The bitter cold of night gave way to a day scarcely less frigid. Beyond the thick stone walls of Castle Black, the wind howled like a hungry beast.
Inside the great hall, a massive fire roared in the hearth, sending writhing shadows across the rough-hewn walls. Among the hundreds of black-clad men of the Night's Watch, Joffrey and his companions stood out conspicuously in their finery, like summer blooms amidst winter frost.
The atmosphere at the feast bore a certain strained quality. Though the high-ranking officers seated near the dais conducted themselves with appropriate formality, the common brothers of the Watch appeared distinctly ill at ease in the presence of the Crown Prince.
Many of these men had been sent to this frozen edge of the world for violating the King's laws or fleeing the King's justice. How should they receive the son and heir of the man who had condemned them to this living death? With joy? With resentment? With fear?
Bang!
Tyrion Lannister, his belly full of Castle Black's surprisingly fine wine, leapt boldly atop the long wooden table.
True to his reputation as a man blessed with an abundance of humor if not stature, the dwarf launched into a series of self-deprecating jests so ribald they would have made a Fleabottom whore blush. His vulgar gestures, performed with his short limbs and punctuated by the occasional wobble from the wine, elicited a thunderous roar of laughter that shook the ancient rafters.
The strained atmosphere thawed like ice before a brazier. Men who had moments before been rigid with apprehension now gathered in clusters of three or five, boasting and cursing with abandon. They sang bawdy tavern songs woefully off-key, held crude wooden cups aloft in drinking contests, played at dice and finger games with copper pennies changing hands, and periodically erupted in shouts of triumph or groans of despair.
Even the officers at the high table gradually shed their reserve, reverting to the easy camaraderie that usually characterized their meals together.
"Your Highness, you must sample this," Lord Commander Mormont said with genuine enthusiasm, passing Joffrey a platter bearing a fresh crab that had been transported from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Joffrey accepted it with a gracious smile and tasted a few succulent morsels. Preserved by the perennial ice of the Wall during its journey, the crab was indeed delectable.
However, satisfying his appetite was not Joffrey's primary concern this day.
"Lord Commander," he inquired casually, "I understand that First Ranger Stark is escorting the wildling woman Osha to locate the secret passage she spoke of?"
Lord Commander Mormont nodded, his beard bobbing slightly with the motion. "Benjen plans to depart once the feast concludes."
Joffrey feigned mild curiosity. "In the Lord Commander's estimation, is this passage the wildling speaks of genuine or mere fabrication? Could such a thing truly exist in the location she describes?"
An aged voice, thin as parchment yet somehow commanding, responded before Mormont could formulate an answer.
"That place is the long-abandoned Nightfort," the voice said. "My memory retains a few fragments concerning it still. Perhaps the wildling woman speaks of the 'Black Gate' concealed deep within the fortress well."
Joffrey turned slightly to face a blind old man whose visage bore the deep wrinkles of a century's passing—Maester Aemon.
Aemon Targaryen, once a noble prince of the Dragon Dynasty, had been dispatched to the Citadel by a king who feared too many heirs might breed conflict. Later, when his younger brother ascended to the Iron Throne, Aemon chose to serve in the Night's Watch to remove himself from the game of thrones. He had marked his hundredth nameday that very year.
Without question, Aemon wielded profound influence over the Night's Watch despite his frailty.
"I am most grateful, Maester Aemon, for enlightening me," Joffrey said with a carefully measured chuckle. "Your knowledge is truly boundless."
Aemon faced Joffrey directly, as though his milk-white eyes could still perceive the world around him. "I merely fulfill my sworn duty as a Maester of the Citadel. I have simply lived long enough to remember certain things, though I have forgotten far more."
"You are too modest by half," Joffrey said smoothly, shifting to sit nearer to the ancient Targaryen. "You stand as the very embodiment of what a Maester should aspire to be." He paused, then continued in a lower voice. "Maester Aemon, have you never considered returning to the South to serve? It might assuage the pangs of homesickness that must surely afflict you. Strictly speaking, both my royal father and I are your blood relations, however distant."
Joffrey's words contained more truth than falsehood.
Setting aside the disputed Targaryen bloodline of Orys Baratheon, founder of House Baratheon, the connection was more direct—his great-grandmother Rhaelle Targaryen had been a true princess of the dragon's blood. Though this lineage bore no relation to Joffrey's true parentage, none present knew that particular secret.
Aemon waved a spotted, trembling hand dismissively. "Let all that lies in the past remain there. The Wall is my home now, has been for decades. It would please me to rest beneath the ice when my watch is ended at last."
Joffrey nodded, respecting the old man's conviction, and turned back to Lord Commander Mormont, who appeared somewhat discomfited by the exchange.
"What troubles the Lord Commander?" Joffrey asked with a sly smile. "Does he fear I might harbor ill will toward Maester Aemon? We are family, distant though the connection may be."
Mormont hastily shook his head. "Not at all, Your Highness. I harbor no doubt that you act from the purest of intentions."
"I merely jest," Joffrey assured him, then leaned forward with an expression of eager anticipation. "I confess I am most curious to behold the Nightfort with my own eyes. Lord Commander, I would ask you to inform Benjen that I shall accompany their expedition."
Lord Commander Mormont found himself with no graceful means to refuse such a request.
Joffrey rose to his feet. "Where is the wildling woman being held at present? I wish to speak with her before our departure."
Lord Commander Mormont glanced toward Bowen Marsh, who gazed longingly at his half-finished meal.
With visible reluctance, the First Steward abandoned his trencher and moved to obey.
The wildling woman Osha languished in a dark chamber adjacent to the general barracks, bound with coarse rope that chafed her wrists raw.
The room, lacking even the most rudimentary stove for heat, was bitterly cold—a harsh reminder of the unforgiving life she had known beyond the Wall.
Creak...
The door swung open, admitting both pale light and a fresh surge of frigid air. She narrowed her eyes against the sudden brightness and turned away, bracing herself to be roughly handled once more.
The door closed again, and the darkness was suddenly alleviated by the warm glow of a torch.
"Osha."
A clear male voice resonated in the confined space.
Osha raised her head, and a face of almost feminine delicacy came into focus before her. "Your Highness," she said, recognizing her visitor with surprise. "Why have you come here?"
Joffrey smiled thinly. "To determine whether you have realized your purpose yet."
Osha's expression betrayed her incomprehension.
Joffrey had initially regarded this woman as a character of little consequence, thinking it sufficient to surrender her to the Night's Watch for whatever fate they deemed appropriate. But after reflecting upon what he had learned the previous night about the Wall's magic, he recognized that he required a test subject—not too formidable, not too frail, and ideally without allies or protectors to complicate matters.
After considering the denizens of Castle Black, he concluded that Osha best satisfied these requirements.
"Osha," he said softly, "does the secret passage you spoke of possess a weirwood door adorned with a face that seems to live and breathe?"
"Your Highness knows of it?" she gasped, her eyes widening.
Joffrey pressed his advantage. "Once you have guided the Night's Watch to this passage, what do you intend to do thereafter?"
Osha shook her head, genuinely bewildered by the question.
"You are aware that the Others have awakened from their long slumber, are you not?"
Osha's thoughts immediately flew to those terrifying pale shadows that had driven her people to desperate measures. The North is no longer safe! She must flee southward, toward the warmth and life of the green lands!
"I can accept your oath of loyalty," Joffrey suggested.
Osha blinked, then swiftly dropped to her knees before the Crown Prince despite her bonds. "Your Highness, my blade is yours to command! I pledge myself to your service faithfully. I can—"
Joffrey crouched beside her and whispered: "Give thanks to whatever gods you worship, for you shall gain power beyond imagining."
"Remain still," he instructed. "There may be some discomfort, but you must endure it."
Osha watched with mounting horror as the Crown Prince slowly drew forth a dagger of unsettling aspect. Its hilt appeared fashioned from black crystal, while the dark blade seemed imbued with fell magic—a weapon far superior to any common steel.
What does he intend? Osha's mind raced through all manner of ghastly possibilities.
The blade drew inexorably closer to her forehead. An unnatural chill seemed to emanate from the weapon, penetrating to the very marrow of her bones and causing her to tremble uncontrollably.
The Crown Prince clamped his free hand upon her shoulder. "The blade will enter now," he said clinically. "You must not move."
How could she remain motionless in the face of such terror? Osha struggled frantically against her bonds, but the Crown Prince fixed her with a single baleful glare, and her body went suddenly, inexplicably still.
Strange! she thought wildly. Not even the White Walkers inspire such dread as this golden-haired boy!
She could only watch, paralyzed with fear, as the blade approached closer and closer, until at last it vanished from her field of vision as it pressed against her brow.
Clang... Tsss...
The sound of fresh leather being sliced open sent a wave of revulsion cascading through her.
No, she realized with dawning horror, that is my scalp being peeled back!
The swollen flap of skin, its inner surface slick with blood, was carelessly tossed aside onto a nearby table. Crimson rivulets flowed from the wound, soaking into her matted brown hair.
This gruesome tableau was her final coherent memory.
Warm droplets continued to flow from the crown of her head, and her vision soon filled with a red haze.
Then came a kaleidoscope of excruciating sensations—as though a thousand needles of ice-forged steel were being driven simultaneously into her fingertips, as if countless beetles were gnawing at her brain and flesh, accompanied by waves of numbness, nausea, vertigo, cacophonous noise, and blinding flashes of light.
After she perceived two shadowy figures extracting something from her violated form, Osha surrendered completely to the merciful darkness of unconsciousness.
Aaaiiieeeee!
A blood-curdling scream echoed from the small dwelling. Bowen Marsh, who had been waiting dutifully outside, shuddered violently, his flesh crawling as though a thousand spiders skittered across his skin.
What manner of twisted game is this royal princeling playing? he wondered, fighting the urge to flee. Too perverse by half!
Within the chamber, Joffrey carefully inserted the experimental construct into Osha's exposed brain, sealed the final segment of frontal bone in place, and employed his healing magic to mend the grievous wounds. At last, he exhaled a deep sigh of relief.
The impromptu surgery had proven far more challenging than anticipated.
When he pushed open the door to draw in a breath of fresh air, he found Bowen Marsh several paces distant, his face ashen.
"Your Highness," the steward stammered, "your hands..."
Joffrey glanced down instinctively and beheld his arms drenched in glistening crimson from fingertips to elbows.
"A simple medical procedure," he explained with unnerving casualness. "I appear to have gotten somewhat... liberal with the patient's blood."
Bowen cast a furtive glance into the chamber. The wildling woman appeared largely intact, if unconscious. How could a single body have yielded so much blood?
After a moment's hesitation, he ventured to offer advice: "Your Highness, for the treatment of ailments, Castle Black possesses an ample supply of herbs that might alleviate suffering. There is no need for such, ah, rudimentary methods."
Joffrey slapped his thigh in mock self-admonishment. Of course! How could he have overlooked such an obvious consideration?
But noting Bowen's suspicious expression, Joffrey merely replied with iron confidence: "You misunderstand, good steward. Not every surgical intervention permits the luxury of anesthesia."
Bowen Marsh offered a weak, unconvinced chuckle, averting his eyes from the blood-drenched prince.
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