TBOV: INTERLUDE: Northern Affairs

INTERLUDE: Northern Affairs

“Ygritte: I hate this Wall. Can you feel how cold it is?

Jon: It's made of ice.

Ygritte: You know nothing, Jon Snow. This wall is made o' blood.”

―Ygritte and Jon Snow

…

Emory Celtigar arrived at Seagard on a blustery afternoon. The sea along the coast had churned itself into a froth beneath low, leaden clouds, and his carrack had rocked alarmingly as it sought berth in the newly dredged harbor. He endured the voyage in composure; such journeys had grown familiar since Prince Aemond first charged him with auditing the Crown’s many projects across Westeros. This time, however, even the seasoned Celtigar found himself intrigued by the scale of the enterprise in Seagard.

He disembarked with measured steps, boots scraping on a hastily repaired jetty where dock workers, clothed in splotched homespun, labored at reinforcing wooden pylons. The brine-heavy wind whipped his black cloak around him, revealing the faint gold piping marking his rank. Red Cloaks stood guard at intervals—grim sentinels posted by the Good Prince to safeguard these budding trade routes. Their presence lent a hush to the dockside clamor; the local fisherfolk cast wary glances at their bright steel half-armors and short spears.

Celtigar inclined his head to the waiting official, a stooped man introduced as Maester Falwell, steward to Lord Mallister. Falwell bowed stiffly. “Welcome, Master Auditor. I trust your journey was tolerable.”

“As tolerable as might be expected,” Celtigar responded, voice cool, yet not unkind. He could sense the tension in the crisp air—this project was rumored to be as ambitious as the famed blockade of the Stepstones. And just like that one, it would not succeed without a firm grip on local politics, on House Mallister’s cooperation.

He followed Falwell inland, the harbor quickly giving way to freshly graded earthworks. Already, a wide, packed road stretched eastward toward the Blue Fork—a new artery meant to bear goods from the Iron Isles across the Riverlands and, ultimately, into the Bay of Crabs. Celtigar observed wagons bearing loads of timber, iron rivets, and earthen mortar. Teams of thralls—Essosi prisoners of war or criminally indentured souls—dug drainage ditches under the watchful eye of Red Cloaks. The muddy windbreaks glimmered with half-embedded stones. The entire effort reminded him of a tapestry half-finished, each thread reliant on the next, unraveling if left undone.

At an improvised checkpoint, where the road forked toward the open farmland, a short, broad-shouldered knight in Mallister livery awaited them. “Ser Durran Mallister,” the man introduced himself, doffing his helm. “Lord Jason Mallister’s cousin and castellan in this region. I hear you’ve come to ensure the Crown’s coin is well spent.”

Celtigar offered a courteous nod, scanning the bustling work site. “And to ensure House Mallister is properly rewarded for its cooperation,” he said. “Prince Aemond has much in mind for this region—provided we can complete the harbor expansions, the road linking it to the Blue Fork, and, possibly, a new shipyard.”

Ser Durran nodded. “I’ve never seen so many wagons come through.” A wry smile flickered. “This region’s never lacked for merchants, but now it’s near to bursting.”

They rode onward toward Seagard’s stout curtain walls, passing row upon row of pitched tents and newly raised huts for the labor force. Celtigar noted the crest of House Mallister everywhere—a silver eagle on a field of purple—alongside the red-striped surcoats of the watch. The city itself bustled with merchants hawking salted fish, farmers selling turnips, and foreign traders from Volantis or Dorne, drawn by rumor of fresh profits.

Within the keep’s great hall, Celtigar was ushered to Lord Jason Mallister himself—lean in build, his hawk-like features a testament to his lineage. The lord welcomed Celtigar with a polite flourish. “You come in the prince’s name, Master Celtigar. We stand ready to hear your proposals.”

A steward brought forth a large vellum map depicting the coastline and river tributaries. Celtigar set down his satchel and drew forth the instructions he carried from King’s Landing. The wax seal bore the golden three-headed dragon—Aegon’s signet. “The Crown sees a bolder future for Seagard,” he began. “However, before further investments can be made, the Master of Coin, Prince Aemond, wishes to enlarge the garrison here. In return, House Mallister stands to reap the benefits of protected trade routes and the promise of expanded commerce.”

Lord Jason listened intently, arms crossed, nodding at intervals. Celtigar continued: “A new shipyard to serve the Royal Fleet must rise near the harbor. You would oversee its construction. The Crown will provide the gold via the Dragon’s Bank, the Merchant Guild will supply artisans and engineers, but House Mallister’s cooperation is key. Prince Aemond offers a percentage share of the revenue from docking fees, once the yard is complete.”

A flicker of interest lit Lord Jason’s eyes. “Seagard has never been blind to the opportunity, Master Celtigar. If the Crown’s garrison ensures safety opf our commerce, we will welcome the arrangement.”

Celtigar dipped his head. “Your good Maester, Falwell, and myself shall negotiate on the particulars. You shall have terms in writing by nightfall, my lord.”

With that, Celtigar followed Falwell away to his chamber and they fell into more technical matters—levies, taxes, the proposed timelines, the necessity of stable roads year-round. Celtigar’s quill scratched across parchment, taking note of House Mallister’s requests: a portion of the new shipyard’s slipways dedicated to their own cogs, tax exemptions for local merchants in the first two years, and a guarantee that Mallister knights would join the watch rotations among the Red Cloaks to maintain some measure of local autonomy.

By dusk, Celtigar joined the lord and his family and a dinner was brought—fresh-caught cod, hearty barley bread, and a cask of decent wine. Lord Jason raised his cup in a polite toast. Celtigar reciprocated, a mild smile on his lips. So far, it seemed, everything was going according to plan.

✥✥✥​

Daemon roused himself from fitful half-sleep in the predawn murk, limbs stiff beneath his thin blanket of scratchy wool. Another day, another endless stretch of ice and shame. He groaned softly, bracing his palms against the rough pallet as the horn’s long moan echoed through the fortress. The Wall demanded he rise—always a horn at dawn, and the yard soon after. No matter how cold, or how little rest he’d had.

When he stumbled out into the courtyard, the chill sank claws into him. Dark shapes moved like wraiths—men of the Night’s Watch forming lines beneath the moonlight that bled a pale glow across the frost-crusted snow. The yard reeked of unwashed bodies and stale breath; discipline here came in grim forms: beatings, nights in the ice cells, thrice the labor for men who dared defiance. Daemon knew. He’d felt that discipline upon his face and ribs a dozen times over.

A hoarse voice bawled them to attention. Roll call. One by one, each crow gave his name, or the name he bore now that all else had been stripped away. Daemon bit back the surge of old bitterness as he responded, “Daemon Targaryen.” They told him Targaryen no longer belonged to him, but at the Wall, many men clung to the shards of who they’d been before. Some even took pride in the greatest name they had left. It made no difference. The realm beyond scorned him, and the Watch worked him like a cart-horse, all the same.

The chores followed. Shoveling snow from the ramparts, hauling buckets of slop to the latrines. Then on to the stables to tend the tired old garrons and half-starved horses that minded more the sting of cold than the man who brushed their coats. Daemon did it all with sullen efficiency. Pride had once been his armor, but pride gained you naught here but a bloody mouth.

Soon enough, they were herded into the mess hall—an old stone building that hissed with the steam of cooking fires. Smoke stung Daemon’s eyes as he shuffled in with the other crows for the day’s first meal. Gruel, watery and limp, accompanied by rock-hard bread and a thin slice of salted mutton if fortune smiled. He took his portion, found a seat at one of the worn trestle tables, and tried not to dwell on the memory of royal feasts or the succulent roasts of King’s Landing.

Conversation flared around him: men complaining of the cold, of the poor rations, of their nightmares. But one chatter from the next table over caught his notice—a cluster of black-bundled recruits jostled and snickered, praising the Good Prince Aemond. A bright-eyed youth was recounting the rumor that Aemond had ordered the refurbishment of the Nightfort and every other abandoned castle along the Wall. They laughed in wonder at the notion, comparing the One-eyed Bastard to Bran the Builder, who, in myth, raised the Wall itself. A second man, older, chimed in to voice a half-drunken claim that Aemond might be the Last Hero reborn. Daemon had heard that before. In his memories, others had cited Symeon Star-Eyes with his sapphire eyes or Azor Ahai the saviour, spinning half-mad legends of how Aemond commanded direwolves from the depths of the Wolfswood. Fools and liars, the lot of them. Daemon bit down on the inside of his cheek—he knew the man they spoke of, and there was no magic in that cold, calculating eye. Only cunning. Only cruelty.

Across from Daemon, an Essosi pressed his fists into the tabletop. He was a short, wiry fellow with a mottled scar along his jaw—reportedly a sailor who fought at the Stepstones and lost. That was how he’d ended here. The man’s face twisted at the mention of Aemond’s name. “Dogs,” Daemon heard him snarl. “That lizard is no savior. He’s the reason half of us freeze in the dark.” Then came the retort from the far side: “Careful, whore, or you’ll catch a beating.” A threat that only hardened the Essosi’s glare.

Daemon stilled, spoon halfway to his lips. He knew the shape of what would come next—he had felt it in his own battered ribs months ago, soon after he arrived. Back then, the merest mention of Aemond’s ‘glories’ had driven Daemon to seethe, to lash out, to try and prove how the “One-Eyed Butcher” was no more than a grasping thief. He’d been repaid with savage fists and boots until he couldn’t stand. The memory made him stiffen, every bruise and scar throbbing in recollection.

Across the hall, curses erupted. The Essosi lunged up, hurling a tin cup at the group praising he bastard. A scramble ensued—threats, fists, overturned benches. An older watchmen dove in, seizing the Essosi by the arms. Someone pinned him against a barrel. His attacker, a black-haired youth who called himself Tasper, swung a meaty fist into the Essosi’s gut. The scuffle only broke apart when the duty officer stormed in and ordered them all to stand down under threat of lashings.

Daemon lowered his gaze, feigning indifference. He recognized the quiet, vengeful anger behind Tasper’s eyes. The Essosi had made a fatal error: insulting the man so many of these crows now revered as a near-legend. Later, behind some corner or in a dark corridor, a half-dozen black-bundled shapes would ensure the he learned submission. Daemon had learned it; it had cost him dear. Now, he simply stared into his gritty gruel.

The call to muster for morning patrols echoed. Daemon rose from his seat, ignoring the lingering tension. He joined the line of rangers assembling in the courtyard, men with patched furs and dull steel. He’d been assigned to these outings almost from the start—an implicit punishment, he knew. Let him freeze, let him face the wildlings, let him battle the threat of shadowcats and giant rumors. If he died, so much the better. If he survived, so be it. The Crown’s thralls or the Watch’s criminals—they were the same here, all crows in black.

He marched with the others to the stables, stamping numb feet against the ground. The Wall loomed overhead, a colossal stretch of ice and ancient stone. Daemon glimpsed the top through swirling flurries, its ramparts swallowing the sky. There’d been times, more than once, he’d stared over the edge and considered the leap. But even that felt like a coward’s end. He refused to grant Aemond that final satisfaction—knowing Daemon Targaryen flung himself to the ground in despair.

Soon enough, he found himself astride a placid mare with sullen eyes. The ranger captain shouted them forward, and Daemon’s group trotted out the main gate, leaving behind the cramped courtyard and the bickering men. The cold air slapped his cheeks like a warning. They moved into the vast whiteness beyond, past leafless trees and jagged hills of ice.

As the Wall receded behind him, Daemon felt his mind churn with resentment and regret. The realm had cast him aside in some twisted mercy—Aemond, ironically, was to thank for his continued existence. His father was dust. His daughters, his sons, his beloved—seven hells, he missed them. For their sake, he lived. For his own sake, he endured. Here, the days blurred into chores and half-frozen drudgery. The nights were bleak, reeking of sweat and fear.

Still, the name “Aemond” haunted him, whispered from every corner: the men praising the expansions, the watchers lauding new growth in the freezing North, the seething prisoners cursing the Butcher Prince. And he, Daemon, had no recourse but to swallow his fury and keep breathing. The snows drifted deeper, flanking the narrow path, as the ranger party pressed north. Daemon kept his head bowed, the wind snatching the warmth from his lungs. Another day in this living oblivion. Another day stolen from what might have been.

He had once soared on dragonback over the skies of these lands. Now, his life was a tangle of harsh winters, stale rations, watchful foes, and a chain of shame that held him here as securely as any iron collar. The new men of the Watch had no notion of his storied past, nor did they care. To them, he was only another reprobate in black. And so he let them believe. Bitter though it might be, he’d learned the price of defiance.

No matter how far he rode, how deep the forest grew, how distant the wind’s howl, the memory of Aemond Targaryen followed like a curse. He could feel it even here, in the hush of the wild, as if the entire North had become a stage for the prince’s ambition. And Daemon’s role was that of a condemned player, forced to trudge through these final acts until the curtain fell.

But if the gods were just—if any sliver of old luck or cunning remained—Daemon prayed he’d find a crack in this world of ice, a chance to be free again, to cast off the shackles of shame that strangled him. Until then, he would endure. He had no other choice.