FrenzyAren
patreon
SLW Chapter 20 : The Lion is Informed.
🕑 Added 2025-02-04 20:18:53 +0000 UTCThe march had been long and tiresome, the biting cold seeping into their bones as they trekked through the endless expanse of snow and ice. The Fist of the First Men loomed ahead, an ancient ring fort lost to time, its steep slopes offering a natural defensive position against whatever lurked beyond the Wall. But the closer they got, the more unsettling the air became thick with an eerie stillness, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Jeor Mormont halted at the edge of a frozen ridge, his sharp eyes scanning the ground. The rangers fanned out, weapons in hand, their breath misting in the frigid air. Dywen, the old ranger with a nose for trouble, crouched down and ran a gloved hand through the disturbed snow. He grimaced.
“Tracks,” he muttered. “Not fresh, but not old either. It looks like a wildling but uh it looks like an injured one ?.”
Aeron stepped forward, his frown deepening as he took in the scattered remains shredded cloaks, broken weapons, and deep gouges in the frozen earth. The signs were unmistakable.
“Wights,” he said grimly. “They were here.”
“Fuck!, No White Walkers..” he cut in, frustration lacing his voice. His jaw clenched as his eyes swept over the scene again, searching, waiting for some trace of the true enemy the ones pulling the strings.
Nothing.
He inhaled sharply, ‘Even with my Sense and Perception, I still can’t find anything!’ The thought gnawed at him, an unwelcome reminder that, for all his power, the White Walkers remained elusive.
Jon, standing nearby, glanced at him. “That bothers you?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
Aeron exhaled through his nose. “You have no idea, It should bother all of us..”
****
Quite Some Time Ago – Casterly Rock :
The golden lion of House Lannister adorned every surface of the grand chamber—woven into banners, carved into pillars, and stitched into the crimson drapes that framed the high windows. A fire burned low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room, though its warmth did little to soften the cold expression of the man seated at the great oaken desk.
Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and Hand of the King, sat in absolute stillness, his sharp eyes scanning the parchment in his hand. The flickering candlelight highlighted the deep lines etched into his face, the product of decades spent ruling, scheming, and ensuring that the name Lannister commanded fear and respect across the Seven Kingdoms.
He read the letter again, slowly this time. A rare thing, for a report to capture his attention so completely.
"There is a man in the North. An unknown. No banners, no name worth speaking of. He moves among the crows, but he is not one of them. Stronger than a bear, faster than a wolf. He slaughtered an entire pack of them wolves and even a direwolf with a blade. and sorcery."
Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line.
Magic.
He did not believe in such foolishness. Magic was a tool for the weak, a crutch for men who lacked the discipline to wield true power. And yet, the North had always been a land of superstition. There were still fools who whispered of the return of the Others, of dead men walking beneath an endless night.
Tywin exhaled through his nose, setting the parchment down atop the rest of his correspondence. He steepled his fingers, leaning back slightly in his chair.
"A threat in the North," he murmured.
Kevan, seated across from him, shifted slightly. "Wildlings, perhaps?"
Tywin’s gaze did not waver. "Wildlings do not kill direwolves with their bare hands and some superstitious sorcery, Kevan. Nor do they inspire men to write letters of warning instead of simple reports."
His fingers curled around the parchment. "We are already fighting a war because of that stupid boy." His voice was low, controlled, but the contempt beneath it was unmistakable. "Because Joffrey thought it wise to remove a man’s head before securing his kingdom.”
Kevan had no response to that. There was none to give.
Tywin stared at the letter for a moment longer, then, without a word, crushed it in his fist. The parchment crumpled easily, and with a flick of his wrist, he tossed it into the fire. The flames licked hungrily at the edges, consuming the words, turning them to ash.
“I will believe it when I see it,” Tywin said coldly, watching the fire burn. Then, without another thought.
*****
Deep into the Frostfangs, The march was slow, the cold biting, the snow crunching beneath their boots as the Night’s Watch pressed deeper into the Frostfangs. The wind howled between the jagged peaks, whispering through the trees like the voices of the dead. Aeron walked near the front, his steps measured, his gaze sharp.
He glanced at Jeor Mormont, watching the Old Bear trudge forward with that unyielding sense of duty that all these men seemed to carry. ‘Fools,’ Aeron thought, his expression unreadable. ‘If it wasn't for me, they’d be dead and scattered at this point. They march blind into the dark, thinking their steel and honor will protect them.’
His fingers twitched slightly. ‘I spent all this time traveling from Winterfell to here, cutting down wights, watching, waiting. For what? A chance to strike at the true enemy. But now, as things stand there is no reason to remain here’ Before Aeron could finish the thought,
Qhorin Halfhand, who had been scouting ahead, suddenly raised his fist. A signal.
"Hold," he said, his voice low but firm.
The column of rangers came to a stop, hands tightening around sword hilts, eyes scanning the darkness beyond.
"I see movement," Qhorin muttered.
The men tensed, gripping their weapons as the snow swirled around them. Then, emerging from the blackened woods, a figure stepped forward. A woman. She held a torch high, the flame flickering wildly against the wind She moved slowly, deliberately, her steps cautious but certain.
"Is that a wildling?" someone muttered.
The woman stopped. Then, raising her arm, she waved the torch.
Aeron’s breath hitched, his gaze snapping past her.
His eyes glowed faintly as his senses expanded, recalling his shadow soldiers that he sent patroling all at once. His jaw clenched.
"Fucking hell," he murmured to himself.
Up ahead, lurking just beyond the torch’s lightan army of wildlings. Far too many of them.
Beyond the woman, past the swirling snow and shifting darkness, they waited. Wildlings hundreds of them. Maybe more. The torches they carried flickered like distant stars in the night, revealing glimpses of fur-clad warriors, archers with notched arrows, and massive, hulking forms that sent a chill down even his spine.
a sudden war horn blared, its deep, mournful note shattering the silence. The woman with the torch dropped it, turning and sprinting back into the darkness.
And then they came.
Wildlings charged from the trees, howling like beasts, axes and spears glinting in the faint torchlight. The ground trembled beneath the weight of something heavier something larger. Giants.
