46 Return #46

As Gale and his group approached the wildling encampment near the Frostfangs, a sigh of relief escaped Gale's lips. In their absence, the camp had noticeably expanded, and it buzzed with even more wildlings moving to and fro within the encampments.

These free folk were adorned in an array of unique garments, each symbolizing the diverse clans that had pledged allegiance to Mance Rayder's banner.

Upon their entry, they found themselves the subject of numerous curious glances and hushed conversations among the wildlings. Some showed amazement at their return from the frigid Land of Always Winter, while others couldn't help but comment on the peculiar iceblade strapped to Gale's back, a weapon that had never before graced their eyes.

"It appears your fellow free folk didn't hold out much hope for our return," Gale remarked, casting a sidelong glance at Tormund and Threya.

Tormund let out a hearty chuckle. "Aye, it's true. No one's ventured back from the Lands of Always Winter in living memory. Not many are foolish enough to journey that far north in the first place," he said, shaking his head. "But then you came along, and Rayder had us accompany you," he added with a wry grin.

Gale let out a scoff, his tone laced with irritation. "I certainly didn't have a burning desire to embark on a journey to that frozen hellhole, especially not just to prove that dragon glass works," he said with a mocking tone.

"Truth be told, I wouldn't have taken one step beyond the camp if it weren't for your 'glorious' King Beyond the Wall demanding evidence," he added, shaking his head in exasperation.

Threya regarded Gale with a bemused expression. "Well, now you understand why we're so desperate to march south," she calmly explained.

"Conditions here have grown dire, and with winter fast approaching, we're left with no other choice but to cross the Wall, even if it means we have to slaughter every man guarding it," she continued. "Bear that in mind when you speak to Rayder."

Gale let out a chuckle, his irritation momentarily giving way to a sense of understanding. "I sympathize with your people-- you two make it very difficult, but I do," he admitted, shifting his gaze between Tormund and Threya.

"I wouldn't want to see tens of thousands of people get slaughtered and turned into walking corpses. But it will all come down to Rayder and his ability to convince the various wildling tribes," he mused with a sigh.

Amidst their conversation, a loud thud interrupted their banter, causing Gale to pivot around. He beheld the giant, seated on the snowy ground, once again lost in its reverie, gazing blankly into the endless horizon.

A wry smile crept upon Gale's lips as he addressed the massive creature. "Among our little group, you do hold the title for the most tolerable," he quipped, a chuckle escaping him. "Best of luck with whatever it is you're doing," he added with a playful shake of his head before turning to continue his journey.

Their path led them to Mance Rayder's tent, encircled by a gathering of wildling warriors from different clans. Upon spotting Gale and his group, the assembled wildlings couldn't conceal their astonishment at their return as they made way for Gale's party to pass.

Yet, among the onlookers, the Thenns stood out, emanating unmistakable hostility as they glared daggers at Gale. He glanced at Tormund, his expression blank. "Let me guess, they also took a liking to me?" Gale quipped with a nod towards the Thenns.

Tormund chuckled heartily in response. "Unlike to free folk women, the Thenn are simple creatures. Everyone detests the Thenn for a good reason, and they despise everyone because they can," he explained with a grin. "You, my friend, have given them plenty of reason to despise you."

The trio proceeded to enter Mance Rayder's tent, discovering several men and women present, each representing their clans, engaged in a discussion that appeared to be in full swing.

...

In the heart of Winterfell, the discussion carried on. After listening to Lord Stark's explanation, Ser Barristan furrowed his brows with a thoughtful expression. "I understand the wildlings have amassed a sizable force beyond the Wall. However, I fail to see the necessity of having a royal representative involved in these dealings." he began, his voice edged with curiosity.

"Even if the wildlings boast greater numbers, they are an undisciplined rabble, while you command the Wall, which you can fortify with a force of well-trained and armed northern soldiers," he pointed out.

A nod from Lord Stark signaled his understanding. "True, it's a valid point," he agreed. "Yet, it appears that there are other forces at play beyond the Wall," he continued, prompting a deepening of the frown on Ser Barristan's face.

"Other forces? What kind of forces are you referring to?" The grizzled knight inquired, his voice tinged with confusion.

Lord Stark shook his head with an air of uncertainty. "I'm not entirely sure," he admitted. "Lord Commander Mormont has been rather vague regarding finer details, but he suggested that there is a great threat capable of endangering the entirety of Westeros," he added.

Tyrion raised an eyebrow in skepticism. "Surely you don't mean to suggest this involves the old tales of the undead?" he asked incredulously. "I've heard of Lord Mormont, and he doesn't strike me as one who'd place faith in superstitions," he commented.

Lord Stark regarded Tyrion with an amused yet patient expression. "It's a simple matter for southerners to dismiss the stories of the long winter as mere superstition," he explained. "But the North differs vastly from the rest of Westeros. What you deem as superstition, we regard as wisdom passed down through the ages by our ancestors," he asserted.

Tyrion couldn't help but wince inwardly. "I didn't intend to cause offense, Lord Stark... but the undead, giants, and the children of the forest..." he began, trailing off before he continued, "Even if such beings existed, they have seemingly vanished from the world, leaving no trace of their existence for countless years."

Lord Stark leaned forward slightly, his eyes filled with uncertainty. "Maybe we simply didn't search hard enough for these traces," he mused, his voice tinged with frustration. "The lands beyond the Wall stretch far and are exceedingly harsh. No one can tell what goes on there," he explained.

"Nonetheless, it's not the time to indulge in speculation. There's no necessity for it," Lord Stark asserted asserted. "I'm confident that Lord Commander Mormont will provide an explanation upon our meeting. As I am sure that he'll back his claims with evidence, no matter the nature of his claims," he concluded.

...

The atmosphere in Lord Arryn's private chambers was somber, heavy with the weight of uncertainty and impending loss. Kingsguard stood sentinel, their gleaming armor contrasting the dimly lit room. Various nobles and officials had gathered, their hushed conversations echoing off the walls.

In a shadowy corner stood Lord Petyr Baelish, commonly known as Littlefinger, the kingdom's master of coin. His expression remained unreadable, veiling his thoughts behind a composed facade. Cersei Lannister, the Queen and Robert Baratheon's wife, shared the same inscrutable demeanor.

Yet, there was a subtle glint of dark satisfaction and hidden glee in her eyes as she fixed her gaze on Lord Arryn during what appeared to be his final moments.

Varys, the enigmatic spymaster, lingered in the chamber, observing the scene with his usual detached demeanor while King Robert Baratheon, a massive figure beside the frail Lord Arryn's bedside, cast a worried glance at his old friend.

Lord Arryn lay on his deathbed, his once-vigorous body now a frail shell of its former self. King Robert, his dear friend, knelt by his side, holding the old lord's feeble hand. Distress etched deep lines on the king's face as he implored, "Who did this to you? Tell me who it is, and I'll make sure they hang alongside their entire family."

Struggling against the weakening grip of life, Lord Arryn turned his gaze to Robert, his voice a fragile whisper as he spoke, "The... the seed is... the seed is strong..."

With those cryptic words, his body went limp, his chest rising one last time before stilling. It was his final attempt to convey a message, one that bore weighty significance.

Cersei, at the foot of the bed, couldn't conceal her reaction to Lord Arryn's last words. Her expression shifted, a momentary glimpse of unease flickering across her features. She swiftly composed herself, her face a mask of sorrow, attempting to hide the turmoil beneath the surface.

She believed her reaction had gone unnoticed by those around her, unaware that one keen observer had seen through her facade.

Lord Petyr Baelish, known as Littlefinger, observed Cersei's reaction with a sly, knowing smirk.