94(2): The Son of Ice and Fire, A Brother of the Night's Watch

Edmure woke to muffled voices and the distant crackle of a fire. He blinked blearily, the room’s dim light swimming before him, his thoughts fragmented and hollow. He tried to sit up, but his body refused to obey. Pain shot through him—sharp, relentless.

“Rest, young Tully,” came an old, gentle voice.

Edmure complied without argument, sinking back onto the frigid surface. Darkness swept over him again, dragging him down into uneasy sleep. He drifted in and out of consciousness, his surroundings dissolving into a haze of half-formed images and half-heard whispers. The forest haunted him—its lifeless trees, the eerie blue eyes of the dead—alongside the memory of Marq’s fate. He heard the screams echoing, as if carried by a distant wind, saw the nightmare of his friend being torn apart, and felt the horror etched into his very bones.

“Marq,” he murmured softly, voice cracking with grief.

The thought of his friend’s name sent a jolt through him, bringing the scene back in horrifying detail. He clenched his eyes shut, willing the images to fade, but they clung to his mind like stubborn shadows.

He startled awake once more, this time fully aware. His heart pounded as he surveyed the chamber. The walls, fashioned from black wood and cold stone, seemed to close in around him. A small fire crackled in a wall-mounted hearth, dancing shadows licking at the dark corners.

“You’re awake,” said a nervous voice, breaking his reverie.

Edmure turned to see a pudgy, awkward young man standing beside the bed—Samwell Tarly. He recognized him after a moment’s hesitation.

“I… I…” Edmure rasped, his throat parched. “Water.”

“Yes, of course!” Samwell said, fumbling as he poured a cup. His hands shook as he offered it to Edmure, who drank greedily, the cool liquid soothing his aching throat.

“How long?” Edmure managed weakly.

“Two weeks,” Samwell replied. “Maester Aemon thought you were dead when Qhorin and the others brought you back.”

“Qhorin…” Edmure’s voice trailed off. “So they survived?”

Samwell nodded, relief shining in his eyes. “They did. They carried you here, though you were barely breathing. Maester Aemon did everything he could.”

Samwell suddenly seemed self-conscious, swallowing nervously. “I…I must inform Maester Aemon and the Lord Commander. They’ll want to know you’re awake.”

With that, he hurried out, his footsteps echoing after the heavy thud of the door. Edmure was alone once more. He leaned back into the furs, trying to savor a moment’s peace, but peace would not come. The dead men’s faces flickered behind his eyelids—their awful blue eyes, their hungry stares. He saw Marq again, screaming, torn apart in a frenzy of snarls and snapping jaws. The memory was so visceral he imagined he could still hear the crunch of bone.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “No, it was just a dream.”

He forced himself to speak aloud, as if words could banish the visions. “Wildlings attacked us… Yes, wildlings. Wildlings killed Marq.” But the truth clawed at him, refusing to be silenced.

The door creaked open again, and Edmure looked up to find Lord Commander Torhen Pyke entering. The man crossed his arms and regarded Edmure with a calm, discerning gaze and took a seat beside the bed.

“You’re awake,” Pyke said simply.

“Yes,” Edmure replied, his voice still raw.

“What happened?” the Lord Commander pressed, his tone measured but insistent.

Edmure hesitated. He remembered the lifeless eyes, the horrors he had witnessed. Would Pyke believe him? The truth seemed too monstrous to say aloud. He buried it deep, grasping for a more believable lie.

“Wildlings,” he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “They…ambushed us.”

Pyke leaned forward, his sharp eyes weighing the words. Silence stretched between them, as tense as a drawn bowstring.

“Wildlings,” Pyke repeated finally.

Edmure seized the opening. “Yes,” he said quickly. “A sudden storm blinded us even Maron was surprised. They used it to their advantage.”

Pyke’s stare remained steady, searching for cracks in Edmure’s story. Finally, he nodded. “Qhorin reported dead wildlings near where you were found. You fought well for a one-armed man.”

Edmure looked down, unable to face the Lord Commander’s scrutiny. The memory of Marq’s final moments gnawed at his gut. He forced down a surge of nausea.

“I tried,” he said softly.

Pyke inclined his head, a near-acknowledgment. “You did,” he said, the faintest note of approval in his voice.

A brittle silence settled. Only the fire’s quiet crackling offered any comfort. Pyke shifted, as though wrestling with his own thoughts.

“The war in the south is over,” he said at last, voice flat.

Edmure’s heart clenched. He turned his head, the question forming before he even spoke it. “Who…?”

Pyke gave a short, humorless laugh. “One king had a dragon, the other did not. You know the answer.”

Edmure swallowed hard, eyes closing. He let the truth sink in. The thought of the usurper claiming victory left a bitter taste in his mouth—a mixture of relief that the bloodshed had ended, and sorrow for all that was lost.

Pyke cleared his throat. “We have a lot of new brothers now—many of noble birth. The new king has been carving up Westeros and sending whoever he doesn’t need straight to us.”

“Who?” Edmure asked, curiosity and dread commingling.

Pyke stood, shaking out his cloak as though brushing off unwanted burdens. “See for yourself,” he said, gesturing to the door. “They’re here until they swear their vows. You may recognize some.”

With that, the Lord Commander left, the door closing behind him. Edmure remained where he was, alone and troubled. He stared into the fire’s wavering glow, haunted by the past and uncertain of the future.

=====

Edmure stepped out of the dim chamber where he had spent the last two weeks recovering. The cold air of Castle Black greeted him, sharp and bracing, slicing through his lingering exhaustion. He inhaled deeply, the chill biting at his lungs. The castle was far busier than he remembered—its halls and courtyards now thronged with unfamiliar faces.

From his vantage point, he saw the courtyard below thick with men, some he recognized, many he did not.

“Lord Edmure,” a voice called, drawing his attention. He turned to see Ser William, a knight who had once served House Tully. A rare smile crossed the knight’s face, genuine relief shining there.

“Ser William,” Edmure said, allowing himself a faint, warm smile in return.

William approached, his stride hurried, his words earnest. “My lord, it’s good to see you awake. We feared the worst when they brought you in.”

The mention of his old title tightened Edmure’s chest, and the smile on his lips receded. “I’m no lord anymore, William.” His gaze drifted over the bustling courtyard. “I see we have new recruits.”

William’s face grew more somber, and he lowered his voice. “The king… King Aegon is dead,” he said quietly.

“Yes, the Lord Commander told me,” Edmure said, his tone subdued.

William’s eyes swept the crowd, settling on a gathering of newcomers by the barracks. “Many are from the Reach, the Stormlands, even Dorne. The usurper has stripped the noble houses of their lords and heirs, sending them all here.”

Edmure’s brow creased. His gaze roamed the yard until it fell upon a familiar figure standing rigidly amid a cluster of men. His heart jolted. “Is that… Lord Tarly?” he asked under his breath.

William followed his line of sight and nodded grimly. “Yes. And there are others, my lord. Word is the Reach itself has been split in two.”

“What?” The word burst from Edmure before he could stifle it. The idea unsettled him. To carve up the Reach—what had the usurper done?

William shrugged, offering only uncertainty. “I don’t know the details, but that’s what people say.”

Edmure pressed his lips into a thin line and exhaled, the steam of his breath mingling with the courtyard’s chilly air. “We’ll talk later, William,” he said, stepping forward, his eyes fixed on Randyll Tarly.

He threaded through the crowded yard, dodging men hurrying about their duties. The clank of steel, the bark of orders, and the quiet chatter of new recruits enveloped him. Snow crunched underfoot as he wove through the throng, the pale winter sun casting elongated shadows across the courtyard. Smoke drifted from chimneys, blending with the crisp scent of damp leather and sweat.

Randyll Tarly stood out even in the plain black garb of the Night’s Watch. He carried himself with the same iron will that had once commanded fear and respect in the Reach. His weathered face, stark and unforgiving, looked as though it had been chiseled from stone.

Edmure’s gaze shifted to Samwell Tarly, who stood awkwardly nearby. The younger Tarly’s head was bowed, shoulders hunched, as his father’s voice rang out, sharp as a drawn blade.

“You are a disgrace,” Randyll snarled, his words cutting through the cold air. “Even here, you find a way to shame yourself. Look at you—barely fit to hold a sword.”

Edmure’s thoughts drifted back to old rumors: that Randyll Tarly had exiled his eldest son to the Wall so that the younger could inherit Horn Hill. It had been whispered about at the Red Keep. Now, father and son stood reunited, both sworn to black.

To Edmure’s quiet surprise, Samwell did not wither before his father’s wrath. Though his voice quivered slightly, there was a quiet resolve in it. “I am doing my duty, Father,” Samwell said, his words measured but firm. “We are both brothers of the Watch now.”

Randyll’s glare hardened, his sneer carving deeper lines into his face. “You and I are not the same,” he snapped. “You are nothing, boy. A stain on the Tarly name.”

Samwell’s fists clenched at his sides, but he did not strike back. Instead, he turned and stalked away, anger and hurt mingling in his tense shoulders. Edmure stepped aside to let him pass, watching the younger man disappear into the crowd, impressed by his restraint and quietly pitying him.

Turning his attention back to Randyll, Edmure caught the older man’s eye. Randyll acknowledged him with a curt nod, his gaze sharp. “Tully.”

“Tarly,” Edmure responded, voice carefully neutral.

Randyll exhaled, his features shifting to something bleak. “He won,” he said abruptly, his tone heavy with disdain. After a brief pause, he added, “A dragon. He had a bloody dragon.”

Edmure nodded. “Yes, I know. He visited me after my defeat.”

“The realm is his,” Randyll said bitterly. “He’s reshaped it to his liking, cared nothing for the ancient boundaries—those that stood since the days of Garth Greenhand.”

Edmure’s jaw tightened. He thought of Riverrun, wrenched from his grasp. “Yes… he took Riverrun from me,” he said quietly. “Tell me—who is now the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands? Mooton, that traitor? Or is it Blackwood or Mallister?”

Randall let out a laugh devoid of any mirth. “You don’t know?” he asked, voice heavy with bitterness.

“What?” Edmure’s tone was wary, a creeping sense of dread tugging at him.

“The Riverlands are no more,” Randall said flatly.

Edmure’s heart seemed to stop. He took a step forward, his brow knitting together. “What do you mean?” he asked quietly, as if afraid to hear the answer.

“Our new king,” Randall spat, as though the title itself were foul, “has annexed the Riverlands into the Crownlands.”

Edmure staggered back, shock draining the color from his face. His mouth opened, but no words emerged. His hands shook as the enormity of Randall’s statement sank in.

“And the Stormlands,” Randall added, his voice grim. “Two ancient kingdoms, gone.”

Edmure struggled to breathe. The sheer audacity of the usurper was beyond imagining. He swallowed hard, forcing out a trembling question: “Surely the lords are angry. They must be furious—his allies too!”

Randall shook his head, a sardonic twist to his lips. “If they were, I saw no sign of it before I left the capital. Perhaps they grumble behind closed doors, but none dare raise their voices or banners.”

Desperation crept into Edmure’s voice. “What of the Baratheons?”

Randall’s gaze hardened. “The Baratheons are gone, Tully. Stannis, his son—gone. Only his daughter remains.”

Edmure’s mind reeled, struggling to absorb one catastrophic revelation after another.

“The Kingdom of the Heartlands,” Randall continued, voice cold. “That’s what the usurper calls it now. A single realm, spanning from the Neck to the Dornish Marches. A kingdom for the dragons, mightier than any before.”

Edmure drew a shaky breath. The world he knew was vanishing beneath his feet. “And the Reach?” he asked, fearing the answer.

Randall barked another humorless laugh. “The Reach is carved in two. The Florents rule the Mander, the Hightowers the southern Reach.”

Edmure could scarcely comprehend the scale and totality of Maekar’s victory. Everything had changed.

“He broke the Reach apart,” Randall said quietly. “He gutted its noble houses and placed his pawns where he pleased. The Tyrells have nothing. The Fossoways, the Peakes—all gone.”

The older man’s face twisted with bitterness. “And here we are, Tully. Useless lords in black, stripped of our lands, our power…everything.”

His voice sank lower, seething with resentment. “The only thing that keeps me alive, that keeps me sane, is the hope that someday it all collapses on him. That the lords will rise. Not even his dragon can quell that.”

A spark of defiance lit in Edmure’s chest. ““I hope the worst for him as well,” he said quietly.

Randall studied him for a moment, his hard expression softening just a shade. “Come, Tully,” he said gruffly. “Show me around this hellhole. And tell me about the attack you survived.”

Edmure nodded mutely, his mind still whirling with all he had learned, as he led Randall Tarly across the courtyard and deeper into the heart of Castle Black.

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Three Months Later

Edmure woke with a start, breath coming in ragged gasps. His nights had been plagued by relentless nightmares for months, each one conjuring Marq’s agonized face and the terrible vision of the dead tearing him apart. 

Pressing a trembling hand to his sweat-damp forehead, he sat on the edge of his cot.

“They’re just dreams,” he murmured, voice shaking. “Wildlings. That’s all it was.”

He repeated the words like a prayer, desperate to banish the lingering horror that clung to him like frost. Yet a part of him knew better. The alternative—that the dead truly walked—was too dreadful to contemplate. He shoved the thought aside, rose from his chilly cot, and felt the stone floor’s bite against his bare feet.

He dressed swiftly, pulling on the black woolen cloak that marked him as a brother of the Night’s Watch. His left arm, or what remained of it, gave a familiar ache as he adjusted the cloak. Even now, the phantom limb felt the ghostly touch of the cold air.

The past three months at Castle Black had been grueling. The sudden influx of recruits—lords, knights, and criminals alike—strained its resources to the limit. Many had been dispersed to Eastwatch and other castles along the Wall; Castle Black could not shelter them all.

For Edmure, ceaseless work was a welcome distraction. Whispers of a great ranging had grown louder, and Lord Commander Pyke seemed more determined than ever to strike back at the wildlings. Edmure threw himself into these preparations, driven by the hope that the expedition might deliver some measure of peace—or vengeance. His dreams of Marq’s death fueled his resolve, the memory of his friend’s screams cutting deeper than any blade.

Later that day, Edmure sat in the crowded great hall. The long chamber, lit by flickering torches, buzzed with the low hum of conversation. All talk ceased when Lord Commander Pyke stood at the head of the table, his gaze sweeping the room, demanding attention.

“The time has come,” Pyke began, his gravelly voice carrying easily. “We cannot sit idle and wait for another attack. The wildlings grow bolder, and rumor says Mance Rayder is uniting them. If we do nothing, we face a threat greater than any we have ever known.”

A nervous murmuring rippled through the brothers. Pyke raised a hand to still it. “Ranging parties vanish, and the last to return came back in pieces. Enough. We must act.”

A few younger brothers cheered, emboldened by the Lord Commander’s resolve. Edmure spotted Randall Tarly among them, silent and stony-faced.

Pyke’s voice resonated through the hall. “We march in one month. We will push deep into the lands beyond the Wall, learn what happened to our missing brothers, discover the truth of these wildling rumors, and prepare ourselves. This will not be easy. Some of us may not return. But we are the shield that guards the realms of men, and we will do our duty.”

Another round of cheers rose—this time quieter, more somber. When the meeting ended, Edmure joined the flow of brothers heading out. Randall Tarly fell into step beside him, his expression grim as ever.

Together, they ascended the lift to the top of the Wall. The icy wind howled around them, cutting through their cloaks. When they reached the summit, the view stretched endlessly: an expanse of white to the north, sky and snow merging at the horizon. The Haunted Forest lay like a dark stain against the pristine emptiness. To the south, the Gift sprawled in gentle plains and hills, its distant homesteads trailing faint plumes of smoke.

The Wall’s icy surface gleamed in the weak sunlight, and Edmure again felt the crushing sense of insignificance at the edge of the world.

“It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?” Randall’s voice was low, almost reverent.

Edmure nodded, eyes fixed on the distant treeline. Randall shifted slightly, and Edmure’s gaze fell upon Heartsbane—the Valyrian steel blade catching the pale light, its dark ripples like captured shadows.

“Why bring Heartsbane?” Edmure asked softly. “I thought you would leave it to your heir.”

Randall’s lips twisted into a bitter smile, his eyes never leaving the northern wastes. “Our new king insisted,” he said, voice thick with sarcasm. “Better it serve here, he said. Perhaps a final humiliation—my house and my sword taken in one stroke, doomed to be lost when I die in this savage land.”

Edmure said nothing. He turned back to the horizon, where memories of blue-eyed horrors stirred. He clenched his gloved fist, trembling slightly. He did not want to go beyond the Wall again. Fear gnawed at him, a cold, relentless presence at the pit of his stomach.

He was afraid.

He was terrified.