The Son of Ice and Fire (Jon Snow SI)

Edmure stood before the sept in Castle Black, his breath misting in the cold air. The bitter chill of the Wall felt sharper today, or perhaps it was simply the sense of finality in what he was about to say. The sept was simple: wooden walls, a stone altar, and the flickering glow of a few candles lending it a solemn hush.

He cleared his throat, the heavy weight of his life and failures pressing on him as he began his vows, repeating them with the other recruits. His voice was low and sad, each word echoing in his heart, each syllable a reminder of all he had lost.

"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."

His voice wavered at the end, the last words escaping in a near-whisper. His eyes were moist with tears he would not allow to fall.

The words of the usurper still rang in his mind. You are to be the last of the Tullys the usurper had said. He had begged for mercy, begged that his sister's children might take Riverrun—no matter if they bore the name Stark or Arryn—but the usurper had only laughed and claimed Riverrun for himself. He left Edmure with nothing but shame and a black cloak.

The vows were complete. They were brothers of the Night's Watch now.

Edmure moved out of the sept with the others. As they headed toward the walls of Castle Black, Edward Flint, an older member of the Watch, approached him.

"The Lord Commander has asked to see you in his solar," Flint said, his face lined and serious, like everything else in this harsh land.

Edmure nodded, though uncertainty churned in his stomach. "Very well."

Beside him, Marq Piper frowned. "Why does the Lord Commander want to see you, Edmure?"

"Who knows?" Edmure replied, forcing a hollow smile. "What can a one-handed man do in this frozen hell, anyway?" His tone was bitter, and he eyed the stump of his left arm, barely concealed by his thick cloak.

Marq puffed out his chest. "Well, I plan to be a ranger. It's not fitting for a knight to swing a hammer as a builder."

A gravelly laugh rose from an older watchman passing by. "A brother of the Watch is no knight anymore," the man said with a harsh smirk. "Your old titles mean nothing here, lad."

Marq scowled, pride wounded. He opened his mouth to retort, but Edmure raised an arm, halting him. "Let it go, Marq," he said quietly.

The old man was right. Edmure was no longer Lord Tully of Riverrun, heir to an ancient and honorable line. He was simply Edmure Tully, a man in black, a brother of the Night's Watch, with no claim and no title. Perhaps that was what he deserved.

They trudged through the biting cold, the wind whipping across the Wall. The courtyard was busy, even in the dim afternoon light. Brothers hurried about, tending chores, maintaining weapons, sharpening blades, stacking crates of supplies. Castle Black itself was a cluster of old, cold stone towers, but Edmure was surprised by how well maintained it all seemed.

Everything was cared for, the walls and storehouses stocked—starkly different from the tales he'd heard of a neglected Watch in his youth. He had expected decay and despair. Instead, the Watch, though harsh and cold, carried a grim pride and discipline.

Edmure silently offered a prayer to King Rhaegar, the "fool king," as some had named him, who had been obsessed with the Night's Watch. Edmure himself had once dismissed the importance of the distant Wall, but now, as he passed through a well-stocked keep, he silently thanked the late king from the bottom of his heart.

Following Edward Flint, he made his way toward the Lord Commander's tower. Snow crunched underfoot, and he was grateful, at least, to be in the company of friends from the riverlands. He was not alone in his new life here.

Reaching the narrow corridors that led to the Lord Commander's solar, he was more troubled by his phantom limb than by the cold. He could swear he still felt the weight of the arm he no longer had—fingers tingling, an ache like a ghost clinging to him. He rubbed his stump absently, trying to shake off the unsettling feeling.

When Edmure arrived at the solar, he paused, noticing a frail old man in simple black robes—Maester Aemon, pale and blind—and at his side the round-faced Samwell Tarly, who offered the ancient maester his arm and told who was around him.

"Brother Tully," Aemon greeted warmly, his thin voice kind.

"Maester Aemon," Edmure answered, bowing slightly to the old Targaryen.

Aemon tilted his head, sightless eyes fixed in Edmure's direction.

"Any word from the south?" Edmure asked, hesitant but hopeful after weeks of silence.

Aemon let out a faint chuckle. "You ask if my kin have ceased their fighting, young Tully?"

Edmure pressed his lips together, unsure how to respond.

Aemon's humor faded. "No," he said at last, voice quiet. "No word. I believe we are being kept in the dark."

The implications chilled Edmure more than the northern wind. After a pause, he asked, "How do you feel about the war, Maester Aemon, about the usurper?"

"Maekar?" Aemon echoed, tilting his head thoughtfully. "Ah, my father's namesake, the boy who has turned the Seven Kingdoms upside down."

"Yes," Edmure said softly, "Maekar."

Aemon fell silent, as if listening to distant whispers. "I know not what to feel," he said finally. "How can one know who is truly right? My heart goes to both sides, and yet to neither."

Edmure clenched his jaw, passion breaking through his despair. "Aegon is the rightful king. He was the heir."

"Was he?" Aemon asked, voice contemplative. "Then why did so many side with Maekar? There must have been a reason."

"Because Maekar had a dragon," Edmure said bitterly.

Aemon smiled faintly. "Yes, the dragon. Perhaps that was reason enough. But a dragon only carries one so far. The wounds of rebellion have never fully healed, young Tully." His voice softened, sadness creeping in. "Rhaegar sowed the seeds long before Maekar claimed the throne."

Edmure had no reply. There was nothing to say.

Aemon nodded toward the door. "Do not keep Lord Commander Pyke waiting. He is not known for his patience."

"Thank you, Maester Aemon," Edmure said, bowing once more.

"Go on," Aemon urged gently, a smile in his tone. "May the gods be with you, young Tully."

With that, Edmure turned away, leaving the ancient maester behind and stepping into the Lord Commander's solar.

He stepped inside, finding the room sparsely furnished—bare wood, an old desk, shelves stacked with scrolls, and a single chair near a small, flickering hearth. The smell of smoke and old parchment filled the air. Behind the desk sat Lord Commander Torrhen Pyke: stoic, with sharp, hard features. Rumor had it he was the bastard son of Lord Drumm and a Northern woman. His eyes were like chips of flint, his hair gray and cropped close. He was a formidable warrior, sent to the Wall as punishment for fighting on the wrong side during Robert's Rebellion.

Like me.

"Ah, Brother Edmure," Pyke said as he looked up, his gruff voice filling the room.

Edmure paused. The title sounded strange to his ears. He forced himself to nod. "Lord Commander," he said.

"Sit, sit," Pyke urged, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.

Edmure obeyed, settling into the worn wood. Pyke reached beneath the desk, pulling out a small flask and two cups. He poured a measure of liquor into each cup and slid one toward Edmure. "My hidden stash," Pyke said, a rare, fleeting smile on his lips. "Something to warm the bones."

Edmure accepted the cup gratefully. The strong liquor burned in a way that was almost comforting. He raised it slightly in thanks before taking a drink, feeling the warmth spread through his chest.

"Thank you, Lord Commander," Edmure said quietly.

"How's your arm?" Pyke asked.

Edmure glanced at the stump of his left arm, flexing instinctively. He offered a half-smile. "I still have my sword arm, Lord Commander."

Pyke nodded, as though weighing his words. He leaned back in his chair, studying Edmure with those hard, flinty eyes. "Have you thought about where you fit in the Watch? We have a need for stewards, you know."

A spark of anger flared in Edmure's chest, and he clenched his jaw. "No," he replied firmly, his voice rough. "I want to be a ranger."

Pyke tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. "You have only one arm, Edmure."

Edmure met his gaze, defiance clear. "Qhorin Halfhand has but a thumb on his bad arm, yet he's the best we have. He and I are not so different."

The Lord Commander regarded him for a moment before giving a rare, fleeting smile. "Good. I'm planning a short ranging next week. It'll be about ten days—a test for some of the new brothers."

Edmure's heartbeat quickened. "I want to go," he said, determined.

Pyke nodded, his smile fading into a more serious expression. "Fine. You'll go. Consider this your chance to prove yourself—to show you have what it takes to be a ranger. It's not a title given lightly."

Edmure straightened, a familiar pride welling within him. "I am a Tully, lord of…" He stopped himself, faltering.

"Of nothing," Pyke said quietly, without cruelty. "A Tully, yes. But here, we are all brothers—nothing more, nothing less."

Edmure swallowed hard and nodded. He needed to accept this new reality. Perhaps proving himself in the field would help him do just that.

Pyke leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. "Let me tell you what's happening beyond the Wall."

Edmure's brow furrowed, his focus sharpening. "The Wildlings invaded, didn't they? With help from the Ironborn?"

Pyke nodded. "Aye, my predecessor lost his life dealing with that. But what you heard was only the start. It was just two clans, among the worst of the Wildlings—and there are many more."

"More?" Edmure asked, frowning.

Pyke held his gaze. "Mance Rayder, a former brother of the Night's Watch, is gathering followers. Clans are flocking to him."

"Mance Rayder?" Edmure repeated. "Has he declared himself king beyond the Wall, then?"

Pyke shook his head slightly. "Not yet. The Wildlings don't bend easily or perhaps they don't bend at all…. They must all agree to name a king. But I suspect it's coming soon."

Edmure leaned forward, intrigued. "You know this for certain?"

Pyke sighed, frustration lacing his tone. "I know enough. But I have few details. I've sent out small rangings to find him—none have returned."

A chill ran down Edmure's spine. "None?" he asked softly. "That's troubling."

Pyke's gaze hardened. "That's why I'm sending out this next group. It's not just a patrol—it's an attempt to learn what happened to those men."

Edmure let out a dark chuckle. "Sounds like something I'm not going to return from."

Pyke didn't flinch, though there was something like pity in his eyes. "That's why I offered you a way out, Edmure."

Rising from the chair, Edmure steadied himself. "No," he said, shaking his head firmly. "I'll do it."

Pyke nodded, approval in his eyes. "Good. You'll be with Qhorin Halfhand's group—older brothers mixed with new recruits. We'll see how you fare."

Edmure nodded his understanding, his heart hammering in his chest. He inclined his head respectfully. "I understand, Lord Commander."

He made his way to the door and paused at the threshold, his breath catching for a moment before he stepped out into the cold air. His heart felt heavier than ever, but this was his life now—and he would have to grow used to it.

.

.

.

A week had passed, and Edmure had prepared himself.

The ranging led by Qhorin Halfhand consisted of a mix of seasoned brothers and fresh recruits—men from all walks of life, now united under the black. Most of the new brothers this time were Rivermen, survivors of the battle Edmure himself had led. Some blamed him for their losses, others did not. Some still respected his former title, others spat at it.

They set out at dawn, the Wall towering behind them like a colossal pillar of ice that stretched into the very heavens. The wind howled as they passed through the tunnel, Qhorin at their head. The older men moved with surety, their breaths steady and measured, while the newer recruits hesitated, eyes widening as they stepped beyond that massive barrier into the savage lands beyond.

Edmure paused as he set his foot on the far side of the Wall. He felt the cold bite immediately, as if this place itself sought to repel him, to drive him back behind the safety of stone and ice. He took a deep breath, the chill filling his lungs, and thought: On to the savage lands. There was no turning back now. He fell in with the rest, glancing back once more at the looming, icy monolith.

The land beyond the Wall was bleak, desolate, and almost unnervingly still. Snow covered everything, a thick, unbroken blanket that crunched beneath their boots. The relentless cold cut through even their heavy cloaks, numbing hands and feet. Overhead, a low sky of uniform gray blended with the horizon, casting a pall over the barren landscape. The wind never ceased its mournful wail, a low, haunting note that seemed to rise from the earth itself.

Qhorin led them with unwavering confidence, scanning the horizon with eyes that had done this a thousand times before. The older brothers followed, wary and tense. They knew these lands well—knew the hidden pitfalls under the snow and the treacherous patches of thin ice concealing icy water below.

Edmure walked beside Marq Piper, who glanced around uneasily. "I once thought tales of this place were exaggerated," Marq murmured, his breath fogging in front of him. "But this, Edmure… this is beyond anything I imagined."

Edmure only nodded. He had heard the stories all his life—giants, ice spiders large as hounds, mammoths, and savage Wildlings. Now, every whispered legend felt close, lurking at the edge of his vision as they marched across the endless white.

As the day wore on, the landscape shifted. Dark, towering trees of the Haunted Forest rose around them. The twisted branches were bare and black against the gray sky. The forest pressed in, trunks ancient and scarred, creating an uneasy hush. Each step deeper into its heart heightened their apprehension, the trees seeming to reach for them with skeletal fingers.

Qhorin raised a hand, and they halted. He turned to face the men, grim-faced. "This is where the last ranging was seen. Somewhere in this forest, our brothers vanished."

Edmure peered into the gloom. The silence pressed against his ears, broken only by the wind sighing through the branches.

Qhorin's gaze swept over them. "We move carefully from here. Stay close. Keep your eyes open. If anything moves—anything at all—I want to know about it."

They continued forward, and with each step, Edmure's unease deepened.

====

They must have trekked for hours through the Haunted Forest when Qhorin gave the order to split up. He selected Maron Sand, a seasoned ranger known for his calm demeanor and keen eyesight, to lead the second group. Qhorin would lead one party, Maron the other. Edmure found himself with Maron's group, Marq Piper at his side, along with a handful of rangers both new and old.

The forest grew darker, colder, and the men drew nearer to each other, alert to every shifting shadow. The wind rattled the bare treetops, a low whisper from all directions at once.

"Tell me, Ser Tully," a younger brother named Raff called out, his breath misting in the bitter air, "is it true? Was there really a dragon in the south?"

Edmure tightened his cloak, the chill gnawing at his bones. He glanced at Raff, brow creased. "Yes," he said, voice barely louder than the wind. "There was a dragon. I saw it myself."

Eyes widened among the men. "A real dragon," Raff murmured, as if testing the words on his tongue. "My pa told me they was gone centuries ago."

Edmure was about to respond when he felt it—a chill deeper than even the northern cold. It invaded his bones, every breath turning painful. His fingers began to numb inside his gloves.

"What is this?" Maron Sand muttered, scanning the surroundings, his breath a series of sharp puffs. The men slowed, confusion and unease rippling through them. Older brothers narrowed their eyes, hands drifting to weapon hilts.

The wind rose suddenly, howling through the trees, flinging snow into their faces. Visibility plummeted. Maron turned, shouting over the roar. "Form a circle! Stay close together!"

They struggled to comply, each man trying to keep sight of his brothers as the wind whipped them mercilessly. Edmure's heart thundered in his ears as he braced himself against the gale, squinting into the swirling white.

Something dark caught his eye, half-buried in the snow. He edged toward it, pulse quickening. As he reached it, his blood turned to ice. A face—pale, lifeless—stared sightlessly up at him. A man's face, eyes wide with terror, mouth frozen open.

"Bodies!" Edmure shouted, voice cracking as he pointed. "There are bodies here!"

The others turned, following Edmure's gesture. One by one, they saw more: corpses scattered across the clearing, half-hidden by the snow. Some wore the rough furs of Wildlings, others the black of the Watch. All were arranged in a pattern, their limbs twisted and posed in a way that made Edmure's stomach churn.

"What in the seven hells..." Maron breathed, eyes wide as he took in the ghastly tableau.

The wind howled louder, and the sounds around him began to fade. Edmure heard only a ringing in his ears, felt only the thudding of his heart. Unease gripped him as if something dark and unseen circled them, pressing in from every side. The sightless eyes of the dead men staring up through the snow made his skin crawl, his legs trembling. It felt as though the ground itself might shift beneath them, as if something slept below the surface, waiting to burst forth.

Marq stood beside him, pale-faced, his eyes darting nervously between the corpses and the looming darkness of the forest. "What... what could have done this?" he whispered, voice barely carrying over the wind.

Edmure shook his head, unable to answer. He was transfixed by the face frozen in the snow. He could hear distant voices—shouts, orders—fading into muffled noise. Something was wrong here, something beyond the ordinary horrors north of the Wall. He felt it in his bones. Whatever had done this was still close, still watching.

Edmure circled around, his gaze falling on Marq—and the world froze in an instant. The corpse beneath Marq's feet moved. Its hand—fingers like claws—shot up and grabbed Marq's ankle, yanking him down.

"Help! Help!" Marq screamed, terror clear and sharp as he tried to wrest free.

Edmure's heart hammered. The dead man, once lifeless, twisted its head at an unnatural angle, joints cracking as it sat up. Its eyes—formerly dull—now glowed a piercing, frozen blue that burned into Edmure's mind. The air grew colder still, chilling him to the marrow.

He realized, with mounting horror, that all the bodies were moving. One by one, they jerked and twitched, their eyes snapping open with that same eerie blue light. Edmure's thoughts reeled: Dark sorcery... some twisted Wildling magic. Or maybe this was a dream, a nightmare, and soon he would wake safe in his chambers at Riverrun. He prayed desperately for it.

But reality did not yield. The dead rose from the snow. Edmure backed away, legs shaking, eyes darting to the others. Maron Sand shouted orders, voice nearly lost in the roaring wind. "Weapons out!" he yelled, drawing steel with trembling hands. The rest scrambled to follow, blades gleaming faintly in the dim light.

Then the dead lunged—a nightmare made flesh. They moved impossibly fast, frozen limbs driven by some dark force, clawed hands reaching, teeth bared in hungry snarls. Marq screamed again, high and shrill, as they dragged him down. The dead piled atop him, tearing at his flesh with teeth and nails. His screams choked off into wet, desperate gurgles as blood stained the snow.

"No! No!" Edmure shouted, voice cracking. He caught glimpses of the other rangers, men he barely knew, being ripped apart, their screams joining the wind's howl. Everything was blood, death, and horror.

He turned, swinging his sword wildly. The blade bit into the shoulder of a former ranger whose face was now a vacant, blue-eyed mask. The creature staggered, but another lunged forward immediately. Edmure parried frantically, arms shaking with terror. He struck again, steel slicing through flesh and bone, but still they came—an endless tide of death.

"Run!" he screamed, voice shrill with panic. "Run, you fools!"

But there was no one left. He saw only broken bodies, blood on the snow, and the undead. The awful wet crunch of bone, screams cut short—he could hardly bear it. Turning, he fled.

He ran blindly, stumbling over roots and rocks, his breath ragged. Behind him came the crunch of pursuing footsteps, the rattle of dead throats. He swung his sword as he ran, lashing at anything that rose before him. He managed to cut some down, but more appeared, relentless, unstoppable. Fear drove him on. He couldn't think, couldn't plan, only run.

He didn't know how long he fled—minutes, hours—it felt eternal. The forest stretched on, trees closing in. The wind screeched, the cold grew more brutal, gnawing at his strength. Eventually his legs failed him. He fell to his knees in the snow, lungs burning, vision blurring.

He dropped his sword and collapsed forward, fingers clawing helplessly at the frozen ground. He had nothing left.

He lay there, gasping, heart pounding, eyes wide with terror. The wind whispered in his ears, urging him to rise, to fight, to survive—but he could not move. The cold seeped in, and the darkness pressed closer.

He closed his eyes, surrendering at last to the silence and the dark.

.

.

.

Edmure woke to muffled voices and the distant crackle of a fire. He blinked blearily, the room's dim light swimming before him, his thoughts fragmented and hollow. He tried to sit up, but his body refused to obey. Pain shot through him—sharp, relentless.

"Rest, young Tully," came an old, gentle voice.

Edmure complied without argument, sinking back onto the frigid surface. Darkness swept over him again, dragging him down into uneasy sleep. He drifted in and out of consciousness, his surroundings dissolving into a haze of half-formed images and half-heard whispers. The forest haunted him—its lifeless trees, the eerie blue eyes of the dead—alongside the memory of Marq's fate. He heard the screams echoing, as if carried by a distant wind, saw the nightmare of his friend being torn apart, and felt the horror etched into his very bones.

"Marq," he murmured softly, voice cracking with grief.

The thought of his friend's name sent a jolt through him, bringing the scene back in horrifying detail. He clenched his eyes shut, willing the images to fade, but they clung to his mind like stubborn shadows.

He startled awake once more, this time fully aware. His heart pounded as he surveyed the chamber. The walls, fashioned from black wood and cold stone, seemed to close in around him. A small fire crackled in a wall-mounted hearth, dancing shadows licking at the dark corners.

"You're awake," said a nervous voice, breaking his reverie.

Edmure turned to see a pudgy, awkward young man standing beside the bed—Samwell Tarly. He recognized him after a moment's hesitation.

"I… I…" Edmure rasped, his throat parched. "Water."

"Yes, of course!" Samwell said, fumbling as he poured a cup. His hands shook as he offered it to Edmure, who drank greedily, the cool liquid soothing his aching throat.

"How long?" Edmure managed weakly.

"Two weeks," Samwell replied. "Maester Aemon thought you were dead when Qhorin and the others brought you back."

"Qhorin…" Edmure's voice trailed off. "So they survived?"

Samwell nodded, relief shining in his eyes. "They did. They carried you here, though you were barely breathing. Maester Aemon did everything he could."

Samwell suddenly seemed self-conscious, swallowing nervously. "I…I must inform Maester Aemon and the Lord Commander. They'll want to know you're awake."

With that, he hurried out, his footsteps echoing after the heavy thud of the door. Edmure was alone once more. He leaned back into the furs, trying to savor a moment's peace, but peace would not come. The dead men's faces flickered behind his eyelids—their awful blue eyes, their hungry stares. He saw Marq again, screaming, torn apart in a frenzy of snarls and snapping jaws. The memory was so visceral he imagined he could still hear the crunch of bone.

"No," he whispered, shaking his head. "No, it was just a dream."

He forced himself to speak aloud, as if words could banish the visions. "Wildlings attacked us… Yes, wildlings. Wildlings killed Marq." But the truth clawed at him, refusing to be silenced.

The door creaked open again, and Edmure looked up to find Lord Commander Torhen Pyke entering. The man crossed his arms and regarded Edmure with a calm, discerning gaze and took a seat beside the bed.

"You're awake," Pyke said simply.

"Yes," Edmure replied, his voice still raw.

"What happened?" the Lord Commander pressed, his tone measured but insistent.

Edmure hesitated. He remembered the lifeless eyes, the horrors he had witnessed. Would Pyke believe him? The truth seemed too monstrous to say aloud. He buried it deep, grasping for a more believable lie.

"Wildlings," he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. "They…ambushed us."

Pyke leaned forward, his sharp eyes weighing the words. Silence stretched between them, as tense as a drawn bowstring.

"Wildlings," Pyke repeated finally.

Edmure seized the opening. "Yes," he said quickly. "A sudden storm blinded us even Maron was surprised. They used it to their advantage."

Pyke's stare remained steady, searching for cracks in Edmure's story. Finally, he nodded. "Qhorin reported dead wildlings near where you were found. You fought well for a one-armed man."

Edmure looked down, unable to face the Lord Commander's scrutiny. The memory of Marq's final moments gnawed at his gut. He forced down a surge of nausea.

"I tried," he said softly.

Pyke inclined his head, a near-acknowledgment. "You did," he said, the faintest note of approval in his voice.

A brittle silence settled. Only the fire's quiet crackling offered any comfort. Pyke shifted, as though wrestling with his own thoughts.

"The war in the south is over," he said at last, voice flat.

Edmure's heart clenched. He turned his head, the question forming before he even spoke it. "Who…?"

Pyke gave a short, humorless laugh. "One king had a dragon, the other did not. You know the answer."

Edmure swallowed hard, eyes closing. He let the truth sink in. The thought of the usurper claiming victory left a bitter taste in his mouth—a mixture of relief that the bloodshed had ended, and sorrow for all that was lost.

Pyke cleared his throat. "We have a lot of new brothers now—many of noble birth. The new king has been carving up Westeros and sending whoever he doesn't need straight to us."

"Who?" Edmure asked, curiosity and dread commingling.

Pyke stood, shaking out his cloak as though brushing off unwanted burdens. "See for yourself," he said, gesturing to the door. "They're here until they swear their vows. You may recognize some."

With that, the Lord Commander left, the door closing behind him. Edmure remained where he was, alone and troubled. He stared into the fire's wavering glow, haunted by the past and uncertain of the future.

=====

Edmure stepped out of the dim chamber where he had spent the last two weeks recovering. The cold air of Castle Black greeted him, sharp and bracing, slicing through his lingering exhaustion. He inhaled deeply, the chill biting at his lungs. The castle was far busier than he remembered—its halls and courtyards now thronged with unfamiliar faces.

From his vantage point, he saw the courtyard below thick with men, some he recognized, many he did not.

"Lord Edmure," a voice called, drawing his attention. He turned to see Ser William, a knight who had once served House Tully. A rare smile crossed the knight's face, genuine relief shining there.

"Ser William," Edmure said, allowing himself a faint, warm smile in return.

William approached, his stride hurried, his words earnest. "My lord, it's good to see you awake. We feared the worst when they brought you in."

The mention of his old title tightened Edmure's chest, and the smile on his lips receded. "I'm no lord anymore, William." His gaze drifted over the bustling courtyard. "I see we have new recruits."

William's face grew more somber, and he lowered his voice. "The king… King Aegon is dead," he said quietly.

"Yes, the Lord Commander told me," Edmure said, his tone subdued.

William's eyes swept the crowd, settling on a gathering of newcomers by the barracks. "Many are from the Reach, the Stormlands, even Dorne. The usurper has stripped the noble houses of their lords and heirs, sending them all here."

Edmure's brow creased. His gaze roamed the yard until it fell upon a familiar figure standing rigidly amid a cluster of men. His heart jolted. "Is that… Lord Tarly?" he asked under his breath.

William followed his line of sight and nodded grimly. "Yes. And there are others, my lord. Word is the Reach itself has been split in two."

"What?" The word burst from Edmure before he could stifle it. The idea unsettled him. To carve up the Reach—what had the usurper done?

William shrugged, offering only uncertainty. "I don't know the details, but that's what people say."

Edmure pressed his lips into a thin line and exhaled, the steam of his breath mingling with the courtyard's chilly air. "We'll talk later, William," he said, stepping forward, his eyes fixed on Randyll Tarly.

He threaded through the crowded yard, dodging men hurrying about their duties. The clank of steel, the bark of orders, and the quiet chatter of new recruits enveloped him. Snow crunched underfoot as he wove through the throng, the pale winter sun casting elongated shadows across the courtyard. Smoke drifted from chimneys, blending with the crisp scent of damp leather and sweat.

Randyll Tarly stood out even in the plain black garb of the Night's Watch. He carried himself with the same iron will that had once commanded fear and respect in the Reach. His weathered face, stark and unforgiving, looked as though it had been chiseled from stone.

Edmure's gaze shifted to Samwell Tarly, who stood awkwardly nearby. The younger Tarly's head was bowed, shoulders hunched, as his father's voice rang out, sharp as a drawn blade.

"You are a disgrace," Randyll snarled, his words cutting through the cold air. "Even here, you find a way to shame yourself. Look at you—barely fit to hold a sword."

Edmure's thoughts drifted back to old rumors: that Randyll Tarly had exiled his eldest son to the Wall so that the younger could inherit Horn Hill. It had been whispered about at the Red Keep. Now, father and son stood reunited, both sworn to black.

To Edmure's quiet surprise, Samwell did not wither before his father's wrath. Though his voice quivered slightly, there was a quiet resolve in it. "I am doing my duty, Father," Samwell said, his words measured but firm. "We are both brothers of the Watch now."

Randyll's glare hardened, his sneer carving deeper lines into his face. "You and I are not the same," he snapped. "You are nothing, boy. A stain on the Tarly name."

Samwell's fists clenched at his sides, but he did not strike back. Instead, he turned and stalked away, anger and hurt mingling in his tense shoulders. Edmure stepped aside to let him pass, watching the younger man disappear into the crowd, impressed by his restraint and quietly pitying him.

Turning his attention back to Randyll, Edmure caught the older man's eye. Randyll acknowledged him with a curt nod, his gaze sharp. "Tully."

"Tarly," Edmure responded, voice carefully neutral.

Randyll exhaled, his features shifting to something bleak. "He won," he said abruptly, his tone heavy with disdain. After a brief pause, he added, "A dragon. He had a bloody dragon."

Edmure nodded. "Yes, I know. He visited me after my defeat."

"The realm is his," Randyll said bitterly. "He's reshaped it to his liking, cared nothing for the ancient boundaries—those that stood since the days of Garth Greenhand."

Edmure's jaw tightened. He thought of Riverrun, wrenched from his grasp. "Yes… he took Riverrun from me," he said quietly. "Tell me—who is now the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands? Mooton, that traitor? Or is it Blackwood or Mallister?"

Randall let out a laugh devoid of any mirth. "You don't know?" he asked, voice heavy with bitterness.

"What?" Edmure's tone was wary, a creeping sense of dread tugging at him.

"The Riverlands are no more," Randall said flatly.

Edmure's heart seemed to stop. He took a step forward, his brow knitting together. "What do you mean?" he asked quietly, as if afraid to hear the answer.

"Our new king," Randall spat, as though the title itself were foul, "has annexed the Riverlands into the Crownlands."

Edmure staggered back, shock draining the color from his face. His mouth opened, but no words emerged. His hands shook as the enormity of Randall's statement sank in.

"And the Stormlands," Randall added, his voice grim. "Two ancient kingdoms, gone."

Edmure struggled to breathe. The sheer audacity of the usurper was beyond imagining. He swallowed hard, forcing out a trembling question: "Surely the lords are angry. They must be furious—his allies too!"

Randall shook his head, a sardonic twist to his lips. "If they were, I saw no sign of it before I left the capital. Perhaps they grumble behind closed doors, but none dare raise their voices or banners."

Desperation crept into Edmure's voice. "What of the Baratheons?"

Randall's gaze hardened. "The Baratheons are gone, Tully. Stannis, his son—gone. Only his daughter remains."

Edmure's mind reeled, struggling to absorb one catastrophic revelation after another.

"The Kingdom of the Heartlands," Randall continued, voice cold. "That's what the usurper calls it now. A single realm, spanning from the Neck to the Dornish Marches. A kingdom for the dragons, mightier than any before."

Edmure drew a shaky breath. The world he knew was vanishing beneath his feet. "And the Reach?" he asked, fearing the answer.

Randall barked another humorless laugh. "The Reach is carved in two. The Florents rule the Mander, the Hightowers the southern Reach."

Edmure could scarcely comprehend the scale and totality of Maekar's victory. Everything had changed.

"He broke the Reach apart," Randall said quietly. "He gutted its noble houses and placed his pawns where he pleased. The Tyrells have nothing. The Fossoways, the Peakes—all gone."

The older man's face twisted with bitterness. "And here we are, Tully. Useless lords in black, stripped of our lands, our power…everything."

His voice sank lower, seething with resentment. "The only thing that keeps me alive, that keeps me sane, is the hope that someday it all collapses on him. That the lords will rise. Not even his dragon can quell that."

A spark of defiance lit in Edmure's chest. ""I hope the worst for him as well," he said quietly.

Randall studied him for a moment, his hard expression softening just a shade. "Come, Tully," he said gruffly. "Show me around this hellhole. And tell me about the attack you survived."

Edmure nodded mutely, his mind still whirling with all he had learned, as he led Randall Tarly across the courtyard and deeper into the heart of Castle Black.

.

.

.

Three Months Later

Edmure woke with a start, breath coming in ragged gasps. His nights had been plagued by relentless nightmares for months, each one conjuring Marq's agonized face and the terrible vision of the dead tearing him apart. 

Pressing a trembling hand to his sweat-damp forehead, he sat on the edge of his cot.

"They're just dreams," he murmured, voice shaking. "Wildlings. That's all it was."

He repeated the words like a prayer, desperate to banish the lingering horror that clung to him like frost. Yet a part of him knew better. The alternative—that the dead truly walked—was too dreadful to contemplate. He shoved the thought aside, rose from his chilly cot, and felt the stone floor's bite against his bare feet.

He dressed swiftly, pulling on the black woolen cloak that marked him as a brother of the Night's Watch. His left arm, or what remained of it, gave a familiar ache as he adjusted the cloak. Even now, the phantom limb felt the ghostly touch of the cold air.

The past three months at Castle Black had been grueling. The sudden influx of recruits—lords, knights, and criminals alike—strained its resources to the limit. Many had been dispersed to Eastwatch and other castles along the Wall; Castle Black could not shelter them all.

For Edmure, ceaseless work was a welcome distraction. Whispers of a great ranging had grown louder, and Lord Commander Pyke seemed more determined than ever to strike back at the wildlings. Edmure threw himself into these preparations, driven by the hope that the expedition might deliver some measure of peace—or vengeance. His dreams of Marq's death fueled his resolve, the memory of his friend's screams cutting deeper than any blade.

Later that day, Edmure sat in the crowded great hall. The long chamber, lit by flickering torches, buzzed with the low hum of conversation. All talk ceased when Lord Commander Pyke stood at the head of the table, his gaze sweeping the room, demanding attention.

"The time has come," Pyke began, his gravelly voice carrying easily. "We cannot sit idle and wait for another attack. The wildlings grow bolder, and rumor says Mance Rayder is uniting them. If we do nothing, we face a threat greater than any we have ever known."

A nervous murmuring rippled through the brothers. Pyke raised a hand to still it. "Ranging parties vanish, and the last to return came back in pieces. Enough. We must act."

A few younger brothers cheered, emboldened by the Lord Commander's resolve. Edmure spotted Randall Tarly among them, silent and stony-faced.

Pyke's voice resonated through the hall. "We march in one month. We will push deep into the lands beyond the Wall, learn what happened to our missing brothers, discover the truth of these wildling rumors, and prepare ourselves. This will not be easy. Some of us may not return. But we are the shield that guards the realms of men, and we will do our duty."

Another round of cheers rose—this time quieter, more somber. When the meeting ended, Edmure joined the flow of brothers heading out. Randall Tarly fell into step beside him, his expression grim as ever.

Together, they ascended the lift to the top of the Wall. The icy wind howled around them, cutting through their cloaks. When they reached the summit, the view stretched endlessly: an expanse of white to the north, sky and snow merging at the horizon. The Haunted Forest lay like a dark stain against the pristine emptiness. To the south, the Gift sprawled in gentle plains and hills, its distant homesteads trailing faint plumes of smoke.

The Wall's icy surface gleamed in the weak sunlight, and Edmure again felt the crushing sense of insignificance at the edge of the world.

"It's quite a sight, isn't it?" Randall's voice was low, almost reverent.

Edmure nodded, eyes fixed on the distant treeline. Randall shifted slightly, and Edmure's gaze fell upon Heartsbane—the Valyrian steel blade catching the pale light, its dark ripples like captured shadows.

"Why bring Heartsbane?" Edmure asked softly. "I thought you would leave it to your heir."

Randall's lips twisted into a bitter smile, his eyes never leaving the northern wastes. "Our new king insisted," he said, voice thick with sarcasm. "Better it serve here, he said. Perhaps a final humiliation—my house and my sword taken in one stroke, doomed to be lost when I die in this savage land."

Edmure said nothing. He turned back to the horizon, where memories of blue-eyed horrors stirred. He clenched his gloved fist, trembling slightly. He did not want to go beyond the Wall again. Fear gnawed at him, a cold, relentless presence at the pit of his stomach.

He was afraid.

He was terrified.