The Wall. The Great Hall of Castle Black.
"You understand nothing! Those savages are gathering their strength for a slaughter!"
Joman, the wounded ranger, was trembling with a feverish intensity. He stood up, his chair clattering against the stone floor, his voice echoing with a raw, jagged edge.
"Sit down, Joman!" "Have a care, man!" "The wildlings are a nuisance, but they lack the stones to scale the Wall." "Have you forgotten history? They've breached the ice before..." "Maybe they don't need to climb it. Maybe they just need to wait for us to rot from the inside!"
The hall erupted. The tension that had been simmering for weeks boiled over as the black-clad brothers traded insults and fears. The gloom of the Wall was a heavy weight, and with their numbers dwindling to a mere three hundred, a collective shroud of pessimism had settled over the Watch.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
"SILENCE!"
Lord Commander Jeor Mormont's voice boomed like a cracking glacier, instantly stilling the room. He regretted opening the floor; the men were frayed, their nerves worn thin by the constant patrols and the vanishing of their brothers.
"I hope you remember the vows you swore!" Mormont growled. "We are the watchers on the walls. Our order is older than your houses, older than the kings you left behind!"
"Lord Commander," a voice cut through the silence.
Jon stood up from the middle of the crowd. He looked like a sculpture of bronze and granite, his physique more akin to a champion of the pits than the soft boy who had first arrived. Clad only in a thin tunic that struggled to contain his corded muscles, he was a vision of raw, disciplined power. His presence was a physical pressure in the room, drawing every eye.
"I, Samwell Tarly, request permission to lead a small party into the Haunted Forest," Jon said. His voice was calm, steady, and filled with a quiet authority that silenced the murmurs. "We need to know the truth of these disappearances before we commit the entire Watch to a Great Range."
"Look at the lad... he's a monster," someone whispered. "By the Seven, he looks like he could wrestle a snow bear and win." "I heard he runs with a timber on his back every morning. A god-touched freak, he is."
Mormont looked at the young man. He saw the fire in Sam's eyes—or rather, the steel. "Sam, sit. We are discussing a military expedition, not a hunt."
"Commander, Joman is right," Jon pressed, his eyes locking onto the Old Bear's. "If the wildlings are luring us out, a full march is a target. Let me take a few brothers. We move fast, we move quiet, and we bring back the answers you need."
The idea began to take hold. The veterans nodded; the recruits looked at Jon with something bordering on worship.
"Sam can handle himself..." "If anyone can find Benjen, it's him." "Better to send five than fifty to the slaughter."
Mormont consulted with Maester Aemon and his senior officers. He saw the hope Jon inspired—a vital spark in a dying fire. He finally nodded.
"Very well. The plan is yours, Samwell Tarly. Who stands with him?"
Silence fell for a heartbeat, then the hall exploded with volunteers. Even the veterans, moved by the sheer audacity of the new recruits, stepped forward to reclaim their honor.
Hours later.
CREAK. CLANG.
The massive iron portcullis groaned as it rose, revealing the dark tunnel through the ice. Five riders emerged into the biting cold of the north.
Grenn, Pyp, Todder, Eddison Tollett, and Jon—in the body of Samwell—formed the scouting party. Jon had hand-picked his friends, valuing their loyalty and the cohesion they had built during training. "Dolorous" Edd had initially grumbled about the suicidal nature of the mission, but his loyalty to the "new" Sam had won out over his pessimism.
"I really should have stayed in bed," Edd muttered, his breath a thick plume of steam. "Why did I agree to this? The ice is going to freeze my tongue to my teeth."
"Because we're friends, Edd," Grenn said, grinning despite the cold.
"Sam! Where do we head first?" Pyp asked, adjusting his cloak.
"To the Heart Tree," Jon replied. His voice was clear and resonant, untouched by the whistling wind. "The gods have secrets to share, and we need their eyes."
WHINNY.
Jon spurred his horse forward into the white waste. He was prepared. He carried fire-oil for the wights, but his hand rested on a more significant weight: Longclaw. Lord Commander Mormont had entrusted him with the ancestral Valyrian steel sword of House Mormont, a gesture of desperate faith. Jon felt the familiar ripple of the steel beneath his glove; destiny had a strange way of returning what was lost.
Ten minutes into the Haunted Forest, they reached a clearing dominated by an ancient weirwood.
"Sam... why are we here?" Edd asked, his voice trembling.
The pale bark of the Heart Tree looked like bone, and the carved face seemed to be weeping sap as red as fresh blood. Under the shifting shadows of the canopy, the face appeared to be mocking them with a silent, frozen scream.
"We seek an omen," Jon said cryptically. "The old and new gods are silent until they have a reason to speak."
AWOOOO—!
A chorus of howls erupted from the deep woods, circling them with terrifying speed. The pack was close.
"Form up! Calm the horses!" Edd commanded, his instincts as a ranger taking over.
But Jon didn't move. He closed his eyes, his consciousness slipping into the System's newest interface: The Magic Stone Mutation Module.
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