ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

The army moved north in columns broad enough to disturb the land and careful enough not to destroy itself on the first bad road.

That was the dream, at least. Armies were large, hungry, argumentative beasts, and anyone who claimed to control one fully had either never commanded one or was lying for promotion. Arthur settled for direction. Direction was already a miracle.

Kator’s advance scouts moved first, Battanian eyes joined by northern guides who knew which frozen streams could hold weight and which would swallow a man while pretending innocence. Behind them came the first infantry blocks, then wagons, then more infantry, then cavalry screens, then supply carts, healers, smiths, spare animals, and the endless human clutter required to keep men fed while walking toward death.

The road north worsened by the mile.

Snow thickened. Villages became smaller. Smoke from chimneys seemed thinner, more precious. The people who came to watch the army pass stood wrapped in furs, faces hollowed by winter, war, and the knowledge that too many banners rarely meant peace. Some cheered for Stark colors. Some stared at the Battanian troops like they had marched from a story no one had told properly. Some watched Karstark men with open mistrust.

None cheered the dead.

That gave everyone common ground, which was probably more than the living deserved.

Arthur rode near the center after several days on foot, not because he enjoyed riding, but because messengers had begun multiplying and horses moved faster than irritation. His horse had the patient look of an animal that had judged him years ago and found little reason to revise the verdict.

Smith rode beside him with a report.

“The western detachments drove off two Ironborn raiding groups. Burned three longships near a fishing village. Rescued sixty captives. Losses were light.”

“Good.”

“Another group escaped north along the coast.”

“Do not chase beyond supply.”

“I gave the same order.”

“Then someone may even obey it.”

Smith glanced at him. “Your faith in men remains inspiring.”

“I try not to overfeed it.”

The report continued. Oath Keep remained stable. Karhold had surrendered stores and Bolton prisoners as promised. Robett Karstark held the castle under watch. Cregan had joined the marching forces and spent most of his time looking offended by supervision. Winterfell’s latest raven warned that Bran’s condition remained unchanged and that Maester Luwin continued to object to Karhold’s direct allegiance.

Arthur read that part twice, then folded the letter.

“Luwin will live.”

“Will he forgive?”

“I doubt it. Forgiveness is expensive. Maesters are paid in chains.”

Smith did not smile, but his eyes shifted slightly. Close enough.

The deeper they moved into the North, the more the Wall became a presence rather than a place.

Men spoke of it at fires. Some had seen it before. Most had not. Those who had described it poorly, as all men did with things too large for language. A cliff of ice. A frozen mountain made by gods or giants. A white blade across the world. The end of the realm. A very large mistake placed horizontally. Soldiers preferred the last one after drink.

Night’s Watch riders met them near an old holdfast half-buried in snow.

There were twelve of them, black cloaks stiff with frost, horses thin, faces thinner. Their leader was a grizzled ranger with a scar across one cheek and eyes that had stopped expecting good news years ago. Sensible eyes.

He bowed stiffly.

“My lord. Ser Wendel Marsh of the Night’s Watch. I was sent from Castle Black. Lord Commander Mormont’s last letters reached you?”

“They did,” Arthur said.

The man’s face tightened at the word last.

Arthur let the silence stand for a breath.

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“What remains at Castle Black?”

“Too few men. Too many wounded. The wildlings are pressing south, not in raids. In floods. They are running. Some fight us. Some beg. Some bring stories. Hardhome is gone, or near enough. Villages beyond the Wall are empty. Rangers vanish. We find bodies, then the bodies vanish too.”

The nearby men listened too closely.

Arthur asked the question anyway. “White Walkers?”

Ser Wendel looked at him. Whatever he saw in Arthur’s face made him answer plainly.

“Yes.”

No one spoke.

The wind moved between men and horses.

“Obsidian?” Arthur asked.

“We have little. Some old caches. Some pieces found in stores no one remembered. We know it matters. We do not have enough.”

“You will.”

The ranger looked at him sharply.

“Old Harth of Winterfell is working with the first shipments. More will follow if Black Stone Canyon can be cleared. Until then, distribute what you have only to men likely to face them first.”

Ser Wendel swallowed. “You believe us.”

“I would prefer not to,” Arthur said. “But the world has been rude.”

The ranger almost smiled. “Aye. It has.”

The Night’s Watch men guided the army farther north.

The march became harsher. Roads narrowed. Wagons needed teams doubled. Men dug wheels out of snow and cursed in three accents. Horses slipped. Sledges were built from local timber. Old Harth’s first crates arrived under heavy guard, containing crude but functional weapons: steel-framed daggers with obsidian shards set into the edges, spearheads reinforced to hold black glass, and arrowheads packed carefully in cloth.

They were ugly.

Arthur approved.

Pretty weapons belonged in halls. Ugly weapons belonged in wars where the enemy did not care about style.

He held one of the daggers in his hand. The obsidian edge looked dark enough to drink firelight.

Flio stared at the crate. “This shipment cost enough to make a small lord cry.”

“Good. Tears are cheaper than defeat.”

“Not always. Some lords cry expensively.”

“Then keep the ledgers away from them.”

The weapons were distributed according to plan. Scouts first. Officers second. Men assigned to the forward units third. Karstark soldiers received none yet, which Cregan noticed and disliked.

He confronted Arthur after evening council.

“Are we to fight ghosts with common steel while others carry dragonglass?”

Arthur looked at him. “You are to prove your men can obey command for longer than a week before I hand them weapons more valuable than their horses.”

Cregan’s face reddened. “House Karstark has fought for the North for centuries.”

“And recently fought for Ramsay Bolton.”

Silence struck the tent.

Cregan’s hand twitched near his sword.

Smith’s hand moved closer to his own.

Arthur did not raise his voice.

“Do not reach unless you mean to finish badly.”

Cregan froze.

Arthur let the moment breathe, then continued. “Your house will have its chance. Fight well. Obey. Keep the peace. When trust grows, so does responsibility. That is how this works among the living.”

Cregan bowed stiffly and left.

Greatjon laughed after the tent flap fell. “The boy needed that.”

“The boy needs many things. Time is the only one I am short on.”

Two days later, the Wall appeared.

At first, it was only a pale line on the horizon, too straight to be cloud and too large to be ice the mind could accept. As the army moved closer, it rose. And rose. And kept rising, because apparently the world had decided subtlety was for warmer places. The Wall stretched across the land like a frozen cliff built to remind men that ancient people had been either very wise, very afraid, or both.

The army slowed without being ordered.

Men stared.

Even the Battanians, who had seen mountains and harsh places, looked up in silence. The Wall was not merely large. It was absurd. A statement made in ice against something worse than human ambition. Arthur found himself disliking it and trusting it at the same time. That seemed fair. Good defenses often inspired both emotions.

Castle Black sat beneath it, worn, crowded, and far too small for the fear gathered there.

Black brothers lined the yard as the army approached. Some looked relieved. Others looked ashamed of looking relieved. The Night’s Watch had survived by being forgotten, mocked, and underfed. Now the realm had remembered them only because doom was rude enough to knock loudly.

Lord Commander Mormont was gone, but his shadow seemed present in every black cloak that stood a little straighter when Arthur rode in.

The acting commanders received him in the yard.

Ser Wendel spoke first. “Lord Greyoak. Castle Black welcomes the army.”

Arthur dismounted.

He looked up at the Wall. Wind moved down from it, colder than the air below, carrying the smell of ice and distance.

“Do not welcome us yet,” he said. “First show me what you have seen.”

The commanders led him to the stores, then to the infirmary, then to a locked room beneath the armory.

Inside, wrapped in layers of cloth and tied with black cord, lay the remains of a hand.

Blue-black. Hard. Wrong.

Arthur felt the room grow colder.

One finger had already been sent south. The rest had remained here. Even with fire brought close, the flesh refused to burn properly. The men watched Arthur as if waiting for him to deny what lay on the table.

He did not.

He looked at the dead hand for a long time.

Then he turned to Smith.

“Double the obsidian guard. Send word to Old Harth that function matters more than shape. I want knives, spearheads, arrowheads, axes, anything that holds long enough to kill. Send riders to Oath Keep and Karhold. The supply line must not break.”

Smith nodded.

Arthur looked back at the hand.

This was the enemy stripped of banners, politics, and excuses. The cold fact beneath all the noise. Cersei’s crown, Tyrell pride, Karstark grudges, Bolton cruelty, Ironborn raids, all of it shrank beside the thing on the table.

Not vanished.

Shrank.

Men still needed to eat. Lords still needed managing. Roads still needed protection. The living had a talent for making themselves difficult even when extinction waited outside. But the hierarchy of problems had clarified nicely, which was one of the few gifts horror provided.

Arthur stepped out into the yard.

The Wall loomed above him.

Beyond it, somewhere in the white, the dead were moving.

Behind him stood an army stitched together from mistrust, grief, ambition, fear, and necessity. It was not ideal. Ideal armies existed in songs, and songs did not have to feed anyone. This army was real, which meant it smelled of horses, sweat, smoke, and resentment.

It would have to be enough.

Arthur looked at the gathered commanders.

“Prepare the men,” he said. “We hold the Wall.”