The Silent Tower was one of Castle Black's towers. It had once served as the workplace for the scribes, but with no scribal work left to be done, the Silent Tower had truly earned its name.
At that moment, a lone figure moved restlessly inside, hurling one thick, heavy tome after another.
Though the tower now stood empty of men, it still housed a vast collection of historical records, books, and archives concerning the lands beyond the Wall and the Wall itself.
Domeric was searching for any mention of the past Lord Commanders of the Night's Watch—especially the most infamous of them all, the Thirteenth Lord Commander, known only as the Night's King.
The Night's King was said to have lived during the Age of Heroes. His true name had long been forgotten.
There were many tales of his origins: some claimed House Bolton, others the Magnars, the Umbers, the Starks, or even one of the mountain clans.
Legend held that he had been a fearless warrior who fell in love with a woman pale as the moon, with eyes like blue stars and skin cold as ice. The Night's King brought her back to the Nightfort—the first and oldest castle of the Night's Watch.
Later he was defeated by the combined forces of the King in the North and Joramun, the King-Beyond-the-Wall.
It was said he had made sacrifices to the Others, and so every trace of him had been deliberately erased from memory. His name itself became taboo.
Domeric combed through the ancient books and records, hoping to find some clue about the Night's King. He was deeply curious whether this leader of the Others had any blood connection to the ancestors of House Bolton.
If he did…
The night was black as ink. Even with more than a dozen oil lamps burning, the great hall remained dim and gloomy.
Domeric sat in the high seat, his sharp-angled face half lost in shadow, unreadable.
To his left at the long table sat Lord Commander Mormont, Ser Jorah, and Guard Commander Igor.
To his right sat Ser Wendel, Royd Riddle the new chief of the mountain clans, old Lord Karstark, and his eldest son Harrion Karstark.
Benita served as steward for the meeting, while Jon Snow had been temporarily pressed into service as scribe.
"Starting tomorrow, we will begin transporting the wildlings to the mines at Lonely Ridge in organized columns to serve as bonded laborers. These people are the very foundation upon which Lonely Ridge will rise. There can be no mistakes…"
In the decisive battle only a few thousand wildlings had actually died on the field. The vast majority had chosen to surrender. Yet it had taken until today to finally round up every last one who had come from beyond the Wall.
After all, catching fifty thousand pigs in three days was difficult enough—let alone a hundred thousand wildlings.
Naturally, some had likely escaped or were still hiding.
"My lord," Ser Jorah spoke up, "we have fewer than seven thousand men, while the wildlings number a hundred thousand. We are badly outnumbered. If anything goes wrong during the march, conflict or even open revolt could easily break out. Would it not be wiser to write to Lord Eddard and ask him to send more soldiers to help escort them?"
Domeric frowned.
Did he truly need to trouble Lord Eddard with this? More importantly, he had no wish to flaunt his strength before the Warden of the North just yet.
Besides, these wildlings had already been broken on the battlefield. Since his army had crushed them once, what was there to fear on the road?
Still, better safe than sorry. Jorah's concern was not without merit.
"The method is simple," Domeric replied. "We break the wildling tribes apart and select the strongest and most capable among them to serve as temporary overseers. These men will lead their own people on the march.
At regular intervals along the column we will station squads of soldiers. Their task is not to drive the march forward, but to protect the wildlings from outside threats and keep them from leaving the line.
Additionally, we will promise these wildling overseers that if they successfully deliver their people to Lonely Ridge, they will regain their freedom and receive generous rewards. In time they may even be granted real positions as officials in my lands…"
Ser Jorah Mormont's eyes lit up. He needed only a moment to grasp the cleverness of the plan.
By elevating certain wildlings and granting them better treatment, they would be dividing their own kind from within.
After all, traitors are always more hated than the enemy itself.
Those chosen would be driven by self-interest to ensure the march went smoothly and quickly. Being strong men themselves, their authority might prove far more effective than any soldier's sword or whip.
Most important of all, these promoted wildlings would owe their new status to him. Having them police their own would drastically reduce the cost and difficulty of control.
Over time the entire power structure among the hundred thousand wildlings would be reshaped—and they would fall completely into his hands.
Divide. Co-opt. Control.
"An excellent plan," Jorah Mormont and Guard Commander Igor said, looking at Domeric with clear approval.
Ser Wendel and the Karstarks, however, lacked the wit to see so far ahead.
"Good!" Royd Riddle, the new mountain-clan chief, quickly added his voice, afraid to miss any chance to curry favor.
"Does anyone have other thoughts?" After discussing several details and seeing no one else speak, Domeric asked.
"Then the meeting is dismissed."
Domeric waved his hand. From now on they need only carry out what had been agreed.
Everyone rose and began to leave.
"Jon. Stay."
"Ser Domeric."
Jon Snow, still holding his scribe's quill, looked a little startled.
"During the meeting I noticed you kept glancing at me. Is there something you wish to say?"
Jon took a deep breath, as though steeling himself. "Does your lordship still need men? Perhaps… I could go and be of use."
"So you've finally seen reason." Domeric reached over and clapped the young man on the shoulder. "When we were at Winterfell I already told you—my lands at Lonely Ridge have great need of capable young men like yourself…"
"Thank you, Ser Domeric."
With the affirmation, the tension left Jon's body. He placed a fist over his heart and gave a solemn knight's salute.
"I suppose I should call you 'my lord' from now on."
…
Deep into the night, Domeric sat thinking about the long-term handling of the wildlings.
Slavery was hated and strictly forbidden across most of Westeros, largely thanks to the Faith of the Seven.
Six thousand years ago the Andals had invaded and brought the worship of the Seven with them. That faith now dominated the Seven Kingdoms and expressly forbade the keeping of slaves.
Ser Jorah Mormont himself was proof enough. The former Lord of Bear Island had been sentenced to death by Lord Eddard for selling poachers to slavers in Tyrosh, forcing him to flee across the Narrow Sea.
Yet the North still followed the Old Gods, and the prohibition against slavery had never been absolute here.
One common practice was simply to give it another name: bonded labor.
Those bound to it possessed no freedom and held the lowest status. They could not escape their fate.
But they were not considered true slaves, for they could not be bought or sold like cattle, nor could they purchase their freedom with silver.
The wildlings Domeric had captured now fell into this category.
Most such laborers in Westeros lived dull, mechanical lives, for their work came not from the heart but from fear of the lash.
To Domeric, this pitifully low productivity was a shameful waste of human potential.
Yet he could not simply free a hundred thousand wildlings with a wave of his hand. The best solution for now was to offer them a path—a clear road upward—so that they could see a future worth striving for…
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🏰🩸 GAME OF THRONES: SECRETS BENEATH THE DREADFORT 🩸🏰
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📢 DARK SECRETS RISE IN THE NORTH! 📢
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Beneath the Dreadfort, old horrors stir.
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