Jeor I
296 - AC
The Dornish Prince had decided to stay a night under the Wall's care, even if it meant anything, he didn't know.
The Wall didn't care, he knew that well. It stood tall and steady against the passage of history itself, a colossal barrier of ice that had watched kings rise and fall, kingdoms crumble, and the winters come and go.
It wept when the sun was high, great tears of meltwater that froze again by dusk, carving grooves like scars down its face. But it offered no warmth, no mercy, no shelter from the biting wind that howled off its heights like the breath of some ancient beast.
Warmth was not a friend found easy at this place, not for black brothers sworn to hold the line, and certainly not for southerners who thought cold was something you could shrug off like a light rain.
Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, stood in the doorway of the common hall, his greatcloak wrapped tight around his broad shoulders.
The air inside was thick with the smell of unwashed men, burning peat, and the faint, acrid tang of stew bubbling in the great iron pots over the hearths.
The hall was a long, low room of rough-hewn timber and stone, its walls blackened by years of smoke, its benches worn smooth by generations of arses planted upon them.
Torches sputtered in iron sconces, casting flickering shadows that danced like wraiths across the faces of his brothers.
And there, in the midst of it all, sat the Dornish prince, holding court like some mummer's king.
He had gathered a knot of black brothers around him—young recruits mostly, their eyes wide and hungry for tales of warmer lands.
The prince lounged on a bench, his fur-trimmed cloak thrown back to reveal the bright silks beneath, as if the cold were a mere inconvenience he could charm away with a smile. His voice carried through the hall, rich and rolling, weaving stories that had no place in a hall of sworn men.
"...and in the pleasure houses of Lys, my friends, the women are schooled in arts that would make your septons faint. I once knew a girl who could twist her body into knots that would baffle a Braavosi acrobat, and her kisses tasted of honeyed wine and secrets." The brothers laughed, a rough, barking sound that echoed off the rafters. One of them, a gap-toothed lad from Flea Bottom, slapped his knee and leaned forward, eager for more.
"Tell us about the fighting pits in Meereen, m'lord!" another called, a burly ranger with a scar twisting his lip. "Heard you killed a man there with a poisoned spear!"
Oberyn's eyes gleamed, dark and mischievous, like a cat toying with a mouse. "Ah, the pits. Blood and sand, my brothers, blood and sand. The crowds roar like thunder, and the slaves fight like men possessed. I faced a giant of a man once, seven feet tall with arms like tree trunks. He came at me with a morningstar, swinging it like the Stranger's scythe. But I danced, you see—danced like the wind through the Red Mountains—and when he tired, my spear found his throat. The poison? Merely a kiss to speed him to his gods."
The men hooted and cheered, their black cloaks shaking with laughter. Jeor felt a vein throb in his temple. These were men of the Watch, sworn to duty, to the endless night. They had no business dreaming of silks and spices, of women who smelled of jasmine and fought like lions.
Such tales bred discontent, and discontent bred deserters. He had seen it before—good men broken by the cold, lured away by whispers of warmer beds and fuller bellies.
He stepped forward, his boots thudding heavily on the packed-earth floor. The laughter died as the brothers noticed him, their faces sobering like boys caught with their hands in the kitchens.
"That would do for the day," Jeor said, his voice a low rumble that brooked no argument. "Get your rest. We have a long dawn ahead."
"Yes, Get your rest, another time I shall tell you," the prince continued, undeterred. "About the vast temples on the islands, I have seen sorceresses speaking in the tongues of Old Valyria, making the flames and shadows dance to their tunes."
The men scattered like ravens before a hawk, muttering to themselves in low tones as they shuffled away.
Oberyn remained seated, tearing off another piece of bread with his teeth, his expression unperturbed.
Jeor fixed him with a hard stare. "Best not let such words slip in the hearing of my men, Prince. They are sworn to the Watch. Tales of pillow houses and poisoned spears do them no good."
Oberyn swallowed and leaned back, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement. "Oh, those tales are nothing much, Lord Commander. Just giving them some thoughts to keep their hands busy on these cold nights."
Jeor sneered, his bear-like frame casting a long shadow over the prince. "I do not want the men dreaming of what could be, when their duty is for the Long Night."
The Dornishman raised a brow, his smile fading slightly as he shook his head. "Sure, as the Lord Commander says."
They ate in silence after that, the crackle of the fire and the distant howl of the wind the only sounds.
The Stark boy and the Ironborn sat nearby, the former dipping his bread into a bowl of stew, the latter picking at his with a grimace.
The Stark seemed at ease in the hall, as if the cold stone and the black cloaks were as familiar to him as his own bedchamber.
Jeor watched them all, his eyes missing nothing. The prince's tales had stirred something in his men, a restlessness that could fester if not checked.
He had lost brothers to desertion before, good rangers who dreamed of green fields and warm women, only to find a Lord's blade or a wildling's arrow waiting away the Wall.
The silence stretched until Robb spoke, his voice cutting through the quiet like a knife through butter.
"You mentioned sorceresses earlier, Prince. Tell me more."
Oberyn looked up, his eyes gleaming with interest. "Ah, your curiosity piques. I spoke of the pillow houses too and yet you ask of magic? Perhaps the North has frozen more than your lands."
Robb shrugged, his expression unchanging. "Magic is more interesting than women."
Oberyn jested, his voice light and teasing. "Then you understand neither well, my young lord."
The Ironborn snorted, but Robb only smiled faintly, dipping his bread again. "Enlighten me, then."
The prince leaned forward, his bread forgotten as he warmed to the subject.
The firelight danced across his face, casting shadows that made him look like one of the tales he spun. "The Red Priestesses of R'hllor, the Lord of Light, are the ones who wield true power, or so they claim. I have seen them in Volantis, in the great temple where the flames burn eternal. They use fire for divination, staring into the hearth until visions come. Flames that twist into shapes, dragons, swords, faces of the dead."
Jeor felt a prickle along his nose. He had heard of these red priests, whisperers from the east with their talk of light and shadow.
The Night's Watch had no truck with gods, old or new, but tales of magic always set his teeth on edge. The Wall was built to keep out more than wildlings and he believed in the old kings of the North more than the Dornish tales of magic.
Robb's eyes narrowed slightly. "And they manipulate shadows?"
"Aye," Oberyn said, his voice dropping lower, the jesting tone fading as the conversation turned. "I have not seen it but I have heard of it, In Asshai, by the Shadow Lands, where the sun fears to rise, the priestesses bind shadows to their will. They draw them from the dark, shape them like clay. I heard one could summon a shadow that could slip across the walls, twisting into forms that made men scream."
The hall seemed to grow darker, the fire's crackle more ominous. Jeor shifted in his seat, his hand slowly straying to the hilt of Longclaw at his side. The Valyrian steel felt cold even through his glove.
Robb dismissed it with a shake of his head and a low chuckle. "Tales, my Prince. Tricks of light and smoke to fool the gullible."
Oberyn's expression hardened, the amusement gone from his eyes. "I know what I saw, boy. Believing is entirely up to you, but do not dismiss the shadows so lightly. They have a way of creeping up when the light fails."
The words hung in the air like smoke, heavy and acrid.
Jeor felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold outside. He had spent his life on the Wall, facing the real threats—wildlings, giants, the endless winter. But magic? That was the stuff of Old stories, tales to frighten children into their beds. Yet here was a prince from the sun-baked south speaking of it as fact, his voice carrying the weight of experience.
Before anyone could respond, a sound pierced the night—two long blasts from the horns atop the Wall.
—-----
Oberyn V
296 - AC
The words died in his throat like a flame snuffed by a sudden gust.
One moment, the common hall of Castle Black was alive with the rough chuckles of black brothers, their faces creased with rare mirth as he spun tales of shadowed sorceries and flame-kissed priestesses from the shadowed lands beyond the Narrow Sea.
And then—the horns.
Two long blasts, deep and resonant, cutting through the stone walls like the cry of some beast roused from slumber.
The sound echoed off the rafters, vibrating in his chest, and the hall froze.
The black brothers' faces shifted in an instant—from amusement to grim purpose, like men who had heard that call too many times and knew what it brought.
The Old Bear of a man, The Lord Commander was on his feet before the second blast faded, his greatcloak swirling like a raven's wing as he bellowed orders.
"To the Wall! Rangers returning—move, you lot, or by the old gods I'll have your hides for cloaks!"
The hall erupted into motion.
Black brothers shoved back benches, grabbing cloaks and axes, their boots thundering on the floorboards as they poured out into the night.
Stew bowls tipped over, spilling broth that steamed briefly before the cold claimed it. He rose more slowly, his hand instinctively dropping to the hold of his spear, the warmth of the bread in his pit turning to ice.
"What's all this?" Obreyn asked, his voice sharp over the chaos.
Stark was already moving, his face a mask of calm focus as he snatched his cloak from the bench.
"Two blasts," he said, voice steady as the Wall itself. "Wildling raiders."
Wildlings. The word conjured images from half-forgotten tales—savages in furs, wielding bones and bronze, howling like wolves under the moon.
He had dismissed them as barbarians, relics of a wilder age, but here, in this frozen outpost at the edge of the world, the word carried weight.
"Theon, get to the Archers." The Stark boy commanded.
The Ironborn was on his feet at a sudden, his usual smirk replaced by a wary scowl as he picked up a bow and ran out to the Wall.
Mormont didn't wait for them, He stormed out the door, shouting more orders into the night—"Archers to the battlements! Open the gates for the rangers!"
They followed, the cold hitting like a physical blow as they stepped into the yard.
Snow swirled in eddies, stinging his eyes and numbing his cheeks.
The Wall loomed above them, a colossal barrier of blue ice that seemed to pulse with a life of its own, its surface cracked and weeping in the torchlight. Black brothers rushed past, cloaks flapping, axes and bows in hand. The air was alive with shouts and the clank of iron.
Robb led the way to the cage—the rickety lift that would carry them to the top. Jon Snow, his bastard brother, fell in beside him,
He followed, with two guards close behind, their scale armor clinking softly under their cloaks.
The cage groaned as they piled in, iron bars rattling like bones in a crypt.
Mormont barked an order, and it lurched upward, hauled by chains and winches manned by grunting brothers below.
The ground fell away, the yard shrinking to a patchwork of torchlight and shadows. The Wall's face rushed past, close enough to touch—cold, unyielding, etched with veins of blue that glowed faintly in the dark, like the blood of some frozen giant.
"What do we know?" Robb asked Mormont as the wind howled through the bars.
The Old Bear's face was grim, his eyes squinting against the snow. "Scouts spotted riders, our rangers, hard-pressed. Wildlings on their tail. They'll be at the gates any moment."
"How many?" Jon asked, his voice steady but tight.
Mormont shrugged. "Can't say yet. But if they're bold enough to raid this close, they're desperate. Or stupid."
The cage shuddered to a halt at the top, and they spilled out onto the battlements.
The wind hit like a hammer, roaring in his ears and tearing at his cloak.
Snow lashed in his face, blinding him for a moment. He blinked it away, gripping the icy parapet.
The view north was a sea of white and black—endless forest stretching into darkness, broken by hills and frozen rivers that gleamed like veins of silver under the moon.
"Look!" a black brother shouted, pointing.
Obreyn followed his finger. Riders emerged from the treeline, dark shapes against the snow, galloping hard for the Wall.
Five, six—their men, cloaks flapping, horses lathered and wild-eyed. One slumped in his saddle, an arrow protruding from his shoulder.
And behind them, shadows detached from the woods—wildlings, howling like wolves, spears and axes raised.
Robb leaned over the edge, his face set. "Uncle Benjen," he said, voice cutting through the wind.
Obreyn squinted. The lead rider—tall, cloaked in black, a longsword at his side. Benjen Stark, First Ranger. The man looked half-frozen, but his horse flew across the snow like a shadow.
The gates below groaned open, iron screeching against ice. The rangers thundered through, the portcullis dropping behind them with a crash.
But the wildlings did not stop. They came on, screams echoing up the Wall, a ragged line of fur-clad figures numbering perhaps fifty—men and women both, bows nocked, spears gleaming.
Mormont roared orders. "Archers! Loose when they're in range! Spears to the murder holes!"
Black brothers scrambled, bows creaking as they drew.
The Stark and the others turned around and began descending the Wall.
The Winter Sons—Robb's men—unslung their weapons without a word, axes and swords catching the torchlight.
Obreyn drew his own spear, the long iron head rippling like water in the dark. "We fight?"
Robb's eyes met his cold as the ice around them. "We fight."
Jon was already moving, sword in hand.
The Ironborn was above the Wall, Bow drawn with a curse, his face pale but set.
They took positions along the battlements as the wildlings charged. Arrows whistled down, black shafts against the night. A wildling fell, then another, but they came on, desperate as they ran, screams rising like a storm.
Spears thrust up, black brothers thrusting down with pikes.
Robb ran first, his men rallying behind him with a scream.
He joined them, heart pounding. The Wall felt alive now.
A wildling crested gate near him—bearded, wild-eyed, axe raised.
But Obreyn parried, twisted, and drove his spear into his throat, his long reach claiming the first life. Blood sprayed hot against the cold.
He turned around in search of the next one but his eyes landed on Robb.
The boy, He fought like a man possessed, his sword a blur of steel and shadow.
His daughters spoke of the boy as a good warrior but he could see now, they didn't see his true steps or the young wolf hid them well enough to fool the Sand Snakes.
He moved through the raiders like the Stranger himself, blade finding blood at every turn, throats slit, bellies opened, limbs severed with precise, brutal efficiency.
A wildling woman lunged at him with a bone spear.
Obreyn watched closely, to see if he would show mercy.
But Robb sidestepped, disarmed her with a flick of his wrist, and ended her with a thrust that pierced her heart clean through.
Another came from behind; Robb spun without looking, his sword taking the man's head from his shoulders in a spray of red that painted the ice.
If any southerner had seen him now—boy of two and ten, felling savage men like wheat before the scythe—they would have called him Daemon Blackfyre reborn. The Black Dragon come again, wielding Blackfyre with the fury of old Valyria.
They would have knighted him on the spot, sung songs of his valor from Dorne to the Iron Islands. But here, on the top of the world, there were no songs. Only blood and ice.
Jon fought at his back, his blade singing through the air. He protected Robb from every man he missed, his blade a silver streak that parried blows and opened throats. Together they were a whirlwind, the bastard and the heir, seemed unbreakable.
The wildlings broke before long. Fifty had come; half lay dead or dying on the ice below, the rest fleeing into the dark, arrows chasing them like black rain.
Mormont called the cease. The yard fell silent but for the moans of the wounded and the crackle of dying fires.
Robb sheathed his sword, blood dripping from his hands. His face was calm, but his eyes, gods, his eyes seemed to shine an ominous glow.
Obreyn wiped his spear head clean on a fallen cloak and met his gaze.
The boy's eyes seemed true once more.