Jaehaerys
Othor," announced Ser Jaremy Rykker, "beyond a doubt. And this one was Jafer Flowers." He turned the corpse over with his foot, and the dead white face stared up at the overcast sky with blue, blue eyes. "They were Ben Stark's men, both of them."
My uncle's men, Jaehaerys Targaryen thought numbly. He remembered how Benjen Stark had rode out with his men, with a small laugh which lightened his eyes. Jae had cared nothing for the man then, but now he wondered if he was alive and safe. Gods, I was such a green boy. A boy who was playing the spoilt child who was demanding attention . . .
Jafer's right wrist ended in the ruin of torn flesh and splintered bone left by Ser Jaremy's sword. His right hand was floating in a jar of vinegar back in Maester Aemon's tower. His left hand, still at the end of his arm, was as black as his cloak.
"Gods have mercy," the Old Bear muttered. He swung down from his garron, handing his reins to Jaehaerys. The morning was unnaturally warm; beads of sweat dotted the Lord Commander's broad forehead like dew on a melon. His horse was nervous, rolling her eyes, backing away from the dead men as far as her lead would allow. Jae led her off a few paces, fighting to keep her from bolting. The horses did not like the feel of this place. For that matter, neither did Jaehaerys.
The dogs liked it least of all. When Bass the kennelmaster had tried to get them to take the scent from the severed hand, they had gone wild, yowling and barking, fighting to get away. Even now they were snarling and whimpering by turns, pulling at their leashes while Chett cursed them for curs.
It is only a wood, Jae told himself, and they're only dead men. He had seen dead men before, killed men before.
Last night he had dreamt a dreadful dream. The dead men had come stumbling from their cold black graves. Jaehaerys had woken in pitch-dark, his heart hammering. In his deep sense of terror, he dared not go back to sleep. Instead he had climbed the Wall and walked, restless, until he saw the light of the dawn off to the cast. It was only a dream. I am a brother of the Night's Watch now, not a frightened boy.
Samwell Tarly huddled beneath the trees, half-hidden behind the horses. His round fat face was the color of curdled milk. So far he had not lurched off to the woods to retch, but he had not so much as glanced at the dead men either. "I can't look," he whispered miserably.
"You have to look," Jaehaerys told him, keeping his voice low so the others would not hear. "Maester Aemon sent you to be his eyes, didn't he? What good are eyes if they're shut?"
"Yes, but . . . I'm such a coward, Jae."
Jaehaerys put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "We have a dozen rangers with us, and the dogs. No one will hurt you, Sam. Go ahead and look. The first look is the hardest."
Sam gave a tremulous nod, working up his courage with a visible effort. Slowly he swiveled his head. His eyes widened, but Jaehaerys held his arm so he could not turn away.
"Ser Jaremy," the Old Bear asked gruffly, "Ben Stark had six men with him when he rode from the Wall. Where are the others?"
Ser Jaremy shook his head. "Would that I knew."
Plainly Mormont was not pleased with that answer. "Two of our brothers butchered almost within sight of the Wall, yet your rangers heard nothing, saw nothing. Is this what the Night's Watch has fallen to? Do we still sweep these woods?"
"Yes, my lord, but—"
"Do we still mount watches?"
"We do, but—"
"This man wears a hunting horn." Mormont pointed at Othor. "Must I suppose that he died without sounding it? Or have your rangers all gone deaf as well as blind?"
Ser Jaremy bristled, his face taut with anger. "No horn was blown, my lord, or my rangers would have heard it. I do not have sufficient men to mount as many patrols as I should like . . . and since Benjen was lost, we have stayed closer to the Wall than we were wont to do before, by your own command."
The Old Bear grunted. "Yes. Well. Be that as it may." He made an impatient gesture. "Tell me how they died."
Squatting beside the dead man he had named Jafer Flowers, Ser Jaremy grasped his head by the scalp. The hair came out between his fingers, brittle as straw. The knight cursed and shoved at the face with the heel of his hand. A great gash in the side of the corpse's neck opened like a mouth, crusted with dried blood. Only a few ropes of pale tendon still attached the head to the neck. "This was done with an axe."
"Aye," muttered Dywen, the old forester. "Belike the axe that Othor carried, m'lord."
Jaehaerys could feel his breakfast churning in his belly, but he pressed his lips together and made himself look at the second body. Othor had been a big ugly man, and he made a big ugly corpse. No axe was in evidence. Jaehaerys remembered Othor; he had been the one bellowing the bawdy song as the rangers rode out. His singing days were done. His flesh was blanched white as milk, everywhere but his hands. His hands were black like Jafer's. Blossoms of hard cracked blood decorated the mortal wounds that covered him like a rash, breast and groin and throat. Yet his eyes were still open. They stared up at the sky, blue as sapphires.
Ser Jaremy stood. "The wildlings have axes too."
Mormont rounded on him. "So you believe this is Mance Rayder's work? This close to the Wall?"
"Who else, my lord?"
Jae could have told him. He knew, they all knew, yet no man of them would say the words. The Others are only a story, his father has told a lot about them. He had always thought of them as a tale told to the shiver of the children. It would be foolish to think of it otherwise.
Lord Commander Mormont gave a snort. "If Ben Stark had come under wildling attack a half day's ride from Castle Black, he would have returned for more men, chased the killers through all seven hells and brought me back their heads."
"Unless he was slain as well," Ser Jaremy insisted. "It has been many moons since Benjen left us, my lord," Ser Jaremy went on. "The forest is vast. The wildlings might have fallen on him anywhere. I'd wager these two were the last survivors of his party, on their way back to us . . . but the enemy caught them before they could reach the safety of the Wall. The corpses are still fresh, these men cannot have been dead more than a day . . . ."
"No," Samwell Tarly squeaked.
Jaehaerys was startled. Sam's nervous, high-pitched voice was the last he would have expected to hear. The fat boy was frightened of the officers, and Ser Jaremy was not known for his patience.
"I did not ask for your views, boy," Rykker said coldly.
"Let him speak, ser," Jaehaerys said.
Mormont's eyes flicked from Sam to Jaehaerys and back again. "If the lad has something to say, I'll hear him out. Come closer, boy. We can't see you behind those horses."
Sam edged past Jae and the garrons, sweating profusely. "My lord, it . . . it can't be a day or . . . look . . . the blood . . . "
"Yes?" Mormont growled impatiently. "Blood, what of it?"
"He soils his smallclothes at the sight of it," Chett shouted out, and the rangers laughed.
"Let him talk," Jae spoke for his friend. "Maester Aemon himself sent him here in his stead." The men backed off at that. They still fear my position and name. It still had its profits.
Sam mopped at the sweat on his brow. "You . . . you can see where Ser Jaremy's sword . . . you can see where he cut off that man's hand, and yet . . . the stump hasn't bled, look . . . " He waved a hand. "My father . . . L-lord Randyll, he, he made me watch him dress animals sometimes, when . . . after . . . " Sam shook his head from side to side, his chins quivering. Now that he had looked at the bodies, he could not seem to look away. "A fresh kill . . . the blood would still flow, my lords. Later . . . later it would be clotted, like a . . . a jelly, thick and . . . and . . . " He looked as though he was going to be sick. "This man . . . look at the wrist, it's all . . . crusty . . . dry . . . like . . . "
Jaehaerys saw at once what Sam meant. He could see the torn veins in the dead man's wrist, iron worms in the pale flesh. His blood was a black dust. Yet Jaremy Rykker was unconvinced. "If they'd been dead much longer than a day, they'd be ripe by now, boy. They don't even smell."
Dywen, the gnarled old forester who liked to boast that he could smell snow coming on, sidled closer to the corpses and took a whiff. "Well, they're no pansy flowers, but . . . m'lord has the truth of it. There's no corpse stink."
"They . . . they aren't rotting." Sam pointed, his fat finger shaking only a little. "Look, there's . . . there's no maggots or . . . or . . . worms or anything . . . they've been lying here in the woods, but they . . . they haven't been chewed or eaten by animals . . . "
The rangers exchanged glances; they could see it was true, every man of them. Mormont frowned, glancing from the corpses to the dogs. "Chett, bring the hounds closer."
Chett tried, cursing, yanking on the leashes, giving one animal a lick of his boot. Most of the dogs just whimpered and planted their feet. He tried dragging one. The bitch resisted, growling and squirming as if to escape her collar. Finally she lunged at him. Chett dropped the leash and stumbled backward. The dog leapt over him and bounded off into the trees.
"This . . . this is all wrong," Sam Tarly said earnestly. "The blood . . . there's bloodstains on their clothes, and . . . and their flesh, dry and hard, but . . . there's none on the ground, or . . . anywhere. With those . . . those . . . those . . . " Sam made himself swallow, took a deep breath. "With those wounds . . . terrible wounds . . . there should be blood all over. Shouldn't there?"
Dywen sucked at his wooden teeth. "Might be they didn't die here. Might be someone brought 'em and left 'em for us. A warning, as like." The old forester peered down suspiciously. "And might be I'm a fool, but I don't know that Othor never had no blue eyes afore."
Ser Jaremy looked startled. "Neither did Flowers," he blurted, turning to stare at the dead man.
A silence fell over the wood. For a moment all they heard was Sam's heavy breathing and the wet sound of Dywen sucking on his teeth. Jaehaerys squatted beside the corpses. Could it be what Dywen said was true? Were the bodies left as a warning? He'd heard of that before. Andrew Stark had done the same when he killed his uncle in Braavos.
"Burn them," someone whispered. One of the rangers; Jaehaerys could not have said who. "Yes, burn them," a second voice urged.
The Old Bear gave a stubborn shake of his head. "Not yet. I want Maester Aemon to have a look at them. We'll bring them back to the Wall."
Some commands are more easily given than obeyed. They wrapped the dead men in cloaks, but when Hake and Dywen tried to tie one onto a horse, the animal went mad, screaming and rearing, lashing out with its hooves, even biting at Ketter when he ran to help. The rangers had no better luck with the other garrons; not even the most placid wanted any part of these burdens. In the end they were forced to hack off branches and fashion crude slings to carry the corpses back on foot. It was well past midday by the time they started back.
"I will have these woods searched," Mormont commanded Ser Jaremy as they set out. "Every tree, every rock, every bush, and every foot of muddy ground within ten leagues of here. Use all the men you have, and if you do not have enough, borrow hunters and foresters from the stewards. If Ben and the others are out here, dead or alive, I will have them found. And if there is anyone else in these woods, I will know of it. You are to track them and take them, alive if possible. Is that understood?"
"It is, my lord," Ser Jaremy said. "It will be done."
After that, Mormont rode in silence, brooding. Jaehaerys followed close behind him; as the Lord Commander's steward, that was his place. Ser Gwayne rode behind him. The day was grey, damp, overcast, the sort of day that made you wish for rain. No wind stirred the wood; the air hung humid and heavy, and Jae's clothes clung to his skin. It was warm. Too warm. The Wall was weeping copiously, had been weeping for days, and sometimes Jaehaerys even imagined it was shrinking.
The old men called this weather spirit summer, and said it meant the season was giving up its ghosts at last. After this the cold would come, they warned, and a long summer always meant a long winter. This summer had lasted ten years. Jaehaerys had been a babe in arms when it began.
When he caught his first glimpse of the Wall looming above the tops of an ancient gnarled oak, he was vastly relieved. Mormont reined up suddenly and turned in his saddle. "Tarly," he barked, "come here."
Jaehaerys saw the start of fright on Sam's face as he lumbered up on his mare; doubtless he thought he was in trouble. "You're fat but you're not stupid, boy," the Old Bear said gruffly. "You did well back there. And you, Jaehaerys."
Sam blushed a vivid crimson and tripped over his own tongue as he tried to stammer out a courtesy. Jaehaerys had to smile.
When they emerged from under the trees, Mormont spurred his tough little garron to a trot. High above, the men on the Wall saw the column approaching. Jaehaerys heard the deep, throaty call of the watchman's great horn, calling out across the miles; a single long blast that shuddered through the trees and echoed off the ice.
UUUUUUUOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooo.
The sound faded slowly to silence. One blast meant rangers returning, and Jaehaerys thought, I was a ranger for one day, at least.
Bowen Marsh was waiting at the first gate as they led their garrons through the icy tunnel. The Lord Steward was red-faced and agitated. "My lord," he blurted at Mormont as he swung open the iron bars, "there's been a bird, you must come at once."
"What is it, man?" Mormont said gruffly.
Curiously, Marsh glanced at Jaehaerys before he answered. "Maester Aemon has the letter. He's waiting in your solar."
"Very well. Jaehaerys , see to my horse, and tell Ser Jaremy to put the dead men in a storeroom until the maester is ready for them." Mormont strode away grumbling.
As they led their horses back to the stable, Jaehaerys was uncomfortably aware that people were watching him. Ser Alliser Thorne was drilling his boys in the yard, but he broke off to stare at him, a faint half smile on his lips.
Something's wrong, Jaehaerys knew. Something's very wrong. Had something happened to his brother? Or father? He still remembered Andrew Stark's words. Even now his words chilled him to the bone.
The dead men were carried to one of the storerooms along the base of the Wall, a dark cold cell chiseled from the ice and used to keep meat and grain and sometimes even beer. Jaehaerys saw that Mormont's horse was fed and watered and groomed before he took care of his own. Afterward he went to see if the Old Bear has any need of him.
He walked to the Lord Commander's Tower alone, with a curious sense of apprehension. The brothers on guard eyed him solemnly as he approached. "The Old Bear's in his solar," one of them announced. "He was asking for you."
Jaehaerys nodded. He climbed the tower steps briskly. He wants wine or a fire in his hearth, that's all, he told himself.
When he entered the solar, Mormont's raven screamed at him. "Corn!" the bird shrieked. "Corn! Corn! Corn!"
"Don't you believe it, I just fed him," the Old Bear growled. He was seated by the window, reading a letter. "Bring me a cup of wine, and pour one for yourself."
"For myself, my lord?"
Mormont lifted his eyes from the letter to stare at Jaehaerys. "You heard me."
"Sit," Mormont commanded him when he was done. "Drink."
Jaehaerys remained standing. "It's my father, isn't it?"
The Old Bear tapped the letter with a finger. "Your father has declared King Andrew a traitor," he rumbled. " Your brother is in the field with all the power of the Red Keep behind him."
"Has something happened to Aegon?"
"No," said Mormont. "So far he's not yet met with opposition."
For a moment, Jaehaerys thought of Aegon meeting the same fate like him. His brother here. That was a strange thought, and strangely uncomfortable. It would be a monstrous injustice to strip him of the crown and force him to take the black, and yet if it meant his life . . . No, Aegon would never fail their father the way he'd failed.
Mormont sipped his wine. "This could not have happened at a worse time. There are dark days and cold nights ahead, I feel it in my bones . . . " He gave Jaehaerys a long shrewd look. "I hope you are not thinking of doing anything stupid, boy."
It's still my family, Jaehaerys wanted to say, but he knew that Mormont would not want to hear it. His throat was dry. He made himself take another sip of wine.
"Your duty is here now," the Lord Commander reminded him. "Your old life ended when you took the black." His bird made a raucous echo. "Black." Mormont took no notice. "Whatever they do in the south is none of our concern." When Jaehaerys did not answer, the old man finished his wine and said, "You're free to go. I'll have no further need of you today."
Jaehaerys did not remember standing or leaving the solar. The next he knew, he was descending the tower steps, thinking, This is my father, my brother, how can it be none of my concern? Then the Old Maester's voice sounded from somewhere inside. Jaehaerys thought of Ser Gwayne and felt ashamed at once for even thinking it.
He spent the rest of the day all alone. The north wind began to blow strongly once the sun went down. Inside his room, Jaehaerys Targaryen stayed awake in bed for a long time, thinking about his family, and staring at the candle on the table beside his narrow bed. The flame flickered and swayed, the shadows moved around him, the room seemed to grow darker and colder. I will not sleep tonight, Jaehaerys thought.
Yet he must have dozed. He had seen the dead Othor walking. He must've dreamt it. There was no other way he could've seen it rather than in a dream. Dead men do not walk. The candle nearby had long since burned out. He was trembling, violently. When had it gotten so cold?
Slowly, Jaehaerys pushed himself to his feet. He was shivering uncontrollably. He had to see it for himself, that he'd just seen a bad dream. His sword was in its sheath. Jaehaerys reached and worked it free. The heft of steel in his fist made him bolder.
Three quick steps brought him to the door. He grabbed the handle and pulled it inward. The creak of the hinges almost made him jump.
He started climbing up the narrow steps. That was when he heard it; the soft scrape of a boot on stone, the sound of a latch turning. The sounds came from above. From the Lord Commander's chambers.
It can't be, Jaehaerys told himself. This is the Lord Commander's Tower, it's guarded day and night, this couldn't happen, it's a dream, I'm having a nightmare.
A nightmare this might be, yet it was no dream.
He moved up the steps. Shadows lurked in every turn of the stair. Jaehaerys crept up warily, probing any suspicious darkness with the point of his sword.
Suddenly he heard the shriek of Mormont's raven. "Corn," the bird was screaming. "Corn, corn, corn, corn, corn, corn." The door to Mormont's solar was wide open. Jaehaerys stopped in the doorway, blade in hand, giving his eyes a moment to adjust. Heavy drapes had been pulled across the windows, and the darkness was black as ink. "Who's there?" he called out.
Then he saw it, a shadow in the shadows, sliding toward the inner door that led to Mormont's sleeping cell, a man-shape all in black, cloaked and hooded . . . but beneath the hood, its eyes shone like clear blue sapphires . . .
Jaehaerys felt as blind as Maester Aemon, but had no time to be afraid. He threw himself forward, shouting, bringing down the longsword with all his weight behind it. Steel sheared through sleeve and skin and bone, yet the sound was wrong somehow. The smell that engulfed him was so queer and cold he almost gagged. He saw arm and hand on the floor, black fingers wriggling in a pool of moonlight.
The hooded man lifted his pale moon face, and Jaehaerys slashed at it without hesitation. The sword laid the intruder open to the bone, taking off half his nose and opening a gash cheek to cheek under those eyes, eyes, eyes like blue stars burning. Suddenly Jaehaerys knew that face. Othor, he thought, reeling back. Gods, he's dead, he's dead, I saw him dead. This is no dream.
He felt something scrabble at his ankle. Black fingers clawed at his calf. The arm was crawling up his leg, ripping at wool and flesh. Shouting with revulsion, Jaehaerys pried the fingers off his leg with the point of his sword and flipped the thing away. It lay writhing, fingers opening and closing.
The corpse lurched forward. There was no blood. One-armed, face cut near in half, it seemed to feel nothing. Jaehaerys held the longsword before him. "Stay away!" he commanded, his voice gone shrill. The severed arm was wriggling out of its torn sleeve, a pale snake with a black five-fingered head. Jae stomped hard on it with the heel of his boots. Finger bones crunched. He hacked at the corpse's neck, as it stepped forward.
Dead Othor slammed into him, knocking him off his feet.
Jaehaerys' breath went out of him as the fallen table caught him between his shoulder blades. The sword, where was the sword? He'd lost the damned sword! When he opened his mouth to scream, the wight jammed its black corpse fingers into his mouth. Gagging, he tried to shove it off, but the dead man was too heavy. Its hand forced itself farther down his throat, icy cold, choking him. Its face was against his own, filling the world. Jaehaerys raked cold flesh with his nails and kicked at the thing's legs. He bit the cold fingers in his mouth and chewed them off. The corpse felt nothing but the lack of fingers allowed him to breathe. It was all Jaehaerys needed as he rolled over. He smashed the frozen nose with the heel of his hand and got away from its grasp, retching and shaking.
Jaehaerys looked for his sword desperately . . . . . . and saw Lord Mormont, groggy from sleep, standing in the doorway with an oil lamp in hand.
Jaehaerys tried to shout, but his voice was gone. Staggering to his feet, he snatched the lamp from the Old Bear's fingers. The flame flickered and almost died.
Spinning, Jaehaerys smashed the lamp into the black face of the nearing corpse with both hands. Metal crunched, glass shattered, oil spewed, and Dead Othor went up in a great whoosh of flame.
The blow came a bit late. Othor bulled into him, flames and all. Jae's black jerkin took fire at once. But the heat of the flames on his face was sweeter than any kiss Jaehaerys had ever known.
He picked up the sword and eyed the corpse across him. The flames had spread all along his jerkin. Jaehaerys welcomed the heat, he's always welcomed it.
The burning corpse did not share his feelings though. It seemed as if it was afraid of the fire. For the first time that day Jaehaerys felt a bit of happiness. As he rushed forward to meet the corpse, sword in hand and covered in flaming clothes the dead man backed.
He reached the corpse and hacked at it with wild swings of his sword. When the dead thing put his hand on Jae to hurt him it burned. Cloaked in fire Jaehaerys hacked the thing again and again until the corpse dropped down into several chunks of burning meat.