Chapter 60

The morning after the immediate threat of the wights had gone, I had the time to truly feel my environment. I walked away from the crowded armory and stood alone at the base of the Wall. I didn't feel the biting wind or the freezing snow. But I felt the magic, and its pressure on me.

It felt suffocating as time passed. The ancient, runic ice towering seven hundred feet above me was actively pressing down on my existence. My internal heat, usually calm, now grew restless.

I sat back on my haunches and triggered [Morning Sun].

Normally, the skill pulled the soft light into my coat, filling me with a rushing vitality. Now, the pale sunlight filtering through the grey clouds felt diluted, almost hollow. My thick fur, which usually carried a vibrant, glowing luster of cream and orange, looked distinctly muted in the shadows of the wall. The light steam that normally rolled off was now thin and quickly devoured by the chilling cold.

I unhinged my jaws, testing the limits of my core. I called upon a burst of [Flamethrower].

The white-hot fire ignited in the back of my throat, but pushing it out into the air felt like trying to push a heavy boulder up a steep hill. The flames were sluggish, fighting the cold and magic in the air to exist.

The pale blue interface of the System flickered into my vision, confirming exactly what my instincts were telling me.

[Warning: Environmental Hazard Detected.]

[The Wall's magic is actively suppressing Fire-type energy.]

[Current Combat Efficiency: 81%]

[Estimated Survival Probability Beyond the Wall: LOW.]

[Recommended Level: 40]

I let out a slow, tired breath. The truth was undeniable. It was elementary type counter. I countered the dead, but if I marched North into the true winter today, I would fail, or worse die. The Wall wasn't my enemy in a sense it was an ally, but at present it was against me.

I am not prepared for the coming expedition.

A sudden commotion near the Lord Commander's tower pulled my attention away from the ice. A raven had arrived from Winterfell.

I padded back into the courtyard just as Robb Stark broke the wax seal on a small, tightly wound parchment. Mormont and Jon stood beside him.

Robb read in silence. The color drained from his face.

"What is it?" Mormont asked.

Robb looked up. His jaw tightened. 

He handed the parchment to the Lord Commander. 

Longships sighted off the Stony Shore. Several fishing villages put to the torch. Survivors speak of ironmen landing in force. Ser Rodrik rides west. More sails reported. Return with all haste.

Silence settled over the yard.

"Balon Greyjoy chose his hour well," Mormont observed heavily. "The North has no army left."

Theon Greyjoy had gone pale. He stared at the dirt, his fists clenching. "Father," he muttered.

Robb folded the parchment. "I ride within the hour."

Mormont nodded once. "The North."

"Aye." Robb gave his assent.

"The Watch will not forget the men you've left us."

"They're where they're needed."

"And so will you."

Robb gave a curt nod.

I remained laying near the armory, processing the words. Villages burning. Raiders attacking. Enemies.

The System chimed quietly in the periphery of my vision.

[Emergency Event Detected: Northern Settlements Under Attack.]

[Target: Ironborn Reavers.]

[Potential Experience: HIGH.]

The path forward clicked into perfect clarity.

The dead were not marching today; Mormont had said the Great Ranging would take weeks to supply and organize.

The Wall was actively suppressing my strength, and I was just shy of the level required to survive the deep North.

The South still had enemies. Enemies meant combat, and combat meant experience, experience I desperately needed. I needed to become stronger before I set foot beyond the Wall to face the Night King.

....

Within the hour, the courtyard was full of activity. Robb's remaining vanguard saddled their horses, packing their gear for the long ride west.

Jon Snow walked Robb to his warhorse. The two brothers stopped, looking at each other in the freezing slush. This was the end of the road they had traveled together.

Jon clasped Robb's arm. "Give Bran my love."

"I will."

"And Rickon."

"I will."

....

For a heartbeat, they stood in silence. Then Robb embraced him.

"When this is done..." Robb started.

Jon smiled. "...We'll meet again."

"If the gods are good."

Near their boots, Grey Wind and Ghost circled each other, sniffing quietly. Grey Wind let out a soft huff and gave the silent albino a playful nip on the shoulder.

Robb scratched Grey Wind behind the ear. "Take care of Ghost."

Robb mounted his horse. He pulled his reins, turning toward the southern gates. He expected me to take the front of his vanguard, just as I had done all the way from the Riverlands.

I didn't move. I stayed seated firmly beside Jon Snow.

Grey Wind brushed past me, falling in beside the column. The horses of the Northern cavalry began to move. Still, I did not follow.

Robb reined up. "Red."

I remained where I sat. I met his gaze, but gave no response.

For a long moment, Robb watched me. He didn't look angry or betrayed. He had watched the direwolves grow; he understood animals better than most nobles, and over the last few months, he had learned to understand me. He saw the choice I was making, and he recognized that it wasn't abandonment. It was purpose.

Then he gave the faintest nod.

"Go on, then."

He turned his horse south.

I slowly turned my head, looking back up at the towering, seven-hundred-foot wall of ice. Then, I turned my head and looked straight down the Kingsroad.

I stood up. I didn't fall into step beside Robb's horse. I stalked past the column entirely, moving toward the open gates on my own terms, forging my own path to the war in the west.

Jon Snow stood in the snow, watching my cream-colored frame pass through the dark tunnel of Castle Black. Ghost sat perfectly still beside him, watching me go.

Mormont watched the great beast pass beneath the gate.

"A pity," the Old Bear sighed. He continued "A beast goes where it pleases."

Jon shook his head."Not this one."

The Old Bear raised an eyebrow.

Jon stared out the empty gate. "He's hunting."

Long after the vanguard had disappeared down the Kingsroad, Jon walked the icy upper galleries of the castle. In a quiet, wind-sheltered corner near the rookery, Maester Aemon stood alone. His old, trembling hands rested on his chain, his blind, milky eyes staring out into the freezing sky.

Jon stopped beside the old man.

"Has he gone?" Aemon asked, his voice barely louder than the wind.

"Aye," Jon replied softly.

Aemon smiled. "Fire," the old maester whispered, "has ever been restless."

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