THE BLACK BROTHER (I)
Gared would have dearly loved to punch the lordling and wipe that mocking...
Gared would have dearly loved to punch the lordling and wipe that mocking...
Gargoyles of Winterfell [Game of Thrones] [Gargoyles]
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THE BLACK BROTHER (I)
Gared would have dearly loved to punch the lordling and wipe that mocking smirk from his fool face. Just like Gared himself, the nitwit had realized that cold couldn't have been the death of the wildling raiders that they had been following, but hadn't seed that that meant that something around these parts had slain a larger group of armed, bloodthirsty savages, leaving no obvious signs for Will to spot.
And it was a sure thing that those men were dead. Will had been dead sure of that and the former poacher had eyes that were the envy of many a black brother, eyes like few others had had in the four decades Gared had spent serving at the Wall.
Alas, ser Waymar Royce was not going to accept anything less than confirming the deaths with his very own eyes, not after riding after the raiders for nine days straight, and never mind if that proved the death of them, too. After a brief conversation with Will and just as Gared had feared, the commander gave Will the order of taking them to the campsite of their late prey.
There wasn't much light to be had this far north during the twilight hours and just a part of that little made it through the branches of the Haunted Forest, so their advance was slow. There was just too little space, too little light for the horses to move any faster, particularly Royce's great destrier, and they had to slow down as the sun started hiding behind the western mountains.
Shortly afterwards, they stopped completely. As soon as the sun had vanished, tremendous roars and the cracking of stone had thundered across the land, from the northwest. No sworn brother of the Night's Watch could possibly fail to recognize the sound and what it meant. There were gargoyles afoot. Wildling gargoyles. And that changed everything.
"What do we do now, m'lord?"
Royce cursed softly, before replying to Will. "We turn back. No doubt, they'll soon know that we are here, but even these degenerate cousins of the Guardians of the Eyrie ought to let us live, if we don't threaten them and if we don't linger in their lands."
Gared nodded his approval. That was sensible, surprisingly so coming from a southron lordling. "Just one thing. Let me do the talking if they challenge us. I speak the wildling tongue far better than either of you and those fellows respect old age, because you have to be hardy to make it to old age this far north, even if you are a gargoyle. Also, try to hide anything that might give them the idea that you are highborn. They hate all noblemen, without exception. They don't really like black brothers, either, but at least they don't think that we made slaves out of their relatives to the south."
It was obvious that Royce wasn't terribly happy about none of that, but stiffly nodded. The three men then started their ride back towards their previous campsite, to the southwest. Behind their backs, the lights of a great fire soon appeared in the distance and, some time later, roars and something that might have been the sounds of fighting could be heard. Had Will been wrong after all? Had the wildlings decided to pick a fight with a clan of gargoyles? Gared knew not and had no great desire to find out, but with every step south he felt the strange dread that had strangled his heart for most of the day easing ever so slightly.
Gared would have dearly loved to punch the lordling and wipe that mocking smirk from his fool face. Just like Gared himself, the nitwit had realized that cold couldn't have been the death of the wildling raiders that they had been following, but hadn't seed that that meant that something around these parts had slain a larger group of armed, bloodthirsty savages, leaving no obvious signs for Will to spot.
And it was a sure thing that those men were dead. Will had been dead sure of that and the former poacher had eyes that were the envy of many a black brother, eyes like few others had had in the four decades Gared had spent serving at the Wall.
Alas, ser Waymar Royce was not going to accept anything less than confirming the deaths with his very own eyes, not after riding after the raiders for nine days straight, and never mind if that proved the death of them, too. After a brief conversation with Will and just as Gared had feared, the commander gave Will the order of taking them to the campsite of their late prey.
There wasn't much light to be had this far north during the twilight hours and just a part of that little made it through the branches of the Haunted Forest, so their advance was slow. There was just too little space, too little light for the horses to move any faster, particularly Royce's great destrier, and they had to slow down as the sun started hiding behind the western mountains.
Shortly afterwards, they stopped completely. As soon as the sun had vanished, tremendous roars and the cracking of stone had thundered across the land, from the northwest. No sworn brother of the Night's Watch could possibly fail to recognize the sound and what it meant. There were gargoyles afoot. Wildling gargoyles. And that changed everything.
"What do we do now, m'lord?"
Royce cursed softly, before replying to Will. "We turn back. No doubt, they'll soon know that we are here, but even these degenerate cousins of the Guardians of the Eyrie ought to let us live, if we don't threaten them and if we don't linger in their lands."
Gared nodded his approval. That was sensible, surprisingly so coming from a southron lordling. "Just one thing. Let me do the talking if they challenge us. I speak the wildling tongue far better than either of you and those fellows respect old age, because you have to be hardy to make it to old age this far north, even if you are a gargoyle. Also, try to hide anything that might give them the idea that you are highborn. They hate all noblemen, without exception. They don't really like black brothers, either, but at least they don't think that we made slaves out of their relatives to the south."
It was obvious that Royce wasn't terribly happy about none of that, but stiffly nodded. The three men then started their ride back towards their previous campsite, to the southwest. Behind their backs, the lights of a great fire soon appeared in the distance and, some time later, roars and something that might have been the sounds of fighting could be heard. Had Will been wrong after all? Had the wildlings decided to pick a fight with a clan of gargoyles? Gared knew not and had no great desire to find out, but with every step south he felt the strange dread that had strangled his heart for most of the day easing ever so slightly.
