Gunaseelan K
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Chapter 1: The Night’s Watch Cannot Save the Seven Kingdoms
🕑 Added 2025-09-14 13:12:03 +0000 UTC
The Wall was a miracle of stone and ice, a silent titan that had endured for thousands of years.
Its western half rose straight and sheer, like a sword of frost stabbing into the heavens, its pale surface gleaming under the waning light. The eastern half curved like the body of a silver serpent plunging into the sea, as though it sought to bind the world in an eternal embrace of winter. For generations, it had stood as both barrier and warning—separating the realm of men from the savage wilderness beyond.
Guarding it was the Night’s Watch: black-clad men sworn to hold the northern gateway of the Seven Kingdoms. Against wildlings, against monsters of myth—the Others—against the endless cold.
At Castle Black, built hard against the base of that frozen colossus, the flickering glow of firelight spilled through a narrow window. Inside, three figures occupied the Lord Commander’s chambers.
At the heavy oak table sat a broad-shouldered man with a grizzled beard. His name was Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, once Lord of Bear Island. A black raven perched on his shoulder, croaking now and then as though to punctuate his master’s thoughts.
Opposite him sat a man so old he seemed half-carved from wax. A long white beard brushed his chest, and his clouded eyes stared upward without focus. He was Aemon, Maester of the Night’s Watch—and last surviving blood of House Targaryen. Once he had been a prince, but now he was blind, forgotten by kings, his body stooped but his wisdom undimmed.
Standing at their side, nervous and earnest, was a boy of sixteen or seventeen. He was soft-bodied, his belly pressing the edge of the table as he clutched a letter in both hands. His voice trembled as he read aloud.
> “...Dear Maester Aemon, the first time I saw you, I felt a strange kinship, as though I had met a relative I never knew.
I do not possess your wisdom, perhaps because I have not yet sworn the oath of the Night’s Watch.
But as a son, I cannot ignore the news of my father’s fate...”
The boy swallowed. His name was Samwell Tarly, called Sam by his few friends, and none closer than the letter’s author.
The words weighed heavily on him. For in Westeros, honor was iron, and desertion from the Watch was met with the sword. If his friend had truly fled, then no title or birth could shield him from the block.
> “...Dear Lord Commander Mormont,
Though my time at the Wall has been short, I feel your concern for me. I am grateful for it.
I will not claim to be a true brother yet, for I have not sworn the oath. But I promise, one day, I will return to fulfill my duty.
—Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell.”
Sam lowered the parchment. His hands shook slightly, and his round face paled as he looked from Lord Commander to Maester. One commanded the Wall; the other guided its conscience. Their decision would mean life—or death—for his dearest friend.
Mormont’s jaw tightened. His raven croaked, “Snow, Snow.”
With a grunt, the Lord Commander rose. “Alliser will ride. Corin too. They will bring this little bastard back.”
Sam’s heart sank like a stone in the sea. Alliser Thorne despised Jon Snow. To give him the hunt was a cruel twist of fate. And Corin Halfhand—cold, unyielding, the Ranger who strode into the wilderness as if born to it—would not fail.
Sam opened his mouth, but no words came. His courage shriveled under Mormont’s stern gaze. He could only glance helplessly at Maester Aemon.
The blind man’s face was unreadable, carved in stillness. After a long silence, his thin lips moved. “I will write to Winterfell.”
The words fell like a hammer on Sam’s ears. Not only would Jon be pursued, but now even Winterfell would know of his desertion. His last refuge burned away in a single sentence.
Mormont left without further word, his raven flapping after him.
The chamber quieted, leaving only the hiss of the brazier and Sam’s shallow breathing. He tried once more. “Maester Aemon...”
But the old man raised a hand. “Write, Sam. Tell them Jon Snow has left the Watch. Send his letter as well.”
Sam bowed his head, defeated. The candlelight made the parchment quiver in his grip, though it was only his hands that shook.
---
The Kingsroad stretched southward like a scar across the realm. Built by the Targaryens, it bound the Seven Kingdoms together, though rain often reduced parts of it to muck and mire.
Upon this road rode a dark-haired youth, his horse lathered with foam. Three days of relentless travel had driven beast and rider to the brink. Beside him bounded a white direwolf, its crimson eyes fierce and watchful.
The rider was Jon Snow—or so the world believed. In truth, he was something more, something stranger. For Jon was no longer merely Ned Stark’s bastard son.
He was Aegon Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar. And beyond that, he was a traveler from another world, his soul awakened in this body.
The irony was bitter. In the tale he remembered, Jon Snow would one day wrestle with his oaths, torn between loyalty to the Watch and love for his family. But this Jon had no such hesitation. He had left his letter and ridden south with clear intent.
Oaths did not bind him; the story’s memory did. He knew the future that awaited—knew that Eddard Stark would die, no matter what Robb did, no matter how many banners he raised. The boy-king Joffrey would see to that.
But Jon also knew that Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, still held victories ahead. Victories squandered, later, by rash choices and betrayal. If guided differently, if checked at the right moments, perhaps the North could endure. Perhaps the Wall could be guarded not by a few thousand weary crows, but by the might of twenty thousand Northerners.
If that came to pass, even the Night King would find no easy passage.
His jaw tightened. The Watch alone cannot save Westeros. To face the Others, I must play the game of thrones.
Ghost’s ears pricked. The direwolf halted, a low growl rumbling in its throat.
Jon turned, and his stomach knotted. A dozen riders in black cloaks surged down the road behind him, gaining fast. Their horses were fresh. His was not.
“They’ve come for me,” Jon muttered. His lips twisted in a bitter smile. Reality had caught him.
He spurred his exhausted mount. The poor creature stumbled, foam dripping from its muzzle. It had run three days on little more than wild grass. It could not outrun men with spare horses.
Flat land spread all around him. Nowhere to hide, nowhere to turn—except for the looming shadows of the Wolfswood.
“Ghost! To the trees!”
The direwolf became a blur of white, vanishing into the forest’s embrace. Jon dragged his mount after him, branches whipping his face as he plunged beneath the canopy.
Behind, a furious voice roared: “This little bastard!”
Alliser Thorne. Jon knew that voice well, filled with venom and disdain. Alliser had mocked him from the day he set foot on the Wall, sneering with nicknames—“Lord Snow,” “My Lord”—twisting titles into taunts. Now, at last, the man had his chance for vengeance.
“Corin!” Thorne shouted. “Block him ahead!”
But Corin Halfhand only spurred his horse forward with a curt reply. “No need.” The Ranger vanished into the forest alone, cold as the steel on his hip.
Thorne scowled, then barked orders to two recruits. “Pypar! Grenn! You’re his friends—bring Lord Snow back alive. If you fail, he’ll die, and you’ll wish you had too.”
The two exchanged uneasy looks. Pypar was quick and sharp-tongued; Grenn was tall, slow of wit but loyal of heart. Both spurred their horses reluctantly, swallowed by the woods.
Yet Thorne was not content. He turned to the rest, his voice cruel. “Fail me, and you’ll all take night patrols for a month!”
The men flinched. To walk the Wall’s battlements night after night in the freezing wind was punishment close to death. None dared defy him.
And so the hunt pressed on, shouts echoing through the Wolfswood.
“Jon! Come back—Lord Commander won’t kill you!”
“Jon, don’t be a fool!”
“Come back with us, please!”
Their cries battered Jon’s resolve, but his path was set. His horse stumbled, then collapsed beneath him with a pitiful whinny, too spent to rise again. Jon touched its flank, regret tightening his chest.
“I’d hoped to save you for battle. But there’s no more time for caution.”
He straightened. And in the air before him, faint as whispers, appeared glowing lines of script:
Swordsmanship: Blue
Archery: Green
Horsemanship: Green
God’s Perspective: Green
Warging: Green
Remaining Upgrades: 1
Jon’s eyes sharpened. So the game begins.
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