The fire crackled softly in the hearth of the Lord Commander's solar, casting golden flickers across the heavy stone walls. Wylis Manderly stood before it, a letter gripped tight in his gloved hand. His seal was broken. His words. A message written when he wasn't certain he would return from beyond the Wall.
He didn't speak. He didn't move—until the parchment caught flame, curling inwards as the fire ate at ink and memory alike. No one else needed to read that. Not anymore. A farewell, written too soon.
Behind him, boots shifted hesitantly.
A young Manderly guard cleared his throat. "My lord," he said, holding out another scroll. "From White Harbor. Came while you were gone."
Wylis nodded once, eyes still on the burning letter, before taking the fresh missive. The guard bowed and left, the heavy door closing behind him.
Wylis cracked the wax seal and held the parchment near the firelight. The note was brief—as ravens required. But the lines were enough to stir something old in his chest.
Lord Tyrion Lannister remains in White Harbor. Purpose uncertain.
• Eddard Stark named Hand of the King.
• Bran Stark fell from tower. Suspected accident.
• Prince Joffrey wounded. Direwolf blamed.
• Lady, Sansa's direwolf, executed by Queen's order.
• Arya's direwolf escaped into the wilds.
He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.
So the wheel hadn't turned as far as he'd thought.
Some fates had returned to their groove.
Castle Black — Snowfall and Silence
Jon Snow sat hunched on a bench, near the armory but far enough from the others to avoid their eyes. The day's training was done, but his mind lingered on the screeches in the dark, the flick of unnatural blue eyes in the black, and Craster's screams as the cold took him.
Benjen Stark approached quietly, wrapped in his black cloak. He didn't speak at first—just sat beside him, waiting.
"I can't get the sound out of my head," Jon finally muttered. "The way Craster looked. What he became."
Benjen nodded. "You saw the truth, Jon. Most men die before they even glimpse it."
Jon turned his head slightly. "Is this what the Night's Watch really does? Fight monsters?"
Benjen's reply was soft. "It's what we were always meant to do. The trouble is, we forgot."
Jon let silence fill the space between them before speaking again. "I still thought I'd take the Black. I thought… I'd find purpose here. But now…"
"You're questioning it."
Jon looked down at his hands. "A vow that binds you forever, to a Wall that's crumbling. That doesn't sound like honor anymore. Sounds like a grave."
Benjen looked to the snowy woods beyond the Wall. "Then don't answer now. But when you do—make sure it's your choice, not anyone else's."
Fireside Shadows — Wylis and Jeor
Jeor Mormont poured the wine himself. It was dark, mulled with clove and orange peel, fragrant in the warmth of the room.
Across the fire, Wylis sipped slowly, letting the silence stretch.
"We brought back monsters," Jeor said after a time. "Gods forgive us. I still can't believe it's real."
"They're real enough," Wylis replied. "The stench doesn't lie."
Jeor studied him. "You're not surprised."
"I saw what was coming years ago. Tried to plan for it. But the realm squabbles over crowns and coin while the dead march."
Jeor gave a tired grunt. "That's always been the way."
"Then maybe it's time we changed the way," Wylis said, his voice low but steady. "Let me ask you something. What if a man wanted to defend the Wall—fight for it—but not take the Black? Keep his name. His family. Even his lands."
Jeor's brow furrowed. "You're talking madness. The oath is what binds us. Without it, this place falls apart."
Wylis leaned forward. "The oath was written in another age. Before dragons died. Before Valyria fell. Before wights walked again. The Wall needs soldiers, not relics."
Jeor slammed his cup down, wine sloshing. "You insult the vows every man here swore!"
"I challenge them," Wylis said, unflinching. "Because I've seen what's coming. And I'd rather have ten lords with swords and names than a hundred criminals who took the Black to escape a noose."
The silence between them crackled like the logs in the hearth.
"I won't break tradition for one lord's fancy," Jeor said coldly. "But… I'll think on it."
Wylis nodded once. "That's all I ask."
Dawn – Three Witnesses
The courtyard of Castle Black was grim and silent.
Three iron cages stood in the pale light, each chained and nailed, wrapped in mesh and soaked with icy brine. Inside, the dead twitched and hissed—mockeries of life.
Jon stood nearby, one hand resting on Ghost's back. The direwolf growled lowly at the scent.
Wylis pointed to the corpse of the dead Night's Watch brother—half his face gone, hands broken but still clawing. "This one goes to King's Landing. Let them laugh. Let them jeer. And let them watch it move."
He turned to the second cart, where second Night's Watch brother snarled, barely human. "This one heads for Winterfell. Jon, you'll ride with it. Take a detachment of your choosing. Robb Stark must see the truth with his own eyes."
Jon gave a slight nod, though his face remained grim.
Wylis then turned to the third cart— wildling Craster, eyes milk-white, mouth stretched in silent scream. "This one stays here. Let the Maester study it. Perhaps the Citadel will listen now."
Maester Aemon approached slowly, wrapped in his heavy robes. His blind eyes didn't see the creature, but the air told him enough.
"I will study it," Aemon said. "With respect, though none is due. We must know more."
"Try everything, Maester," Wylis murmured. "Something must work besides flame, Dragonglass and Valyrian Steel."
Aemon nodded. "We'll begin before dusk."
As the guards prepared the wagons, Jon turned to Wylis. "You trust the capital to believe this?"
"I trust their fear," Wylis replied. "And if not that, I trust their curiosity."
"And if none of it works?"
Wylis looked south, to the rising sun just kissing the white horizon.
"Then we burn the world to keep the rest of it from freezing."