Chapter 52: Ghost Shadow Forest

Night had fallen deep and black over the ruins of the Nightfort. Though they had confirmed the existence of the secret passage, the exhausted party chose not to continue their journey. Instead, they climbed back to the well's mouth and made what camp they could among the crumbling stones.

With the first pale light of dawn, they descended once more.

This time, they passed through the grotesque weirwood face that guarded the Black Gate. The face's mouth opened impossibly wide to allow their passage, the sensation of crossing the threshold both unnatural and strangely intimate, as if they were being swallowed by some ancient entity.

Beyond the gate lay a narrow tunnel that sloped gradually upward. The path was damp and smelled of earth and strange, old magic.

They approached the surface step by step, the light ahead growing from a pinprick no larger than a grain of rice laid horizontal, to a crescent moon, then a full summer sun, and finally an expanse of sky framed by towering trees.

They emerged into the heart of the Ghost Shadow Forest.

Benjen turned his head and surveyed their surroundings with dismay. "The trees grow unchecked. Are we truly so near the Wall already?"

The Night's Watch had long maintained a tradition of clearing any tree that dared sprout within a thousand yards of the Wall. Yet here, outside the abandoned Nightfort, the Ghost Shadow Forest had encroached almost to the base of the ice itself.

Joffrey's gaze was drawn to the countless weirwood trees that dotted the forest, their bone-white trunks and blood-red leaves standing in stark contrast to the evergreens.

No wonder they call it the roosting place of crows, he thought. There are too many eyes here.

He sighed, then leaned against the trunk of a nearby weirwood, tilting his head back until it rested against the pale bark. Immediately, a flood of images cascaded through his mind—glimpses of times past when others had stood in this very spot.

Someone had indeed preceded them here, and not merely humans.

A Night's Watchman who had ranged ahead suddenly shouted, his voice tight with alarm. "First Ranger! There's blood here, a great deal of it—and the bodies of our brothers!"

Benjen turned and plunged into the forest with long, urgent strides. The other black brothers followed close behind, hands flying to sword hilts and daggers.

A familiar stratagem, but effective nonetheless, Joffrey mused.

He picked his way carefully through puddles of half-frozen meltwater. "Uncle, Jon, let us see for ourselves what has transpired. Take care where you step."

The scene that greeted them beyond the treeline was grotesque.

At first glance, it was impossible to determine how many men had died there. The snow was littered with pieces of flesh, large and small, abandoned upon the white canvas and frozen into macabre sculptures of crimson ice.

"At least five good men," Benjen pronounced in a voice barely above a whisper, his face grim as he surveyed the carnage.

Tyrion frowned deeply. "Is it common for black brothers to meet their end in these woods?" he asked, his mismatched eyes narrowed with suspicion.

The Nightfort had stood abandoned for two hundred years, yet the corpses lay not far from the entrance to the secret passage. Tyrion sensed conspiracy in the air, thick as the scent of old blood. Was Bloodraven truly still observing from afar?

One of the Night's Watchmen lifted a severed head from the snow, his expression rigid with shock. "I recognize this man! He suffered Instructor training stick alongside me before being sent to bolster the garrison at Shadow Tower. He belongs to Shadow Tower's complement!"

Another black brother ventured, "Perhaps they were a patrol dispatched from Shadow Tower, pursued by wildlings and driven to this desperate place."

"More likely they encountered wildlings who had just emerged from the secret passage themselves," countered a third.

An eager ranger crouched beside a partially dismembered corpse. "The brothers met their fate not long past—no more than three or four days ago by my reckoning. The wildlings responsible cannot have traveled far. We are mounted; we might overtake them within a day or two of hard riding!"

Benjen remained silent for a long moment before turning reluctantly to face Joffrey. "Would Your Highness prefer to withdraw to the safety of the Wall before we proceed?" he asked, duty warring with his desire for vengeance.

A clever question, Joffrey reflected. Who could maintain dignity while admitting fear after such an opening?

Joffrey recognized the nature of Benjen's inquiry. As First Ranger, how could the man retreat in the face of this brutal challenge? Yet the Night's Watchmen's unanimous eagerness struck Joffrey as suspicious. Did none among them harbor doubts?

Joffrey glanced at the rangers who had spoken, noting their faces carefully. "We shall advance together," he declared. "Wildlings are not to be feared by those who understand their ways."

The rangers demonstrated their woodland craft, examining subtle tracks half-hidden by fresh snow. Against all odds, they discovered clear traces of passage.

The party moved northwest at speed.

Their progress proved swifter than anticipated. By midday, they had located the wildlings' open-air encampment.

Benjen lay flat upon the snow behind a low ridge, silently observing the distant figures moving about their cookfires.

At Benjen's insistence, Joffrey retreated with Tyrion and Jon, concealing themselves among the trees to avoid alerting their quarry prematurely.

The three spoke in hushed tones, their words cloaked by magic from unwelcome ears.

Tyrion shifted uncomfortably. "Are all Stark minds cast from the same rigid mold? I wager there's treachery afoot here," he muttered.

Jon remained silent, torn between loyalty to his prince and to his blood. Benjen was, after all, the uncle who had shown him the most warmth in his difficult childhood.

Joffrey affected indifference. "A journey without surprises grows tedious. Perhaps after today's events unfold, we shall make acquaintance with creatures of legend."

"What legendary creature?" Tyrion asked, catching the subtle implication in the prince's words.

"Three... two... one... Direct your gaze leftward," Joffrey instructed.

Tyrion twisted his neck to look, and numerous figures—some tall as men, others small as children—materialized at the edge of his vision.

"To arms!" he shouted in warning.

Benjen, crouching at the vanguard, had scarcely begun to turn when several of his black brothers made their move. Daggers flashed in the cold northern light, plunging into the throats and hearts of the loyal watchmen. Blood sprayed across the pristine snow, painting it in ghastly patterns.

"No!" Benjen cried, swinging his sword at the traitors, but they retreated with practiced swiftness, melting into the mass of wildlings that had appeared in the distance.

"Hahaha, Benjen Stark, there's no escape for you this time!" a coarse voice called.

A score of wildlings emerged from the encampment, advancing with predatory confidence. More figures gradually materialized from the forest behind them, their numbers growing with each passing heartbeat.

Benjen moved deliberately to Joffrey's side, his blade still drawn.

"Traitors!" he spat. "Scarface, Redhand, Ragmaw, Rime—why have you forsaken your vows?"

The men he named offered no response. Instead, the wildling leader answered for them, his voice thick with the accent of the far north. "Benjen, what you don't understand is that there remains a Lord beyond the Wall. The Night's Watch breaks no oath by pledging fealty to him."

Joffrey addressed the man directly, his voice carrying across the snow-covered ground. "You speak of the former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch—the Three-Eyed Crow, Brynden Rivers. Is that not so?"

He continued without waiting for confirmation. "Deliver a message to your master, wildling. Tell him I shall pay him a personal visit... provided you survive to carry my words."

The assembled wildlings exchanged glances and laughed, the sound harsh in the cold air.

They showed no urgency to attack. They had sufficient numbers to surround this place, to cut off any hope of retreat.

Joffrey displayed equal patience. He was waiting for certain smaller figures to draw near enough that escape would become impossible. Only then would he make the acquaintance he sought.

Tyrion's breath caught in his throat as realization dawned. "These must be the Children of the Forest spoken of in ancient texts!" he whispered with academic excitement.

They stood no taller than Tyrion himself, with oversized ears and eyes the color of molten gold. Their skin was deep chestnut, dappled with spots like a fawn's coat. Each hand bore three fingers and a thumb that ended in a sharp, curved claw.

Tyrion's chest heaved with exhilaration. Here before him stood living legend made flesh!

"Good nephew," he urged, "ensure you capture several alive. The sensation they would create throughout the Seven Kingdoms... ha! They would make a greater spectacle than any dwarf!"

One of the Children stepped forward—a female, from what Joffrey could discern. She rubbed her three-fingered hands together and spoke in halting Common Tongue. "Humans, withdraw your discourteous words. We come only for the one who stands among you who should not be. Surrender him without resistance, and you may depart unharmed."

The wildling leader echoed her sentiment. "That's right, that's right. Lay down your steel and you'll keep your lives."

Joffrey surveyed their predicament with calculated calm. Before and behind them stretched hundreds of wildlings. To their left and right gathered the Children of the Forest and dozens of beasts controlled by skinchangers—wolves, bears, shadowcats, and more. Above, eagles and ravens circled like living storm clouds.

He deliberated on the most efficient method to eliminate the threat.

At present, he commanded 500 units of Fire Mana. He knew that a single unit could bring ten tons of ice-water mixture to a roiling boil—approximately one million kilocalories or more than four million kilojoules of heat energy. This equaled the thermal output of a kilogram of wildfire.

Should he inject it directly into the wildlings' bodies? Such an approach would require him to close distance with the enemy and evade their attacks—inelegant and needlessly risky.

Perhaps breathe fire like the dragons of old? No, the targets were too dispersed for such a method to prove decisive.

The wildlings grew impatient. "Surrender now, boy!" one shouted. "Kneel, and I'll grant you a merciful death!"

Joffrey favored the man with a benevolent smile.

Art is explosion, he thought, recalling a phrase from another life.

He crouched and pressed his palms flat against the solid sheet of ice beneath them.

One hundred and fifty units of Fire Mana divided into fifty portions, each integrated into the ice beneath the feet of the wildlings, the Children, and their beasts.

With a single thought, hundreds of tons of ice instantaneously expanded into superheated vapor, erupting from within layers of solid ice.

BANG!

Tssssss~

Steam, redolent with the aroma of roasted flesh, billowed upward in a surging white tempest.

Shattered chunks of ice rained back to earth from the sky, many still entwined with wisps of mist or strings of bloodied tissue.

Tyrion drew a deep, astonished breath.

The air around them had grown as warm as a summer afternoon in King's Landing—unnaturally, frighteningly hot in this land of eternal winter.

...

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