North of the Wall was a vastly different experience, Marwyn noted for the second time. It was a realization that struck him as harshly as the winter chill that sought to rob him of life, he reasoned as he tugged his thick woolen cloak closer to his body, desperately retaining what little precious heat he could still hold onto in this frozen wasteland.
Marwyn was an explorer by nature and profession. He had journeyed to more distant lands than any other person currently alive in Westeros, perhaps in all the known world. He had walked the infamous oily black road of Asshai-by-the-Shadow, where to deviate even a single step from those ink-black cobblestone paths was to become hopelessly lost in the swirling madness and dark sorceries that permeated every corner of that accursed city.
He had tracked through the dense, suffocating undergrowth of Sothoryos with nothing but determination and steel. Machete clutched firmly in his weathered hand as he methodically felled leaves the size of destriers while constantly hiding from the wandering long legged and serpentine necked reptilian beasts, monstrous creatures easily the size of a dozen warhorses heaped atop one another, their yellow eyes gleaming with predatory intelligence.
Marwyn was certainly no stranger to hostile lands that actively sought to kill their unwary residents and visitors alike. However, unlike all the other perilous territories he had explored throughout his extensive travels, the true North beyond the Wall remained fundamentally different for one devastatingly simple reason.
The relentless wind shifted directions suddenly, slipping past the carefully constructed defense he had rallied with his heavy cloak and somehow finding yet another insidious way past the thick fur garment to once more kiss his exposed skin with icy fingers. He shivered involuntarily before allowing his numbed hand to slip into his leather satchel. He brought out a battered waterskin, filled to the brim with a harsh fermented drink he had acquired from the mysterious lands that lay even further east past legendary Leng.
Here, north of the Wall, it genuinely seemed as though the very terrain itself and the oppressive atmosphere were deliberately, maliciously trying to kill you with calculated intent, and never had that ominous feeling felt more like the absolute truth than it did right now in this moment.
Marwyn brought the waterskin to his chapped lips and took a generous mouthful of the potent liquid, and all of a sudden he felt a familiar warmth begin to blossom deep within his chest. The burning sensation traveled steadily down his throat, dry and scorching like liquid fire as it found its determined way down into his empty gut, settling heavily in his stomach like molten lead.
Then from that central point the blessed heat began to spread outward, flowing through his four limbs like warm honey, and this time when he let out a long breath into the frigid air, there was notably no telltale fog to mark his exhalation.
The harsh alcoholic drink had successfully pushed back the bone-deep cold for a brief but welcome respite, though he knew it wouldn't last long in this environment. Not with the harsh winter breeze constantly assaulting him, so he decisively whipped his horse's flanks and the faithful beast lurched forward from its steady trot into a thundering gallop once more, racing past the ghostly white weirwood trees with their distinctive blood-red leaves, past chittering unseen beasts hiding in the undergrowth, and past those far too intelligent black crows that seemed to follow his every movement with their beady, knowing eyes.
He was not oblivious to the powerful magic that saturated these ancient lands like morning mist. On his first trip, it had always felt as though the snow, the ice, and the bitter cold were constantly trying to kill him, now that sensation had transcended into an absolute, undeniable certainty that chilled him more than any winter wind ever could. Which could only mean one terrifying thing: the Others were stirring once again.
His controversial descent into the forbidden higher mysteries meant that, unlike the rest of his scholarly order at the Citadel, including even those prestigious maesters who wore the coveted Valyrian steel chain links around their necks, he was a true believer in the Higher mysteries.
He understood with crystal clarity that no mere folklore, no simple peasant tales, could possibly survive countless millennia unchanged. No mere folk stories could have various identical versions of the same fundamental narrative spreading all the way from one end of the known world to the distant other.
As the wise Qohorik smiths say with their characteristic pragmatism: there is no smoke without fire burning somewhere beneath.
On the other side of the mystical spectrum was the enigmatic three-eyed crow that had been haunting his dreams with increasing frequency ever since he had first crossed north of the Wall. His unexpected arrival at that ancient bastion of ice and sworn swords had been met with no small amount of genuine surprise from the black-cloaked brothers, especially once his true intentions and ultimate destination became widely known among the leadership.
It had required considerable guile, diplomatic skill, and not inconsiderable cunning to successfully avoid becoming entangled in the whole bloody, pointless war that had been catastrophically unleashed by the boy king Joffrey's impulsive decision to relieve the honorable Warden of the North of his head.
The constant skirmishes and the outright warfare that followed had meant that traveling anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms had become significantly more of a dangerous hassle than he would have ordinarily preferred under normal circumstances.
However, he was an Archmaester of the Citadel, a man of learning and considerable resources, and he had skillfully managed to avoid both the pesky nobles desperately trying to recruit him for his renowned medical expertise as well as the numerous brigands and sellswords that filled the roads like locusts during such turbulent and lawless times.
He had not endured such tremendous stress, hardship, and mortal danger to simply turn back meekly due to some castellan of the Night's Watch's urgent but misguided warnings. He did not particularly know or care about the specific reasons why the vast majority of the ranging parties had ventured north of the Wall, though he had developed enough of a grim idea after passing through numerous empty and abandoned villages during his journey.
He had boldly commandeered a sturdy horse from an abandoned stable, as well as additional supplies and more appropriate cold-weather clothing, before racing determinedly towards what he was increasingly certain was his inevitable destiny.
More than once during his journey he had been abruptly woken up in the middle of the night by a crow's piercing, almost human-like screeching directly near his ear, an unsettling act that was invariably followed by a subtle but unmistakable drop in the surrounding temperature that seemed to seep into his very bones.
By the second time this ominous pattern occurred, Marwyn had grown absolutely certain of one disturbing fact: he was being either hunted or followed by something supernatural. He was not particularly sure which description was more accurate, so he had wisely taken to sleeping fitfully during the daylight hours and riding cautiously during the long nights with the aid of only the celestial bodies twinkling in the star-filled sky above, his most likely outdated and unreliable map, alongside that mysterious crow that consistently flew ahead of him like some sort of otherworldly guide.
The journey had taken Marwyn considerably longer than he had initially expected, especially considering he seemed to be playing an increasingly dangerous game of cat and mouse against something malevolent that he could not see, hear, or properly identify. However, the precise moment he finally got past the notorious Haunted Forest and reached the imposing feet of the legendary Frostfangs mountain range, he could almost physically feel the supernatural cold begin to diminish around him.
The towering Frostfangs were nearly impossible to measure accurately with the naked eye. It was a massive mountain range whose highest snow-capped peaks seemed to kiss the very clouds drifting lazily above, but that was only seeming and illusion. What the mighty mountain range struggled to achieve through sheer height and majesty, the mysterious black castle accomplished effortlessly through otherworldly power. Its highest spires and towers were partially covered and obscured by the slow-drifting clouds themselves.
The awe-inspiring sight of the impossible castle drew his attention like a helpless moth to an exposed flame burning in the darkness. The castle looming ahead of him was absolutely massive, vastly bigger than any fortress or stronghold he had ever seen previously in all his extensive travels.
The black structure was far more than a simple castle or keep. Its mind-bending dimensions made it appear as though it had been grown organically rather than simply built by human hands and conventional engineering. Some entire sections of the fortress hung suspended impossibly in the air, their only visible tether to the main body being what appeared to be a single, impossibly slender bridge.
Marwyn's extensive knowledge of geometry as well as fundamental physics told him with scientific certainty that the castle was a complete impossibility, a blatant defiance of natural laws. An architectural anomaly that should not and could not exist in the rational world.
A single bridge, no matter how well-constructed, could not possibly hold what seemed like entire sections as large as smaller castles, while the smaller suspended portions seemed like floating mansions defying gravity itself.
Not even the legendary spell-wrought towers of ancient Valyrian construction, with all their rumored sorcerous enhancements, could hold a candle to the sheer overwhelming magnificence that was this impossible castle. The sight was captivating enough to hold him completely captive for long minutes, making him temporarily forget the supernatural cold that had been steadily creeping after him like a living thing.
"Keep your mouth hanging open like that and the snow would be sure to fill it right up for you, kneeler."
Marwyn immediately jerked the leather reins of his horse, turning the startled beast around to stare directly at the group of figures that had somehow appeared magically behind him without making a single sound. A quick, professional glance at the small indentations in the pristine snow as well as their expertly camouflaged forms told him exactly how they had managed their impressive little feat of stealth.
They wore thick furs sufficient to ward off the biting snow and wind, as well as carefully arranged branches and leaves to disguise their human silhouettes, and then all they had needed to do was remain perfectly still for long enough to allow the falling snow to settle naturally upon them, effectively rendering them as invisible as ghosts in the white landscape.
It was an absolutely ingenious tactical approach. While he was certainly not one to disparage the free folk solely on the basis of their location beyond the Wall, this was a sophisticated military tactic that had never been used before by them in living memory, otherwise, he was certain he would have heard detailed reports of it from at least the Night's Watch rangers. Which meant it was something they had been recently taught by someone else.
Something new and concerning, just like the slowly growing settlement situated slightly higher up the mountainside and made utterly insignificant by the monstrous structure of magic and stone that was the impossible castle looming above. Comparing the two was like comparing the masterful work of a renowned architect with a young child playing carelessly with simple clay.
"Ah, I assume you're residents of the settlement ahead, correct? I wish you and your people no trouble whatsoever, as I am completely unarmed." Marwyn finally spoke up diplomatically as two among the group of five had decided to pull back on their hunting bows with arrows nocked and aimed directly at his heart.
"Aye, that's what you kneelers all say when you're caught."
The apparent leader, an older man with dirt-brown hair and suspicious brown eyes, peered up at him intently, his eyes narrowed in deep suspicion as he studied Marwyn's appearance with the practiced gaze of a seasoned warrior.
"The horse has the crows' stamp burned into its hide, which means you either stole it from them or they gave it to you willingly. I don't give a particular damn which is which, to be honest. I like it, and I want it. So get down from there before we fill you full of arrows and I take it anyway."
Marwyn felt his heavy-set features contort into a deep frown of displeasure. It was hardly obvious considering the dull brown robes he habitually wore, but underneath those concealing robes as well as the thick cloak, he was heavily muscled and battle-scarred, which was most unusual for a maester, but then again Marwyn was not just any ordinary maester of the Citadel.
Violence was hardly ever his preferred first resort when dealing with conflicts, but when pushed too far or backed into a corner, he was more than capable of defending himself with lethal force, and he had also lied to them earlier as well. He was most certainly armed for trouble. He had two finely balanced throwing knives concealed in his boots, a longer, slimmer blade he had looted from a broken-down temple in distant Lhazar, as well as a compact crossbow purchased from a craftsman in Myr, loaded and tucked close to his chest beneath his robes.
Above all other weapons, he had the higher mysteries at his complete disposal. Like any serious practitioner worth his salt, he had felt the dramatic increase in available mystical power ever since the impossible castle had appeared in his sight, an increase that had been significantly enhanced by the blazing red comet that had torn spectacularly through the sky many months ago.
However, magic remained fundamentally a sword without a proper hilt to safely grasp. Without carefully planned rituals to properly ground the dangerous sorcery, and without extensive further practice and preparation, the few tricks he had concealed beneath his sleeves had the very real possibility of causing as much catastrophic harm to himself as it would to his intended enemies. Before he was forced to take that considerable risk, the decision was suddenly taken completely out of his own hands.
A younger boy among the group spied the heavy chain around his neck and immediately nudged the leader with his elbow before speaking up with obvious excitement, "Look at his neck, Horm. Those chains are displayed and arranged just exactly like Mother Mole said they would be in her vision. Alongside his distinctly ugly face and brown cloth robes. Her prophetic vision was true. He is the one that she has been expecting to arrive."
Marwyn chose to ignore the casual jab at his admittedly unattractive facial features; the young lad did not lie about his appearance, as he was certainly not a particularly handsome specimen by any measure. Instead, he focused intently on the significant words that had been spoken.
Mother Mole, some sort of prophetic figure among the tribe that had settled within range of the impossible castle? Perhaps their spiritual leader? And the way they had spoken of him with such certainty... Marwyn had a growing feeling that he was indeed expected by these people.
The brown-haired leader now known as Horm eyed him up and down some more with calculating eyes before he spat contemptuously to the side in the snow. "Today is your lucky day, kneeler. You're coming with us back to the settlement." Then he turned to address his companions with military precision. "Rollo, you're with me as an escort. The rest of you return immediately to your assigned positions. I would rather not be the one forced to explain to Ygritte why we all abandoned our posts just to bring back a single man."
The others nodded in understanding and acknowledgment, while the boy began to lead the way up the winding path. Horm deliberately slowed down until he was trailing directly behind Marwyn, clearly ready for the slightest excuse to shove his iron-tipped spear directly into the maester's back. Marwyn had absolutely no plans of giving him such an excuse or opportunity. Instead, he allowed himself a knowing grin as he was led towards the settlement, and beyond that lay his true goal and ultimate destination.
If not for the impossible black castle looming ahead, Marwyn might have paid more attention to the settlement he was riding through. But despite the towering structure just meters away, enough of the strange sights around him managed to steal his attention.
The first anomaly was the buildings. Most were constructed from various forms of stone and wood, materials plentiful south of the Wall, yet rarely utilized to this degree by the Free Folk. The architecture was basic, yes, but the very existence of permanent structures here said more than enough.
The Free Folk were nomadic by nature. They traveled in tribes, rarely settled for long, and even more rarely built anything lasting. Tents, lean-tos, and makeshift shelters were more their style, even among the few groups that attempted to stay rooted. This, however, was something else entirely.
These buildings were well-constructed. There were actual road paths flattened and solidified by repeated movement. And the layout... it wasn't haphazard. The buildings were arranged in blocks, sections with some degree of urban planning. An organized grid in the land of chaos. Marwyn's eyes widened as he took it in. This wasn't some makeshift camp, it was a proper town in the making. A real one. The birth of something not unlike the now abandoned Hardhome, except... more deliberate.
The people watched him pass with guarded eyes. Suspicion crackled in the air. But the presence of his two escorts, grim-faced men with weapons at hand kept hostility at bay.
Still, something was off.
They weren't leading him toward the castle.
Instead, the group veered toward a slightly larger building still under construction. Puzzled, Marwyn finally spoke. "Are we not going to the castle?"
The younger man blinked, confused by the question. The older one just scoffed and looked at him like he was an idiot.
"No one goes to the castle, kneeler," the man spat. "You're meeting the leaders. They'll decide what to do with you." He emphasized his words by jabbing Marwyn's horse forward with the butt of his spear.
They rode in silence for a while, until the sound of raised voices ahead interrupted the quiet.
"–They might not be here now, but we can already feel them! Every day, more animals vanish in the Haunted Forest. Hunting and foraging grows harder!" a woman's voice rang out, thick with frustration.
"We've enough livestock to begin the farm as planned," came a calmer reply, this one smooth and deliberate. "Meat and milk will be consistent. The plants have been slower, finding ones that survive the cold has taken time. But we're close. Soon, your tribe will be self-sustaining."
A pause, then the first voice again, this time steadier. "The defenses need work too. The walls are—"
Marwyn's escort knocked on the door before pushing it open, cutting off the conversation. The room fell silent. He dismounted, tied his horse to a nearby post, and stepped inside.
Three figures stood in the room, each more unexpected than the last.
The first was a red-haired young woman with a bow slung across her shoulder and a quiver at her hip. Her green eyes regarded him with a level of suspicion that somehow exceeded that of his escorts. She looked him over, then turned away with a huff.
The second was an elderly woman. Her eyes remained closed, her face lined with age, her hair bone-white and brittle. But her smile was… unsettling. Gummy and toothless, yet unmistakably aware. She faced Marwyn directly, despite never opening her eyes.
The third figure was the most alien of them all. A man whose darker skin hinted at a land kissed by fierce sun, but whose pale eyes and hair suggested something stranger, Valyrian, perhaps? A diluted offshoot? His clothes were unfamiliar, foreign. The man studied Marwyn with detached curiosity.
Then the old woman spoke.
"The Three-Eyed Crow has finally led you here, maester," she said. "Now, you shall serve."
Marwyn opened his mouth to respond, but before a word escaped, a sudden commotion erupted outside.
The red-haired girl reacted first, already moving, vanishing through the door in a blur of motion. The rest of them followed.
Marwyn emerged just in time to see a cloaked figure on horseback racing out through the main gate.
The rider's hair was black, and his cape whipped behind him in the wind. Steam curled from the horse's nostrils as its hooves thundered against the earth. Red eyes, faint but unmistakable, glowed as the rider sped past. The castle gates groaned shut behind him.
Marwyn stared in stunned silence.
"What happened?" the pale-haired man finally asked, his tone more curious than concerned. "What would make Master Dracula leave in such a hurry?"
"I don't know." The red haired woman replied, "But I have a feeling we're going to have to prepare for some trouble."