Jeor Mormont sat by the fire in his solar, the room dimly lit by flickering candlelight. The cold had seeped into his bones long ago, but this night felt colder still. He ran a hand through his thick, graying beard, staring into the flames, deep in thought.
The Wall had always been a place of hardship, but in recent years, it had changed in ways he never expected.
It started with House Manderly.
At first, it was a simple act of generosity—shipments of grain, salted fish, and black bread arriving every moon, easing the burden of feeding a thousand hungry mouths. Then came the steel, better weapons and armor for the Watch, gifts from a Lord who, by all accounts, should have had no reason to care.
But Wylis Manderly did care.
The young heir had sent men north—Manderly knights who took the Black, skilled craftsmen who reinforced the armory, and even freedmen from White Harbor's slums who saw the Watch as a new beginning. They came willingly, swearing the oath before the gods, and their presence had bolstered the failing ranks of the Night's Watch.
And now, even Free Folk had begun to trickle in.
The first time one of Mance Rayder's deserters arrived at the gates, claiming he would take the Black, the Watch had nearly killed the man on sight. But he wasn't alone. Within weeks, more came—small groups, ragged and starving, willing to kneel rather than freeze or starve in the wilderness. Some were criminals, some merely survivors. None of them had ever sworn fealty to any lord, yet they bent the knee before the Weirwood and swore the Oath.
Perhaps that was the strangest change of all.
Mormont had spent his life believing the Free Folk would never yield, that they would rather die than kneel. But desperation and hunger did strange things to a man. And if the Watch was to survive, he could not afford to turn them away.
Still, it troubled him.
If the wildlings were breaking, what did that mean for the world beyond the Wall?
The Long Night, the whispers said. The darkness returns.
He had dismissed the old tales as superstition, as the fearful ramblings of dying men. But lately, he wasn't so sure.
The Bastard, the Heir, and the Plan
A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts.
"Enter," Mormont called.
The heavy wooden door swung open, and Maester Aemon stepped inside, followed by Ser Jaremy Rykker. Behind them, Jon Snow and Wylis Manderly.
The sight of them together had become familiar.
Manderly was a force unlike any recruit the Watch had seen in years. He was young, yet carried himself like a lord twice his age. A noble, yet as hardened as any ranger.
And, most of all, he was a man with plans.
Mormont gestured for them to sit. "You came with a request."
"Yes," Wylis said. "We must scout beyond the Wall."
Mormont narrowed his eyes. "Many have done so before. Most do not return."
"This time will be different," Wylis said. "I know where to go."
Mormont leaned forward, studying the young lord. "And where is that?"
"Craster's Keep."
There was silence.
Maester Aemon turned his clouded eyes toward the sound of Wylis's voice. "You believe he knows something?"
"I know he does," Wylis said.
Jon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Craster is no friend to the Watch."
"He's worse than that," Wylis agreed. "But he is useful."
Mormont exhaled slowly. "You wish to use the man?"
"I wish to use him as bait," Wylis corrected.
The words hung heavy in the room.
Ser Jaremy frowned. "Explain."
Wylis stood and moved toward the table, where a map of the North was laid out. His gloved hand traced the Wall, then moved slightly beyond it.
"For years, Craster has given his sons to the Others," Wylis said. "Not just once, not twice—all his sons. You must have suspected it."
Mormont had suspected. He had known. But hearing it spoken aloud still sent a chill down his spine.
"If we take that away," Wylis continued, "they will come looking for what they lost."
"You want to lure the Others?" Ser Jaremy asked in disbelief.
"Yes," Wylis said simply.
Jon straightened. "And how do we kill them? Swords do nothing to them."
Wylis reached into his cloak and pulled out a small black blade. He placed it on the table. The dragonglass dagger gleamed under the candlelight.
"This is how," he said.
Mormont's breath hitched. He had seen one of these before—long ago. Samwell Tarly had spoken of them as well, in those old books of his.
"Where did you get this?" he asked.
"White Harbor," Wylis said. "We've been stockpiling it for years."
Mormont stared at the dagger, then at Wylis.
"Let me be clear," he said. "You are suggesting we deliberately bring these creatures upon us. And you expect to survive?"
"Yes," Wylis said. "Because we won't just fight them. We'll capture one."
The room fell silent again.
Even Maester Aemon looked troubled. "Capturing such a thing—if it is even possible—would be a grave risk."
"It is the only way," Wylis said. "The lords of Westeros will not believe mere words. They will believe proof."
Mormont exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair.
This was madness. Madness.
But he had no choice.
House Manderly had done too much for the Watch. Their ships kept the Night's Watch fed. Their steel kept the rangers armed. Their coin ensured Castle Black did not crumble to ruin.
He could not risk offending them.
And worse—deep down, he knew Wylis was right.
If the Others were truly returning, words would not be enough.
"Fine," he said at last. "You'll have your expedition."
Jon's head snapped up in shock. Ser Jaremy looked incredulous. Even Maester Aemon seemed surprised.
Wylis, however, only nodded.
"You leave at first light," Mormont said.
Jon met Wylis's gaze, and for the first time, Mormont saw something shift in the boy's eyes.
Excitement. And fear.
Mormont sighed and turned his gaze back to the fire.
The storm was coming.