Chapter 63: Evacuating the Frostfangs
King's Landing
Inside the Hand's Tower of the Red Keep, Jon Arryn sat alone in his solar, a heavy genealogical tome resting open in his hands.
His face was grave.
In recent weeks, he had combed through every noble lineage preserved in the Red Keep's library and the Grand Maester's archives. His focus had been singular: the complete ancestral record of House Baratheon.
Generation after generation, he examined marriages between Baratheons and spouses of differing hair colors. The records were clear—over hundreds of years, no trueborn child of Baratheon blood had ever been born without the family's signature black hair.
From this, Jon Arryn reached a chilling conclusion:
The Baratheon bloodline possessed what he termed a kind of "seed-strength"—a dominant inheritance that always prevailed.
Combined with another fact—that every known bastard of King Robert Baratheon bore the unmistakable black hair of House Baratheon—his suspicions hardened into certainty.
The three golden-haired children born to Robert and Cersei Lannister were not Robert's.
The realization extinguished the last embers of doubt in his heart.
He was now fully convinced that the greatest lie in the history of Westeros sat upon the Iron Throne itself.
But exposure would require preparation. Queen Cersei stood backed by the full might of House Lannister—the wealthiest house in the realm, commanding tens of thousands of soldiers. And at its head stood Tywin Lannister, a man as calculating as he was ruthless.
This could not be handled rashly.
A knock came at the door. His squire, Hugh, entered.
"My lord, Lord Stannis has arrived."
Jon Arryn closed the book slowly.
"Show him in."
---
Stannis Baratheon entered the chamber. Once Hugh withdrew and shut the door behind him, Stannis wasted no time.
"Well?"
Jon Arryn, looking worn and older than his years, carefully explained the conclusions he had reached.
"Seed-strength?" Stannis muttered, tasting the phrase. "If that is true, then how do you explain my daughter? Shireen Baratheon inherited her mother's grey hair and grey eyes—traits of House Florent."
"I cannot account for every variance," Jon Arryn admitted quietly. "But the pattern is overwhelming. Every bastard of Robert's—boy or girl—bears black hair. You have seen some of them yourself. They look like him."
He paused.
"But his three trueborn children… golden hair, green eyes. Not a trace of Baratheon in them."
The silence that followed was heavy—laden not only with political danger, but with the weight of treason, truth, and the potential collapse of a kingdom.
Stannis nodded slowly. It made no sense that all three legitimate children would resemble neither their father nor his line.
"What do you intend to do next?" he asked, restraining his anger with visible effort. "And how do you require my cooperation?"
Jon Arryn lowered his voice.
"I want you to take my son, Robert Arryn, as your ward. Bring him to Dragonstone. Raise and educate him there…"
He then quietly laid out the rest of his plans.
Unbeknownst to either of them, unseen eyes were watching from the shadows.
---
Frostfangs
Saelen and his party took ten days to reach the Frostfangs. The journey was far smoother than before—no blizzards, no White Walkers. Fortune, for once, had favored them.
When they arrived at the appointed meeting place, Mance Rayder was already waiting with Jon and the others.
"Saelen!" Jon Snow stepped forward and embraced him warmly. "How was the road?"
"Much better than last time," Saelen replied with a nod. "No storms. No Others."
Jon let out a breath of relief. "Good."
"You came faster than I expected," Mance said.
"We set out as soon as we received Benjen's letter. We brought the dragonglass weapons without delay."
"You're just in time," Mance replied gravely. "We were discussing moving everyone toward the Wall."
Saelen frowned. "You've gathered everyone already?"
"Not even close," Mance answered, his expression darkening. "Only fifty thousand are here. More than half are still on the way."
He paused.
"This place is no longer safe. The White Walkers are attacking more frequently. At first there were only a few scattered sightings. Now their numbers grow by the day."
"According to Varamyr's scouting, several thousand wights have gathered near the Frostfangs. And most of them… were once my people."
Jon added quietly, "The Others hunt the stragglers. They ambush travelers on the road. Many free folk were slaughtered that way. Now no one dares leave camp. And this land is too barren to feed so many. When the food runs out, they'll starve—or freeze—right here."
Saelen's face hardened. He hadn't expected the situation to deteriorate so quickly. At this rate, it wouldn't be long before the dead marched on the Wall itself.
"Ser Saelen," Mance said firmly, "I don't know how prepared the Wall is—but we cannot delay any longer. Before the Others seal us in, we must move."
Saelen considered briefly. "The Wall is ready. Food stores are sufficient. But manpower is limited. You'll need to build your own camps once you arrive."
Mance nodded. "The free folk won't forget this."
"When do we leave?"
"Now."
---
The Fist of the First Men
Standing atop the ancient ring of stone known as the Fist of the First Men, Saelen gazed down at the sight below.
An endless column of free folk stretched across the landscape—so long that from his vantage point he could not see either its beginning or its end.
On the same day they delivered the dragonglass weapons to Mance, nearly fifty thousand people had begun the march.
Mance himself departed with five or six hundred warriors toward another gathering point. The Frostfangs were abandoned. Word had been sent to redirect any latecomers.
"They're moving too slowly," Saelen muttered, brows furrowed.
It had taken twenty days to travel from the Frostfangs to the Fist. At this pace, it could take months to reach the Wall.
"This is already our fastest speed," said Tormund. "There are old folk and children. Supplies. Livestock. You can't force a river to run faster."
Tormund—Mance's right hand and a respected leader among the free folk—had been assigned to assist Saelen in maintaining order. Jon Snow also traveled with them. He had intended to remain with Mance, but the King-Beyond-the-Wall refused.
Jon had won the trust of many free folk. When they reached the Wall, someone would need to mediate between them and the northern soldiers. Jon and Tormund were the natural choices.
Saelen glanced at the endless caravan again. "Aside from food and furs, do they truly need to carry everything else?"
"You want me to tell them to throw away their belongings?" Tormund snorted. "I may call myself the 'Giantsbane,' but if I suggest that, they'll tear me apart."
Jon nodded silently. He had learned much about the free folk. They might accept you—but they would never simply obey.
"Don't worry," Benjen Stark said calmly. "The route from the Frostfangs to the Fist is rough terrain—valleys, broken passes. It slows everyone. Once we clear this stretch, the land opens up. The pace will improve."
Saelen exhaled slowly.
All they could do now was hope no new disaster struck before they reached the Wall.