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Chapter 3
🕑 Added 2025-01-28 20:52:26 +0000 UTCThe commander, eager to prove himself, made his decision, leaving the three subordinates no choice but to endure the hardship. Will, once a poacher with exceptional tracking skills, quickly deduced the situation of their quarry—about ten individuals, a mix of men, women, and children, likely a wildling family.
Wildlings had a fearsome reputation among the people of the Seven Kingdoms, often used as a boogeyman to scare Northern children. But the Night’s Watch, who frequently dealt with them, knew better. Wildlings, at their core, were simply untamed peasants—farmers who refused to pay taxes or bow to lords, calling that defiance “freedom.” The Watch, on the other hand, was an entirely different breed. Even in decline, it remained one of the continent’s largest standing armies—professional soldiers, by modern terms.
In the feudal world of Westeros, lords raised armies only by calling upon their vassals, who in turn summoned peasants from the fields, arming them with tools of war. But the Night’s Watch was different. Their sole purpose was to defend the Wall. They did not farm, relying entirely on donations from the North’s lords and the tithes of their lands. While their recruits were often of poor quality, the constant training and singular focus made the Watch a rare force of disciplined troops in this backward world.
Within the Watch, the rangers were the elite—the “warriors” among a force also comprising craftsmen and stewards. Rangers trained and patrolled, leaving menial tasks to others. Compared to wildlings, who spent most of their time surviving and were often armed with crude weapons, rangers were vastly superior in both training and equipment. Barring the occasional wildling “champion,” few wildlings dared engage a ranger patrol unless they had overwhelming numbers or the advantage of an ambush.
The small band of wildlings they now pursued had neither.
At first, the wildlings moved westward along the Wall, but when they noticed the rangers tailing them, they turned north and fled. Ser Waymar Royce, eager to make a name for himself on his first patrol, refused to let them go. Thus began a grueling chase through snow and ice—a marathon in the frozen wilderness.
...
For nine days, Aegor and the others followed the wildlings during the day and rested at night, wrapping themselves in thick blankets to preserve their strength. With horses, they maintained the upper hand, tracking the wildlings northward for three days, then northwest for two more, before the trail turned north again. Fortunately, there were no snowstorms to obscure the tracks, and Will never lost the trail.
“Nine days, my lord,” Gary muttered.
“Nine days—is that so long?” Waymar replied, his tone laced with sarcasm.
Gary, unfazed, answered evenly, “Not long, but we only brought enough provisions for ten days. Even if we ration carefully, we’ll run out in twenty. And we still need food for the journey back. If we continue much further...”
“I’ve heard stories,” Waymar interrupted, with a mocking tilt to his voice. “Ser Alliser Thorne once said that rangers survived six months beyond the Wall on a month’s rations. How do you suppose they managed that?”
Will and Aegor exchanged uneasy glances. Waymar’s jab was poorly aimed, and Gary wasn’t about to let it slide.
“If you’re curious, I can explain, my lord.” Gary smirked, delighted at the chance to knock the noble down a peg. “I was part of that expedition. When the food ran out, we ate horsemeat and dog meat, dug up roots, scavenged for anything we could eat. When there was nothing left, the commander ordered us to take our dead brothers with us for... contingency. Luckily, we never had to eat them. We made it to Craster’s Keep and survived thanks to that wildling bastard who marries his daughters.”
Gary’s grin widened as Waymar’s expression faltered. “If you’re willing to try something similar, my lord, I’ll do my best to get everyone home alive. But I should remind you—less than ten men shouldn’t approach Craster, and roots and horsemeat are hard on the stomach.”
Waymar’s face went through a series of rapid changes, but to Aegor’s surprise, the young knight regained his composure quickly. “Fine,” he said finally. “No matter what, we’ll end the chase tomorrow. But for our last day, we’ll take the initiative—capture one or two wildlings alive, no matter what. Tomorrow, we return.”
“Take the initiative?” Will frowned, tension rising in his voice. “But... Benjen Stark only asked us to investigate, not—”
“And what have you learned in nine days of investigating?” Waymar snapped. “Chasing them for another nine won’t yield anything. One captive will tell us more than all this tracking. Gary, your thoughts?”
Gary shrugged, unwilling to openly defy the noble but clearly displeased. “As you command, my lord.”
Waymar smirked at Gary’s begrudging obedience. He enjoyed watching others begrudge his authority while being forced to comply. Turning to Will, he said, “Scout ahead. Report back with the situation, and we’ll plan our move.”
Will gave Aegor and Gary a resigned glance before riding off. The remaining three dismounted, finding seats among the trees to wait.
...
Aegor climbed onto a snow-covered boulder to observe their surroundings. The temperature grew colder by the day, and they were now over a hundred miles north of the Wall. It wasn’t just the cold that unnerved him, though—it was Waymar Royce.
Not because Waymar was dangerous. The young noble, while arrogant and inexperienced, wasn’t malicious. But Aegor couldn’t ignore the dread that churned in his stomach. Waymar Royce. That name was burned into his memory.
In A Song of Ice and Fire, Waymar was the first named character to die—a victim of the Others. His death marked the beginning of the entire saga, revealing the existence of the story’s greatest threat and setting the tone for all that followed. Waymar was the catalyst, the sacrificial lamb.
And now, Aegor was here, following that same Waymar Royce into the Haunted Forest.
As a transmigrator, Aegor had hoped for better. He wasn’t expecting to conquer Westeros or rise to glory, but dying as part of the opening act? That was unacceptable. When he first heard Waymar would lead this patrol, Aegor’s gut reaction had been dread. But as a convict bound to the Night’s Watch, he had no say in the matter.
The Haunted Forest lived up to its name. Shadows danced like malevolent spirits in the ceaseless northern wind. Aegor still remembered his first patrol beyond the Wall, how every shadow seemed to conceal an Other and every weirwood face sent shivers down his spine. By the time that patrol ended, his legs were so weak he could barely stand.
He was no longer that green recruit. After dozens of patrols and a few encounters with wildlings, the forest no longer scared him. But something about this mission, about Waymar, stirred a deep unease he couldn’t shake.
After circling the camp and finding nothing unusual, Aegor returned to Gary and the others, settling in to wait.
...
The wind howled as the horses pawed at the ground, their breaths forming clouds in the frigid air. Aegor remained alert, scanning for danger while also pondering ways to avoid future patrols with Waymar—and how to escape the Watch entirely.
An hour later, Will returned.
“Well?” Waymar looked up, his tone lofty and indifferent. “It’s nearly dark. I assume the wildlings have stopped to make camp?”
Will dismounted slowly, his face pale and his eyes wide. He swallowed hard before speaking. “You won’t believe me,” he said, voice trembling. “But something... something happened up ahead. The wildlings... they’re all dead.”
...
