Castle Black stood beneath a sullen sky, gray clouds heavy with snow, the wind howling down from the Wall like a beast starved for warmth. Fires crackled weakly in the stone hearths, their embers barely enough to beat back the cold. It was late in the year of 252 AC, and the North beyond the Wall seemed colder than ever before.
Within the Lord Commander's solar, Brynden Rivers sat hunched over the great table marked with faded maps, old ranging routes, and charcoal-drawn sketches of wildling settlements. He wore black still, but it fit him now in truth—not the black of statecraft and secrets, but the black of watchmen, of oathbound men who stood their vigil unto death.
He was seventy-seven years old, white of hair and hollow of face, yet his mismatched red and pale eye remained as sharp as the mountain wind. He turned his gaze as the door opened.
Maester Aemon entered, cloaked in heavy wool, his steps careful but steady. Though aged and frail himself, the maester still walked without aid.
"You summoned me, Lord Commander?" Aemon asked with a smile, the title spoken with fondness.
Brynden's mouth curled. "Only Brynden here, old friend. No lords beyond the Wall."
"Only ghosts," Aemon replied gently.
Brynden nodded, motioning for him to sit. "I've had the reports from the last ranging. More wildlings surrendered. Many spoke of dead men who walk. One brother said they saw the corpse of a child get up and kill its mother."
He paused, letting the words settle like falling snow.
"They fear the Others," he added softly. "And so do I."
Aemon looked grim. "You believe them?"
"I have seen worse than ghosts in the south," Brynden said. "But these are not schemes born of ambition. These are tales carved into the bones of the First Men, remembered in fear. If they walk again, the realm must be ready—not for bastards or rebels, but for Death itself."
Aemon exhaled slowly. "Then you mean to lead the ranging."
Brynden nodded.
"Though I'm half a corpse myself," he added wryly. "I would sooner die beyond the Wall than in a bed, while wights stalk the snows unchallenged."
The maester lowered his gaze, the candlelight flickering in the lenses of his eyes. "Then if you do not return… I will send word to King's Landing."
"Let us hope it won't be needed," Brynden said. "But have the ravens ready, all the same."
He pushed himself up from his seat, wincing at the ache in his joints but mastering it with the same cold discipline that had carried him through rebellion and betrayal, council chambers and battlefields.
As he made for the door, Aemon called after him. "Brynden."
He turned.
"Do you ever miss it?" Aemon asked. "The Red Keep. The power you held. Shiera. Your family—your mother, your brother the king?"
For a long moment, Brynden said nothing.
The snow tapped faintly against the windowpanes.
Then he laughed softly, a dry rasp like leaves stirring on stone. "I am done chasing ghosts, Aemon," he said.
He pulled his cloak tighter.
"Now I chase Death."
And with that, he was gone.