UaRoB: Chapter 61 – The Realms of Men (Patreon)

The sight of a dead man had shaken them. More than any of the dozen battles we had fought together.

Men could understand death. They had seen it, dealt it, survived it. Steel, fire, blood, those were things a man could face, could measure. There was a beginning, a struggle, and an end.

This had none of that. This was an affront to everything they consider sacred. Be they followers of the Seven or the Old Gods. The Others' necromancy, even if that word did not seem to exist in this world, was utterly disgusting to witness.

It had shaken my Dragon Guard, my officers, the men I trusted to hold the line when everything else broke. I had seen it in their eyes when the thing moved with flesh hanging off it, half a skeleton in truth.

Some of them had known. Arren and Cort had been told of what I had seen at the Wall, of the corpse that moved, of the cold thing that had worn a man’s skin and risen again. They had listened, and they had believed, or at least trusted me enough not to question it aloud. Sam had been there when it happened, had seen it with his own eyes, shaking as he was. Seren had been told that as soon as I could trust the message, it would not spread beyond what I could contain. And they were not fools.

They had watched what I was doing, the scale of it, the direction of it, and they had understood.

The Legions, an army too large, too organized for any war between lords, meant for something else entirely. The rice fields stretching further every month, producing more food than the North had ever seen, enough to feed kingdoms through a winter that should starve them. The steelworks, churning out arms and armor in numbers no lord had ever dreamed of, equipping tens of thousands. The roads, the supply lines, the systems to move men, grain, and steel across vast distances without delay.

None of it was meant for the war I was fighting now.

That was just… convenient.

All of it pointed north.

Toward the real war.

Toward the end of everything, if we failed. This war, the one for the throne, was a prelude.

Forley, Cort, Arren, Edric, and I sat in one of the private lounges of Harrenhal, the fire crackling low as night settled outside those monstrous walls. My men had taken to it quickly enough.

They were deep in their cups.

Forley rubbed a hand over his face, his voice thick with drink and disbelief. “I just… I can’t believe it, Your Grace. Things like that… I mean, yesterday it was all grumpkins and snarks.”

Arren snorted and took a long swallow before answering, his tone steadier than the rest, though the drink had found him too. “No snarks now, Commander. There’s only the enemy. And it wants us all dead.”

Edric let out a shaky laugh that held no humor. “How can you be so calm, quertermaster?”

Arren shrugged, setting his cup down with a dull thud. “Because I trust His Grace.” He turned to me then, eyes sharp despite the drink. “He’s had a year. More than that. He has a plan. Don’t you?”

Cort said nothing, but his gaze followed Arren’s.

I sat at the head of the table, one hand resting against the wood, the other loosely holding a glass of whiskey I had barely touched. I had seen this moment coming long before tonight, the point where they would all understand what was at stake.

Four of my most important men, drinking to steady themselves, looking to me for certainty.

Gods help me.

“I do,” I said. “I have been working towards it for the past year.”

Longer in truth, I had been working towards the war with the Others since I was a child, ever since my memories had come back. But I could not tell them that, trusting me about the wights, that was far enough without proof, trusting some child having visions of the future? It might be explained away as Dragon Dreams, but I preferred not to complicate things further.

I set the glass down with a soft sound against the wood.

“Cort, remember my orders to mine all the obsidian, dragonglass we could, the ones we took from Casterly Rock, and the orders to the Moat to stockpile it?”

Cort straightened slightly at that, pulled from his silence, his attention sharpening at once. “I do, Your Grace.”

He said it without hesitation. Of all of them, Cort had never questioned orders, only executed them, but now there was something more behind the words: understanding, or the beginning of it.

Edric frowned, leaning forward, his drink forgotten in his hand. “The old stories… dragonglass kills them, doesn’t it? My grandmother used to tell me all about it, tales to make me sleep to. Tales…” he added under his breath, as if the word itself had turned sour.

“More like nightmares, Ser,” I said, my tone even. I could not allow them to see me doubt; that was the curse of the King, they always needed to see me as a pillar, otherwise they might falter. “But yes. The Moat has localized some dragonglass deposits in the North, near the northern mountains, and in Skagos. We will stockpile enough of it to make tens of millions of arrowheads and hundreds of thousands of weapons. We also have other projects, new weapons I hope will give fruit... I have been supplying the Wall to bring their forces to strength and for them to garrison and prepare more castles. And the war in the south… well, once I have the Seven Kingdoms under me, I will be able to call hundreds of thousands of men to defend the realms of men.”

The words settled heavily between us.

Arren let out a low breath, running a hand through his hair before reaching for his cup again. “A logistical nightmare.”

I huffed a quiet laugh at that, the sound brief but real. “That will be your division’s problem, Arren.”

A faint ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, though it did not quite reach his eyes. It was enough.

Forley, though, had gone still.

He was no longer looking at his drink. His gaze had drifted somewhere else entirely, unfocused, as if he were seeing something far beyond the walls of Harrenhal.

“The Realms of Men…” he murmured, almost to himself. His brow furrowed, something clicking into place. “The Night’s Watch vow… it all makes sense now. It was always there, always under our noses, and we never believed it.”

I nodded slowly, leaning back in my chair, the weight of that truth as familiar to me now as it was new to them. “Aye.”

For a moment, I said nothing more, then added, quieter, “I… I did not want this war. Perhaps it was a naïve plan, but I wished to go to King’s Landing once and prepare a bloodless coup. Any man that dies in this war is another man who will not fight the Great Other.”

The fire cracked in the hearth, but for a fleeting moment, it felt as though the warmth had faltered. The room seemed colder, the shadows deeper. Before I could think further, the cold receded. What the hell?

Edric shifted slightly, glancing toward the fire before looking back at me. “The burnings… was this the reason we always burn the dead after battles, Your Grace?”

“Aye,” I said.

Edric let out a short, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “And some were so angry that they could not send their loved ones to rest in the dirt of the North. To think it was all so that they would not be raised back as monsters.”

There was no humor in it.

“There will be a time for truths,” I said, my voice steady once more. “All will be explained to everyone someday. But for now, I want them focused on the war.”

A knock on the door drew every eye in the room.

One of the Dragon Guard, who had lingered just a moment too long, probably too deep trying to hear our conversation, opened it after a nod from me.

Ser Jarman Buckwell stepped inside and gave a bow. “Your Grace.”

“Ser Jarman, we were waiting for you.” I gestured to the table. “Sit. Northern fire?”

He inclined his head as he took the offered seat. “Yes, Your Grace.”

I filled a glass and slid it across the table to him. It stopped neatly at his hand. “Ser Jarman, I wished to ask you more about the state of the Wall.”

He wrapped his fingers around the cup, steady, attentive. “What do you wish to know, Your Grace?”

“You mentioned reforms. Tell me more about them.”

He nodded once and began without hesitation. “The Lord Commander has enacted temporary service terms, Your Grace. Men may take the black for several years in exchange for land and coin upon completion. It has changed everything. We are no longer filled only with criminals and the desperate. We are getting men who choose to come. Many are middle-aged men, second sons, landless veterans, mountain clansmen. Men who never thought they would hold land of their own. Now they see a path to it.”

Cort nodded faintly, as if that alone made the rest more believable.

“There are incentives to settle the Gift as well,” Jarman went on. “Villages are being reestablished. Small at first, but growing. Supplies have made it possible. Tools, seed, livestock.” He took a small sip before continuing. “And the castles… more are being manned. Repairs are ongoing. The Wall is… waking again, Your Grace.”

Forley leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. “I wondered,” he admitted, glancing at me. “Why so much gold and supplies were being sent north. Even now, with the war in the south.”

I met his gaze briefly. “Now you know.”

He nodded once, slowly.

It helped. Listening to a man of the Watch speak in practical terms, of numbers and men and walls and grain, it pulled the conversation back from the edge. The fear did not vanish, but it found shape. Something to work against.

Something to prepare for.

My problem remained the same.

Supplies.

Even with Lannister gold fueling our expansion, it was not enough to make everything easy. The Moat was feeding the army in the south, building new Legions, maintaining prison camps, reconstructing Westerlander administration in my image, and now supplying Harrenhal and the lands around the Gods Eye. On top of that, the Wall demanded more men, more tools, more food.

It was too much, even for something as vast as what I had built.

But it was necessary.

The conversation deepened as the night wore on. Arren began pressing Jarman on numbers, rotations, supply routes, already thinking in columns and wagons. Cort asked fewer questions, but the ones he did were precise. Forley listened more than he spoke now, the drink slowing in his hand as thought replaced shock.

They spoke of reinforcing castles, of how to house tens of thousands at the Wall, of stockpiles and wintering grounds, of weapons that might work and those that would not. Of fire. Always fire.

And of dragonglass.

I let them speak, guiding when needed, correcting where necessary.

By the time the fire had burned low and the bottles had lightened, the room no longer felt like it had at the start. The fear had not left, but it had been given direction.

I was glad the conversation had happened. It gave them something solid to hold onto.

It gave me something as well.

A reminder.

My inner circle was not just the men in this room. Not just those who followed me directly, who saw my plans as they formed.

It was the North. The lords who had stood with us. The men who would answer when called.

And Robb.

I had not told him.

I stared into my glass for a moment, then set it aside.

That would be corrected in the morning.

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The next morning came too quickly.

Sleep had not come easily. The conversation had stretched deep into the night, and when at last I lay down, my mind refused to quiet. The few hours before dawn were spent staring at the ceiling, turning plans over and over, refining, discarding, rebuilding. When that failed, I rose, lit a candle, and began writing letters.

By the time the sun rose, I had already made my decisions.

I had summoned the lords I trusted most, the ones I knew would hold their tongues.

They stood around me now in one of Harrenhal’s vast corridors. Robb Stark, my brother in all but blood. Maege Mormont, with her daughters at her side. The Greatjon and Smalljon, looming as ever. Harrion Karstark and his brothers. Meera and Howland Reed, quiet and watchful. Wylis Manderly, thoughtful behind his calm. And finally, Galvart Glover.

All Northmen.

I had considered bringing Tytos Blackwood and Lord Mallister. Both were loyal, both had proven themselves, but loyalty in war was not the same as trust in something like this. I did not know them well enough. Not yet.

Robb looked at me, brow slightly furrowed. “What did you wish to show us, Your Grace?”

I noted the title, but said nothing. This was not a private moment between brothers. This was more akin to a war council.

“We are close, Robb,” I said.

I turned and continued walking.

They followed without hesitation, boots echoing against black stone as we moved deeper into Harrenhal. Ser Jarman led the way, two dozen Dragon Guard surrounding us. The air grew cooler the further we went, the light dimmer, the halls emptier.

No one spoke.

Then we reached it.

The cell stood at the end of a narrow passage, reinforced and guarded. Inside, a cage inlaid with dragonglass sat at its center.

And within it, a corpse. It lay still, unmoving, pale and wrong in a way that had nothing to do with death alone.

They all stopped. Eyes moved from the thing in the cage to me, confusion, doubt, the first flickers of disbelief.

Jarman leaned slightly toward me, his voice low. “It grows lethargic with no one near it, Your Grace.”

I gave a small nod. “Edric.”

Edric stepped forward, bending to pick up a small stone from the ground. He hesitated only a heartbeat, then threw it.

The stone struck the corpse.

It moved.

It snapped upright, violent and sudden, a broken thing forced into motion. Its hands slammed against the bars of the cage, fingers clawing, teeth bared as a shriek tore from its throat.

Several of them stumbled back.

“What in the seven hells?!” Wylis burst out, all composure gone.

The wight screamed again, throwing itself against the cage, over and over, relentless. It did not tire. It did not think. It only tried to reach us.

Robb stared at it, pale, his voice tight. “Brother… what is that…”

 “It is something I have been hiding from you. From all of you. I apologize for that, but without proof…” I gestured slightly toward the cage. “There would have been no belief.”

Howland Reed stepped forward a fraction, eyes fixed on the creature. “It is a wight… a servant of the Others.”

Of course, of all of them, it would be him who realized. The Reeds were so weird sometimes, but this was probably Jojen’s fault; that little Greenseer and his visions had warned the Reeds about the coming storm, they were the least surprised of them all.

Galbart frowned, shaking his head slightly. “Howland, those are just stories…”

“Howland is right, Galbart,” I said. “You all know I traveled to the Wall a year back, at the head of one of the greatest supply convoys to ever reach Castle Black. What you do not know is that during that visit, a black brother died… and came back in that same room. We had to destroy it with fire. Since then, I have supplied the Wall and ordered them to bring me proof.”

Harrion stepped forward, eyes narrowing as he looked at the thing in the cage. “There are more of these… things, Your Grace?”

“Thousands,” I said. “Tens of thousands. And the more wildlings they kill the more of them there are.” I let the weight of it settle. Better to seed the idea of saving the wildlings early. “My lords, my ladies… we are facing what may well be a second Long Night. An age of shadow and war.”

Dacey Mormont took a step back, her hand tightening at her side. “Gods… this is why we burned our dead.”

“Aye,” I said. “I will not have our fallen rise again to kill us when the Others come. This is the true war. The real war. The war of the living against the dead.”

The wight slammed itself against the cage again, shrieking, the sound scraping against the stone.

“This,” I continued, my voice steady, cutting through it, “is why we must take King’s Landing. Why we must unite the Seven Kingdoms. Why every lord, every man, must stand together. Not for crowns. Not for pride. For survival.”

I looked at them, each in turn.

“I show you this because I trust you. Because when the time comes, I will need you to stand with me when the rest of the realm calls this madness.”

A deep silence settled as they all looked at the creature. Then Robb stepped forward.

He did not look away from the wight, but his voice was firm. “You should have told me.” A beat. Then he turned to me. “But I understand why you didn’t.” He held my gaze. “I’m with you, brother. Always.”

The tension in my chest eased, just slightly.

The Greatjon gave a sharp bark of a laugh, more a challenge than amusement. “Dead men walking or not, they’ll break just the same when we put steel through them.”

Maege Mormont nodded, fierce as ever. “House Mormont stands with you, Your Grace.”

One by one, the others gave their assent. Some with words, some with nods, but all of them firm.

They believed.

Or at least, they believed in me.

I inclined my head. “Then I ask one more thing of you. This does not leave this room. Not yet. If this spreads now, it will bring panic, denial, chaos. We win the throne first. We break every other claimant. And then…” I glanced toward the cage. “We show them. I will call a great council. I will bring the proof before the realm. And I will make them understand.”

Robb nodded first. The rest followed.

“You have our word,” Maege said.

“Our silence,” Wylis added.

“Our swords,” the Greatjon finished.

And like that, the War of the Dawn started.

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Things settled after the revelation of the wight to the northern lords.

It had drawn a line between North and South. The northern lords had seen it, had heard it, had accepted it with the weight of old stories finally made flesh. The southern lords had not, and for now, there seems to be a divide in Harrenhal. It was not yet a problem. Not yet something that would fracture command or slow the war.

For now, their minds lingered on the wight.

Soon enough, they would return to the war in front of them. The march south, the capital, the throne. The closer enemy always won a man’s attention.

And for me, the closer enemy had become something else entirely.

Administration and paperwork.

Running and organizing a kingdom from a war tent was more difficult than I thought it would be; thankfully, most of the job was done by the Moat’s administration, which was now expanding over the conquered lands.

The organization of newly conquered lands, territories that now lacked lords, stretching from the Frey holdings to Stoney Sept and the shores of the Gods Eye. And once I gave my judgment, house Frey that land would be open. Land without structure was as dangerous as any army. Left unattended, it would rot, rebel, or collapse into banditry.

Report after report crossed my desk, each one detailing the state of these lands and what was being done to stabilize them.

The lands of House Frey were ripe for the taking. For now, garrisons and administrators had been placed across them, securing crossings, villages, and roads. The Twins stood occupied, their strength turned from a symbol of treachery into a tool of control. What would be done with those lands in the long term remained undecided. I could grant them to a new lord, reward loyalty with territory, or bind them to the North itself.

Or…

I could keep them.

The royal demesne was already growing, fed by annexed lands in the West and what would soon follow in the Crownlands. If I continued, it would not be a demesne in the traditional sense. It would be a kingdom within a kingdom, directly administered by the Crown, governed not by feudal obligation but by structure, by law, by system.

Power centralized.

Power controlled.

Power… resented.

“Milton,” I said, bringing my attention back to the present.

He stood across from me, a stack of parchment in hand. “The last reports from the West say that we have finished redrawing the maps, Your Grace. The Royal Administration has divided the former lands of House Lannister, Crakehall, Clegane, and Swyft into seven crown provinces, each ruled by a chief steward.”

Temporary positions, for now.

The framework was in place, but the system was still taking shape. These stewards would answer to me directly, appointed and removed at will. These provinces were small, closer in size to the territories of houses like Vance, Blackwood, or Piper. They were now being administered through the ministries, following the same model implemented at the Moat.

A modern system, as close as I could bring one into this world. Central oversight. Distributed administration. Bureaucrats instead of bannermen.

It made me think that perhaps in the future I would have to divide the administration of the Moat’s lands into several provinces; it was bigger than the seven in the Westerlands combined, and it was all ruled by Sam alone.

Milton glanced down at his notes. “Lord Sarsfield has taken control of his new ward in the Kayce Peninsula. The economy is stabilizing under the new administration. There are still rebellious elements in the southeast and northwest of the former kingdom, but the garrisons remain strong. The remaining lords will bend the knee or be subjugated soon enough.”

There was so much land in the West that I had no use for. I had already claimed what I wished for myself, and I had given Sarsfield what I had promised, but half of the Kingdom still lacked rulers, ready to be divided further into two new Wards of the crown. Ready to receive new Lords.

“They will,” I said. “One way or another. Thank you for the report, Milton. Now, the Riverlands. What have the ministries recommended?”

Milton hesitated, just briefly. “The reports are… poor, Your Grace. The lands around the Gods Eye have been heavily ravaged. They will require time to recover. For now, we are doing what we can. Supplies are being redirected from the North and the western Riverlands.”

That was expected.

 “As for administration, if Your Grace decides to hold all empty lands for the crown,” he continued, “the bureaucrats of the Moat recommend dividing the area into eighteen provinces, following the same model as the West.”

Of course they did.

“The future of those lands is more tied to the realities of the war than the Westerlands, Milton,” I said.

He gave a small, knowing nod. “You know what they are like, Your Grace. The Administration has had a taste of real power in the West, and now they want the whole continent under them.”

I exhaled slowly.

That was the danger. They were efficient. Loyal. Capable in ways no lord trained in banners and honor could match. But power, once tasted, rarely remained contained.

And the lords of Westeros would not accept this easily.

They already distrusted change. They would see this, see lands stripped from noble houses and handed to crown officials, and they would name it tyranny. And if they looked closer, if they understood what I was building…

They would call it madness.

“For now, we will concentrate on helping the people, and we will set up the administration of the lands; whether we keep them or not will be decided later.” I rubbed a hand lightly against the table. “Keep receiving the reports and compiling them. I want another meeting like this in a fortnight.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Milton said.