Castle Black

38 AC

Castle Black

Third Person Pov

A full moon had waxed and waned since Theon Stark concluded his parley with the Three-Eyed Raven and the Children of the Forest. Within the great hall of Castle Black, a tense anticipation hung in the air, thick as the northern fog that sometimes clung to the Wall's icy face. Every lord of the North, summoned had gathered within these ancient, soot-stained walls. Lord Torrhen Stark, his face a roadmap of winter's hardships and years of stern leadership, sat at the high table, the weight of his lineage and the current crisis etched into his every line. To his right sat his son, Brandon Stark, his features sharp and watchful, beside him his own son, Jonnos Stark, a young man bearing the serious demeanor of his house. To Torrhen's left sat the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, his dark attire a stark contrast to the furs and leathers of the assembled lords, his expression a carefully guarded neutrality. Beside him stood the First Ranger, his weathered face and keen eyes reflecting years spent patrolling the treacherous lands beyond the Wall. The fate of the North, and perhaps more, rested on the words that would be spoken within these hallowed halls.

Lord Torrhen Stark rose from the high table, his movements slow but carrying the weight of his authority. The scraping of wood against stone as his chair shifted echoed through the hall, drawing the attention of every lord and bannerman present. A hush fell over the assembled company, their gazes turning towards the aging patriarch of House Stark.

"My lords," Torrhen began, his voice resonating with the deep timbre of the North, a sound that had commanded respect for decades. "Word has reached us of a new power risen beyond the Wall. A man calling himself a king, who has gathered at least one hundred thousand wildlings under his banner." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle upon the assembled lords, their faces a mixture of concern and grim determination. The air in the hall grew heavy with unspoken anxieties.

After a long moment, allowing the implications of this news to sink in, Torrhen continued, his voice gaining a steely edge. "The North has endured countless threats from beyond the ice. We have bled and we have suffered, but we have also grown stronger, stronger than we have been in centuries, united under the banner of the direwolf. And we will continue to endure."

Brandon Stark, his son and heir, rose to stand beside his father, his gaze sweeping across the assembled lords. "Aye," Brandon declared, his voice ringing with the fierce pride of the North. "Let this wildling king and his horde come. Let every lord here recall the tales of our ancestors, the battles fought and won against those who dared to trespass upon our lands. We have faced greater numbers before, and we have broken them."

Then, Jonnos Stark, his youthful face set with a determined resolve, spoke, his voice carrying a surprising strength. "Grandfather speaks true. Even if another ten kings beyond the Wall raise armies of a hundred thousand each, they will find the North a frozen hell, a land that will break them before they break us."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the hall, spreading from lord to lord. Heads nodded, fists clenched, and a collective resolve hardened their features. The ancient pride of the North, the unyielding spirit forged in ice and snow, began to burn brightly in the faces of the assembled lords. They had faced the wildlings for millennia, and they would face this new threat with the same unwavering defiance.

Lord Manderly, his considerable girth not hindering the force of his voice, boomed, "Aye, Lord Stark! Let them come! We shall feast them with steel and drown their sorrows in the icy waters of our bogs! The fatlanders may doubt our strength, but the wildlings know better. They've tasted the bite of the North before, and they'll find it even sharper now!"

Lord Mormont, fierce spirit of a seasoned warrior, stood tall and declared, his voice ringing with unwavering conviction, "House Mormont will stand with Winterfell. We have held the Stony Shore against ironborn and wildling alike. Let this new king learn that the North remembers, and we do not yield!"

Lord Karstark, his expression grim and unforgiving, added, "The wildlings have spilled Karstark blood for generations. Let them come south. We will meet them with fire and fury, and for every drop of our kin they have taken, we shall take ten of theirs!"

Lord Umber, his voice a thunderous roar that shook the very timbers of the hall, slammed his fist on the table. "Aye, my lord! Let the wildlings break themselves against our lines! We will grind them into the dust and scatter their bones to the four winds! The North will not be cowed!"

Lord Glover, his features stern, nodded in agreement. "Lord Stark speaks true. We have defended these lands for millennia. This wildling king will find no welcome here. We will meet him at the gates and drive him back into the frozen wastes from whence he came!"

Lord Torrhen Stark surveyed the fervent faces of his bannermen, the echoes of their defiant pronouncements still ringing in the hall. He raised a hand, his weathered features etched with a weariness that belied his strong words. "Aye, my lords, your spirit warms my old heart," he said, his voice softening slightly, the fire in his eyes dimming to a more somber glow. "The strength of the North is undeniable. But I ask you now, until when will these endless fights continue? How many more of our brothers, our sons, shall fall in the snow, their blood staining the white ground crimson in these ceaseless clashes beyond the Wall?"

A heavy silence descended upon the hall, the fervor of their earlier pronouncements momentarily quelled by the stark reality of the cost of war.

A heavy silence descended upon the hall, the fervor of their earlier pronouncements momentarily quelled by the stark reality of the cost of war.

Then, Brandon Stark, his features thoughtful, yet firm, stepped forward. "Father speaks wisely. We have the strength to fight, yes. But at what cost? How many more Northern lives will be extinguished in this endless cycle of raids and retaliation? I say, my lords, perhaps… perhaps it is time we consider a different path. Perhaps it is time… to make peace with them."

A chorus of indignant voices erupted throughout the hall.

Lord Umber roared, his face turning a shade of apoplectic purple. "Peace with wildlings?! Have you lost your senses, Brandon Stark? They are savages, raiders, cannibals! They have spilled Northern blood for centuries! Peace is a fool's dream, achievable only through the edge of a sword driven through their black hearts!"

Lord Mormont's voice, though smaller in volume, carried the sharp sting of steel. "Make peace with those who steal our harvests and slaughter our families? Never! They understand only strength, only the cold kiss of Northern steel. To offer them peace is to invite further aggression, to show weakness where only iron will suffices!"

Lord Karstark's expression darkened, his eyes blazing with bitter memory. "Peace? They butchered my kin! The only peace I desire with a wildling is the silence of their graves!"

Lord Glover shook his head in disbelief. "Brandon Stark, with all due respect, your words are naive. These are not men we can reason with. They are animals, driven by hunger and a lust for what is ours. Peace is an illusion; survival lies in vigilance and strength!"

Even Lord Manderly, usually jovial, frowned deeply. "While I yearn for fewer graves to fill, Brandon Stark, I cannot fathom trusting the word of a wildling. Their allegiances shift with the wind and their promises are as brittle as winter ice. We offer peace, they will see weakness and exploit it."

The hall was a cacophony of protest, each lord recounting tales of wildling cruelty, each voice echoing generations of ingrained hatred and mistrust. The very idea of seeking peace with the traditional enemy was anathema to their Northern pride and their long-held beliefs. Brandon Stark stood amidst the storm of their dissent, his expression unwavering, but the weight of their collective outrage was palpable.

A thunderous voice boomed through the hall, cutting through the cacophony of protest like the crack of winter ice. "SILENCE!" Lord Torrhen Stark, his face a mask of stern authority, had risen once more, his aged frame radiating an unexpected power that instantly commanded attention. The assembled lords, startled by the sheer force of his command, fell into a grudging silence, their muttered protests dying in their throats.

Torrhen's gaze, sharp and unwavering, turned towards the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, who sat stoically at his left. "Lord Commander," Torrhen's voice, though still carrying a hint of its earlier thunder, now held a measured weight. "Remind these… impassioned lords. What are the ancient vows that bind you and your black brothers to the Wall?"

The Lord Commander, Ethan Glover, a man whose face bore the marks of countless cold nights and grim responsibilities, rose slowly to his feet. His voice, though quiet, carried a weight of solemnity that resonated through the hushed hall.

"Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

Lord Torrhen Stark nodded slowly, his gaze sweeping across the assembled lords, his expression grave. "Realms of men," he echoed, the weight of the words hanging in the air. "Not wildlings. No one in their right mind builds a wall of this height, this breadth, for mere raiding parties. Generations of Starks have stood watch on that Wall, and the true enemy has always been something far more terrifying than scattered tribes of wildlings." He paused, his gaze hardening. "The Long Night. The darkness that our ancestors fought back in the dawn of days. The reason the Wall was built. The reason the Night's Watch was sworn."

Lord Torrhen Stark's gaze softened, a flicker of memory crossing his weathered features. "Those words," he murmured, his voice taking on a more personal tone, "those were the very words my own father spoke to me, the winter I came of age. He didn't speak of wildling raids or petty squabbles beyond the Wall. He spoke of the Long Night, the true darkness that slumbers but never truly dies. He told me that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, a vigilant eye watching the horizon. He said our house words, 'Winter is Coming,' are not just a pronouncement of the season, but a timeless warning, a constant reminder to prepare, to always be ready for the true winter that will one day descend upon us all."

The weight of Torrhen Stark's words settled heavily in the hall. The lords, their earlier fervor momentarily quelled, exchanged uneasy glances. The ancient warning, the very essence of House Stark, hung in the air, a stark reminder of a threat far greater than any wildling host. The boisterous pronouncements of battle faded, replaced by a thoughtful silence. The mood in the great hall of Castle Black had shifted, the initial defiance now tempered by a sense of foreboding and the chilling echo of winters past and winters yet to come. The true nature of the threat beyond the Wall, long dismissed as mere wildling aggression, now loomed large in their collective consciousness.

Lord Torrhen Stark sighed, a weariness settling upon his aged features. "The Long Night," he murmured, "it may come, or it may simply be the rambling of an old man who has seen too many winters. But remember this, my lords. I stand before you now, a man who once wore a crown. Yet, I bent the knee to the Dragon King, not out of fear, but out of wisdom. I saw the flames that could consume the North, and I chose to preserve our lands, our people. We never broke, even when the Andals cast their eyes upon us, because I knew that war then would have meant the burning of the North."

He straightened, his gaze sweeping across the assembled lords. "And what has come of that peace? Nearly four decades of it. Decades in which our lands have flourished, our harvests have been bountiful. We no longer depend on the whims of the south for their grain. We have grown strong in our own right." He paused, his voice gaining a renewed strength. "So I say to you now, let us not be blinded by old hatreds. Let us speak to this king beyond the Wall. If he is willing to bend his knee and follow our laws, then let us make peace with him. Let us add his strength, and the strength of his people, to our own. For if the true darkness descends, we will need every sword, every axe, every hand we can muster."

A low murmur rippled through the lords seated below the high table. Uncertainty and skepticism clouded their faces as they exchanged hushed words.

Lord Manderly, his brow furrowed, leaned towards Lord Glover. "Bend the knee? Wildlings? Have you ever heard of such a thing? They're as wild as the wolves in the Wolfswood. I'll wager they'd sooner freeze to death than kneel before any southern king, let alone us."

Lord Mormont, his gaze sharp, addressed Lord Karstark. "And what of their raiding? Their savagery? Can we truly trust them to abide by our laws? They've known only the law of the axe for generations."

Lord Karstark, his jaw tight, replied, his voice low and bitter, "Trust a wildling? I'd sooner trust a viper in my bedchamber. They'll promise anything to get south of the Wall, and then the bloodshed will begin anew, only this time within our own lands."

Lord Umber, his massive frame shifting restlessly, grumbled to Lord Flint, "Peace with wildlings… it's a fool's errand. They'll steal our food, our women… they'll bring their filth and their chaos into the North. We should meet them at the Wall with steel and fire, not open arms."

The hall buzzed with their apprehensive whispers, the ingrained mistrust of centuries coloring their every word. The prospect of wildlings kneeling, of a lasting peace, seemed a fantastical notion to these lords who had known only conflict with the tribes beyond the Wall. The seeds of doubt had been sown, threatening to undermine Torrhen Stark's cautious proposal.

Lord Torrhen Stark raised his voice once more, cutting through the apprehensive murmurs. "My lords," he announced, his tone firm, "I have not spoken of idle hopes. My grandson, Theon Stark, has already journeyed beyond the Wall. He has met with this king, and by his words and actions, he has been successful." A ripple of surprise went through the assembled lords. "They will be here, at Castle Black, on the morrow. We will all gather here then, in this very hall, to witness this unprecedented meeting."