Chapter 35: Gears Turning #35
The grave expression on Mance Rayder's face quickly dissolved into chuckles at Gale's confident words. "You expect me to believe that you, some unknown crow chick, killed a White Walker?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.
Gale responded with a shrug. "I haven't taken the oath, so technically, I'm not even a ranger, but yes..." He trailed off, extending his hand and materializing an ice blade. "You better fucking believe it," he added, slowly brandishing the ice blade, which took everyone by surprise.
"As it turns out, I'm something of a White Walker myself, though a failed product, according to the Three-Eyed Raven and the Children of the Forest," he continued, dissipating the ice blade.
For the first time in a long while, Mance Rayder found himself speechless, his eyes filled with shock. Meanwhile, Tormund couldn't contain his curiosity. "You met the Children of the Forest?" he asked, taking a step closer. "How is this even possible? They disappeared countless years ago!" He added, his eyes wide with amazement.
"Yes, but no," Gale replied with a smile. "The Children of the Forest disappeared after the war with the Andals, but they didn't die out. A few of them survived, no more than you can count on one hand. They're in service to the Three-Eyed Raven now," he explained.
Tormund was still grappling with the historical nuances of Gale's revelation, and before he could ask for further clarification, Mance Rayder spoke up. "If this is true, then we might have something to discuss after all," he said, gathering his thoughts. "You mentioned a weakness of the White Walkers... let's start there," he added, leaning calmly on the table beside him.
Gale chuckled. "Normally, this is the part where I tell you to fuck off," he said, dismissively gesturing with his hands. "But considering that this weakness is dragon glass, which you can only obtain from a region beyond the Wall, governed by the royal family that rules over Westeros, I'm more inclined to cooperate," he added, reaching into his cloak and retrieving one of his dragon glass daggers.
Gale balanced the sharp point of the knife on top of the index finger of his gloved hand. "This thing is the only known material capable of killing White Walkers, aside from Valyrian steel, which is more theoretical on my part - considering, well, Valyria, dragons, fire, and all that," he added, flipping the dragon glass dagger and causing it to fall into the table, embedding itself into the wooden surface.
Rayder picked up the dagger, giving it an appraising look before tossing it to Threya, who began inspecting it. "Does this look newly made?" Rayder asked Threya.
Threya shook her head. "No. It's as ancient as the Wall itself, most likely," she said after taking a thorough look at the dagger.
Gale looked on in confusion at their actions before it suddenly hit him. He had inadvertently created a potential pitfall by revealing that there was a source of dragon glass beyond the Wall.
The young man had also claimed to have found the Horn of Winter in the Fist alongside a cache of dragon glass weapons. It was only natural for the wildlings to assume he was lying about the horn, with the only proof being the dragon glass dagger, a piece he could have obtained elsewhere.
Luckily, Rayder and Threya dug him out of the hole themselves.
Gale cleared his throat, his voice echoing in the tent. "Well, that should dispel any doubts you might have about the horn," he asserted.
Rayder regarded him with a knowing look, choosing not to press the issue further. "Certainly... I'm inclined to believe you have the horn in your possession," he acknowledged with a nod. "But, for us to work together, I need to see you and the glass at work."
Gale raised an eyebrow. "Point me at a White Walker, give me a few capable men, and I'll let you see to your heart's content," he confidently declared.
Rayder nodded in agreement. "Aye, we can arrange that," he confirmed. "Until then, you are welcome in my camp, provided you abide by our ways."
"Sounds good to me," Gale responded.
...
In the far southeast of the continent of Essos, along the eastern shore of the Jade Sea, stood the enigmatic city of Asshai. It was a place shrouded in mystery, known for being a breeding ground of strange occurrences, peculiar items, and an assortment of extraordinary individuals. Amid the city's convoluted and enigmatic aura, a particularly remarkable event was unfolding.
Inside a dimly lit room dominated by the deep crimson hue of red, candles flickered casting eerie shadows. An elderly woman, appearing almost too ancient to be among the living, stood hunched over a brazier, her frail figure enveloped by an assortment of age spots.
Her thin, silver hair fell in sparse strands as she gazed intently into the fiery abyss. This woman was a red priestess, and within the dancing flames, she perceived a vision granted to her by R'hllor, the Lord of Light, the deity she fervently served.
In her vision, she witnessed a towering, icy wall that stretched to the horizon's edge. Many figures had congregated atop the wall, a diverse assembly clad in various attires: some in somber black, others adorned in rugged furs, and a few donning the regalia of knights and men-at-arms.
As the vision progressed, the scene transitioned to an open field engulfed by roaring flames. There, one young man, clad in dark armor, strode unflinchingly through the inferno. His eyes blazed with an ominous, icy blue, and his hand gripped an ethereal ice blade.
Before the intrepid young warrior, hordes of the undead charged forward, their horrifying shrieks echoing through the night.
His visage a vague outline amid an aura of frigid intensity that the priestess could sense even through the vision, the young man charged boldly into the oncoming undead horde. As he confronted the menacing creatures, the vision abruptly ceased, snapping the priestess back to reality.
"An enemy of the Lord of Light... or perhaps a champion?" she murmured hoarsely, her frail hand instinctively reaching for the pendant that dangled from her neck. Closing her eyes, she chanted incantations in the mysterious Asshai language.
As the enchantment took hold, her withered form miraculously shed the shackles of age, and she transformed into a woman in the prime of her life, her hair a fiery red.
"The flames of my lord shall unveil the truth... and I shall bear witness," she proclaimed with unyielding determination. With an unwavering resolve in her eyes, she moved purposefully toward the room's exit.
The time had come for her to journey to Westeros, carrying the glory of her god to foreign lands.
...
In the opulent chambers of King's Landing, the hedonistic King Robert Baratheon reclined on his bed, scarcely clad and flanked by two scantily attired young women, a half-empty wine bottle cradled in his hand.
The king seemed to be in a very good mood, but his mirthful demeanor was short-lived, disrupted by an insistent knock on the chamber door.
An irritated furrow etched across his brow, King Robert grumbled, "Who the hell is it? Can't you see the king is busy, reveling in wine and whores? Piss off!" The annoyance in his voice was palpable, but the visitor remained undeterred.
"It's me, your grace," the voice of Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, resounded from the other side. "May I have a word?" he added.
Hearing the voice and recognizing it as Jon Arryn's, King Robert let out an exasperated sigh as he reluctantly rose from his bed. Though he had ascended to the throne with little regard for the responsibilities that came with it, there was a degree of respect he couldn't ignore for the man who knocked on his door.
Not only had Jon Arryn taken upon himself the burden of maintaining order in the realm on Robert's behalf, but he had also fostered the would-be king during his adolescence.
"I'm coming. Give me a minute," King Robert muttered gruffly as he reached for a robe to conceal his mostly unclothed state. He moved to the door and turned to address Jon Arryn. "Do you need something, Lord Arryn? I thought I already gave you the power to do whatever the hell you want," he inquired, locking eyes with his Hand.
Jon Arryn responded with a genial smile, though the gravity of his message was evident. "That you did," he acknowledged. "But I'm afraid there's a matter of grave importance that demands your attention." From within the folds of his robe, he retrieved a sealed letter and extended it to King Robert.
Bemused, Robert took the letter and unceremoniously tore it open. "What's this, then?" he asked, scanning its contents.
"We received it by raven from the north, from Lord Stark," Jon Arryn explained. "It appears that the wildlings have united under a King Beyond the Wall and amassed a considerable army."
King Robert's frown deepened. "And?" He scratched his head. "Why doesn't Eddard just march up there with his own army and put these savages in their place?"
Jon Arryn leaned in to share more confidential information. "There seem to be peculiar circumstances surrounding the wildlings' actions, circumstances even Lord Stark finds perplexing," he clarified. "He requests that you send an emissary to represent your interests."
"Is that so...?" Robert said, leisurely scratching his rear. "Send Ser Barristan Selmy... let him handle it, and don't bother me with this again," He added, handing the letter back to Lord Aryn and promptly closing the door in his face.
Lory Aryn could only sigh in exasperation as he turned around and left the king to his wine and women.
...
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