Chapter 53 - Chapter 53: The Wights Rise

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Time stretched endlessly in the silent vigil.

Castle Black's nights were longer and colder than anywhere else.

Lynn stood motionless against the tower's frozen stone—a statue. Cold had numbed his skin, but he didn't care. His entire focus locked on the dim window above.

The Old Bear's probably by the hearth, drinking, reading old scrolls about wildlings and White Walkers. Maybe he thinks my warning was madness. But a veteran's instinct won't let him sleep easy.

Lynn's mind raced. I'm not a bloodthirsty lunatic or a glory-seeking fool. Everything I do has purpose.

Saving Mormont isn't just repaying his leniency. It's about something more valuable: Longclaw.

That Valyrian steel sword.

In a world about to be overrun by White Walkers, Valyrian steel is priceless—not just status, but the sharpest weapon against darkness.

Longclaw's in Mormont's room, gathering dust since his disgrace of a son Jorah fled. The Old Bear won't give it to a traitor. But me—the "prophet" who saved his life and proved the White Walker threat? I'm the only fitting heir.

This game started when I suggested burning the corpses. Mormont's refusal was expected. Better this way. Only when he experiences the wight's terror firsthand, when he sees me pull him from death's jaws—only then will his gratitude and trust peak. Then, gifting Longclaw will feel natural. No reluctance.

"Lynn?"

A hushed voice from below. Lynn looked down. Jon Snow's young, confused face stared up. Black cloak wrapped tight, direwolf Ghost at his heels.

"What are you doing here?" Jon whispered, looking at Lynn clinging to the wall. "The whole castle says you've gone mad."

"Let them talk. Go to bed, Jon." Lynn's voice was flat. "This isn't your place."

"I can't sleep." Jon shook his head. "Ghost won't settle. He won't go inside."

The direwolf growled low, red eyes fixed on the tower's peak, radiating hostility.

"Is... is something really going to happen?" Jon's voice trembled.

Lynn was silent. Then he slid down the wall, landing soundlessly before Jon.

"Jon, listen. Some things you're better off not seeing." He looked into Jon's grey eyes—stubborn, like Ned Stark's—and sighed. "Fine. Since you're here." He pointed to the stairwell shadows. "Stay with Harvey's squad. Remember: whatever happens, don't be rash. Protect yourself. And your sister Arya."

"Arya?" Jon blinked.

"She can't sleep either. She'll show up soon."

I know that girl too well.

Jon smiled bitterly and nodded. He retreated with Ghost into Harvey's shadows.

Lynn's gaze returned to the tower's peak.

Time crawled.

On the other side of the castle, in Maester Aemon's chambers.

The century-old maester sat alone in darkness. His blind eyes faced the black-shrouded corpse at the room's center.

He saw nothing. But he heard.

Wind. Crackling firewood. Distant patrol footsteps.

And something else. Something not of this world.

A faint sound—like ice crystals fracturing deep within bone.

Crack... crack...

Aemon leaned forward slightly, his wrinkled face expressionless. He recalled Lynn's words: "Burn them."

He remembered Targaryen records of the Long Night and White Walkers.

I've spent my life with books and knowledge. I believe in logic, reason. But I also know this world holds too much that defies both. Like dragons. Like... White Walkers.

Outside, Torren and thirty Northmen surrounded the infirmary. Swords drawn, torches ready. Every man was a drawn bowstring—taut, trembling.

In the Lord Commander's chambers.

Jeor Mormont finally felt fatigue. I'm not young anymore.

The day's chaos—Lynn's mad suggestion, those eerie corpses—had kept his nerves taut. He drained the last of his drink. The burn traced from throat to stomach, chasing some of the cold from his bones.

He stood and walked to the long table serving as a makeshift bier. Othor's corpse lay beneath a rough black cloak.

"Hah..." Mormont sighed, lifting the cloak's edge with calloused fingers.

Othor's face was deathly pale in the firelight. Peaceful, as if sleeping. But his open eyes glowed an inhuman, eerie blue.

"Madness?" Mormont muttered, shaking his head. I still can't believe Lynn's wild warnings.

His raven fluttered nervously on his shoulder, croaking harshly.

"Quiet, friend." Mormont patted its head.

He removed his coat, preparing for bed. My nerves can't take much more.

He lay down and blew out the bedside candle. Darkness swallowed the room. Only the hearth's weak flames danced, casting the massive Northern map on the wall in flickering light and shadow.

Silence.

Then—

CRACK.

A faint sound. Bone twisting. Breaking the stillness.

Mormont's eyes snapped open.

~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~

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