ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

The letter reached Casterly Rock by a long, frightened road.

It had come from the Wall, passed through Winterfell, then Riverrun, and finally into Arthur Greyoak’s hands. The parchment was rough. The ink had bled in places. The hand that wrote it had trembled, either from cold, fear, age, or the simple knowledge that the words were too large for one man’s final duty.

Arthur read it twice in his study.

The fire roared in the hearth. It did not help.

The letter was from Lord Commander Jeor Mormont of the Night’s Watch. Or what remained of him in ink.

The dead rose. The cold was endless. Wildling villages beyond the Wall had been found slaughtered. The Fist of the First Men had been attacked. Rangers had been lost. The enemy could not be understood as wildlings, raiders, or men. White Walkers had returned. A finger taken from a fallen brother turned wight had been sent as proof. Fire did not consume it. Obsidian and dragonglass were named as weapons that mattered. The Wall might not hold. The Seven Kingdoms had to be warned. The realm had to march north, or the dead would march south.

A small bundle accompanied the letter.

Arthur opened the layers of coarse cloth.

Inside lay a withered human finger, blue-black, hard, and wrong. Its nail had grown sharp as a claw. A faint cold seemed to come from it, not the ordinary cold of dead flesh, but the deeper kind Arthur remembered from the beginning. Snow. Black trees. Blue eyes. Bodies that should not move. The first truth this world had shown him had worn winter like skin.

He lifted a candle to it.

The flame touched the finger.

Nothing.

It did not burn. It did not blacken. The candle guttered instead, shrinking as if the dead thing had breathed against it.

Arthur stared for a long moment.

Then he set the candle down.

The wars of kings, queens, roses, lions, snakes, stags, and fish suddenly looked very small. Not unimportant. Men still died under those banners. Smallfolk still starved. Roads still burned. But compared to the white shadow beyond the Wall, the whole game seemed like men arguing over chairs in a house already on fire.

Cersei’s crown. Tyrell caution. Dorne’s venom. Littlefinger’s theft of the Vale. His own hold over the Westerlands. All of it could become frost beneath dead feet if the Wall fell.

Arthur closed his eyes.

He had known this was coming. In some part of his mind, behind battles and coin and roads and revenge, he had always known. Knowing did not make the moment kinder.

When he opened his eyes, the old ambition had not vanished. It had been rearranged.

Survival came first.

Conveniently, survival often required power. The world remained tedious but consistent.

“Summon them,” Arthur said.

Smith, Diana, Kator, Beland, Horgos, Flio, and Steward Alwin gathered before the hour ended. Arthur did not waste words. He gave them the letter and the finger.

They passed both around the table.

The room changed as each man understood enough to be afraid.

“White Walkers,” Beland said at last. His mouth had gone dry. “Old tales.”

“The Night’s Watch does not send old tales wrapped in dead men’s fingers,” Smith said.

Diana looked at Arthur. “My lord?”

“The Wall cannot fall,” Arthur said.

He stood and moved to the map of Westeros. His finger traced from Casterly Rock, across the Riverlands, through the Neck, to Winterfell, then farther north to the Wall.

“If it falls, the Westerlands, the Riverlands, the Reach, King’s Landing, Dorne, all of it becomes a delay, not a realm. This is not a war for a crown. It is a war to keep the living from becoming recruits.”

No one laughed.

Good. Some jokes were better saved for after the dead stopped walking.

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“The Westerlands are newly settled,” Arthur said. “But our foundation is stable enough. The Riverlands are tied to us through trade and need. The Ironborn are quiet for the moment. The Reach and King’s Landing are busy measuring one another’s throats. This may be our only chance to move north before the threat becomes too large.”

“You mean to march?” Kator asked.

“Yes.”

“How many?” Smith asked.

Arthur looked at the map.

“Half.”

The silence that followed was not respectful. It was alarmed.

The Westerlands had around eighty thousand men under arms if garrisons, reorganized troops, and mobile forces were counted together. Half meant forty thousand marching north. Forty thousand mouths. Forty thousand pay records. Forty thousand men pulled away from newly conquered lands while the Reach, King’s Landing, and every lord with a grudge watched.

Alwin spoke first. “My lord, that would empty much of our strength. The roads are long. The supply line will be exposed. If the Reach attacks, or Cersei—”

“I know.”

Arthur’s voice remained calm.

“That is the gamble. We gamble that the Reach and King’s Landing are too wounded and suspicious to move quickly. We gamble that Cersei needs us quiet more than she needs us destroyed. We gamble that the Tyrells cannot afford another war while Stannis still lives and Dorne watches. We gamble that the Riverlands will secure the roads because they must.”

He tapped the North.

“And we gamble that we can cut through the chaos there before the dead do.”

Smith’s eyes narrowed. “The Boltons.”

“The Boltons,” Arthur said. “Stannis is in the North with remnants. House Karstark nurses old resentment. The Ironborn still raid the coast. The Wall is failing. The North needs order before it can send strength to the Wall. We will provide it.”

He did not need to say Ena’s name.

Those in the room knew. They had been at the Twins, or had seen what the news did to Arthur afterward. Roose Bolton was dead by Arthur’s hand, but House Bolton had not paid enough. Ramsay held the Dreadfort. The wound remained open.

“We march under the banner of reinforcing the Wall and resisting the White Walkers,” Arthur said. “We pass through the Riverlands and secure their cooperation. Edmure will not refuse. He lacks the men, grain, and courage to do so. We bring Riverlands support where useful, mainly roads, provisions, and local forces to protect the line.”

“And after the Neck?” Horgos asked.

“The first target is not the Wall.”

Arthur’s finger struck the Dreadfort.

“House Bolton. The Dreadfort must fall. We remove the internal threat before trying to build a northern defense. The Boltons betrayed allies, slaughtered under guest right, and now seek to rule a broken North while the dead gather beyond the Wall. Their blood and castle will send the message better than any speech.”

Diana’s face was controlled. “And Winterfell?”

“After the Dreadfort, we march to Winterfell, join what remains of Stark power under Bran, rally loyal houses like Mormont, Umber, Glover, and Manderly, and clear Ironborn harassment where we can. Winterfell becomes the base. From there, we support the Wall.”

The plan was large enough to be called madness by men who preferred smaller failures. It risked the Westerlands, the army, Arthur’s life, and the political balance he had just built. It also had logic. Cold, clear, unpleasant logic. The North had to be united. The Wall had to be reinforced. The Boltons had to be removed. The living needed an army before the dead arrived to make recruitment very simple.

“I will command the expedition myself,” Arthur said. “Smith, you are deputy commander. Diana and Alwin remain in the Westerlands. You will govern, hold Casterly Rock, keep Lannisport safe, and watch the Reach and King’s Landing. Kator, Beland, and Horgos will each command a column. Flio, you will coordinate the Riverlands route and logistics. You will also use every channel to find obsidian, dragonglass, and men who can work it. I want weapons ready before we march.”

Smith saluted. “My lord, we should speak with the Riverlands, the Reach, and King’s Landing before moving. If half our strength leaves—”

“We will.”

Arthur moved back to the table.

“Write to Queen Cersei in my name. Inform her of the White Walkers and the Night’s Watch warning. Tell her the Westerlands will march north to defend the Wall, the northern gate of the Seven Kingdoms. As queen, she should coordinate the realm against the greater enemy. Also make clear that while our main force marches north, stability in the rear is expected.”

Flio smiled faintly at that. “Expected.”

“A polite word,” Arthur said. “Useful because everyone knows what impolite words it hides.”

He continued, “Write to Lord Mace Tyrell as well. Emphasize the threat to all Westeros and the importance of the Reach as the realm’s breadbasket. Invite support. At minimum, border calm. Let them feel righteous if they do nothing harmful.”

“And Edmure?” Flio asked.

“You go yourself. Coordinate passage. Tell him that while the Westerlands army marches north, the Riverlands must guarantee the safety of the River Road and our supply line. He may see it as trust. If he is smarter, he will see the other half.”

Flio bowed.

Orders left the room quickly. Men moved. Ravens were prepared. Ledgers opened. Smith began drafting troop lists. Diana asked for garrison maps. Horgos wanted inventory of crossbows and arrow shafts. Alwin looked as if he had swallowed a stone. He probably saw the supply burden more clearly than anyone. There were worse curses than knowledge, but not many.

When they were gone, Alwin came back in alone, which he did not do, and stood in the doorway a moment before he found the words. The raven had come from Newroot at midday. Arthur read the four lines twice. The healers had done everything that could be done, and had written it in the careful hand men use when they are afraid of being blamed. She had not woken. She had simply stopped, sometime between the turning of the night watch and the grey of the morning, and had done it quietly, which was not like her at all.

Alwin waited, and then took the letter out of his hand when it became clear he was not going to put it down, and went out, and closed the door behind him.

When they were gone, Arthur remained alone with the finger.

He picked it up through the cloth and looked at the blue-black skin. It had no eyes, no mouth, no voice. Yet it seemed to carry the cold of everything waiting beyond the Wall.

“Ena,” Arthur said quietly.

The name barely reached the fire.

“Too late,” he said. “By a season and a half.”

“I have not forgotten.”

He tied the bundle closed and set it aside.

The North waited with ghosts, Boltons, Ironborn, Stannis, and old debts. The Wall waited with something worse. Arthur had spent months fighting men for land, gold, food, and roads. Now he would march to fight death wearing armor made of winter.

It was inconvenient.

It was necessary.

The horns of the northern expedition would soon sound from the Westerlands.