Chapter 17: The Crownlands Town
Will dragged the prisoner back into the ruined shelter and gave Saelen a brief nod.
Saelen turned his attention to the man.
"When did you Free Folk cross the Wall?"
"Two months ago, my lord," the prisoner replied weakly.
"Where is Mance Rayder now?"
"I don't know," the man said after a moment's hesitation. "I only heard rumors—that he plans to attack the Wall, gathering many Free Folk near the Milkwater."
"How many has he gathered?" Saelen pressed. "What about their weapons and armor?"
The prisoner shook his head. "I don't know."
Saelen frowned, then asked the question he cared about most.
"And the White Walkers. Have you seen them?"
The prisoner began to tremble violently. It took him a long while before he could speak again.
"I… I've seen them," he said in a broken voice. "They slaughtered several villages near ours. Then they raised the dead—every one of them. It was terrifying. I only caught a glimpse from afar before I ran."
"Where did you see this?" Saelen demanded.
"Near the Hornwood River, my lord."
The man paused, then added quietly, as if resigned to his fate, "I've told you everything I know. Please… grant me mercy."
Saelen nodded once and gave Will a look.
Will understood immediately. He nodded back and led the two prisoners away.
Silence fell.
"Could it be true?" Robett Glover asked cautiously. "All those terrifying bedtime stories the old women told us when we were children… were they real?"
"That wildling's words can't be trusted," said the stout Wylis Manderly with certainty. "He was clearly lying to save his own skin."
He snorted derisively. "Dead men don't rise. There are corpses everywhere outside—go see if any of them stand back up."
The Manderlys had fled north generations ago after losing their lands in the south. Though they had lived in the North for centuries, their faith had never changed—they still worshipped the Seven, and had little patience for the North's ancient legends and superstitions.
Theon Greyjoy chuckled.
"Who knows? Maybe they'll get back up in a moment."
No one bothered to respond.
Jon spoke up in protest.
"But those two wildlings never begged for their lives—"
Wylis Manderly cut him off coldly.
"And since when does a bastard have the right to speak here?"
Jon flushed scarlet, his lips pressed tight. He said nothing more, his right hand clenching the hilt of his sword.
"What—are you planning to draw steel, bastard?" Manderly sneered, his own hand settling on his sword hilt as he stared Jon down.
Under the weight of so many strange, judgmental looks, Jon finally turned and fled the room, rushing out into the snow.
"That's enough, Ser Wylis."
Robb stepped forward, his voice sharp.
"I will not allow you to insult Jon. He is my brother—raised beside me since childhood—and he fought at my side just moments ago. I saw him kill a wildling with my own eyes. He has every right to speak here."
Several men nodded. Jon's courage in battle had been plain for all to see.
"No one doubts your loyalty to House Stark," Robb continued evenly, "but I expect you to show Jon the same respect you show me."
Rodrik Cassel and several Winterfell guards rested their hands on their sword hilts.
"…My apologies, Lord Stark," Ser Wylis said stiffly, bowing.
Saelen stepped forward then.
"Our purpose is to gather intelligence on the wildlings and the Others. That means fighting wildlings—and if the stories are true, perhaps even the dead themselves. I want everyone here to set aside prejudice and stand together."
He paused, then added,
"Ser Wylis has reminded me of something important. We should gather the bodies outside and burn them. Just in case."
"Just in case?" Manderly asked in disbelief. "Don't tell me the 'Unbeaten One' truly believes the Others exist."
"I'm not mocking you," he added quickly.
"What's there to fear?" Leobald Tallhart said loudly. "If the dead rise, we kill them again."
Saelen looked at them meaningfully.
"Better to believe and be wrong than disbelieve and be dead."
"…."
An awkward silence followed.
Robb cleared his throat.
"If there's even a chance… then we should burn them."
"I agree," Saelen said, clicking his tongue. "Though it seems subtle wisdom isn't everyone's strength."
"In this snowstorm, burning won't be easy," Ser Rodrik said hesitantly.
"No problem. I brought lamp oil."
Saelen led them outside. The bodies were piled together, soaked in oil, and set alight. Flames roared upward, filling the air with a sharp, choking stench. A few men were assigned to stand watch.
"Get some rest," Saelen ordered the others. "If the snow eases, we march tomorrow."
"Therry," he added, "double the sentries. Anyone who doesn't want to die in their sleep should keep their eyes open."
"Yes, my lord."
---
The snow finally stopped the next day. After a brief rest, the party set out again, though the deep drifts slowed their pace. It took more than ten days to reach The Nightfort.
Once a castle of the Night's Watch, it now stood abandoned: a single curtain wall, a massive wooden keep, and a stone watchtower. Empty. Cold. Ominous.
Smalljon Umber and Eddard Karstark were already there, each with a single companion.
Saelen planned to rest for the night—men and horses alike were exhausted—but after taking one look at the bleak ruin, everyone objected.
The place felt cursed.
They insisted on pushing on to Castle Black before nightfall.
Even Smalljon and Karstark urged haste. They had waited here for days and never once entered the keep, choosing instead to stay in the watchtower—it gave them chills.
Saelen had intended to explore the castle, sensing it might prove useful someday, but seeing the universal unease, he changed plans.
They pressed on.
Before darkness fell, the Wall came into view.
It did not look like something built by men—
but like a colossal white mountain range of frozen stone and ice, stretching endlessly across the edge of the world.
And with it came a deeper, sharper cold.