The North, Winterfell.
"This will be the last human skin of the North. It will remember this history, to warn future generations what betrayal is, and what punishment awaits those cruel and inhuman."
Kal lifted the fresh human skin in his hand and passed it to Theon at his side.
He had flayed it himself not long ago, making only a single cut at the scalp; the separation had been exceedingly clean.
Hearing the King's words, Theon—though he had already spent an entire day trying to steady himself—still felt his stomach churn and his face turn ashen. His hands trembled slightly as he took what Kal handed him.
The soft, yielding texture, the faint warmth, and the heavy drag in his hands made his hair stand on end. The blood drained further from his lips.
If they grew any paler, they would rival the white cloak draped over his shoulders.
A few nights ago, Rodrik, reeking of wine and flushed with excitement, had burst into his chamber. Ignoring the servants' cries, he had hoisted up Theon—whose scalp had been torn and whose eyes had been gouged out by his own hand—and rushed straight into the night.
What should have been a noisy feast fell into utter silence. Every eye fixed upon the "monster" lying on the bench.
Radiant light descended. The people witnessed a miracle.
The Northmen who kept the Old Gods stood in silence. The Andal knights who followed the Seven knelt before Kal in great numbers, tears in their eyes as they offered solemn prayers.
And he, Theon—who had personally endured such grace—accepted the King's invitation and became one of the King's Kingsguard.
He had gained that supreme honor.
Yet having suffered the agony of flesh being torn from him alive, he knew all too well what kind of pain it truly was.
Cradling the human skin in his hands, Theon felt as though that shuddering pain still lingered.
However, by the King's account of the charges against the criminal before him—and by the far more detailed testimonies of the servants and soldiers captured after the surrender of the Dreadfort—the countless crimes committed by the bastard of Roose Bolton were beyond enumeration. The people regarded it as divine punishment.
The Kingsguard obey the King without condition.
Theon told himself this in his mind. The white cloak upon his shoulders felt unbearably heavy.
So he lifted his head. "But… Your Grace, there is more than one…"
At a loss for words, pale-faced, he turned his head toward the walls of the dungeon, where more than a dozen human skins still hung.
They were identical.
Because they all came from the same man.
Kal merely shrugged lightly, as though it were of no consequence. "Then send one to every house in the North."
With that, Kal turned and walked to another wooden table. Upon it rested a copper basin half-filled with water and a dry towel.
Kal plunged his hands into the water and, as he washed them, said, "If there are any left, then send one to every noble lord of the Seven Kingdoms—even to the knightly houses."
"Tell them this is the moral line I have drawn above the law."
When he finished speaking, Kal's gaze fell upon the "naked" man nailed behind him to two crossed wooden beams, his entire skin flayed away.
Ramsay was not dead
When Kal first encountered him, he had claimed his name was Reek, the son of a nearby hunter, seized and brought to the Dreadfort by Ramsay.
Kal had "believed" him, and then brought him here.
In Kal's hands, death was but a distant hope.
Unless the Stranger Himself came to take Ramsay from his grasp.
He lifted his hands from the clear water, picked up the towel beside him, and wiped them dry.
A faint green light once more coiled around his fingers and drifted toward the sinner before him.
When he was done, Kal turned and left the dungeon.
Behind him, the "naked" man—his limbs pierced through with iron spikes, suspended in a spread-eagle upon the beams, muscle, fat, and sinew laid bare—trembled slightly when touched by the green light, and seemed once again to draw breath.
Across his blood-soaked body, fine strands of fibrous fat and dermal tissue slowly began to grow. His life, on the brink of ending, was extended once more.
The agony of torn flesh and the maddening itch of healing wounds intertwined, growing ever clearer.
Kal meant to rest for a while, so this time he did not need Ramsay to recover so quickly.
Ramsay, who had already lost dozens of skins in succession, was long since drained in body and spirit, utterly broken. Yet he could do nothing—not even cry out, for that too had become a distant hope.
Still less could he beg or curse.
Pain drove him to yearn for numbness, yet even that was denied him. Nor could he grant himself release.
Each time he thought he would die thus—when he had already seen Death reaching out with those comforting hands—the souls he had once tortured to death would drag him back into this earthly hell.
Perhaps the seven hells spoken of by the southerners would be seven heavens to him.
At times Ramsay seemed to hear, by his ear, the mirth of those wronged souls and their accusations against him. Then, when he opened his eyes again, he would find both body and mind restored to the height of his health.
And that dreadful man—the master of the seven hells, the demon who used dark arts to revive him—would smile and raise once more a dulled knife toward him.
"Oh, and do not let him die. I do not wish to hear that someone, unable to bear the sight, granted him release."
"If any man does so, the sins Ramsay has yet to repay shall be laid upon him."
At the top of the final stair, as though recalling something, Kal gave that further command.
Ser Theon of the Kingsguard stiffened at the shoulders and hurriedly nodded in understanding.
He too was a sinner. He had abandoned the name Greyjoy he once bore.
Seeing Theon—whom he had deliberately summoned to witness the execution—standing there like a quail, Kal was certain that even if he were given a hundred times the courage, he would never again dare to do what he had done in the original tale.
Pushing the door open, Kal stepped out. Outside, another white-cloaked Kingsguard was waiting.
"Your Grace, the steward of Winterfell has just invited you to dine."
Dacey Mormont had chosen to become one of Kal's Kingsguard, though she was a woman and heir to Bear Island.
Precisely because of that, she had made her choice.
She was the first—and thus far the only—woman in the history of the Kingsguard. She had made history.
Or rather, King Kal had granted such grace to the women of Westeros.
She also knew that the mother of her sworn brother, Ser Arys Oakheart, had, with the King's consent, taken command and marched toward Storm's End.
Such a thing was once unimaginable.
Though in the North—especially on Bear Island—they had long acted thus, that had been a measure born of necessity, after House Mormont had lost all its men.
"Come. After tonight, the host marches for Castle Black to take up its garrison."
"Perhaps for years—perhaps for more than a decade—they will remain at Castle Black, until this calamity ends."
…
At present, aside from the forces each house retained for basic defense and order, every remaining armed strength of the North had gathered here.
Counting the reinforcements from the Vale, and several thousand prisoners besides, the host had swelled past twenty thousand—nearing thirty thousand in all.
An army of thirty thousand, together with its supplies—and with camp followers, merchants, and troupes who, upon hearing King Kal's command, had chosen to march with the host—stretched into a long black line along the Kingsroad.
"I never imagined I would see this road so lively."
From the time Winterfell fell into turmoil to Kal's decision to reinforce the Night's Watch, once word reached the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Benjen Stark—the nine hundred and ninety-eighth to hold the office—he chose, in respect for the King, to personally lead men to meet him.
For the Night's Watch now was but a handful of men; the entire Wall could not be properly defended.
The wildlings beyond the Wall seemed to have learned of the Watch's plight. Of late, great numbers of them had crossed the Wall by unknown means, raiding into the North.
Benjen was powerless to alter this outcome. There was nothing he could do.
But now things were different. As he spoke, Benjen turned his head to look behind him, unable to restrain the smile of joy rising upon his face.
More than twenty thousand soldiers—and that did not count the rest.
In the past, he would never have dared even to imagine such numbers.
Though these men would not become brothers of the Watch, and he, the nine hundred and ninety-eighth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, still commanded but a scant few—fewer than fifty in total across the entire order.
At Benjen's words, Kal—also mounted—kept his gaze fixed ahead.
"In my view, this road should always be as lively as it is now. For that would mean true peace."
"The North holds many resources. The people who live here ought to live more happily."
"Or else they may continue southward, to dwell in the warmer lands."
Kal found himself speaking aloud, his thoughts running deeper than Benjen's.
Benjen paused slightly. He understood the meaning within the King's words.
But as a brother of the Night's Watch, he ought not involve himself in such politics.
"If the smallfolk can live better lives, they will be all the more grateful to you, Your Grace."
Benjen spoke in measured, official tones.
Yet his words seemed to remind Kal of something. Kal suddenly drew back his gaze and turned toward him.
"If one day there is no need for the Night's Watch—if your duty is ended—Lord Commander Benjen Stark, what would you do?"
Benjen had never considered such a question. Or rather, since its founding, the Night's Watch had never seemed to consider such matters at all.
He frowned, then after a long moment, his brow eased.
"The Night's Watch stands guard over your realm, Your Grace. If you can bring true peace to the Seven Kingdoms—if you can bring a true long summer to this world—then would it not be better for the Night's Watch to pass into history?"
"The lads would no longer be bound by their vows. They could till the fields, wed those they love, or travel the world—perhaps even take part in the tourneys held by the lords."
"That would be a fine world," Kal said, finishing the thought Benjen had left unspoken, and he smiled.
Benjen seemed to picture it as well. His eyes filled with longing.
And so the two fell once more into silence, each lost in his own thoughts.
Some ten minutes passed before Kal spoke again.
"You reported earlier that, because the Watch's defenses were insufficient, large numbers of wildlings have crossed the border—is that so?"
Still dwelling on the vision Kal had painted, and grieving for the harsher truth of reality, Benjen gathered himself.
"Yes, Your Grace. The Watch no longer has the strength to stop them. To avoid further disaster, I have gathered all those who still remain willing to serve into Castle Black."
"The other castles have all had to be abandoned… It is fortunate you have come."
"If you mean to punish the Watch for its failure, Your Grace, then as Lord Commander, I am willing to bear all responsibility."
At the mention of it, Benjen felt only sorrow.
To defend the realm was the duty of the Night's Watch. Though they were sworn to stand against the Others of legend, for thousands of years in truth they had chiefly guarded against the wildlings beyond the Wall.
The Others had long since become mere legend—tales told by Winterfell's wet nurses to frighten children.
He had heard such stories. His brother Eddard Stark had heard them. His brother's children had heard them as well.
Yet now the Night's Watch had failed in its duty because of turmoil within its own ranks. That was an indisputable fact.
Kal waved a hand. "This is not your fault, nor the fault of your men. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont did not err either."
"No one could have foreseen that Tywin Lannister would act with such madness. This was but an accident."
The deeper responsibility did not rest solely upon the Night's Watch. Eddard Stark and his own father, Robert Baratheon, had also erred in their handling of the matter.
Or rather—Eddard Stark had been too merciful, and too naive.
He imagined all men to be as upright as himself. He believed that with the North standing between them, he could restrain the surrendered soldiers sent to the Wall.
What he had not reckoned with was the human heart—desire, madness, and the schemes wrought in shadow.
In the end, events rushed toward the outcome none had wished to see.
And so matters had come to this.
Great upheavals in history are often sparked by small, unremarkable incidents.
A butterfly's wings, beating far away, may stir a storm a thousand leagues distant.
It was that small measure of mercy and carelessness that had led to the present state of affairs.
Driven by hatred—defeated yet unwilling to accept it, bent on avenging the Kingslayer Jaime Lannister and Cersei Lannister—Tywin had hired a Faceless Man to assassinate Robert.
Then the throne stood empty, and the Seven Kingdoms fell into chaos.
Tywin's final gamble before his departure had accounted for nearly every factor needed for his success.
The one thing he had failed to foresee was that Robert would not die at once from the attempt, and would leave behind a decree naming his successor.
Still less had he foreseen that a bastard-born man—himself—would be a transmigrator blessed with uncanny gifts, able to turn the tide despite lacking any foundation, and rise to this place.
Had all unfolded as Tywin had planned—if one were to set aside his own unforeseen presence from the moment Robert was attacked—one might imagine that the Seven Kingdoms would even now be following the script Tywin had written, enacting the tale he wished to see.
And House Lannister would have stepped fully onto the stage of history, founding a realm ruled by their line, rising first in adversity before claiming dominion.
Thus, at this point, Kal blamed no one.
He could only quietly clean up after them.
"So, Lord Commander Benjen Stark—have you ever considered making peace with those beyond the Wall? They share the same blood as you, yet you have been sundered by a wall of ice, locked in battle for a thousand years, and you name them wildlings."
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