, an experience. One that Rick had quickly realized he could easily become addicted to. The comforting weight of the direwolf curled around him, her fur enveloping him like a blanket of warmth against the biting cold of the night, was something he hadn't known he needed. It was a peace he hadn't experienced in a long time. The thought that a bed might break under her immense weight had crossed his mind more than once, but Freyja seemed blissfully unaware, content in her own space, as if the world had bent itself just to accommodate her. Perhaps it had.
By the time dawn broke, Rick was already awake. The promise of the day ahead pulled him from the warmth of his bed, and he got to his feet, moving quietly around the room so as not to disturb Freyja. The day before had been a flurry of work, but today was something different. Today, he was about to embark on a journey—one that would take him closer to answers he wasn't sure he was ready for.
He made his way downstairs, the wooden steps creaking underfoot, then moved through the narrow tunnel that led out from Castle Black. A biting wind greeted him as he stepped into the open air, the cold sweeping across his face, forcing him to pull his hood low and wrap a black cloth around the lower half of his face. The chill gnawed at his skin, but he welcomed it. It was a reminder of where he was—of what lay ahead.
His supplies were carefully packed. A rope secured one of the bags to another, both positioned on either side of Freyja, who was already pacing in anticipation, her breath coming in small puffs of mist. She was eager to move, to begin their journey. Rick couldn't help but smile at the sight of her, the massive wolf standing beside him, ready to head into the unknown.
"Come on, girl," he said, his voice steady, despite the swirling thoughts in his mind. "Let's go. We've got a raven to find."
With that, Freyja trotted forward, her enormous paws leaving deep prints in the snow as they moved toward the north, where the mysteries of the world awaited them. The journey was just beginning, and already Rick could feel the weight of what was to come pressing down on him. But with Freyja at his side, there was a strange sense of calm—almost as if the gods themselves had given him a companion for the trials ahead.
___________________________________________________________________
Benjen Stark had been a black brother for five and ten years, Ranger for three and ten, and First Ranger for ten. In those years, he had seen many things—more than most men could comprehend, let alone believe. He had crossed the frozen wilderness where cannibals hunted in packs, had fought wargs and had seen the eerie, chilling shadows of their kind. He had ventured into the heart of the wild and witnessed the massive, lumbering presence of giants and the terrifying sight of mammoths—the very same creatures that the legends spoke of. He had watched as shadowcats, sleek and deadly, stalked the crags and ravines of the far North. He had seen direwolves, too, their primal forms haunting the bleak northern wilderness. Yet, despite all of this, none of what he had witnessed over the years could have prepared him for the sight that stood before him now.
It came to him like a dream made flesh, though it was no dream at all.
The direwolf, towering above the snow like a beast carved from the ice itself, was unlike any wolf Benjen had ever seen. It was larger than any beast he'd encountered in all his years beyond the Wall, its coat as white as freshly fallen snow, a storm's breath in the very air. But it was not just the sheer size of the wolf that struck Benjen; it was the aura of command that it exuded, an almost regal presence. The creature moved with an elegance, each step deliberate and calculated, as though it were born to rule these lands. Its eyes, dark and deep, held a quiet intelligence, a wisdom that seemed to pierce through the very soul.
And atop this magnificent beast, there was a figure cloaked in shadow. The rider sat with a calm, unhurried grace, his form indistinct beneath the folds of a dark hooded cloak, but there was no mistaking the bond between them. The rider, as much a part of the direwolf as the beast itself, had the same silent authority. His presence, too, seemed to command respect, but in a quiet, unspoken way. He was a part of the wolf's kingdom, and in that moment, it seemed as though the rider and the beast shared the same heartbeat, the same will. It reminded Benjen of the Starks of old, riding into battle on top of their direwolves.
The direwolf was no mere creature of the wild. She moved with the fluidity of a queen, regal and unmatched. Each step was measured, her head held high, her fur gleaming beneath the cloud-heavy sky, her tail sweeping behind her like a king's banner. She moved with a majesty that made Benjen think of the wolves of old, those that had run beside the Starks in ages past, fighting alongside them, watching over them. This was no ordinary direwolf, no creature of myth or legend. This was a queen of the wolves—an embodiment of the power and grace that the North had long since lost. She was alive with a terrible beauty, and beneath that beauty lay a strength that was both awe-inspiring and fearsome.
For a moment, Benjen stood frozen, the air between them charged, as though the very world was holding its breath. He could feel the weight of her gaze upon him, though she did not slow her pace, nor did the rider acknowledge him. There was no need. The wolf knew, as did the man, that they were not to be approached casually.
Benjen felt a stirring within him, a fleeting thought that he should close the gap between them, cross the fifty feet that separated him from the rider. But he did not. The wolf was too much to ignore, and there was something in the way she moved, in the way she commanded the snow and the air, that made him hesitate.
The figure atop her, hooded and silent, was just as enigmatic. The wind tugged at the cloak, but the man remained still, his face hidden beneath the shadow of the hood. Benjen's heart quickened. There was a presence about this rider that made him uneasy, a sense of something ancient and unknown. He had seen many strange things in his life, but this—this was different. The wolf had no master, or at least none that Benjen could see. The connection between them was undeniable, but what was the nature of that bond? Who was the rider, and what brought him to Castle Black?
Benjen's rangers, who had ridden with him for years, exchanged looks, their expressions as awed as his own. They, too, felt the weight of the moment. They had seen direwolves before, but none of them had ever laid eyes on a creature like this one. This was no ordinary beast.
For a heartbeat, Benjen considered riding forward, but the rider's intent was clear. He was leaving Castle Black, not entering it. His destination lay further north.
Benjen's mind raced, but he knew he had other matters to attend to. He was coming back from a month-long ranging, and there were reports he needed to give, urgent information that could not wait. But even as he turned back toward the castle, the memory of that direwolf, of the rider, remained seared in his mind. Something told him he would never forget the vision he had just witnessed.
Arriving at Castle Black, the cold air still clinging to the edges of his cloak, Benjen Stark rode past the walls of the fortress, his men trailing behind him. The weight of the journey, the brutal landscape, and the troubling revelations weighed heavily on him, but his duty demanded that he push forward. His brothers in black were waiting, their faces hard with expectation, though there was a sense of relief in their eyes when they saw him. He gave a brief nod to those who greeted him, though his mind remained miles away, still caught in the eerie silence of the lands beyond the Wall.
The Lord Commander stood at the gates, his presence as commanding as ever, though age had started to wear at his once-imposing frame. Mormont's sharp gaze locked onto Benjen the moment he dismounted, and the two men exchanged a long, wordless look—one that spoke of familiarity, of shared burdens, and of the understanding that the true dangers of the North were never far from their minds.
"Benjen, my old friend," Mormont greeted him, his voice a rough whisper against the wind, "I trust you've found what you were looking for?"
Benjen's lips tightened into a grim line as he nodded, his gaze distant, still haunted by the images of the journey. "Yes," he began, his voice carrying the weight of the report he had to deliver, "There's a new King-beyond-the-Wall. He's uniting the Free Folk. Bit by bit, his army is growing, and it's happening slowly but surely."
Mormont's expression darkened immediately, the creases in his face deepening with the weight of this new knowledge. His eyes gleamed with both curiosity and concern. "Got a name?" he asked, his tone low.
"Mance Rayder," Benjen replied, the name carrying a bitter edge, one that echoed like the sound of winter wind against the walls.
Mormont's expression twisted with anger. "That traitorous cunt?" His words were sharp, almost spat, but there was a keen interest behind them. "What's he after, Benjen? Why's he uniting the tribes?"
"Aye, him," Benjen affirmed. "No talk about attacking the Wall though. For now, there's no sign of that." His words, however, were laced with the same unspoken truth that Mormont had long known: for now—but that would change.
"For now," Mormont repeated, his gaze cold. "We both know it'll change. It always does. The Wildlings are a threat, Benjen. They're bound to come for the Wall, and we both know it."
"What about the rumors?" asked Mormont, his voice low but edged with a concern that hadn't quite left him since Benjen's return.
Benjen's expression tightened, the heavy weight of what he had seen beyond the Wall clearly taking its toll. He exhaled slowly, the air from his breath catching in the cold of the room, and gave a single, sharp nod. "About the deserted camps and villages? Not much. We investigated one, and there were definitely traces of struggle. Weapons destroyed—axes shattered like they'd been hurled at something with great force. Tents ripped to shreds, not torn by wind but by something that meant to destroy. And there were bloodstains. Plenty of blood. But the worst part was... the last one." Benjen's voice dropped a fraction, the words heavy with the weight of the strange sight he'd witnessed. "There were traces... it was like a body had been there, its shape outlined by blood, but there was nothing. No body. Just blood. Nothing to explain it. Nothing at all. It's... it's like something took the body, but left the blood behind. No one's ever seen anything like it."
Mormont's eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing as he processed the information. The silence between them thickened, as if the very air was holding its breath, waiting for some explanation that neither man could offer. "There are whispers, Benjen. Whispers among the men. They're saying it's the Others."
Benjen met Mormont's gaze, the hardness in his eyes like steel, his voice low, careful. "I don't know, Commander. I mean... the Others? Really? That's... legends, tales you tell children to frighten them before bed. That's not real. It can't be. But..." His words faltered for a moment, the weight of doubt creeping into his voice. "But I can't help but feel... maybe it is them. I don't know how to explain it, but it fits. It's the only thing that makes sense for what we saw out there. Maybe they've returned. And maybe... maybe that's why there's a new King-beyond-the-Wall. Maybe it's not about conquering or raiding. Maybe they're fleeing something. Fleeing south of the Wall."
Mormont was silent, his jaw clenched as he chewed on Benjen's words. He rubbed a hand across his face, the lines in his skin deepening with thought. "It's possible," he said at last, his voice hard with the weight of the realization. "Yes, it's possible. But we need to be certain, Benjen. We need to know what's really out there."
Benjen's eyes darkened as he nodded slowly. "Aye. That's what I'm afraid of. We need to be ready for whatever's coming. It's not just the wildlings we have to worry about anymore."
Mormont's gaze grew steely, his mind already moving forward, planning. "Anything else?" he asked, his voice steady, but underneath it, a note of something like resignation had crept in. They both knew it was only a matter of time before the truth would come crashing down upon them.
"On my way back here, my men and I saw the most unbelievable sight," Benjen spoke, his voice carrying a tone of awe that Mormont hadn't heard from him before.
"A hooded man in black, riding the biggest direwolf we've ever seen."
Mormont's brow furrowed, his interest piqued. "Bigger than a horse and all white?"
"Yes, that's him. At first, we thought it was some wild beast that had wandered down from the far north, but no. He was clearly riding it. And given that he was coming from the Wall, we thought you might know about it."
Mormont's expression shifted, and he gave a small nod. "Aye, I do."
Benjen raised an eyebrow, waiting for the Lord Commander to elaborate.
"Well? I've been gone a month and we've got a new brother with a direwolf as a mount? There's a story behind this. And you're going to tell me what it is."
"There is," Mormont replied gravely, the weight of his words hanging in the air like a storm on the horizon. "But he's no brother."
Benjen's confusion deepened. "No?"
"No," Mormont repeated, shaking his head. "He's a greenseer. Led to the Wall on a quest."
Benjen blinked, his disbelief evident. "You're kidding, right? Greenseers? They're a myth, Lord Commander. Wargs? I can accept. I've seen a few over the years, but a greenseer?"
Mormont met his gaze steadily. "It's true."
Benjen stood in stunned silence for a long moment, the implications of Mormont's words sinking in like cold, sharp steel. "And what did he see?"
"Mainly? Cold winds blowing. Dead corpses rising." Mormont's voice grew softer, like he was reluctant to speak the truth, though it was already out there in the open.
Benjen's heart skipped a beat, the chill of those words creeping up his spine. "..." He stared at the Lord Commander, his mind racing to process what was being said.
Mormont sat back, folding his arms across his chest, waiting for Benjen to absorb the truth.
"..." Benjen echoed, as though trying to gather the fragments of his shattered disbelief. Finally, he shook his head slowly, his voice hushed. "You're serious."
"I am," Mormont said firmly, the unspoken weight of his own disbelief still heavy in the air. "Honestly, if a sennight ago I hadn't been attacked during the night by the dead bodies of Othor and Jafer Flowers, I wouldn't have believed the lad either. But…"
"The lad?" Benjen cut in, his voice rising in confusion.
Mormont nodded grimly. "He's five and ten."
Benjen's mind reeled at the thought of a boy that young being wrapped up in such grim matters. "Lord Commander…"
"I know," Mormont said, his tone now edged with something like regret. "But things are changing beyond the Wall, Benjen. When a greenseer shows up on my doorstep, asking for passage north in exchange for information on the wildlings—or possibly the Others—I couldn't pass it up. The truth is, he would've gone anyway. He was already on his path. I couldn't let him go without hearing what he knew."
Benjen's breath caught as a thousand thoughts collided in his mind. "...What if it's true? What if they're back?" The words felt like a death sentence, but he couldn't stop himself from asking.
Mormont's face hardened, his gaze turning toward the distant, snow-covered horizon. "Then we send a raven to the south, asking for help. While we man the Wall, we fight to protect the realm of men."
The gravity of Mormont's words settled heavily between them, the implications of what was said—and what was coming—suddenly very real. The Wall had always stood as the last bastion against the unknown, but now that unknown seemed to be moving closer, with the shadows of something darker lingering just beyond the edge of their world.
Sighing in defeat, Benjen Stark nodded in resignation. Those were the vows he swore after all. 'Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.'
He had been a fool back then, barely sixteen when he took them. At the time, the weight of his decision hadn't fully settled upon his young shoulders. He didn't truly understand what he was giving up. He thought he was simply serving the realm, doing his duty, but there was so much more—so much he hadn't anticipated. He'd wanted to restore his honor, to clear the shame he felt for being complicit in the near destruction of his House, for playing a part in the rebellion's catalyst. If he had been honest with his father about his sister's disappearance, if he had reported the truth about her fleeing from her betrothal to Robert Baratheon… would everything have turned out differently? Would his father and elder brother still be alive? Could the ten thousand Northmen who marched into the Neck for justice have been spared?
Regret gnawed at him as it always did. He had been blinded by his love for his sister, who had used it to manipulate him into supporting her choices, no matter how disastrous. He had been too young, too naïve, and too coddled by the warmth of his family's love to understand the weight of her actions, and the consequences of his own. She had gotten what she wanted, and the realm had paid the price. His family had paid the price. And yet, despite the countless lives lost—his father's, his brother's, the countless lives of those who fought for a cause that had turned into a death sentence—Benjen still loved her. That was the tragedy. It was hard to forgive her, especially since she had never once apologized for the pain she had caused, for the blood spilled in her wake. But even harder was the truth that he couldn't really blame her. In the end, he was the one who had made the choice. He was the one who had chosen the Wall, chosen to flee, to run from the repercussions of his actions and from the guilt that threatened to drown him.
He had been a coward. He had left behind his mother, his brother, his newborn nephew, and a sister who, for all her faults, was still a part of him. No one had forced him to kneel before the heart tree and take those vows. No, it had been his own decision, his own volition, his own way of avoiding the pain, the responsibility that had followed him. And in that moment, with the weight of it all pressing down on him, he realized how little honor the Night's Watch held now. It wasn't the noble brotherhood it once was—a gathering of men sacrificing their futures for the good of the realm. No, now it was just a prison for the broken, the castoffs, the criminals. The few remaining good men were outnumbered, and the ideal of honor seemed a distant memory. He couldn't help but wonder, as he had many times before, what had happened to the Night's Watch.
If he could turn back time, if he could make different choices, he would do so in a heartbeat. He would undo the vow he had taken, the path he had chosen, and make things right. But that was a fantasy, a dream he knew would never come true. He had made his bed, and now he had to lie in it. He had to carry the weight of the mistakes he had made, the sins he had committed, for the rest of his days.
Standing up, Benjen gave Jeor a salute, his back straight but his shoulders heavy with the burden of his thoughts. He had ridden hard to get back to Castle Black, his body aching with the exhaustion of a long journey. He needed rest. More than that, he needed time away from the harsh reality of his thoughts. But for now, there was no escape. There never was.