The Celestial Smith chapter 62

The Celestial Smith Chapter 62: The Wall

Three months had come and gone at Ice Crest, each day passing with a mixture of joy and apprehension. The northern winds blew fiercer as winter approached, yet the castle remained warm and secure, a testament to Owen's magical enhancements throughout the structure.

Owen stood outside in Ice Crest's main yard next to the magical gateway he had constructed months earlier. He was dressed in his enchanted robes, deep blue with silver runes that seemed to shift and move in the light. His staff—topped with a pulsing emerald crystal—was secured to his back, while Death Dealer hung at his hip, its obsidian blade absorbing rather than reflecting the weak winter sunlight. The five magical rings adorning his fingers gleamed with power, each one containing abilities that had saved his life more than once.

But none of these powerful artifacts compared to the treasure he held in his arms. Little Lyanna, now nearly six months old, babbled happily against his chest, her tiny hands reaching up to grab at his short, neat beard. Unlike others who bundled up against the northern cold, she seemed perfectly comfortable, protected by the warmth radiating from her father's enchanted clothing.

"That's my little warrior," Owen murmured, kissing her forehead. "Keeping your father company until the last moment, aren't you?"

Behind him stood an impressive formation of twenty Dwarven Colossi, their massive metal frames gleaming in the pale sunlight. Each automaton stood fifteen feet tall, their glowing blue eyes surveying the surroundings with mechanical precision. Attached to each Colossus by thick chains were carts piled high with supplies—salted meats, preserved fruits, grain, weapons, and other necessities that would last the Night's Watch for months. This delivery was part of the agreement Owen had established with all Northern houses to send monthly provisions to the Wall. since their growth and prosperity.

Beside the Colossi waited fifty of his most elite guards on horseback, handpicked from the Dreadguard. Each soldier wore enchanted armor of blackened steel with the Longshore sigil emblazoned on their breastplates. Their horses, specially bred for the harsh northern climate, pawed at the ground impatiently.

Owen turned as he heard familiar footsteps approaching. Sansa walked toward him, her auburn hair braided elegantly and adorned with small silver snowflakes. She wore a thick fur cloak over a dress of Stark grey and Longshore blue. Behind her came Daenerys in white furs that complemented her silver-gold hair, Jon in his dark leathers with his sword at his hip, and Owen's parents, Olyvar and Tina, who had relocated to a comfortable manor near Ice Crest.

"Must you go now?" Tina asked, her eyes filled with the worry only a mother could express. "The reports say the snows are getting worse beyond the Wall."

Owen smiled reassuringly. "The weather is precisely why I need to go, Mother. If the White Walkers are gathering their forces as I suspect, this is when they'll be most active."

Sansa approached, her blue eyes meeting his. Without words, she gently took Lyanna from his arms. The baby babbled excitedly at the sight of her mother, tiny hands reaching for Sansa's copper hair.

"You promised me you wouldn't do anything reckless," Sansa said, her voice steady but her eyes betraying her concern. "The Night's Watch has stood for thousands of years. A few more weeks wouldn't make a difference."

Owen reached out to touch her cheek. "Every day the dead may be gathering beyond the Wall, love. And i can tell what awaits us if we fail." He leaned in and kissed her softly. "I'll be back before you know it. Three weeks at most."

"You'd better be," she replied, attempting a smile. "Your daughter needs her father. And I need my husband."

A soft whine drew Owen's attention as Anastasia trotted up to sit beside him. The massive white direwolf stood taller than most men, her ice-blue eyes alert and intelligent. Owen ran his hand through her thick fur, feeling the powerful muscles beneath.

"At least you won't be alone," Jon said, stepping forward. "Though I still think I should accompany you."

Owen shook his head. "We discussed this. You're needed here, Jon. If anything happens to me, you're the only one who can protect them all." He lowered his voice. "And our special friends need tending."

Jon nodded, understanding the reference to the three dragon eggs that were secretly incubating in Owen's underground chamber. The dragons that occasionally flew over Ice Crest at night, visible only to those Owen had enchanted to see through his illusions.

"I've decided against calling for volunteers," Owen announced to the group. "The fewer people who see what's beyond the Wall, the better."

Daenerys stepped forward, her violet eyes filled with concern. "The wildlings are dangerous, Lord Owen, from what i have heard. And if what you say about the White Walkers is true..."

"All the more reason for me to go alone," Owen replied. "I can move faster, and if necessary, disappear more easily." He patted Anastasia's head. "Besides, I won't be completely alone. Anastasia will be with me."

The direwolf's ears perked up at the mention of her name, and she let out a soft growl of agreement.

Olyvar, still uncomfortable with his son's magical abilities despite years of exposure, cleared his throat. "The Colossi and the honor guard will at least accompany you to Castle Black, yes?"

Owen nodded. "They'll deliver the supplies and return immediately. I'll continue north with Anastasia."

He turned to the magical gateway—a twelve-foot-tall arch of shimmering energy that connected Ice Crest to various locations throughout the North. With a gesture and a few murmured words, the gateway's center filled with a swirling blue light, revealing the snowy courtyard of Castle Black on the other side.

The Colossi moved forward in perfect unison, their heavy footsteps causing the ground to tremble slightly. One by one, they passed through the gateway, disappearing in flashes of blue light as they transported instantly to the Wall, hundreds of leagues away.

Owen turned back to his family. He embraced his parents, holding them tightly.

"Don't worry," he whispered to his mother. "I've faced worse than cold and untrusting freefolk."

"Just come back to us," Tina replied, tears in her eyes.

Owen moved to Jon next, clasping his arm firmly. "Take care of our family," he said. "And watch over our secrets. The ones that fly over Ice Crest in the night."

Jon nodded solemnly. "With my life."

Daenerys approached, her expression serious. "When you return, we need to discuss what you found in Valyria. The texts about the Long Night."

"We will," Owen promised. "And we'll be prepared when the time comes."

Finally, he stood before Sansa and Lyanna. He kissed his daughter's forehead, inhaling her sweet scent.

"Papa will be back soon, little one," he whispered.

Lyanna gurgled happily in response, her tiny hand grabbing his finger with surprising strength.

Owen looked up at Sansa, his heart swelling with emotion. "I love you," he said simply.

"And I love you," she replied. "Come back to me, Owen Longshore. That's an order from your lady wife."

He smiled and kissed her deeply, not caring who watched. When they finally parted, he stepped back, his hand resting on Anastasia's head.

"Three weeks," he promised. "No more."

With that, he turned and walked toward the gateway, the honor guard following behind him. Anastasia padded silently at his side, her massive form dwarfing even the horses of his soldiers.

As Owen stepped through the gateway, the magic washed over him in a wave of tingling energy. The last thing he saw before the blue light engulfed him was Sansa holding Lyanna, both of them watching him with expressions of love and worry.

Then the light flashed brilliantly, and he was gone—transported in an instant to the edge of the known world, where ancient enemies stirred in the endless winter.

To the Night's Watch, where duty and danger awaited.

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Jeor Mormont stood atop the Wall, his weathered hands gripping the icy parapet as the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the vast expanse of snow and forest that stretched beyond. The wind was bitter, as it always was at seven hundred feet above the ground, but it didn't bite through his clothes as it once had. The fine northern wool and fur that lined his cloak—black, of course, but of a quality he'd never imagined the Watch would possess—kept him warm even on the coldest nights.

He turned his gaze southward, taking in Castle Black spread below him. The fortress had been transformed from a crumbling shadow of its former self into something that would have made the ancient builders proud. The wooden structures had been replaced with stone, the training yard expanded and properly equipped, the armory filled with weapons of such quality that even the richest houses in the Seven Kingdoms would envy them.

"Lord Commander," called a voice from behind him.

Jeor turned to see Ser Alliser Thorne approaching, his perpetual scowl softened somewhat these days. Even Thorne had found less to be bitter about in recent years.

"Ser Alliser," Jeor acknowledged with a nod. "How goes the training of the new recruits?"

"Better than expected," Thorne replied, coming to stand beside him at the edge. "These volunteers are different from the scum we used to get. They actually want to be here. Most already know which end of a sword to hold."

Jeor nodded, a small smile playing at his lips beneath his shaggy beard. "A welcome change."

"The Longshore steel makes a difference too," Thorne admitted grudgingly. "Even the clumsiest fool can do some damage with blades that sharp."

Below them, in the expanded training yard, fifty new recruits drilled with precision under the watchful eye of seasoned rangers. Their armor gleamed in the sunlight—not the mismatched, rusted pieces that had been the Watch's standard for generations, but uniform plates of dark steel, reinforced and lined for warmth, bearing the raven sigil of the Night's Watch.

"Six years," Jeor mused aloud. "Six years ago, we were three hundred men spread across three habitable castles, with barely enough food to last a harsh winter, wearing armor that belonged to our grandfathers."

"And now we have ten thousand men across nineteen fully restored castles," Thorne finished. "With enough food stored to last a decade of winter."

The transformation had been nothing short of miraculous. Castle Black alone now housed five hundred brothers, with similar numbers at Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower. The remaining sixteen castles, abandoned for generations, now stood proudly manned with garrisons ranging from one to three hundred men each.

Jeor's gaze drifted to the massive metal figures that patrolled along the Wall—Dwarven Colossi, Lord Longshore called them. Thirty feet tall, crafted from some strange metal that never rusted or weakened in the cold, they moved with surprising grace for their size. Each was armed with enormous swords and what Lord Longshore had called "Blaze cannons"—weapons that could burn and turn to ash any living thing at considerable distance.

"The wildlings haven't attempted a crossing in over a year," Thorne noted. "Not since those things tore apart Rattleshirt's raiding party."

"Can you blame them?" Jeor gestured to the nearest Colossus, which turned its expressionless metal face toward them briefly before continuing its patrol. "I wouldn't want to face those either."

A horn blew from the northern side of the Wall—a single blast, signaling returning rangers. Jeor and Thorne watched as a party of ten black-clad figures emerged from the treeline, riding hard for the gate.

"Benjen's ranging party," Jeor identified them. "They're early."

"Perhaps the First Ranger found nothing worth investigating," Thorne suggested, though his tone indicated he didn't believe it.

Jeor grunted. Benjen Stark had taken a small party beyond the Wall two weeks ago, following reports from wildling captives about strange activities in the Frostfangs. The fact that they were returning ahead of schedule could mean anything.

"Let's go hear what he has to say," Jeor said, turning toward the winch cage.

As they descended to the ground, Jeor continued to marvel at the changes around him. The winch itself had been replaced with one of Lord Longshore's "steam mechanisms," which moved the cage smoothly and quickly rather than the jerking, creaking descent he'd endured for years.

When they reached the bottom, Jeor and Thorne made their way to the tunnel just as Benjen's party was riding through. The massive gates—no longer wood but some strange black metal called ebony—opened silently on well-oiled hinges, another of Lord Longshore's improvements.

Benjen Stark dismounted, handing his reins to a steward. Despite the hard riding, he looked well-rested and properly fed, as did all the rangers now. Their black clothing was well-made and warm, their weapons of the finest quality.

"Lord Commander," Benjen greeted him with a respectful nod.

"First Ranger," Jeor replied. "You're back early. What news?"

Benjen's face grew serious. "We need to speak privately, my lord."

Jeor nodded and led Benjen and Thorne to his quarters in the Lord Commander's Tower. The room was warm thanks to the clever heating system Lord Longshore had installed throughout the castle—pipes that carried hot water from deep underground springs, warming the stones themselves.

"Speak freely," Jeor said once they were seated, pouring each man a cup of strong ale—another luxury the Watch now enjoyed in abundance.

Benjen took a long drink before setting his cup down, his expression grave.

"We've been hearing disturbing reports from the wildlings, Lord Commander. The farthest clans, those near the Lands of Always Winter, have been disappearing."

"Disappearing?" Thorne scoffed. "Good riddance, I say."

Benjen shook his head. "Not just moving their camps or joining other tribes. Disappearing completely. No trace of them ever being there. No bodies, no abandoned settlements, nothing. It's as if they were never there at all."

Jeor leaned forward, his bushy eyebrows drawing together. "How reliable is this information? And how old?"

"Two months, perhaps. Hard to say truly," Benjen admitted. "The wildlings don't exactly keep records, and they're not eager to share much with crows."

"And your sources?" Jeor pressed.

Benjen hesitated before answering. "Various captured wildlings, all telling similar stories. And... Mance Rayder."

"Rayder?" Thorne spat on the floor. "That turncloak?"

Jeor's frown deepened. Mance Rayder was indeed a deserter, an oathbreaker who'd abandoned the Watch to live among the wildlings. But before that, he'd been a good brother. Not a man known for lies or flights of fancy.

"You spoke with him?" Jeor asked.

Benjen nodded. "Briefly. We encountered him with a small party near the Skirling Pass. He approached under a banner of truce."

"And you didn't bring him back in chains?" Thorne demanded.

"My orders were to gather information, not start a war," Benjen replied coolly. "Rayder offered the information freely. He seemed... concerned."

"A wildling concerned about other wildlings going missing," Thorne muttered. "What did he expect us to do about it?"

Jeor ignored Thorne, his mind turning to his conversations with Lord Owen Longshore. The young lord had visited the Wall five times in recent years. During his last visit, before Westeros sailed to war against the slavers, he'd spoken of "a great cold darkness rising again." The White Walkers.

Jeor had dismissed the notion at first—tales to frighten children. But then Longshore had demonstrated his magic, his inventions, those blades and metal giants. The man had transformed the North, transformed the Night's Watch. If he believed the White Walkers were real...

"My lord?" Benjen prompted, breaking into Jeor's thoughts.

"It could be what Lord Longshore warned us about," Jeor said quietly.

The room fell silent. Even Thorne looked troubled now.

"You can't seriously believe—" Thorne began.

"I don't know what to believe," Jeor cut him off. "But I know Lord Longshore hasn't been wrong yet. And I know something is happening beyond the Wall."

Jeor stood and walked to the map table in the corner of his chamber. It showed the lands beyond the Wall in greater detail than any map the Watch had possessed before—another gift from Lord Longshore.

"Ser Alliser," he said, "triple the Colossi patrols on the northern side of the Wall. Double the shifts for the next two weeks."

Thorne nodded, all trace of his usual contempt gone. "Yes, Lord Commander."

"Benjen, I'm assigning two hundred more men to your rangings. We need to get to the bottom of this, and quickly."

"Two hundred?" Benjen raised his eyebrows. "That's nearly half our rangers."

"Take some of the builders and stewards too, those with fighting experience. And at least ten of the new enchnated steel weapons." Jeor tapped the map where the Frostfangs were marked. "I want to know what's happening out there."

"And if we find something?" Benjen asked quietly.

Jeor met his gaze. "Then we do what the Night's Watch has always done. We stand between the realms of men and whatever lies beyond."

The silence that followed was broken by a sudden blast from a horn—a single, long note that echoed through the castle.

"Visitors?" Thorne frowned. "We weren't expecting any supply shipments."

"That's not from the King's Road," Benjen said, moving to the window. "That's from the eastern courtyard."

Jeor felt a surge of hope mixed with trepidation. "The gateway. Lord Longshore's gateway."

Some time ago, before the slaver war, Lord Longshore had constructed a strange magical portal in an unused section of Castle Black's eastern courtyard. He'd called it a "transportation gate" and demonstrated how it could instantly move people and supplies between Castle Black and Ice Crest, his fortress hundreds of miles away. The gate had been inactive since Lord Longshore had departed for his war in Essos.

"Could it be him?" Benjen asked.

"Let's find out," Jeor replied, already moving toward the door.

They hurried across the castle grounds toward the eastern courtyard, where a crowd had already gathered. The magical gateway—a circular arch of strange silvery metal inscribed with glowing blue runes—had awakened from its dormancy. Within its frame swirled what looked like liquid moonlight, casting an ethereal glow across the faces of the gathered brothers.

As Jeor pushed his way to the front of the crowd, the surface of the portal rippled. A massive metal figure stepped through—one of Lord Longshore's Dwarven Colossi, but larger and more ornate than the ones that patrolled the Wall. It carried enormous packs strapped to its frame as well as pulled carts behind them, clearly laden with supplies.

The Colossus stepped aside, and another followed, then another. Twenty in total emerged from the portal, each bearing similar burdens, forming a semicircle around the gateway.

Then the portal rippled again, and a man stepped through, accompanied by a massive white direwolf with gleaming silver eyes. The wolf was nearly as tall as a horse, its shoulders reaching the man's chest.

Lord Owen Longshore looked different from when Jeor had last seen him. He'd always been handsome, but now there was something almost otherworldly about him. His dark hair was longer, reaching his shoulders, and his blue eyes seemed to glow with an inner light. He wore armor unlike anything Jeor had ever seen—not plate or mail, but some kind of fitted black robe that seemed to absorb the light around it, inlaid with glowing blue runes similar to those on the gateway. A sword with a black blade hung at his hip, and a staff topped with a glowing crystal was strapped to his back.

Behind him came fifty men in black armor bearing the Longshore sigil—a silver hammer crossed with a sword against a blue field. Each carried weapons that Jeor thought to be the "rifles" that had proven so devastating against the slavers in Essos from what he heard.

"Lord Commander Mormont," Owen called out, his voice carrying easily across the courtyard. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

Jeor stepped forward and clasped the younger man's arm. "Lord Longshore. Your timing is either extremely fortunate or suspiciously convenient."

Owen gestured toward the Dwarven Colossi and the heavily laden carts they pulled behind them. "These are for the Watch, Lord Commander. Twenty of my finest Colossi, each programmed with advanced combat enchantments specifically designed for fighting….unruly enemies The carts contain weapons, armor, and supplies—enough to outfit another thousand men with enchanted steel."

Jeor's bushy eyebrows rose. "This is... exceptionally generous, my lord."

"The Colossi will join the others you already have," Owen continued. "That will bring your total to three hundred and twenty. They don't tire, they don't complain, and they'll follow orders precisely." He patted the nearest metal giant's leg affectionately. "I hope you have been enjoying the services of the ones you have."

"We're grateful for the reinforcements," Jeor said, signaling to nearby stewards. "Bowen, Chett—organize men to help with the unloading. Everything goes to the new storehouses."

As the brothers of the Night's Watch hurried to comply, Jeor studied Owen more carefully. The young lord had changed dramatically since their last meeting. It wasn't just his strange attire or the otherworldly glow in his eyes—his entire presence had transformed. His shoulders were broader, his stance more confident, and the very air around him seemed to vibrate with barely contained power. When he moved, it was with the grace of a predator, each step deliberate and measured.

"Perhaps we should continue this conversation in my solar," Jeor suggested, noting the curious stares from the gathered brothers.

Owen nodded. "Lead the way."

As they walked through Castle Black, Jeor couldn't help but marvel at how the fortress had been reborn under Owen's influence. The ancient stones gleamed, the walkways were clear of ice, and everywhere brothers went about their duties with purpose rather than resignation. The Watch had been dying a slow death before Owen's involvement; now it thrived.

In the Lord Commander's solar, Benjen Stark stepped forward and embraced Owen warmly.

"It's good to see you, goodbrother," Benjen said with genuine affection.

"And you," Owen replied, returning the embrace. "Sansa and Jon send their love, as does little Lyanna. She's growing faster than we can keep up with—already trying to crawl after Anastasia." He nodded toward the massive white direwolf that had settled by the door, her silver eyes watchful.

Benjen's face softened at the mention of his niece. "I should visit when I can. It's been too long since I've seen Winterfell or Ice Crest."

"You'd be welcome anytime," Owen assured him. "Though I suspect none of us will have much leisure for family visits in the coming months."

The mood in the room shifted instantly. Jeor gestured for everyone to sit as he poured cups of ale. Thorne remained standing near the door, his usual scowl firmly in place.

"Benjen was just telling us about disturbing reports from beyond the Wall," Jeor said, sliding a cup toward Owen. "Wildling clans disappearing without a trace near the Lands of Always Winter."

Owen didn't touch his drink. "Tell me everything," he said quietly.

Benjen recounted his findings in greater detail—the abandoned camps, the terrified wildlings fleeing south, the strange silence in forests that should have been teeming with life. He finished by mentioning his encounter with Mance Rayder.

"Rayder seemed genuinely afraid," Benjen concluded. "And he's not a man who scares easily."

Owen nodded slowly, his expression grim. "The enemy has finally begun to move."

"Enemy?" Thorne scoffed from his position by the door. "What enemy? Wildlings killing each other is hardly our concern."

"The wildlings aren't disappearing because they're killing each other, Ser Alliser," Owen replied, his voice calm but carrying an edge that made even Thorne straighten. "They're disappearing because they're being killed and raised again as soldiers in the army of the dead."

A heavy silence fell over the room. Jeor exchanged glances with Benjen, whose face had gone pale.

"You can't seriously expect us to believe in grumpkins and snarks," Thorne said, though his voice lacked its usual conviction.

Owen fixed him with a steady gaze. "You won't have time not to believe it when the dead start rising and marching on the Wall, Ser Alliser. When you see men you've known and fought alongside coming at you with blue eyes and rotting flesh, their wounds still gaping but no blood flowing, moving despite having no right to move. When you cut them down and they keep coming unless you burn them."

The vivid description sent a chill through the room that had nothing to do with the temperature.

"Seven hells," Jeor muttered, reaching for his ale. "You're certain of this?"

"I've been certain for years but hoping i was wrong," Owen replied. "It's why I've been preparing the North, why I've been strengthening the Watch. The Long Night is coming again, and the dead come with it."

Benjen leaned forward. "What do we do?"

"First, place ten of the new Colossi at the edge of the Haunted Forest," Owen instructed. "They'll serve as an early warning system and can eliminate any small groups of undead before they become a problem."

"And then?" Jeor asked.

"Then Anastasia and I will venture beyond the Wall ourselves," Owen said, scratching behind the massive direwolf's ears. "But first, I'll spend a day or two reinforcing the magical defenses on the Wall."

"Magical defenses?" Thorne repeated incredulously.

"Yes, Ser Alliser. The Wall isn't just ice and stone. It was built with ancient spells woven into its foundation—spells that have weakened over the millennia." Owen stood and walked to the map. "Those spells are what truly keep the dead at bay, not the physical barrier."

"You can't go beyond the Wall alone," Benjen protested. "Even with your... abilities and your wolf, it's too dangerous."

"I'm the safest bet to confirm the danger," Owen countered. "And to begin talks."

"Talks?" Jeor frowned. "With whom?"

Benjen's expression cleared with sudden understanding. "The wildlings."

"The Free Folk," Owen corrected gently. "And yes. They need to be brought south of the Wall before the Walkers claims them all for their army. Every wildling who dies north of the Wall becomes another soldier for the dead."

"Bring wildlings south?" Thorne's face reddened with anger. "That's madness! They've been raiding our lands for thousands of years. They'll slit our throats in our sleep! Take all the new armor and weapons and march south!"

"They'll be better as our reluctant allies than as meat puppets for the White Walkers," Owen replied firmly. "Every man, woman, and child left beyond the Wall is just waiting to be added to the army that will eventually march on us. Would you rather fight them living, when they can be reasoned with, or dead, when they feel no pain and follow only one master?"

Jeor rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "I should inform King Robert. Or at least Lord Stark."

"Robert Baratheon is fighting the Lannisters in the south, Killing, raping and destroying as he goes," Owen reminded him. "He has no interest in tales from the Wall, especially not tales of ice demons from legend. As for Lord Stark, I've already spoken with him. He's given his blessing to do whatever is necessary to protect the North."

The Lord Commander sighed heavily. "Even if I agreed to this—and I'm not saying I do—the Night's Watch has stood against the wildlings for thousands of years. The brothers won't easily accept them as allies."

"Which is why we need to move quickly, before fear and old prejudices can take root," Owen said. "I'm not asking you to embrace them as brothers. I'm asking you to recognize a greater threat and make a tactical decision."

Jeor exchanged a long look with Benjen, who gave a slight nod.

"Fine," Jeor conceded. "But the Watch must have a say in where they'll be settled south of the Wall. And how they'll be governed."

"Agreed," Owen said without hesitation. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

The tension in the room eased somewhat. Jeor drained his cup and set it down with a thud.

"There's one more thing," Owen said. "I'd like to see Maester Aemon before I begin work on the Wall's defenses."

Something in Owen's tone made Jeor look up sharply. "Maester Aemon? Why?"

"He's the oldest and wisest man at the Wall," Owen replied smoothly. "And I believe he may have insights that could prove valuable."

Jeor studied Owen's face, sensing there was more to the request than the young lord was revealing. But after a moment, he nodded.

"I'll have someone escort you to his chambers," Jeor said. "He doesn't move about much these days, but his mind is still as sharp as Valyrian steel."

"Thank you, Lord Commander," Owen said with a slight bow. "I won't keep him long."

As Owen and his massive direwolf followed a steward out of the solar, Jeor moved to the window and gazed out at the Wall gleaming in the late afternoon sun. For thousands of years, the Night's Watch had guarded the realms of men, their purpose slowly forgotten, their numbers dwindling, their importance dismissed.

Now, it seemed, their true purpose was about to be tested once more.

"What do you make of all this?" Jeor asked Benjen quietly.

The First Ranger joined him at the window. "I think the world is changing, Lord Commander. And I think we're fortunate to have Lord Longshore on our side when it does."

Jeor nodded slowly, watching Owen's black-clad figure cross the courtyard below, the massive white direwolf padding silently at his side. The young lord moved with purpose and confidence, as if the weight of the world on his shoulders was a burden he had chosen rather than one thrust upon him.

"Let's hope you're right," Jeor murmured. "For all our sakes."