94(1): The Son of Ice and Fire, A Brother of the Night's Watch

This is the first part of this chapter.

Beginning of a new arc.

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Edmure stood before the sept in Castle Black, his breath misting in the cold air. The bitter chill of the Wall felt sharper today, or perhaps it was simply the sense of finality in what he was about to say. The sept was simple: wooden walls, a stone altar, and the flickering glow of a few candles lending it a solemn hush.

He cleared his throat, the heavy weight of his life and failures pressing on him as he began his vows, repeating them with the other recruits. His voice was low and sad, each word echoing in his heart, each syllable a reminder of all he had lost.

"Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

His voice wavered at the end, the last words escaping in a near-whisper. His eyes were moist with tears he would not allow to fall.

The words of the usurper still rang in his mind. You are to be the last of the Tullys the usurper had said. He had begged for mercy, begged that his sister’s children might take Riverrun—no matter if they bore the name Stark or Arryn—but the usurper had only laughed and claimed Riverrun for himself. He left Edmure with nothing but shame and a black cloak.

The vows were complete. They were brothers of the Night’s Watch now.

Edmure moved out of the sept with the others. As they headed toward the walls of Castle Black, Edward Flint, an older member of the Watch, approached him.

"The Lord Commander has asked to see you in his solar," Flint said, his face lined and serious, like everything else in this harsh land.

Edmure nodded, though uncertainty churned in his stomach. "Very well."

Beside him, Marq Piper frowned. "Why does the Lord Commander want to see you, Edmure?"

"Who knows?" Edmure replied, forcing a hollow smile. "What can a one-handed man do in this frozen hell, anyway?" His tone was bitter, and he eyed the stump of his left arm, barely concealed by his thick cloak.

Marq puffed out his chest. "Well, I plan to be a ranger. It’s not fitting for a knight to swing a hammer as a builder."

A gravelly laugh rose from an older watchman passing by. "A brother of the Watch is no knight anymore," the man said with a harsh smirk. "Your old titles mean nothing here, lad."

Marq scowled, pride wounded. He opened his mouth to retort, but Edmure raised an arm, halting him. "Let it go, Marq," he said quietly.

The old man was right. Edmure was no longer Lord Tully of Riverrun, heir to an ancient and honorable line. He was simply Edmure Tully, a man in black, a brother of the Night’s Watch, with no claim and no title. Perhaps that was what he deserved.

They trudged through the biting cold, the wind whipping across the Wall. The courtyard was busy, even in the dim afternoon light. Brothers hurried about, tending chores, maintaining weapons, sharpening blades, stacking crates of supplies. Castle Black itself was a cluster of old, cold stone towers, but Edmure was surprised by how well maintained it all seemed.

Everything was cared for, the walls and storehouses stocked—starkly different from the tales he’d heard of a neglected Watch in his youth. He had expected decay and despair. Instead, the Watch, though harsh and cold, carried a grim pride and discipline.

Edmure silently offered a prayer to King Rhaegar, the "fool king," as some had named him, who had been obsessed with the Night’s Watch. Edmure himself had once dismissed the importance of the distant Wall, but now, as he passed through a well-stocked keep, he silently thanked the late king from the bottom of his heart.

Following Edward Flint, he made his way toward the Lord Commander’s tower. Snow crunched underfoot, and he was grateful, at least, to be in the company of friends from the riverlands. He was not alone in his new life here.

Reaching the narrow corridors that led to the Lord Commander’s solar, he was more troubled by his phantom limb than by the cold. He could swear he still felt the weight of the arm he no longer had—fingers tingling, an ache like a ghost clinging to him. He rubbed his stump absently, trying to shake off the unsettling feeling.

When Edmure arrived at the solar, he paused, noticing a frail old man in simple black robes—Maester Aemon, pale and blind—and at his side the round-faced Samwell Tarly, who offered the ancient maester his arm and told who was around him.

"Brother Tully," Aemon greeted warmly, his thin voice kind.

"Maester Aemon," Edmure answered, bowing slightly to the old Targaryen.

Aemon tilted his head, sightless eyes fixed in Edmure’s direction.

"Any word from the south?" Edmure asked, hesitant but hopeful after weeks of silence.

Aemon let out a faint chuckle. "You ask if my kin have ceased their fighting, young Tully?"

Edmure pressed his lips together, unsure how to respond.

Aemon’s humor faded. "No," he said at last, voice quiet. "No word. I believe we are being kept in the dark."

The implications chilled Edmure more than the northern wind. After a pause, he asked, "How do you feel about the war, Maester Aemon, about the usurper?"

"Maekar?" Aemon echoed, tilting his head thoughtfully. "Ah, my father's namesake, the boy who has turned the Seven Kingdoms upside down."

"Yes," Edmure said softly, "Maekar."

Aemon fell silent, as if listening to distant whispers. "I know not what to feel," he said finally. "How can one know who is truly right? My heart goes to both sides, and yet to neither."

Edmure clenched his jaw, passion breaking through his despair. "Aegon is the rightful king. He was the heir."

"Was he?" Aemon asked, voice contemplative. "Then why did so many side with Maekar? There must have been a reason."

"Because Maekar had a dragon," Edmure said bitterly.

Aemon smiled faintly. "Yes, the dragon. Perhaps that was reason enough. But a dragon only carries one so far. The wounds of rebellion have never fully healed, young Tully." His voice softened, sadness creeping in. "Rhaegar sowed the seeds long before Maekar claimed the throne."

Edmure had no reply. There was nothing to say.

Aemon nodded toward the door. "Do not keep Lord Commander Pyke waiting. He is not known for his patience."

"Thank you, Maester Aemon," Edmure said, bowing once more.

"Go on," Aemon urged gently, a smile in his tone. "May the gods be with you, young Tully."

With that, Edmure turned away, leaving the ancient maester behind and stepping into the Lord Commander’s solar.

He stepped inside, finding the room sparsely furnished—bare wood, an old desk, shelves stacked with scrolls, and a single chair near a small, flickering hearth. The smell of smoke and old parchment filled the air. Behind the desk sat Lord Commander Torrhen Pyke: stoic, with sharp, hard features. Rumor had it he was the bastard son of Lord Drumm and a Northern woman. His eyes were like chips of flint, his hair gray and cropped close. He was a formidable warrior, sent to the Wall as punishment for fighting on the wrong side during Robert’s Rebellion.

Like me.

“Ah, Brother Edmure,” Pyke said as he looked up, his gruff voice filling the room.

Edmure paused. The title sounded strange to his ears. He forced himself to nod. “Lord Commander,” he said.

“Sit, sit,” Pyke urged, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.

Edmure obeyed, settling into the worn wood. Pyke reached beneath the desk, pulling out a small flask and two cups. He poured a measure of liquor into each cup and slid one toward Edmure. “My hidden stash,” Pyke said, a rare, fleeting smile on his lips. “Something to warm the bones.”

Edmure accepted the cup gratefully. The strong liquor burned in a way that was almost comforting. He raised it slightly in thanks before taking a drink, feeling the warmth spread through his chest.

“Thank you, Lord Commander,” Edmure said quietly.

“How’s your arm?” Pyke asked.

Edmure glanced at the stump of his left arm, flexing instinctively. He offered a half-smile. “I still have my sword arm, Lord Commander.”

Pyke nodded, as though weighing his words. He leaned back in his chair, studying Edmure with those hard, flinty eyes. “Have you thought about where you fit in the Watch? We have a need for stewards, you know.”

A spark of anger flared in Edmure’s chest, and he clenched his jaw. “No,” he replied firmly, his voice rough. “I want to be a ranger.”

Pyke tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “You have only one arm, Edmure.”

Edmure met his gaze, defiance clear. “Qhorin Halfhand has but a thumb on his bad arm, yet he’s the best we have. He and I are not so different.”

The Lord Commander regarded him for a moment before giving a rare, fleeting smile. “Good. I’m planning a short ranging next week. It’ll be about ten days—a test for some of the new brothers.”

Edmure’s heartbeat quickened. “I want to go,” he said, determined.

Pyke nodded, his smile fading into a more serious expression. “Fine. You’ll go. Consider this your chance to prove yourself—to show you have what it takes to be a ranger. It’s not a title given lightly.”

Edmure straightened, a familiar pride welling within him. “I am a Tully, lord of…” He stopped himself, faltering.

“Of nothing,” Pyke said quietly, without cruelty. “A Tully, yes. But here, we are all brothers—nothing more, nothing less.”

Edmure swallowed hard and nodded. He needed to accept this new reality. Perhaps proving himself in the field would help him do just that.

Pyke leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. “Let me tell you what’s happening beyond the Wall.”

Edmure’s brow furrowed, his focus sharpening. “The Wildlings invaded, didn’t they? With help from the Ironborn?”

Pyke nodded. “Aye, my predecessor lost his life dealing with that. But what you heard was only the start. It was just two clans, among the worst of the Wildlings—and there are many more.”

“More?” Edmure asked, frowning.

Pyke held his gaze. “Mance Rayder, a former brother of the Night’s Watch, is gathering followers. Clans are flocking to him.”

“Mance Rayder?” Edmure repeated. “Has he declared himself king beyond the Wall, then?”

Pyke shook his head slightly. “Not yet. The Wildlings don’t bend easily or perhaps they don't bend at all…. They must all agree to name a king. But I suspect it’s coming soon.”

Edmure leaned forward, intrigued. “You know this for certain?”

Pyke sighed, frustration lacing his tone. “I know enough. But I have few details. I’ve sent out small rangings to find him—none have returned.”

A chill ran down Edmure’s spine. “None?” he asked softly. “That’s troubling.”

Pyke’s gaze hardened. “That’s why I’m sending out this next group. It’s not just a patrol—it’s an attempt to learn what happened to those men.”

Edmure let out a dark chuckle. “Sounds like something I’m not going to return from.”

Pyke didn’t flinch, though there was something like pity in his eyes. “That’s why I offered you a way out, Edmure.”

Rising from the chair, Edmure steadied himself. “No,” he said, shaking his head firmly. “I’ll do it.”

Pyke nodded, approval in his eyes. “Good. You’ll be with Qhorin Halfhand’s group—older brothers mixed with new recruits. We’ll see how you fare.”

Edmure nodded his understanding, his heart hammering in his chest. He inclined his head respectfully. “I understand, Lord Commander.”

He made his way to the door and paused at the threshold, his breath catching for a moment before he stepped out into the cold air. His heart felt heavier than ever, but this was his life now—and he would have to grow used to it.

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A week had passed, and Edmure had prepared himself.

The ranging led by Qhorin Halfhand consisted of a mix of seasoned brothers and fresh recruits—men from all walks of life, now united under the black. Most of the new brothers this time were Rivermen, survivors of the battle Edmure himself had led. Some blamed him for their losses, others did not. Some still respected his former title, others spat at it.

They set out at dawn, the Wall towering behind them like a colossal pillar of ice that stretched into the very heavens. The wind howled as they passed through the tunnel, Qhorin at their head. The older men moved with surety, their breaths steady and measured, while the newer recruits hesitated, eyes widening as they stepped beyond that massive barrier into the savage lands beyond.

Edmure paused as he set his foot on the far side of the Wall. He felt the cold bite immediately, as if this place itself sought to repel him, to drive him back behind the safety of stone and ice. He took a deep breath, the chill filling his lungs, and thought: On to the savage lands. There was no turning back now. He fell in with the rest, glancing back once more at the looming, icy monolith.

The land beyond the Wall was bleak, desolate, and almost unnervingly still. Snow covered everything, a thick, unbroken blanket that crunched beneath their boots. The relentless cold cut through even their heavy cloaks, numbing hands and feet. Overhead, a low sky of uniform gray blended with the horizon, casting a pall over the barren landscape. The wind never ceased its mournful wail, a low, haunting note that seemed to rise from the earth itself.

Qhorin led them with unwavering confidence, scanning the horizon with eyes that had done this a thousand times before. The older brothers followed, wary and tense. They knew these lands well—knew the hidden pitfalls under the snow and the treacherous patches of thin ice concealing icy water below.

Edmure walked beside Marq Piper, who glanced around uneasily. "I once thought tales of this place were exaggerated," Marq murmured, his breath fogging in front of him. "But this, Edmure… this is beyond anything I imagined."

Edmure only nodded. He had heard the stories all his life—giants, ice spiders large as hounds, mammoths, and savage Wildlings. Now, every whispered legend felt close, lurking at the edge of his vision as they marched across the endless white.

As the day wore on, the landscape shifted. Dark, towering trees of the Haunted Forest rose around them. The twisted branches were bare and black against the gray sky. The forest pressed in, trunks ancient and scarred, creating an uneasy hush. Each step deeper into its heart heightened their apprehension, the trees seeming to reach for them with skeletal fingers.

Qhorin raised a hand, and they halted. He turned to face the men, grim-faced. "This is where the last ranging was seen. Somewhere in this forest, our brothers vanished."

Edmure peered into the gloom. The silence pressed against his ears, broken only by the wind sighing through the branches.

Qhorin’s gaze swept over them. "We move carefully from here. Stay close. Keep your eyes open. If anything moves—anything at all—I want to know about it."

They continued forward, and with each step, Edmure’s unease deepened.

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They must have trekked for hours through the Haunted Forest when Qhorin gave the order to split up. He selected Maron Sand, a seasoned ranger known for his calm demeanor and keen eyesight, to lead the second group. Qhorin would lead one party, Maron the other. Edmure found himself with Maron’s group, Marq Piper at his side, along with a handful of rangers both new and old.

The forest grew darker, colder, and the men drew nearer to each other, alert to every shifting shadow. The wind rattled the bare treetops, a low whisper from all directions at once.

"Tell me, Ser Tully," a younger brother named Raff called out, his breath misting in the bitter air, "is it true? Was there really a dragon in the south?"

Edmure tightened his cloak, the chill gnawing at his bones. He glanced at Raff, brow creased. "Yes," he said, voice barely louder than the wind. "There was a dragon. I saw it myself."

Eyes widened among the men. "A real dragon," Raff murmured, as if testing the words on his tongue. "My pa told me they was gone centuries ago."

Edmure was about to respond when he felt it—a chill deeper than even the northern cold. It invaded his bones, every breath turning painful. His fingers began to numb inside his gloves.

"What is this?" Maron Sand muttered, scanning the surroundings, his breath a series of sharp puffs. The men slowed, confusion and unease rippling through them. Older brothers narrowed their eyes, hands drifting to weapon hilts.

The wind rose suddenly, howling through the trees, flinging snow into their faces. Visibility plummeted. Maron turned, shouting over the roar. "Form a circle! Stay close together!"

They struggled to comply, each man trying to keep sight of his brothers as the wind whipped them mercilessly. Edmure’s heart thundered in his ears as he braced himself against the gale, squinting into the swirling white.

Something dark caught his eye, half-buried in the snow. He edged toward it, pulse quickening. As he reached it, his blood turned to ice. A face—pale, lifeless—stared sightlessly up at him. A man’s face, eyes wide with terror, mouth frozen open.

"Bodies!" Edmure shouted, voice cracking as he pointed. "There are bodies here!"

The others turned, following Edmure’s gesture. One by one, they saw more: corpses scattered across the clearing, half-hidden by the snow. Some wore the rough furs of Wildlings, others the black of the Watch. All were arranged in a pattern, their limbs twisted and posed in a way that made Edmure’s stomach churn.

"What in the seven hells..." Maron breathed, eyes wide as he took in the ghastly tableau.

The wind howled louder, and the sounds around him began to fade. Edmure heard only a ringing in his ears, felt only the thudding of his heart. Unease gripped him as if something dark and unseen circled them, pressing in from every side. The sightless eyes of the dead men staring up through the snow made his skin crawl, his legs trembling. It felt as though the ground itself might shift beneath them, as if something slept below the surface, waiting to burst forth.

Marq stood beside him, pale-faced, his eyes darting nervously between the corpses and the looming darkness of the forest. "What... what could have done this?" he whispered, voice barely carrying over the wind.

Edmure shook his head, unable to answer. He was transfixed by the face frozen in the snow. He could hear distant voices—shouts, orders—fading into muffled noise. Something was wrong here, something beyond the ordinary horrors north of the Wall. He felt it in his bones. Whatever had done this was still close, still watching.

Edmure circled around, his gaze falling on Marq—and the world froze in an instant. The corpse beneath Marq’s feet moved. Its hand—fingers like claws—shot up and grabbed Marq’s ankle, yanking him down.

"Help! Help!" Marq screamed, terror clear and sharp as he tried to wrest free.

Edmure’s heart hammered. The dead man, once lifeless, twisted its head at an unnatural angle, joints cracking as it sat up. Its eyes—formerly dull—now glowed a piercing, frozen blue that burned into Edmure’s mind. The air grew colder still, chilling him to the marrow.

He realized, with mounting horror, that all the bodies were moving. One by one, they jerked and twitched, their eyes snapping open with that same eerie blue light. Edmure’s thoughts reeled: Dark sorcery... some twisted Wildling magic. Or maybe this was a dream, a nightmare, and soon he would wake safe in his chambers at Riverrun. He prayed desperately for it.

But reality did not yield. The dead rose from the snow. Edmure backed away, legs shaking, eyes darting to the others. Maron Sand shouted orders, voice nearly lost in the roaring wind. "Weapons out!" he yelled, drawing steel with trembling hands. The rest scrambled to follow, blades gleaming faintly in the dim light.

Then the dead lunged—a nightmare made flesh. They moved impossibly fast, frozen limbs driven by some dark force, clawed hands reaching, teeth bared in hungry snarls. Marq screamed again, high and shrill, as they dragged him down. The dead piled atop him, tearing at his flesh with teeth and nails. His screams choked off into wet, desperate gurgles as blood stained the snow.

"No! No!" Edmure shouted, voice cracking. He caught glimpses of the other rangers, men he barely knew, being ripped apart, their screams joining the wind’s howl. Everything was blood, death, and horror.

He turned, swinging his sword wildly. The blade bit into the shoulder of a former ranger whose face was now a vacant, blue-eyed mask. The creature staggered, but another lunged forward immediately. Edmure parried frantically, arms shaking with terror. He struck again, steel slicing through flesh and bone, but still they came—an endless tide of death.

"Run!" he screamed, voice shrill with panic. "Run, you fools!"

But there was no one left. He saw only broken bodies, blood on the snow, and the undead. The awful wet crunch of bone, screams cut short—he could hardly bear it. Turning, he fled.

He ran blindly, stumbling over roots and rocks, his breath ragged. Behind him came the crunch of pursuing footsteps, the rattle of dead throats. He swung his sword as he ran, lashing at anything that rose before him. He managed to cut some down, but more appeared, relentless, unstoppable. Fear drove him on. He couldn’t think, couldn’t plan, only run.

He didn’t know how long he fled—minutes, hours—it felt eternal. The forest stretched on, trees closing in. The wind screeched, the cold grew more brutal, gnawing at his strength. Eventually his legs failed him. He fell to his knees in the snow, lungs burning, vision blurring.

He dropped his sword and collapsed forward, fingers clawing helplessly at the frozen ground. He had nothing left.

He lay there, gasping, heart pounding, eyes wide with terror. The wind whispered in his ears, urging him to rise, to fight, to survive—but he could not move. The cold seeped in, and the darkness pressed closer.

He closed his eyes, surrendering at last to the silence and the dark.

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Next part later today.