I sat alone in my study once more, slowly leafing through a page on interspatial transference. Dracula's study was a trove of hidden knowledge, and as Alucard had said earlier, he had forgotten more than some civilizations ever learned.
As I leafed through the pages, I felt there was some truth to the familiarity within. I was familiar enough with interspatial transference already, very familiar with space, travel, and such workings. I had to be when I redesigned Castlevania's ability to travel through space.
However, I was brushing up on my knowledge for one simple reason. Valyria. The condensed and putrid magic that hung in the air of the broken peninsula... annoyed me. I could not say how exactly it would work out, and the effects such a journey would have on the castle.
Lost in thoughts, calculation, and musing, a knock rang out before the doors opened with a groan of well-oiled hinges.
Isaac entered first, measured in every step, hands clasped behind his back. Hector trailed after, looser in his bearing but dutiful all the same. Both stopped a few feet from my desk and bowed.
"Master Dracula," Isaac said, voice as smooth and as exotic as always. "The reports you demanded in light of our new plans."
I gestured with two fingers. "Speak."
"The Free Folk are adapting fast." Isaac's tone held neither approval nor scorn, only observation. His continued detachment was something I was still trying to let him get loose of, but it seemed like an uphill battle. I doubted he truly hated humans again, at this point, but he had grown to... endure them. Disgust and hatred shifting into just distaste, which was a far cry from the man who had preferred to stay in the middle of a desert rather than engage other men.
He continued while I was lost in thought. "A runner came from Mance Rayder's camp, and he has been acknowledged and received. He comes bearing news; the King Beyond the Wall petitions for an audience."
"Denied," I said without much thought.
Isaac nodded smoothly, and continued. "The settlement has grown a bit bigger. News of the victory against the Others and their wights has spread, and the few clans and groups that had proven too stubborn to bend the knee to Mance, or too far to survive the journey to his wandering band, have instead made their way here. Patrols at night have increased due to the influx, and the walls reinforced with timber and stone, while fire is kept lit constantly. They march well in time to Hector's orders."
Hector allowed himself a proud smile. "They're growing even more independent. Their fear of us made them pliable, but our victories over the Others is making them loyal. They've seen the night creatures we can summon, and while there is some worry, it is a small thing. They have no idea of devils or such. All they know to fear is the Others and the wights. Anything else is strange but not horrifying."
"They cling to us because they have nowhere else to cling. Mance Rayder calls himself king, and yet he looses men every night to the others. The Free Folk here know only that we stood when the dead broke against the walls," Isaac said, tilting his head slightly.
"And the Others?" I asked.
"They have not returned," Isaac replied. His eyes narrowed faintly in the light. "Not since that night. They are not gone. They still test Mance, they observe the Watch, but here—" his mouth curved, not quite a smile. "They cower."
I didn't know how to feel about that. I had struck fear into the Others, and that fear made them cautious; however, caution is not surrender. I leaned forward, resting pale fingers against the arm of the chair.
"And the prisoner?"
Isaac's jaw set this time, annoyed. "It does nothing. It breathes, and it watches, but it never speaks. It has not seen fit to show fear, nor plea for its life or attempt to bargain. I suspect it waits for something."
"As I expected," I murmured, I had a feeling that part of the reason the Great Other had reached out previously was because of our little prisoner. If they truly found it hard to breed or were a dying species, much like the children, I can only imagine what the loss of so many of them must've felt like. I doubt he could afford to suddenly lose another, which meshed well enough with my plans. The torches hissed faintly, as though the castle itself approved of my unvoiced idea. "It matters little. In time, I will unravel it. For now…"
I rose from the chair. My cloak dragged over stone like ink spilling across parchment. Both men straightened, their gazes fixed on me.
"It's time for a change of scene. I've grown weary of the constant snow and the mountain peaks. Magic has grown stronger, and while it is not enough for passage beyond this world, it is enough for a step I have long considered. Enough to cross continents. To travel from here to Valyria."
Hector drew a sharp breath. Isaac's brows furrowed, as if he were making new calculations and revising whatever plans he had made previously.
"I intend to go," I continued. "And I would have you both at my side."
Isaac did not hesitate. He bent knee and head alike, voice ringing clear. "Then I will follow you, Master Dracula."
Hector looked away, troubled. "I will follow you as well, my lord. But…" His fingers curled at his side. "The Free Folk are not yet ready, especially with the new influx of people. If I leave too suddenly, their order will crumble. They trust me because they must. They have their leaders, but even they are not in complete sync and agreement. I will need time."
I had expected this somewhat, so I was not surprised.
"You shall not have it." My words halted Hector in his tracks. His features shifted, fear and surprise filling them. He made to speak up once more, but I silenced him with a wave. "You are soft and have grown attached, Hector. It is both a strength and a flaw. I do not hold you in contempt for it. Stay behind, guide your free folk so that when we eventually leave permanently, they will be ready for it."
There was a brief silence at my words, as Hector listened, took them in, and acknowledged them.
"As you say, my lord." He finally said in reply, then the duo bowed once more, before withdrawing, their footsteps fading as they stepped out of the study.
I remained, staring into the mirror pit. I thought back to what I had seen when I peered into the mirror over a year ago. Towers of black stone, dragon-roads shattered and smoking, fire and smog beneath an ash sky. Valyria. Broken, cursed, yet still thrumming and filled with power.
It was only then that it occurred to me that I was excited.
_
Tormund
The storm had broken by the time Tormund Giantsbane rode into Mance Rayder's camp. The snow still clung to his furs, his beard was a mess of frost, but his eyes burned bright with the boldness he was known for. He was greeted by one of his many sons, on the way to the encampment, and they trailed ahead after a quick hug.
Looking at the ramshackle group that called themselves Mance's warband, Tormund couldn't help but compare them to the settlement on the Frost Fangs. The thought shamed him, so he discarded it as he walked up to the sea of rapidly rising tents. The sentries let him through with wide grins and louder greetings; Tormund was hard to mistake even half a mile away, and his voice carried before he even reached the central fire.
"I need mead! Or at least piss warm ale!" Tormund bellowed. "For I've marched through half the bloody mountains to bring you fools news worth drinking to!"
His words were greeted with cheers from the ragged band of free folk, as was his group. A group that was missing seven men. Seven men he had lost, not to the wights, but because they preferred the comfort of Ygritte's settlement. He didn't blame them.
Mance sat by the great fire, his cloak pulled tight, his lute resting untouched at his side. He raised his head slowly as Tormund stomped close, stamping snow from his boots. Around them, his lieutenants were gathered; they were the only people who did not greet his return with joy, instead, they simply observed him.
They looked at his much reduced warband, and the lack of a horn in his hands. Rattleshirt with a rattle of his bone armor frowned heavily. Harma Dogshead just gnawed idly on a strip of meat, while Varamyr sat silent with his half-wild eyes staring deep into his. Tormund looked away. The skinchanger was uncanny at the best of times, and unsettling at the worst.
"You look like you fought a mountain and lost," Harma drawled.
Tormund only laughed, tossing himself onto a log with a thump. "Aye, but the mountain's worse for wear." Then he frowned as seriousness took him. "Listen close now. Things have changed a great deal since we last spoke. Majorly for the better."
Mance leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Speak plain, Tormund."
So he did. The words poured from him. He spoke of his hunt for the Horn, and the counter hunt that had plagued him. He spoke of their journey to the still unnamed settlement on the Frost Fangs, of the deal brokered and of the clash with the crows, and the confiscation of the horn. He spoke of the battle, hundreds of wights throwing themselves against the wall, he spoke of the strange creatures that had spewed fire, burning the wights.
Then he spoke of Lord Vlad.
"He captured one," Tormund growled, eyes flashing. "Hand around its throat, he dragged one of the Others in a public spectacle. Dragged it through snow and stone before taking it into his castle. I do not know what sort of man he is, but I know he is not one to fight against."
"He also stole the Horn you fool, and you admire him for it!" Rattleshirt said, his body bristling in anger to the cackle of the bones strapped to him.
Tormund simply chuckled in reply. "Yes, he did. Him and his brown skinned general. He used pretty words, said it was too dangerous for the likes of us. But in the end, he took it. And maybe he's right, but by the gods, I've never seen a man hold such power and not tremble."
"You cowa—"
"Complete that statement, and I would put a spear through your throat. See if you take me for a coward then." His threat silenced Rattleshirt for only a second, when the bone-clad raider's eyes widened behind his helmet of human skull and he moved to lunge. Tormund prepared himself to put his threat into reality, but was stopped by a single softly spoken word.
"Stop." Mance spoke up, his attention fully on Tormund. Rattleshirt reluctantly sank back into his chair, so Tormund continued to speak in the new silence.
"You did not see him. You did not witness them." He turned to face each and every one of the lieutenants as he saw uncertainty on their faces, followed by doubt.
"No one has fought an Other and lived to tell the story. Yet three died trying to take that settlement. It's not just him, the two strange men and the fire-breathing beasts that followed him were equally as dangerous."
Rattleshirt's bones clattered as he shifted. "Fire-breathing beast... Sorcery then. No different from the Others. What difference does it make if the hand that wields it is pale or black with rot? Sorcery's sorcery."
"And yet," Varamyr cut in, his voice hoarse like he was not used to speaking, "he saved free folk. Saved men, women, and children. He has struck fear into the heart of the Others. I have tried to scout, yet the strange creatures that dominate the sky around the frostfangs as well as the sudden influx of bats, has put a stop to that. Yet, I've seen enough to say that that part of the Frost Fangs is free of wights and Others."
Mance tapped his fingers against his knee, silent for a long moment as the fire crackled. His men bickered around him, but his thoughts ran deeper than their noise. He thought of the shifting winds, of the Night's Watch offer, and promise. Of the free folk going south without dying trying to take the wall. Of an impossible black castle in the Frost Fangs.
When he finally spoke, his voice cut clean through the noise.
"We'll not fight him for the horn. Not yet."
Rattleshirt snarled. "You'd bow to some strange sorcerer and his tricks?"
"I bow only to reason," Mance said, quiet but firm. "I'll not throw our people against a wall we cannot climb. Let the crows squabble with him. If they do as they promise and open the gates, we shall leave. If they don't and he doesn't make through with his threat of taking the wall, then we would find a way to steal the horn back. For now, let him clash with the Others if that's his desire. We will watch. We will wait. And when the moment comes, we will be ready to move. That is how the Free Folk survive."
There was silence in the clearing, as the group of men and one woman sat in silence. Tormund grinned his wolfish grin, previous anger forgotten. "Then we best keep our eyes sharp, my friend. Because if the crows betray their words, and he is forced to make do with his threat, then we would have to be close enough to take advantage of it."
Mance nodded in reply, but his eyes remained locked into the flames, the lute untouched at his side, and his memories dragged him back to when he was a brother of the Watch. When he was a crow. How many would die if such were to occur? Way less than would die if they were to breach the walls themselves, no doubt.
_
The Watch
The climb back to the Wall had bled the strength from even the hardiest rangers. Men moved like wights, their boots dragging through snow that came up to the knee. Horses had been eaten or left to die. The crows that circled overhead seemed more alive than the Watch itself. Still, they moved, tired but alive, even if some of them would've preferred death after the harsh pace they had used to return.
Lord Commander Jeor Mormont bore the weight worst of all. The Old Bear rode slumped in his saddle, face pale and fever skinned. His bandages seeping through with every jolt of the trail. He had not spoken in two days, save for rasped commands and curses. Each word costing him blood.
Qhorin watched him with worried eyes, and made sure to stick close to him.
They were close, a day from the Wall at most, which meant people were slowly rousing, more excited than they had been previously. The campfires at night burned low, which partially hid the figures conspiring. Figures that whispered in hushed tones. Whispers of weakness. Of failure. Of the Old Bear dragging them all into the grave. Of making deals with devils that the Seven had warned them about.
It was at one such a fire that three men leaned close, shadows hiding their faces. Rough men pulled from the dregs of Eastwatch, now half starved and now half mad.
"He won't last the week," Ollo muttered, knife glinting as he whetted it. "And when he goes, we'll follow. Unless we take matters in hand."
"Qhorin'll see through us," Dirk hissed; he had ridden with the legendary ranger long enough to know how much of a threat he was. "Halfhand's no fool."
"Then we strike clean," Ollo argued. "Strike fast. Mormont dead, Halfhand soon after. Then the Watch bends to new steel. Our steel. We would not have to bend over for the Others, the free folk, or even those fuckers in that black castle consorting with demons straight from the seven hells."
They did not see the eyes in the dark beyond the fire. A shock of white fur that hid easily in the darkness and in the snow, red eyes that watched with an intensity that had no place in an animal's gaze.
The attempt finally came at dawn, when the camp stirred in sluggish joy. Snow still fell, it was thin but steady, and dampened sound enough for foolish bravery.
The mutineers moved as one, slipping into Mormont's tent with knives drawn. One reached for the Old Bear's throat, but his hand never found it.
Instead, a steel sword shot out of the covers and buried itself in the man's neck. Qhorin Halfhand struck like a wolf lunging from the brush, his sword already wet with the first man's blood before the others could cry alarm. Jon Snow, alongside his direwolf and loyalist rangers, poured in from the entrance, blades flashing in the half-light.
The mutineers fought like cornered rats, desperate, snarling. But loyalty outweighed madness that day. The snow outside stained red where traitors were dragged and cut down.
That afternoon, Qhorin stood at Mormont's side as the commander lay in his cot, his face deathly pale. His fever had burned him hollow, leaving a skinnier man, a shadow of the strong man that had left the wall months ago.
"You've saved my life twice now, Halfhand," Jeor murmured, voice breaking on the words. "But I've no life left to save."
Qhorin said nothing.
"The monster was right. I am old," Jeor continued, eyes unfocused. "Too old. My hand shakes on the sword. My lungs rattle with every breath. Even if I live, I cannot lead these men. Not any longer. But you…" His gaze sharpened, just for an instant. "You might only be the second in command of the Shadow Tower, but you have their loyalty. Their fear. Take the Watch, Qhorin. Hold it together, send the messages south. With any luck, I shall live long enough to help the transition." He grinned in jest.
It was rare, but it did happen. The position of Lord Commander changing hands before the death of the previous, but the writing was clear on the wall. The Old Bear could not lead them now, not when they faced threats too dangerous to tally. Not when he gasped for breath with every motion.
The vote was called three days later, in the shadow of the Wall itself.
Names were shouted: Denys Mallister, Cotter Pyke, even Bowen Marsh, but each fell away, outvoiced and outnumbered. When Qhorin's name rang out, the response rolled like thunder. Men who had marched with him, bled with him, and survived with him raised their voices until no other could be heard.
By the time the echoes died against the Wall, the Watch had its new commander.
Lord Commander Qhorin Halfhand. The 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch
The crows wheeled overhead as if in witness, their cries sharp in the frozen air. And far beyond the horizon, in camps and castles both, the world shifted; a song's tune was slowly and forcibly changing.
Qhorin looked in the distance, mantle and coat of his new position heavy on his shoulders, and with the cheers of his supporters in the background, he caught it, a giant bolt of blue lightning somewhere in the frost fangs.