To the Wall

The more and more north Lyonel and his entourage went the more and more the visitors from the South got miserable. There was the cold of course. Cold as none of them have ever faced before, though the members of the Night's Watch that came with them barely seemed perturbed by it. But that wasn't all. As they rode towards what basically amounted to the northern edge of the known world, settlements began to show up less and less frequently, while roadside inns and taverns became almost nonexistent. These days, more often than not, the group had to camp for the night on the cold, hard grounds, waking up to aching bodies.

In the few villages they did pass by, there was something common to be seen; preparations for war. Lyonel watched in astonishment while in every village they passed, people hoarded whatever food they could find fervently, built crude fortifications around their villages, and men and boys of all ages made primitive weapons and clumsily practiced with them. Though Jon and the black brothers who were with him showed no surprise at this, Lyonel and his uncle Tyrion were very much caught off guard that these people were preparing for war after a long peace of twenty years. And when they asked the villagers why they were arming themselves so, the all gave the same answer; "Those wildling cunts are gathering in large numbers and are going to attack the Wall."

This made Lyonel confused for a second; if everything in this alternate world is about a decade behind, wouldn't the wildlings have attacked some nine or eight years ago? It took him a little while to understand what's going on. If everything is a decade behind, then that means that the White Walkers became active later as well, so until recently the need to create a wildling army and to cross south was not there. But it is here now, and it made Lyonel worried as much as it did the people. He had hoped to find a peaceful resolution to the wildling problem after he had become king and before the wildlings were **** enough to attack. But those lofty ideas of bringing a peaceful resolution to a conflict thousands of years old are now in jeopardy. Somehow, he must buy time...

Either way, the locals were far from being happy, though they were careful not to voice their opinions too loudly at the Prince of the Realm. The lords on the other hand were an entire matter, as Lyonel learned when he and his entourage stopped at Last Hearth, home to house Umber and the last stop before the Wall.

"I love Ned. That still doesn't mean I understand why he left the North in a time like this," Jon Umber, lord of Last Hearth, usually called the Greatjon, said while biting down hard on a chicken leg.

"What my father meant to say," Greatjon's far more tempered son and heir, Jon Umber, called the Smalljon, hastily added, "is that while we understand the great honour your father, his Grace, presented our lord with, it still feels a bit... unwise to leave the North at a time like this."

Before Lyonel could respond, Jon Snow spoke up. Up until that moment he had been silent, just throwing bits of meat at his little direwolf pup, but now that he spoke, everyone at the table listened. Jon Snow has certainly gone from being just the bastard of Winterfell to making a name for himself in the North as the First Ranger of the Night's Watch. "Lord Umber," he spoke out in his gravelly Northern voice. "I understand your concerns. But the black brothers have held the Wall for thousands of years and they will hold it for another thousand more. It will be valour and discipline that will win the day, not hoards of unwashed barbarians, no matter how many of them there are."

This time, it was one of the Greatjon's brothers, Mors Umber, also called Crowfood Umber, spoke up. "No one here questions the valour of the black brothers, First Ranger. But the truth is, the Wall is too bloody long and there are simply too few of you to guard the damn thing. Those thieving wildling scum have been coming pass the border for years now. Some of them even carried off my daughter."

Lyonel heard the bitter hatred in the man's voice as he spoke about the wildlings. Most people in these parts feels that way about the wildlings, and, beyond the Wall he has no doubt that the wildlings spoke in the same manner about those in the south. It will take the end of the world to bring these people together. Unfortunately, the end of the world is what's exactly coming to this world.

The Greatjon's other brother, Hothor Umber, known as the Whoresbane Umber, then spoke up. "My brother speaks the truth. The last time the wildlings united behind a King Beyond the Wall and attacked, the Night's Watch couldn't stop them. It was the Umbers and the Starks who pushed them back. And this time, the lord of the North isn't even in the North."

"And in Lord Stark's absence, my brother Robb is your lord," Jon Snow said coldly.

"A green boy," said Hothor Umber scowling. It seemed that he had drunk too much for his own good. Before Jon could say something worse and escalate the situation further, Lyonel quickly spoke up. "Aye, Lord Hothor. Robb Stark has no battle experience beforehand. But he has skill with a blade and a good head on his shoulders. And he has experienced, hardened warriors to advice him. All of you, for one. Then there's Lord Karstark, Lord Bolton, Lord Cerwyn..." Lyonel stood up and raised a goblet. "And if those barbarians dare cross into the Seven Kingdoms, I have no doubt that the valour of the North will win the day!"

Everyone raised their drinks to that. The flattery seemed to have soothed out the issue for now, and everyone pointedly made an effort to stay away from the topic of wildlings, and the table slowly lulled into a peace as the older Umbers began to trade stories about his father's rebellion. Yet the issue of the wildlings were always there in the back of his head, waiting for an answer.

Seeing the Wall for the first time... well there are no words to describe it. Reading about it, or seeing it in a screen meant nothing. Seeing this incredible monument that surely must have taken magic to build, and feeling the chilly wind blow through him Lyonel felt the same way he did in the godswood of Winterfell; that this was a primal, magical world, to which he was but a rude intruder, and the forces ruling this world do not take such actions lightly.

Just like Lyonel, Tyrion and the guards from the south watched upwards with open mouths, taking in the sight. Jon Snow gave them a few moments, smiling understandingly, before tapping the prince on the shoulder, "Let's go inside, your grace. Better get you in front of a hearth before the night falls."

Lyonel nodded, and the party slowly walked towards the doorway that led them to Castle Black. He knew what to expect, but still, seeing the dilapidated state of the castle that stood between the human realms and what lies beyond the Wall despaired Lyonel all the more.

The sentries atop the Wall must have seen them coming and notified the prominent figures of the Wall, who were gathered near the gate, ready to welcome them. Jon quickly got off his horse and hastened towards the unmistakable leader and spoke a few words, to which he nodded. Then he strode forward confidently and stood in front of the rest of the group, who were climbing off their own horses. "Your Grace. Lord Tyrion," he said, nodding to both of them. "I humbly welcome you to Castle Black. I'm the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Jeor Mormont."

Lyonel shook the extended hand while inspecting the Lord Commander; the man known as the Old Bear has gotten older, his face having more wrinkles and having lost a considerable amount of weight, but he still stood strong and tall. He also didn't fail to notice that in this alternate timeline, without saving Lord Commander Mormont in such a dramatic fashion, the Valyrian steel sword Longclaw was still tied around Jeor Mormont's waist instead of Jon Snow's. "Lord Commander," the prince spoke up. "I am honoured to meet you. Your long services to the realm is much appreciated by everyone in the Seven Kingdoms."

The Lord Commander gave a brisk nod. "You have already met First Ranger Jon Snow. This is First Builder Othell Yarwyck," he said pointing to another tall, old man whose hand Lyonel shook, "and this is Ser Alliser Thorne, who teaches the sword to our new recruits here."

"Your Grace," Ser Alliser said while shaking his hand, but his eyes were filled with bitterness and lightly veiled hatred. Lyonel had come to expect that. Ser Alliser fought for the Targaryens during his father's rebellion, and when his grandfather Lord Tywin Lannister took over the capital, Ser Alliser had to surrender, and has been **** to choose between **** or life at the Wall. Now, he's just another old man sitting at the end of the world, nursing grudges against anyone he might have thought were responsible for his misfortunes.

But it wasn't Alliser Thorne Lyonel cared about. He looked around, but no where could he see Maester Aemon Targaryen, though he should have been here if he was alive. Lyonel tried to swallow his disappointment. Of course, even in the original world, Maester Aemon had been over a hundred years old. But he had still hoped... after all, in the book version of events at least, Maester Aemon died only after he was sent away from the Wall. Ice preserves, he had said...

"Lord Commander," Lyonel spoke up. "I've heard that there is a certain Maester Aemon living at Castle Black. Is that still the case?"

A sudden silence fell on the courtyard, and tension rose palpably. After a moment, the Lord Commander spoke with obvious nervousness in his usually gruff voice. "Maester Aemon? Must be sleeping. That's what he does with most of his time these days, being as old as he is. Your grace wouldn't disturb a sleeping old man surely?"

It took Lyonel a moment to wonder why this hesitation happened before realising his parentage must have something to do with it. He put up a winning smile and spoke. "Maester Aemon is probably the oldest person in Westeros. I would like to get some words of wisdom from him before I go. You can certainly attest to the value of his words, can't you, Lord Commander?"

That seemed to have assuaged some of their fears it seems, and Jeor Mormont reluctantly spoke up. "As your grace said, Maester Aemon is very old. He has lost the use of his legs, and spends his days in his room. He's probably dozing off by now, but if it pleases his grace I can introduce you to him come morrow."

"Nothing would please me more. You have my thanks, Lord Commander."

The Old Bear nodded again, seemingly just glad that there won't be a problem on his hand. "Come your grace. I'll have the stewards unpack you and Lord Tyrion's belongings in your rooms, up in the King's Tower. It would be good to get away from this hellish cold. We could have you and your men in front of a warm fire with soup boiling on it in soon enough."