Benjen Stark rode his horse as fast as he could without overtaxing him. He had been traveling for days and was eager to catch up with his brother, Eddard, who was camped along the King's Road at the beginning of the New Gift. The wind whipped through his dark cloak, and his breath came out in small clouds, but he kept his pace steady.
As he neared the area where the guards were stationed, two figures stepped forward, raising their hands to halt him. The guards were older, their faces weathered from years of service, and their armor was worn, yet sturdy. Benjen brought his horse to a halt with a firm pull on the reins, his eyes flicking to the two men.
"Hold there!" one of them called out, his voice gravelly from years of shouting orders.
Benjen met the guard's gaze, calm and steady, though his pulse quickened. It wasn't uncommon for someone on horseback to be stopped, especially with the borderlands being so wild. The guards were doing their duty, no matter the weather. But the man's eyes widened as he studied Benjen's face, recognition flickering in his gaze.
"Benjen Stark?" The guard's voice softened in disbelief.
Benjen nodded, his expression unfaltering. "Aye," he replied, his voice carrying the weight of authority that came with his name.
The guard's eyes darted quickly to his companion, who was just as stunned by the recognition. After a beat, the second guard stepped forward, his stance less rigid, his posture shifting into something more familiar.
"Forgive us, sir," the first guard stammered, his voice now laced with an apologetic tone. "We didn't recognize you at first. You've grown since your last visit to Winterfell, and these old eyes don't see as well as they used to."
Benjen nodded again, a slight smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "It's of no consequence," he replied, his tone dismissive but not unkind. "I've been away for some time, after all."
The guards stepped back, their demeanor shifting to one of respect, their previous tension gone. They exchanged brief glances, then looked back to Benjen. "It's a good sight to see you again, sir," the second guard added. "We'll make sure you pass without further delay."
Benjen gave a nod of acknowledgment, his expression settling into its usual serious demeanor as he urged his horse onward, continuing his journey towards the camp where Eddard waited. The guards watched him go, their posture a little straighter now, their respect for the Stark family evident in the way they silently observed his departure.
Benjen dismounted from his horse, his boots landing softly on the cold earth. The horse let out a quiet huff, its breath rising in a misty cloud. With a practiced motion, he handed the reins to one of the guards stationed nearby, nodding in silent appreciation. The guard, a young man with the same worn expression that most of the Night's Watch seemed to share, took the reins with a quick and respectful grip. Benjen adjusted his cloak, then made his way to the entrance of his brother's tent.
The morning air had a sharp bite to it, but the sun's first rays were beginning to stretch over the landscape, promising a fleeting warmth. As he approached, Benjen glanced at the two guards stationed at the entrance. Their eyes flickered to him, recognition swift, but they didn't break their stoic composure. Benjen, ever composed, met their gaze with a quiet certainty.
"Is my Brother awake?" Benjen asked, his voice carrying the hint of familiarity.
One of the guards gave a quick nod, eyes softened with a brief acknowledgment of his presence. Without a word, the second guard flapped open the entrance to the tent, signaling that his brother was not only awake but also presentable.
Stepping inside, Benjen's eyes immediately adjusted to the dimmer light of the tent. It was warmer here, the scent of cooked meat and bread filling the air. He saw Eddard sitting at a small table, his broad frame hunched slightly over a bowl of porridge and slices of bread, a dagger held loosely in his hand as he sliced through the food with practiced ease. The light from the tent's small fire cast flickering shadows across Eddard's face, making him appear even more somber than usual, his eyes tired from the road, but resolute.
"Ned!" Benjen's voice rang out, a grin pulling at his lips as he saw his brother. The sudden, unexpected intrusion surprised Eddard. His hand froze mid-chew as he turned to face the voice, and for a moment, his features went blank with surprise.
Eddard's eyes widened, the recognition setting in. His expression shifted immediately, and he dropped his dagger, standing up quickly, his mouth still half-full, but not caring. "Benjen!" His voice, deep but warm, called his brother's name like a balm. Without another word, he rushed toward him, arms wide, and pulled Benjen into a tight hug, his grip strong but full of affection.
Benjen, taken aback by the warmth of the embrace, held his brother tightly, feeling the comfort of family surrounding him. It had been too long since they had shared such a moment, and the distance of the years suddenly seemed less significant. Eddard pulled back slightly, his hands still resting on Benjen's shoulders as he looked him over with a mixture of relief and wonder. Lord Stark chuckled softly and nodded toward the table. "Come, sit with me," he invited, the warmth of his tone unmistakable. "You must be starving, it's early in the morning."
Benjen nodded, still smiling, and made his way to the table, his brother moving to make space for him. Eddard resumed his seat, already offering Benjen a fresh loaf of bread and a steaming bowl of porridge. For a moment, there was nothing but the quiet clink of utensils and the sound of food being served—an unspoken bond of comfort and familiarity between the two men who had weathered much apart but were now together once again.
"I received your raven nearly a moon ago. Mormont's too," Eddard said, his voice low but firm. "What's so urgent that you rode to meet me instead of waiting at Castle Black?"
Benjen stood across from his brother, his dark eyes serious and unyielding. He was always a man of few words, but his silence now felt like a weight pressing against the tent's walls. "Time, Ned," he replied, his tone heavy with the gravity of what he was about to say. "You need time to process. The changes beyond the Wall."
Eddard raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. "Changes?" he repeated, his voice tinged with skepticism. "Like what? A new King-beyond-the-Wall? Is that what this is about?"
Benjen hesitated, his expression clouding for a moment as though he had to choose his words carefully. "Yes and no," he finally said, his voice low but resolute. "There is a new King-beyond-the-Wall, but he doesn't intend to go south."
Eddard's brow furrowed, his hands stilling. "No?" He looked at Benjen, disbelief clouding his features. "I find that hard to believe. All of them did."
Benjen took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his words before speaking again. His next words came with the bluntness of a man who had seen things too terrible to sugarcoat. "The Long Night is upon us, Ned. The Others are back."
Eddard froze, the words hanging between them like a heavy fog. He stared at Benjen for a long moment, as if expecting his brother to laugh, to tell him this was all some cruel joke. But Benjen's face remained hard, a shadow of something far darker in his eyes. "The Others?" Eddard muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to say the name aloud. He shook his head, disbelief still written across his features. "Are you... Are you serious, Benjen?"
"I'm not joking, Ned," Benjen's voice was flat, his gaze unwavering. "We have a wight. A wight, Ned. Stored in the ice cells of the Wall." He paused, letting the words sink in, before continuing. "A corpse with nothing but frozen, putrefied skin clinging to its bones. No legs. No arms. But it's still moving."
Eddard's face paled, the color draining from his features as the image began to form in his mind. He opened his mouth to speak, but Benjen wasn't done.
"Ned," Benjen's voice grew more urgent. "It's only one of many. There have been many sightings of them recently—wildling villages decimated, not a single corpse left behind. Not a trace. Just blood and snow, just... gone. And the wildlings, they were attacked by a White Walker." The words fell from Benjen's lips with the force of a hammer, each one harder than the last.
Eddard stared at him, his thoughts racing, his mind struggling to grasp what his brother was telling him. "Surely you jest," he said slowly, as if trying to convince himself. "Benjen, they're just legends. Stories that Old Nan used to tell us by the fire. Just tales to frighten the children, nothing more."
Benjen shook his head, his face etched with exhaustion and despair. "I wish, Ned. I truly wish that was all it was. But no." He let out a long, quiet breath, the weight of his words sinking in. "It's real. And it's coming for us."
"The Watch and the wildlings made a truce to deal with the threat," Benjen said, his voice tight with urgency. His hands were clasped together, as if holding back a wave of frustration. "But, Ned... we're standing against eight thousand years of the dead, raised. We're not enough. We won't hold." His words hung in the air like a death sentence, his gaze unwavering as if the weight of the truth crushed him from the inside.
Eddard leaned forward, his jaw tightening as he absorbed the severity of Benjen's words. "The Wall is still there," he retorted, trying to hold on to some semblance of hope, though doubt crept into his mind like a slow poison. He believed his brother, but was it the truth? He couldn't be sure. It was hard to shake the feeling that something was slipping through his fingers.
Benjen's eyes darkened, and he shook his head, the bitterness of reality coloring his tone. "Not for long," he replied, each word biting like the cold air outside. "The magic in the Wall is almost gone. In less than a decade, it will be nothing but a big wall of ice—and nothing more. Easy to destroy, easy to breach." The finality in his voice was chilling, like the echo of a death knell.
Eddard's brows furrowed as he absorbed this. "Magic? Benjen..." His voice trailed off, a trace of disbelief still lingering in his words. Magic seemed like a distant, forgotten thing—a legend from another time. How could something so unnatural still be real?
"I know it sounds crazy, Ned," Benjen continued, his voice softer now, more resigned, as if he had said these words to countless others and had seen the same skepticism in their eyes. "That I sound like a raging lunatic." A faint, hollow laugh escaped him. "It's fine. I know what you're thinking. But you'll change your mind once you're at the Wall. You won't be able to do anything but accept the situation we're in."
Eddard sat in stunned silence, his mind struggling to keep up with the avalanche of information his brother had just unleashed. If what Benjen said was true—and part of him was beginning to believe it—then they were facing something that couldn't be fought with swords alone.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry. "If what you say is true... and that the Others are back..." His voice cracked slightly, as if saying the words aloud made them more real.
Benjen's eyes darkened further, a fire kindling within them, as though he had already accepted the inevitable. "We have a plan," he said quickly, almost urgently, as if the very mention of it might dissipate the weight of their reality. "I can't tell you now, but we have a plan—a good plan. But it'll need time. And a lot of people." His voice softened, but there was a glint of something in his eyes—a spark of hope, however small.
Ned took a long breath, his mind whirling with the enormity of what was being said. He pondered the implications for a long moment, the silence between them heavy with the gravity of their situation. Finally, he nodded, though his face remained drawn and troubled. "I trust you, Benjen," he muttered, more to himself than to his brother, trying to reconcile the impossibility of it all.
Benjen sighed, a mix of relief and sorrow in his expression. "I'm sorry to bring you such news, Ned," he said, his voice softening with genuine regret. "I do have gifts to cheer you up, though."
Eddard gave him a wry, tired smile. "Unless it's tons of grain for the coming winter or Valyrian steel, I doubt anything will cheer me up."
"Aye, it's Valyrian steel, for House Stark. Fresh from Valyria," Benjen said, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he pulled the blade from its sheath with a deliberate flourish. The steel gleamed in the dim light of the tent, the intricate patterns swirling along its length as though the very metal was alive.
Eddard raised an eyebrow, disbelief flooding his face. "Now, I know you're jesting," he replied, the corners of his mouth twitching into a half-smile, though the weariness in his eyes betrayed his confusion.
"I'm not," Benjen said firmly, his tone unwavering. He extended the blade towards Eddard, the smoky, ethereal pattern etched into the steel catching the light in mesmerizing swirls. "I have a whole suit of armor for you, too." His voice held a quiet pride as he spoke, but there was something deeper in his eyes—something unspoken and heavy.
Eddard's jaw dropped, his breath catching in his throat as he took in the blade. His hands hovered over it, hesitant to touch the magnificent weapon, but unable to look away from the striking pattern that seemed to ripple across the steel. The smoky, swirling design—a pattern that could only be crafted in Valyria—was unmistakable. His mind raced, heart pounding as realization set in. His brother had not been jesting. He looked up at Benjen, his throat tight, but the words didn't come out. He wanted to speak, to ask how such a blade could exist, but his mind was still struggling to grasp the impossible.
Benjen, sensing his brother's silent shock, let out a quiet sigh. "A lot happened in the last two moons, Ned," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of secrets and long-buried truths. "Things you couldn't even dream of. All of it centers around our nephew."
Eddard's eyes widened, and he blinked in surprise. "Aemon?" His voice barely rose above a whisper, but the name felt like it carried a thousand questions, each one pressing against his chest.
Benjen nodded, a somber expression crossing his face. "Yes. Aemon," he repeated, the name carrying more than just a simple familial connection. "He's been through things that none of us could have imagined." His gaze turned distant for a moment, as if he could see the events unfolding in his mind's eye, playing out in vivid detail. "I'll tell you everything, Ned," he said, his voice a little softer now, as he took a seat across from his brother. "Everything that's happened, all the things he's done... It's not just the sword or the armor. It's the path he's walking."
Eddard nodded slowly, still processing the sight of the sword, but his focus was now completely on Benjen, awaiting the tale that would change everything.
Meanwhile, beyond the Wall, Rick had led a small expedition of rangers through the frozen wilderness. The wind howled around them, biting through their cloaks, but they pressed on. At Castle Black, he had left dragon sinew for the black brothers to craft bowstrings and dragonhide for armor. The rest of the resources and treasures from Valyria were already on their way to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, where they would be loaded onto a ship bound for Hardhome. Nearly every available horse at Castle Black had been requisitioned, their hooves kicking up frost as they carried their burdens, east.
After loading everything on the ship, they sailed North for the new settlement of the Free Folk. A few hours of travel at most.
When Val and Rick docked at Hardhome, the air was thick with the scent of salt and smoke. The moment they set foot on the worn wooden planks of the port, a group of Free Folk barred their path, weapons in hand. Spears gleamed in the dim light, axes rested heavy in tight grips, and wary eyes locked onto the newcomers.
Before either could speak, a sharp voice rang out from behind the men.
"That's Val, you idiots! And that's the Old Gods' champion with her!"
The warriors hesitated before shifting aside, revealing a tall woman striding toward them with the confidence of one who commanded respect.
"Karsi," Val greeted, her voice solemn yet steady as she met the other woman's gaze.
Karsi dismissed the guards with a jerk of her chin, and they stepped back without hesitation. She came forward, her eyes flickering between Val and Rick, assessing, measuring. Then, with a grunt, she extended a hand. "Took your time getting here," she said, a smirk tugging at her lips.
"Our loot was great but heavy," Val replied, her tone deliberately vague as she met Karsi's sharp gaze.
Karsi let out a short, dry chuckle, crossing her arms over her chest. "As long as it helps us survive, I don't care what you dragged across the sea." Her eyes flickered to Rick, then back to Val.
"It will," Val assured her, her voice firm. "That's why we need to meet with Mance."
Karsi studied her for a moment, then gave a curt nod. "Follow me," she said, turning on her heel without another word, leading them into the heart of Hardhome.
Karsi led them through the settlement, weaving past makeshift barricades and wary-eyed sentries until they reached the tallest wooden structure in Hardhome. Pushing open the heavy doors, she stepped inside without hesitation.
The great hall was dimly lit, the air thick with smoke and the scent of salted fish. Around a crude wooden table, Mance Rayder and the gathered chieftains spoke in hushed but heated tones, their voices heavy with the burdens of leadership. Maps and crude battle plans lay scattered before them. At the sight of Rick and Val, the murmuring died down.
Rick caught Tormund's eye across the hall. The big man gave him a nod, which Rick returned.
"You're back," Mance said, his keen gaze shifting between him and Val.
"And with half the things Tormund claimed we took from Valyria," Rick replied, dry amusement in his voice.
Mance smirked, shaking his head. He knew well enough that Tormund's tales grew taller with each telling. But despite the embellishments, Ygritte had vouched for most of it—and what a tale it was. If he hadn't seen the dead walk with his own eyes, he'd have dismissed it outright, especially coming from the red-headed braggart.
But he had seen them. The impossible had become real, and legends were no longer just stories.
"I heard talk of a dragon—bigger than the First of the First Men," Mance said, eyes sharp with interest.
"Aye," Rick confirmed, "but she can't fight. Not enough magic, and the Others' own is suppressing hers." He crossed his arms. "She can help make Valyrian steel, though."
Mance exhaled through his nose, considering. "Better than nothing, I suppose."
Rick nodded, then got to the real reason he was here. He needed hands to unload the Night's Watch ship and a space to set up a forge. Mance agreed without hesitation.
"I'm going to need help. I can't do everything alone," Rick added.
Mance gave him a knowing look. "Which means bringing kneelers here to help you—ones who know smithing."
"I can teach," Rick admitted, "but it'll take moons before anyone's ready to hammer steel. I'm working on something to shorten that time, but either way, Lord Stark isn't far from Castle Black. Only a few days away when Val and I left." He paused. "I'd wager within a moon or two, he won't be alone there."
Mance leaned back, arms folded. "We'll have to meet with him—and the other lords."
"Not 'we,' Mance."
"Oh?" Mance raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you going?"
"You know what I mean," Rick sighed. "I'm not Free Folk, I'm not a crow, and I'm sure as hell not a kneeler. I'm just the poor bastard making sure you lot don't gut each other before we win."
Mance chuckled, shaking his head. "Same difference." He nodded, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "You'll have your space and your forge," he said, his tone carrying the weight of an unspoken promise. "I'll see to it personally."