The man before Rick was no wildling brute. No half-starved raider in ragged furs, no mad-eyed savage howling at the wind. No—this one was different. Though barely twenty, he carried himself with the quiet, unshaken confidence of a lord, though he would never name himself as such.
Sigorn of the Thenns was tall, broad in the shoulders, and clad in armor that gleamed a dull, weathered bronze—the mark of his people, a relic of a time when they forged their own fate in fire and metal. The Thenns were not like the other Free Folk. They did not dress in scavenged hides or wield rusted steel stolen from dead men's hands. They were a people of order, of discipline, and Sigorn carried that in the way he moved, measured and precise, as if every step was placed with intent.
His head was shaved, as smooth as a river stone, and his face bore the hard lines of a man who had seen death and walked past it, unflinching. A thin scar curled along his jaw, the only imperfection on otherwise frost-pale skin. His eyes—cold, grey as slate—studied me with neither warmth nor hostility, only calculation, as if measuring my worth in an instant.
Though his youth still clung to his features, there was no boasting to him, no wasted words or idle threats. He did not sneer or scowl like lesser men did when they wished to seem fearsome. He simply stood, still as the frozen North, and waited for me to speak. And in that silence, Rick understood—this was a man who did not need to demand respect. It was simply given.
Next to him stood the blond woman Rick had briefly seen in the tent the night before.
Val was bathed in the pale light of the dying sun, her golden hair catching the wind like a banner of fire and frost. Though barely eighteen, she carried herself with the poise and confidence of someone far older, her frame tall and lean, shaped by a life spent chasing game, surviving the harsh winters, and moving with the ever-changing seasons. Unlike many of her people, she did not hunch or slouch—she stood with the fluid, predatory grace of one born to hunt, poised yet unafraid, as though the world was merely hers to conquer or cast aside at her will.
Her face was striking, sharp-boned and proud, with high cheekbones kissed by the cold and full lips that curved more often in challenge than in kindness. There was something untamed in her features, a defiance that spoke of someone who had never been bound by the constraints of others. But it was her eyes that truly held people captive—cool, clever, ever-watchful. They were a shade of pale grey, like the first thin ice on a river in winter, and they never flinched. Not before lord nor king, not even in the face of death.
She dressed as the Free Folk did, in thick furs and weathered leather, but where others looked ragged, she wore her clothes with effortless elegance. A white wolf-pelt draped over her shoulders, fastened with a simple clasp of bone, and a knife hung at her hip, its hilt worn smooth from years of use. She was no lady of the South, no delicate thing of silks and jewels. She was wild, untamed, as much a part of the North as the mountains, the storm, and the wolves that roamed the land.
Men called her a princess, though she scoffed at the word. No crowns, no thrones, only freedom—that was her birthright. And though she laughed at the title, there was something in the way she carried herself, something in the fearless lift of her chin, that would make kneelers wonder if the Free Folk had their own kind of royalty after all. A royalty forged not by blood and titles, but by strength, defiance, and a refusal to bow.
Rick couldn't help himself—he found her beautiful. Not as beautiful as Freyja, who possessed a divine, almost ethereal beauty, but as far as mortals went, Val was the most striking woman he had ever met. Dacey, with her softer, more conventional charms, seemed a pale shadow by comparison. Val was a flame, and Dacey was the flicker of a candle caught in the wind.
The six of them left the Free Folk camp at dawn, the wind biting, the snow crunching beneath their boots. The world beyond the Wall was a vast, frozen graveyard, and somewhere in the white expanse, the dead lurked.
Rick walked at the front, his breath misting in the cold air, eyes scanning the horizon. Freyja, moving with a silent grace unnatural for an animal of her size, trailed just behind him. Her fur was as white as the snow, blending seamlessly with the icy expanse around them. Deep blue eyes gleamed with an eerie intelligence as she carried their bags on her back and sides, the weight not even slowing her pace. Her breath steamed in the cold as she padded forward, alert to every movement, her senses heightened to the dangers that lurked.
Behind them, Tormund Giantsbane grumbled about the madness of hunting the dead, his deep voice cutting through the chill air, while Ygritte moved like a shadow beside him, her sharp eyes scanning the barren landscape, always vigilant.
Sigorn walked with that same steady, deliberate pace he always carried, his broad shoulders framed by the weight of a bronze axe strapped across his back. His gaze was fixed ahead, his expression hard as ice, as though nothing in this frozen wasteland could surprise him.
Val, light-footed and swift, moved just behind him. Her white wolf-pelt blended with the snow, a blur of pale fur in the desolate landscape. Her spear, always close at hand, was a weapon she wielded with deadly precision. Though she had hunted countless beasts before, this was different—this was a hunt of a far more unnatural nature. She moved with the fluidity of a predator, every step measured, every movement purpose-driven, her pale grey eyes ever-watchful as she surveyed their surroundings. The land might be frozen, but her instincts were as sharp as the edge of her spear.
"If we're lucky, we find one alone," Sigorn murmured, his voice barely louder than the wind.
"If we're lucky, we don't find one at all," Ygritte countered, but there was no humor in her voice.
Rick held up a hand. Freyja stopped instantly beside him, her ears pricked forward, nostrils flaring. The others froze. In the distance, a blackened shape moved through the snow. It shuffled with the slow, mindless gait of something that had long forgotten how to be human. A wight.
Rick stepped forward, drawing his sword as he moved closer. The others, on alert, readied their weapons—Tormund with his great axe, Ygritte with her bow, Sigorn gripping his bronze blade, Val with a long knife in her hand.
The wight staggered closer, its milky, lifeless eyes locked on them.
"Now," Rick commanded.
Tormund struck first, swinging his axe in a brutal arc. The wight moved faster than expected, jerking aside at the last moment. Ygritte's arrow punched through its shoulder, but it barely reacted. Val and Sigorn darted in from opposite sides, slashing at its legs, forcing it down.
It shrieked, a terrible, rasping sound that sent a chill through Rick's bones. More would come soon. They had to move fast.
Freyja lunged forward, her massive form pinning the wight beneath her weight. Her powerful jaws snapped shut just inches from its throat—she could tear it apart in an instant, but she held back, obeying Rick's unspoken command.
Rick knelt and pulled the iron chains from his pack, looping them around the creature's arms and legs. It fought, thrashing wildly, its movements unnatural, but the combined strength of the group held it down. With a final, rusted snarl, the chains locked.
The wight was captured.
Rick rose, staring down at the writhing thing, its dead fingers clawing at the snow, its body twitching in the dying light. The others stepped back, breathing hard from the fight.
"That was too easy," Tormund muttered, gripping his axe, his eyes scanning the snow for more threats.
A distant sound cut through the air—not the wind, not the snow. A screech. A howl. A call. The others heard it too. They were not alone.
Rick's heart skipped a beat, adrenaline surging as his instincts screamed. "Move! Now!" he shouted.
Val and Sigorn immediately moved to lift the chained wight, dragging it between them, their expressions grim but focused. Ygritte nocked another arrow, eyes narrowed, scanning the horizon. Tormund took up the rear, his axe ready. As they turned to head back toward the Wall, the snow behind them stirred.
The first of the dead burst from the snow, climbing up from the blackness beneath the ice, their movements jerky, unnatural. Corpses clawing their way out of graves—blackened, frostbitten, their eyes burning cold and blue. There were five, then ten, then more, all moving fast, too fast for comfort.
"Move!" Rick shouted again, his voice a command as he broke into a sprint, urgency in every step. Freyja bounded forward beside him, her massive form gliding through the snow with unnatural speed and grace. She was carrying their supplies, but even that weight did not slow her down.
"Run! Stay together!" Rick yelled, his voice tight with fear. They moved as one, pushing south, the wind howling, the dead at their heels. Ygritte loosed an arrow, striking one wight in the head, but it barely faltered, its unnatural strength pulling it forward without pause.
Tormund, his fierce determination evident, turned mid-stride, hacking another wight apart. But more kept coming, relentless and unyielding. They couldn't fight them all. They had to flee.
The land sloped downward into a valley, and beyond it, a lake stretched out, frozen solid. The heart tree stood on the other side, its red leaves rustling in the wind, its pale bark standing tall and vigilant against the oncoming storm. It was their only hope of refuge. If they could make it there, they could take a stand. But the ice beneath their feet groaned as if it, too, sensed the danger.
"Move light! No sudden steps!" Rick shouted, his voice urgent.
Freyja, always careful in the face of danger, slowed down, placing each paw with precision on the frozen surface, her eyes flickering between the ice and the oncoming wights. The others followed her example, inching forward, trying to make as little noise as possible. Behind them, the wights rushed forward without thought, unburdened by caution or fear.
The ice cracked.
The first wights plunged into the freezing water, their bodies vanishing beneath the black depths. But still, more came, relentlessly pushing forward with the hunger of the dead.
Ygritte, Val, and Sigorn reached the other side first, dragging the struggling wight behind them, their eyes never leaving the horizon. Rick and Tormund were last, just steps from safety when—
Crack.
The ice beneath Tormund shattered. His eyes widened in disbelief as he dropped into the water, the freezing current swallowing him whole, dragging him down.
Without thinking, Rick lunged forward, diving after him. The cold hit him like a blade, slicing through his flesh, stealing his breath as it wrapped around him like a vice. He grabbed Tormund's arm, kicking hard, forcing them both upward.
Then a massive set of jaws clamped down on Rick's cloak. Freyja.
With one great tug, the direwolf dragged them both onto solid ground. They tumbled onto the snow, gasping for air as their hearts hammered in their chests. Behind them, the wights that had remained standing howled in frustration, but the ice had given way, swallowing half their numbers. The rest dared not follow, frozen and trapped in the bitter, black waters.
They had made it. They were safe—for now. The captured wight lay in the snow, still bound in chains, its dead eyes fixed on Rick, its cold gaze never leaving him.
Tormund, still dripping, let out a breathless chuckle. "Next time, we hunt something that don't bite back."
Ygritte elbowed him. "Aye. Like rabbits."
Rick placed a hand on Freyja's neck, feeling the steady warmth beneath his fingers. The direwolf's fur was a lifeline against the brutal cold that had already begun to sink deep into his bones. They had come for the dead, and, for now, they had won. But victory tasted bitter, hollow. The cold gnawed at them both, and though they had subdued the wights, they now faced a more immediate enemy: the unforgiving frost that threatened to claim them just as surely as the dead would.
Tormund was stumbling behind him, soaked to the skin, his skin pale and lips blue, but Rick was no better. The freezing water had soaked through their clothes, and their limbs were stiff with cold. The frigid air whipped around them, making it feel like their very flesh was turning to ice. They needed shelter—immediately.
"We need to get out of these wet clothes," Rick said, his voice hoarse and cracking. "If we don't find shelter soon, we won't last the night."
Tormund's breath came in short, labored bursts, his massive frame hunched against the cold. "Aye, you don't need to tell me. Let's just move, before we freeze to bloody death."
With no time to waste, they pushed forward, their steps sluggish in the deep snow. Freyja led the way, her large, graceful form cutting through the snow like a shadow. She seemed impervious to the cold, a living testament to the harsh lands they had all come from. Behind her, Rick and Tormund struggled, their movements slower with each step.
The wind howled, whipping the snow into blinding flurries, and their breath came in clouds of steam. Their teeth chattered relentlessly, and each breath felt like inhaling ice. There was no choice but to keep moving, pushing southward, the urgency of survival driving them on. They couldn't afford to stop, not until they found shelter.
The terrain stretched out endlessly before them—desolate, unforgiving. It was all frozen wasteland, the snow carrying an eerie silence broken only by the wind. But just as hope was starting to wane, something caught Rick's eye—a dark shape against the white expanse, partially hidden beneath the jagged rocks that lined a small rise.
He squinted, trying to make out the shape through the swirling snow. As they drew closer, the shape resolved into the entrance of a cave, half-concealed by snowdrifts. A faint glimmer of something dark within beckoned to them, and Rick's heart gave a jolt of hope.
"Over there!" he shouted, pointing toward the cave.
Tormund let out a gruff sound of relief and nodded, though the pain of the cold was evident in the way his breath hitched. They made their way toward the cave with what little energy they had left. As they approached, Rick felt a glimmer of cautious optimism. It wasn't much—just a small, low entrance barely big enough to fit them all—but it was a chance. A place where they could rest, shed their wet clothes, and try to warm their frozen bodies.
Freyja bounded ahead, her sharp blue eyes flicking over her surroundings before she padded into the mouth of the cave. The others followed, Tormund and Rick the last to enter, each struggling to step over the snowdrifts and into the shelter.
Inside, the cave was dark and damp, but it was a refuge from the howling storm outside. The ground was uneven and littered with rocks, but it was dry. They could rest here, at least for a while. Rick dropped to his knees, exhausted, and felt the weight of the cold press against him like a physical force. His fingers were numb, but he fumbled with the wet layers of his cloak, desperate to shed the cold-soaked clothing.
"We need a fire," Tormund muttered through clenched teeth, his voice strained from the cold. "Now."
Rick nodded. They didn't have much time. But Freyja had the bags—plenty of fur, tinder, and materials for a fire. He turned to the wolf and gestured for her to come closer. Freyja padded to him, and Rick pulled the bags off her back, spilling the contents onto the cave floor.
Ygritte, Val, and Sigorn were already working, moving toward the cave's dry corners to keep watch, though they didn't need to strip—they had been untouched by the freezing water. Ygritte and Val, sharp-eyed, kept scanning their surroundings while Sigorn worked to organize the scattered supplies. Rick quickly found a dry bundle of fur and kindling, and with the fire-starting kit he always carried, he set to work.
It wasn't long before the crackling warmth of a fire spread across the cave, slowly easing the chill from their bones. The glow illuminated their weary faces, casting flickering shadows on the rough stone walls.
Rick sat near the fire, feeling its warmth spread through him like a blessing. Tormund dropped heavily to the ground beside him, his face flushed from the heat. The big man looked up at Rick, his eyes tired but thankful.
"We'll make it," Tormund muttered, wiping his brow with a frozen hand. "We'll survive. Just need a little rest."
Rick nodded, the fire's light flickering in his eyes as he glanced around. Ygritte, Val, and Sigorn were already getting to work—wrapping themselves in furs, making themselves comfortable near the fire as they took stock of their surroundings. Freyja lay near them, her enormous form curled against the wall, her eyes never leaving the entrance to the cave.
The warmth was working its magic, and slowly, the color began to return to Rick's fingers and toes. His chest unclenched as the cold began to lose its grip. But even as they found a temporary respite, his mind raced. They had found shelter,They were safe for now.
The warmth from the fire had done its work. By morning, the bone-deep cold had been driven from Rick and Tormund's bodies. They were still sore, stiff from the long night and the lingering effects of the freezing water, but the worst had passed. Neither had fallen ill, and the fire's warmth had been a much-needed balm after their near-death experience on the ice.
The cave was quiet now, the crackling of the dying embers the only sound as the group readied to leave. Ygritte, Val, and Sigorn had remained dry, their furs still intact, and they moved with purpose, their eyes scanning the cave entrance, watching for any sign of danger. Rick and Tormund, on the other hand, were still working to regain full strength. Their clothes, though dry now, still carried the lingering stench of the freezing water and the cold that had nearly claimed them.
Tormund let out a low grumble as he pulled his furs tight. "I'm too old for this kind of wet work."
Rick only grunted in response, tightening his cloak and securing his sword. He wasn't any younger, but the mission had to come first.
Freyja stood close by, her white fur gleaming in the faint morning light as she shifted from one massive paw to the other, her eyes locked on the group, ever watchful. The others quickly packed up the few belongings they had, stowing everything in the bags Freyja had carried. The direwolf, with her uncanny sense of balance and grace, had made carrying their supplies seem effortless despite her size.
Rick cast one last glance at the chained wight. The thing hadn't moved or made a sound since they'd bound it to the boulder the night before. It was nothing special—just another wight, no different from the many they had encountered. Lifeless and frozen, animated by dark magic beyond their understanding. But it served a purpose. It was the proof they needed for the Night's Watch, the evidence that the dead were truly walking again. They could not leave it behind.
"Let's get moving," Rick said, turning toward the entrance. "We've got a long road ahead."
Tormund's eyes lingered on the wight for a moment, and he nodded. "Aye. We can't leave it behind. The Watch needs to see it for themselves."
The group moved quickly, leaving the warmth of the cave behind. They needed to cover ground and put distance between themselves and the Wall. They stayed to the forest's edge to avoid the watchful eyes of the sentries on top, making sure to stay low and out of sight. The cold was relentless, the snow crunchy underfoot, but the trees provided some shelter, their thick branches creaking and groaning under the weight of the frost.
The journey took three days, each one grueling and tiring, but they managed to keep up their pace. There were no further attacks, no surprises—just the endless monotony of the white expanse around them, the creeping feeling that danger was always just beyond the next hill.
On the third day, the trees thinned out, and in the distance, they could see the towering, formidable Wall stretching toward the sky. The heart tree was not far beyond it, its pale bark stark against the snow, its red leaves still rustling in the wind like the whispers of ancient spirits.
"We're close," Rick murmured, his voice low, "but we need to be careful. We can't afford to be seen now."
Ygritte nodded, her sharp eyes scanning the landscape ahead. "We'll stay low."
Val and Sigorn kept to the rear, their movements swift and deliberate. Tormund and Rick brought up the front, careful not to make a sound as they neared the Wall, the wight still securely chained between them. They all knew this was the proof that the Night's Watch needed to believe them. The dead were walking again—and they needed to make the Night's Watch see it with their own eyes.
As they neared the heart tree, the wind howled and the snow kicked up, but they pressed on, their steps careful, their breath steady, the weight of what they carried heavier than any chain.
The snow howled around Rick and Freyja as they made their way toward the entrance of Castle Black. The massive stone walls of the castle loomed in the distance, and Rick felt the weight of the task ahead pressing on him with every step. His three companions—Tormund, Sigorn, Ygritte, and Val—remained at the Heart Tree, waiting with the proof of what was coming. They had captured a wight, a piece of the nightmare that was soon to sweep across the realm. Rick didn't waste time once they entered the castle. He headed directly for Jeor Mormont's solar, where Maester Aemon Targaryen was already present. The blind old man sat by the hearth, his sharp senses seemingly aware of everything despite his blindness. Mormont stood beside him, the hard lines of his face suggesting that something significant was coming.
"Rick," Mormont greeted him, his voice gruff, but Rick didn't return the greeting. He had no time for pleasantries.
"I bring very bad news," Rick said, his voice steady but filled with urgency.
Mormont's brow furrowed, while Aemon's stillness betrayed no emotion, though his posture grew more alert.
Rick began without delay. "I found the Three-Eyed Raven. He was a warg. A foul one who used other wargs to extend his life by taking their bodies, one after another. His last victim was Brynden Rivers. I killed him and took back his sword, Dark Sister, which is on my left side, and his Weirwood Bow."
Rick paused for a moment, letting the gravity of his words settle before continuing. "I also found a few of the Children of the Forest—then I traveled and met Mance Rayder."
Mormont's gaze was sharp, yet there was no immediate response. Aemon, however, spoke with a quiet understanding. "The warg, the Three-Eyed Raven... he was a danger to us all then. Thank you for avenging Bryden. Kinslayer he may have been, he was still kin. But this news about Mance Rayder..."
Rick nodded. "Mance is ready to talk. He wants an alliance with the Watch. An alliance between the Free Folk and the Watch, and all the lords south of the Wall, to fight the Others."
Mormont's voice grew hard, though not in disbelief—more like the cold realization of what was coming. "The Others? The White Walkers are back for good?" His gaze lingered on Rick. "And how do we know this is true?"
Rick's gaze was firm. "I have proof. Not here, but outside the Wall. Tormund, Sigorn, Ygritte, and Val are waiting by the Heart Tree with a wight we captured. If you want to see it for yourselves, I'll take you there."
Mormont and Aemon exchanged a glance, but neither spoke immediately. Aemon's calm voice broke the silence. "You've always spoken the truth, Rick. But even the truth must be witnessed if we are to act."
Rick nodded, understanding. "I know. And there's more." He took a breath, the words weighing heavily on him. "I had another green dream. I saw Valyria in the dream. A voice told me to find the Mother of Dragons. She is imprisoned, trapped in stone... but she is the key to defeating the Others. The last dragon alive."
Aemon's brows furrowed slightly, though his expression remained thoughtful. "The last dragon... alive?" He paused, as if recalling something long buried in the depths of his mind. "But if all the dragons are dead…"
Rick's voice was unwavering. "Only she remains. She is dormant, but she is the only one who can help us. I must go to Valyria and free her. We have little time. From what Freyja said, the—"
"Freyja?" Aemon interrupted, his head tilting slightly, sensing the name with quiet curiosity.
At that moment, Rick turned to Freyja, who stood quietly by his side. She huffed softly, then, as though she had grown tired of the conversation, shifted her form. Her massive direwolf body shrank and reformed, rippling with magical energy, until she stood before them in her human form—a towering, seven-foot woman with flowing white hair, her ethereal beauty nearly unnatural. Jeor Mormont staggered back, his shock palpable.
Aemon, though blind, could still feel the air shift around her as she transformed, his sharp mind discerning her new shape. His voice, though still calm, trembled with wonder and a touch of fear. "By the Old Gods… what—what is this?"
Freyja's piercing blue eyes turned to him, calm but filled with an ancient strength. "I am Freyja,of the North." she said softly, her voice a blend of power and serenity. "I was created by the Old Gods. I am their hand in this world. And I have come to guide Rick in his quest."
Mormont, still struggling to comprehend, remained silent, his gaze fixed on the woman who had appeared before him, a being far beyond anything he could have imagined.
Freyja continued, her voice growing somber. "The Wall's magic will soon fade. The Heart Trees, the source of the Wall's magic, are nearly gone south of it. In six to seven years, the Wall will lose its strength, and the Others will be able to breach it. Its magic will be weak enough to allow them to destroy it."
Rick spoke then, his voice resolute. "Our plan is to strike before they're ready, before the Wall loses its power."
Freyja nodded, her expression unchanged. "That is the only way forward. And there is more. From what the Old Gods have shared with me, the Mother of Dragons is like me—created by the gods of Valyria for a specific purpose. I do not know all the details, but she is the key to defeating the Others."
Aemon's face softened in thought, his voice shaking slightly. "The last dragon… the key to stopping them?"
Freyja turned to him, her gaze unwavering. "Only she remains. She is dormant, but she is the only one who can help us. Rick is the one chosen to wake her. He must go to Valyria to free her."
Mormont's voice broke the silence, heavy with skepticism but also with the weight of necessity. "And the wights? What can be done to stop them?"
Freyja's eyes narrowed. "The wights are bound to the magic of the Others. They have weaknesses."
She took a breath, her voice resolute. "Fire, dragonglass, and Valyrian steel. These can kill the wights, even the White Walkers. All of it can be found in Valyria."
Rick's patience wore thin as the conversation lingered on Valyria, his mind focused on more immediate concerns. He cleared his throat, cutting in with a pointed tone.
"How about we set aside talk of Valyria for now and focus on the wight we have as proof and the alliance with the Free Folk? And yes, Commander, the Free Folk," he added, his eyes meeting Mormont's. "It will do far more for the negotiations if you refer to them that way, rather than calling them 'wildlings.'"
Mormont regarded him silently for a moment, his brow furrowing, still processing the sight of Freyja—the transformation, the impossible woman who stood before him. He nodded slowly, but his gaze remained fixed on her. The reality of her presence seemed to unsettle him.
Rick could sense the conflict in the Lord Commander. He pressed on, shifting the topic back to something more tangible. "She was there eight thousand years ago, fighting against the Others alongside our ancestors," he continued, his voice steady and resolute. "She's the origin of warging and green dreams, tied to the first men's bloodlines."
Mormont's lips parted, but his words faltered as he took in the enormity of the situation. He glanced at Freyja, his tone apologetic but still skeptical. "My apologies, my Lady, but this is… so much."
Freyja's gaze softened, an amused smile tugging at her lips. "I know," she replied with a soft, knowing chuckle, her voice carrying the weight of ages. Without another word, she shifted back into her massive direwolf form, her form rippling with power and grace. The transition was seamless, and Rick saw that Mormont's disbelief only deepened.
As Freyja settled into her familiar shape, the room seemed to shrink around them, the tension thick enough to cut with a blade. But the urgency of the matters at hand loomed larger than the mysteries surrounding the past. They had no time to waste.
"That's why she's called the Mother of the North."
As Mormont called for a small group of men to make the journey to the Heart Tree, Benjen Stark was among those selected. He was quiet, reserved, his mind clearly focused on the task at hand. The man stood still, his eyes locked on Rick as he processed the sight before him. At first, he thought the young man might be Brandon's bastard, someone Benjen had never known about—perhaps a child left behind when Brandon was alive.
But that thought quickly faded. Eddard would never have allowed such a thing, he would have welcomed the boy in Winterfell as his own son had he known. And he would have because no Lord in the North wouldn't have recognized the lad with his Stark's features. He considered it, but quickly dismissed the notion. Eddard—his noble brother—would never have sired a bastard. It wasn't his way. He wouldn't break his vows to his family. He wouldn't break his vows to his wife, Catlyn. Benjen's eyes narrowed as the realization hit him, cold and undeniable: Rick was his sister's son. There was no other explanation. The resemblance to Eddard was too strong to ignore. He stared at Rick for a moment longer, the weight of this discovery settling quietly in his chest. Benjen said nothing, keeping the truth to himself for now.
Mormont stood before his men, his expression grave as he addressed them one last time before they departed. The cold wind of the North bit at their skin, but the Lord Commander's words carried weight far beyond the chill of the air.
"Listen up, all of you," he said, his voice low but firm. "We are going to meet with three wildings. This is a parley, not a skirmish. Keep that in mind. Do not raise a hand unless you are forced to defend yourself. They are our enemies, but we are here to speak, not fight."
His eyes scanned the faces of the men in front of him, his gaze hardening as he continued. "Remember this well: We are meeting beneath a Heart Tree. If any of you break the terms of this parley, if you show aggression or disrespect, know this—Death will be your reward. The old gods do not take kindly to blood spilled beneath their sacred trees."
Mormont paused for a moment, ensuring the severity of his words settled in. "I trust you understand the consequences."
The men were silent, the weight of the warning hanging heavy in the air. A few nodded, though it was clear that not all of them were comfortable with what was to come. The wildings were known to be wild and unpredictable, and the thought of standing face-to-face with them in this situation made some of the Night's Watch uneasy.
The group left Castle Black, the men walking in near silence, their boots crunching through the snow. Rick's friends—Tormund, Ygritte, Sigorn, and Val—stood at the Heart Tree, their eyes scanning the approach of the Night's Watch with evident tension. The Free Folk were hardly known for their trust in the Night's Watch, and the same animosity that had always existed between them still simmered beneath the surface.
Tormund's fingers twitched near the hilt of his axe, and Ygritte's eyes narrowed as she watched the men approach. It was clear that neither side was particularly eager to be in the same space.
As the two groups neared each other, Rick stepped forward. He raised his hand slightly, signaling both sides to hold.
"I know this is tense," Rick said, his voice steady but carrying the weight of a mediator. "But we are here for one reason, and one reason only: to make sure we're ready when the Others come. This is about survival, not about old grudges."
He glanced briefly at Mormont, his tone firm but diplomatic. "This is not the time for old feuds. We need to work together."
Rick then turned to his friends, signaling them to step forward. Tormund, looking every bit the fierce warrior, gave Rick a pointed look but complied. Ygritte stood beside him, her eyes flicking nervously to the Night's Watch men. With a deep breath, Rick reached into the bag that hung behind them, pulling out the wight they had captured. He held it up, the creature's decayed, frozen form hanging limp from his hands.
"This," Rick said, lifting the wight for all to see, "is proof. We've fought the Others and lived to tell the tale. This is not just a myth. We're all in danger."
He could feel the eyes of both the Night's Watch and the Free Folk on him, waiting for the reaction.
"The Free Folk and the Night's Watch are the last hope for this land and the whole realm," Rick continued. "If we don't stand together, the Others will wipe us all out."
The tension between the two groups hung in the air, but the wight—grotesque and unmistakable—had made its point. It was no longer a matter of belief. It was a matter of survival.
Rick met Mormont's eyes, waiting for his response, his heart pounding in his chest. Mormont studied the wight, his eyes narrowing as he took in the gruesome sight. For a long moment, there was only the sound of the wind rustling through the trees, the tension thick enough to feel in the air. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke, his voice measured and deliberate.
"I will agree to meet with Mance Rayder," Mormont said, his tone resolute, "But it will be beneath a Heart Tree, as you've asked. We will go as emissaries, half a dozen men each. No more, no less. This is not a time for grand gestures."
He glanced down at the wight, still held in Rick's hands, and added, "I will take the wight back with me as proof for the Lords of the South. The King needs to know what we face, and I'll write to Lord Eddard Stark as well. They must be informed."
Rick's face tightened, and he shook his head, his voice cutting through the air with quiet urgency. "The wight will decompose if it's taken south. You can't bring it with you, Commander. If you want the Lords to believe this threat is real, they'll have to come here, to Castle Black."
There was a moment of silence as Mormont processed Rick's words. The cold air seemed to hold its breath. Finally, the Lord Commander spoke, his voice softer but no less determined.
"You are right," he said, eyes still fixed on the wight. "If the wight will not last long enough to make the journey, then they will need to come here. The Lords will see it for themselves, and they will understand the severity of the threat."
He looked up at Rick, his expression hard but understanding. "This will not be an easy task, but we will find a way to make them listen. You have my word on that."
Rick nodded, relieved but still wary. He turned his gaze back to his friends standing nearby, their eyes locked on the exchange, the tension still simmering beneath the surface. The path ahead was uncertain, but the first step had been taken.
As Mormont signaled for his men to prepare to leave, Rick stepped forward, his tone firm but measured as he addressed Mormont.
"Commander," he said, "Mance Rayder will meet you here in two weeks. It will give him time to get the word out to the Free Folk and for them to make the journey. You'll have your meeting then."
Mormont gave him a sharp look, considering the words for a moment. "Two weeks?" he asked, as if to confirm.
Rick nodded. "Yes, two weeks. It's enough time."
Without waiting for further discussion, Rick turned to his companions, signaling that the meeting had been arranged. Mormont's gaze lingered on him for a brief moment, and then he gave a single, curt nod.
"Very well," Mormont said, turning to his men. "Two weeks, then."
"One last thing," Rick said, his voice low, the weight of what he was about to present hanging in the air.
He walked to the heart tree, his boots crunching softly in the snow. The tree's pale bark stood like an ancient sentinel, watching over the land, its red leaves rustling softly as though whispering secrets of the old gods. Rick reached into his pack and pulled out the ice spear, carefully wrapped in cloth. Its surface gleamed, unnaturally cold even in the harsh winds. It was a weapon of death, crafted by something beyond human comprehension, and Rick knew it was just another piece of the puzzle he had to share with Mormont.
He unwrapped the cloth and held the spear out to the Lord Commander, the frost-covered blade gleaming in the dim light. "Another proof," Rick said, his voice steady. "It's one of their weapons. Anything but Valyrian steel will shatter on contact with it."
Mormont eyed the spear with a mixture of skepticism and curiosity. His gaze flicked from the weapon to Rick's face, but he said nothing, his brow furrowed in thought.
"Don't touch it with your bare hands," Rick continued. "The magic within it will burn you."
Mormont hesitated for a moment, his weathered face unreadable. Then, with a small grunt of frustration, he reached for his knife. "I'll see for myself."
He drew the blade and brought it down onto the spear, testing the edge of the frozen weapon. The steel met the ice with a harsh crack, and to Mormont's shock, the knife shattered into jagged pieces. A few fragments fell to the snow, glinting in the weak sunlight like shards of broken dreams.
"Fuck me," Mormont muttered, his voice a mixture of awe and disbelief as he stared at the wreckage of his blade. He reached for his belt, muttering curses under his breath.
Rick watched with a detached sort of satisfaction. It was a harsh lesson, but one that needed to be learned. "I think the lords of the North will take your word more seriously with this," Rick said, his gaze steady. "From the book I read about the Long Night, it's said the Others' weapons have this effect."
Mormont's face softened slightly, as if he was recalling the distant whispers of old legends. "Aye," he said slowly, his voice gravelly. "I vaguely remember. Thank you, Rick."
Rick gave a short nod, allowing the silence to settle between them for a moment. The weapon was a deadly reminder of the threat that loomed, one that neither Mormont nor the rest of the North could afford to ignore. The spear, like the wight, was irrefutable evidence. It was no longer just talk or speculation. The Others were back, and they were coming for them all.
Mormont finally looked up, meeting Rick's gaze. "We'll need to move quickly," he said, his tone grim but resolute. "The Wall may be our last defense, but even it won't hold them forever."
Rick met his words with a somber nod. There was no time to waste. With that, the tension in the air shifted, and the group began to prepare for their departure.
As the Night's Watch turned to leave, Rick took a moment to look back at his friends. He felt the weight of their journey together and the trust they'd placed in him. He stood for a moment, quietly gathering his thoughts, then spoke, his voice steady and sincere.
"Thank you," Rick said simply, looking at each of them. "For trusting me. For sticking by me."
Tormund snorted, raising an eyebrow. "Trusting you? Well, let's just say, you've got a knack for surviving. Not sure I'd call it trust, but I'll give you that much."
Ygritte shot him a smirk, folding her arms across her chest. "Aye, don't get too comfortable, Rick. I'm not sure you've earned full trust yet, but you're getting there. Slowly."
The incredulity on Rick's face wasn't missed by his companions. "Full trust? I saved your life!"
"And that's why you're not on the ground with an arrow sticking up your arse." Tomund joked making Ygritte snort.
"Fucking redheads." was the curse that went through Rick's clenched jaw and made his friends laugh even more. "Why couldn't I meet with Sigorn and Val first?" Rick complained with a playful tilt to his voice, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration beneath the jest. He gestured toward the two Free Folk with a wry smile, his eyes glinting with mischief. "They're nicer than you two."
Tormund snorted, his beard twitching in amusement. "Nicer, he says. Sigorn's about as warm as a dead bear, and Val's would cut your balls off at the first offense."
Ygritte smirked, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Aye, and then she'd tell you to go hunting in a snowstorm just to teach you a lesson."
Rick shot them both a look. "Well, maybe that's better than whatever... this is," he gestured at their teasing with a half-smile.
Val, who had been listening in, glanced over at Rick with a raised eyebrow. "Oh, I wouldn't get too comfortable, Rick. Tormund and Ygritte have a point. But don't worry, I'll go easy on you." Her smile was sly, but her tone held a playful warmth, one that didn't quite reach the cutting level Rick feared.
He relaxed, thinking she was about to turn on Tormund and Ygritte, but instead, she added with a teasing edge, "I'll leave the heavy-handed work to them. You'd be a bit too easy of a target for me."
Rick stared at her, blinking in disbelief. "Wait, you're not—"
"No, I'm just saying you've got a soft spot," Val said, her grin widening. "Just be glad it's not me getting the chance to pick on you."
Tormund let out a loud, satisfied laugh. "Ha! Look at that, Rick. Even Val thinks you're easy."
Ygritte snickered and leaned in closer. "He's just mad 'cause he thought we'd actually defend him."
Sigorn, who had barely known Rick for a few days, simply nodded at him. The silent acknowledgment was enough, even if his trust was still a work in progress.