Tywin Lannister's light green eyes fixed on the approaching wight, tracking the jerky, unnatural twitch of its limbs. He stepped forward, his boots crunching through the frozen crust of the snow, and gripped his spear with a practiced, lethal intensity. He lunged.
The sharp, jet-black dragonglass spearhead, encased in a reinforced steel sleeve forged by the stewards of Castle Black met no resistance as it plunged into the creature's chest. The wight, a reeking corpse dressed in the tattered remains of a wildling's furs, suddenly convulsed. A pale white frost flared across its ribcage before it disintegrated into a pile of fragmented bones and grey dust, settling into a silent mound atop the white snow.
Tywin breathed heavily, the white mist of his exhale sharp in the freezing air. His physical condition was remarkable for a man of his years, but he was getting old, and the thin air and relentless cold of the North sapped his stamina far faster than the temperate hills of the West ever had. He pulled his spear from the remains and scanned the clearing.
As far as his eyes could see, only the living remained standing, men who could still exhale the mist of life.
"Well killed, old man."
Carter Pyke, the Commander of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, strode over and slapped Tywin on the shoulder with a force that would have sent a lesser man stumbling. "Even a young Ranger doesn't have your precision." Pyke looked down, counting the piles of grey dust. "Five wights in one skirmish. At this rate, it won't be long before you can shed that black cloak and head back to whatever manor you crawled out of."
Pyke didn't know Tywin's identity, only that he was a recruit sent by the "Raven" Bronn. From his speech, his bearing, and the quiet aura of absolute authority he radiated, Pyke assumed he was a disgraced noble of similar stature to the late Jeor Mormont. Regardless, in the Night's Watch, past lives were meant to be buried under the ice.
"I wouldn't think so," Tywin replied curtly.
Tywin had chosen not to publicize his name. He had arrived at the Wall as a "common" volunteer who possessed some combat experience. After a simple test of arms, he had been assigned as a Ranger. The current state of the Night's Watch was vastly different from the stagnant organization he had known from the capital's reports.
The Watch had effectively abandoned its "one-way street" tradition. The Stewards had issued a revolutionary announcement: any brother who could prove the killing of one hundred wights would receive a formal discharge and a severance payment. They could choose to leave the Watch and settle in the Gift as free men, no longer bound by the ancient vows. As for past crimes, as long as they remained in the North and kept the peace, the Iron Throne's justice would not pursue them.
The decision had met fierce resistance from the traditionalists, but it had won the fanatical support of the younger recruits, the thieves, the wronged, and the desperate. They looked at Lord Commander Jon Snow as a savior, eager to kiss his boots for a chance at a second life.
Tywin, however, saw the move for what it truly was: a bait to stimulate the fighting spirit of a terrified garrison. The dead were clumsy and slow, and the new dragonglass weapons were effective, but combat was never a certainty. He had recently seen a lad with thirty-two kills to his name get his throat twisted off by a greenish-black hand that had suddenly erupted from beneath the snow. Beyond the Wall, life was as fleeting as a snowflake; no one knew where it would land next, on a warm hearth or in the cold grip of a corpse.
"Don't be so pessimistic," Carter Pyke said with a grin. "Is there any fate sadder than staying on this Wall and staring at the wind for a lifetime?"
Pyke, an Ironborn to his core, loved the new rules. To him, they represented the "Iron Price"- you fought for what you wanted, and you paid in blood.
"Old man, if you don't want those heads, I'll take 'em off your hands," a burly mercenary named Karrak called out. He was a stout man in a bearskin cloak, his face a map of scars. "When I head south with a bag full of gold dragons, I can send a few silver stags to your widow. You're too old to go back anyway."
Tywin eyed Karrak but said nothing. He knew this "Bounty System" was his son Tyrion's doing.
Tyrion, the newly appointed Earl of Casterly Rock, had spread his influence across the Seven Kingdoms. He was issuing bounties in Eddard Karstark's name: one gold dragon per wight, one hundred per Other. Using the gold the Lannisters had accumulated over thousands of years, Tyrion had turned the Wall into the most lucrative job market in the world. Mercenaries and veterans were flooding the North by land and sea, turning the Haunted Forest into a high-stakes hunting ground.
Tywin gritted his teeth. It was one thing for Tyrion to fail to help his own family restore its strength, but it was another entirely to spend the Lannister legacy to fulfill Eddard Karstark's ambitions.
"Gather the heads and burn the bones!" Carter Pyke roared, looking at his telescope. "We need to reach the Blackbird before dark, or we'll be the ones hunting for a warm fire!"
Five thousand miles to the southeast, the "Winter Wizard" was facing a different kind of storm.
Eddard Karstark stood on the deck of his flagship near Cedar Island, his legs braced against the swaying timber. Following his departure from Pentos, the fleet had crossed the Disputed Lands under the expert guidance of Salladhor Saan, eventually reaching the great Free City of Volantis to resupply.
The journey from Volantis into the Bay of Sorrows had been a gauntlet of human greed. Pirate ships, slaver galleys, and opportunistic "merchant" vessels had tried to close in on the Sunburst banners. None had succeeded. Every time a hostile ship reached the thousand-meter mark, Marga the Giant would draw his massive steel bow. The "Dragonsbane" arrows would hiss through the air, turning the opponent's sails into ribbons and their decks into splinters before they could even identify their target.
Humans were predictable, but the sea was not.
As they left the smoking ruins of Valyria behind, the Bay of Sorrows had lived up to its name. A sudden, violent storm had enveloped the fleet. Lightning split the black clouds like silver serpents, and waves as high as city walls had battered the hulls.
"DAMN IT!" Eddard roared, wiping salt-water from his eyes.
Through the rain, he watched as the Running Wolf's mast snapped in half with a sickening CRUNCH. The grey hull was swallowed by a massive swell, vanishing into the rain curtain. The Sunburst Star had already disappeared into the gloom an hour ago. Only his flagship and the Twin City remained in visual contact.
Fortunately, the storm was as short-lived as it was violent. The clouds dispersed, replaced by a merciless sun that baked the wet decks until they were too hot to touch.
Jason Mallister limped into the captain's cabin, his face pale. During the storm, he had fallen from the forecastle and fractured his shin. If not for Eddard's enhanced reflexes catching him, the Admiral would have been lost to the sea.
"Your Majesty, we lost sixteen sailors and three soldiers," Mallister reported, leaning on a crutch. "The Twin City reports thirty missing. The Sunburst Star has returned; she's towing the Running Wolf. They're picking up survivors - both living and dead."
Eddard looked out the window at the lush, green silhouette of Cedar Island. If Daenerys Targaryen refused to cooperate after he had paid this price in blood and timber, the "negotiation" would be a very short one.
"Go out and see!" Eddard commanded, his eyes narrowing.
Several massive oar-powered galleys were emerging from behind the island, their rhythmic beating leaving trails of foam like spilled ale.
As they drew closer, a foul, cloying smell drifted on the breeze, the scent of feces, unwashed bodies, and the cloying rot of a small space deprived of light. It was a smell Eddard knew from the docks of Lys and the stories of the North.
The smell of a slave ship.
Eddard drew Heartbreaker, the Valyrian steel singing as it caught the sun. His eyes flashed with a cold, Karstark fury.
"Soldiers! Those blind fools think we are easy prey!" Eddard's voice boomed across the water. "Grip your weapons! We're going to show these slavers what the North thinks of their trade!"
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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