Rohar expected that moving the Wildlings to the southern side of the Wall would be a challenge, but he was expecting a challenge in terms of constant tension between the Watch and the Wildlings, aggressive nobles trying to prevent raiders from being allowed to their lands, and some of these raiders immediately act aggressively once they were on the safe side of the wall.
Admittedly, all of them happened frequently, but none of them had come close to the mind-numbing boredom of moving a hundred thousand people through a tunnel that was designed barely large enough to allow the passage of a horse without it panicking.
Moving them was an exercise in patience that made governing Astapor look like a leisure activity.
The tunnel through the base of the Wall was the bottleneck. It could handle roughly two thousand people per hour if they moved with perfect discipline … and since he was trying to control Wildlings, it naturally didn’t happen.
That was without factoring in the special needs of the elderly, children, and the wounded.
Meanwhile, some of the figures, like the rare mammoths or giants, were too large to fit in the tunnel, which meant they were moved with pulleys, which worked even slower.
With the travel taking even longer than he expected, he was even more glad that he hadn’t killed Mance but allied with him instead. While he dealt with the logistics and the southern side challenges, Mance stayed on the northern side, dealing with rivalries and blood feuds.
Wildlings had too many feuds, and too few people that they respected to help them. Essentially, Mance was the only one they listened, forcing them to run around suppressing these conflicts. Conflicts that were getting worse as they stayed in place.
His Teaching skill helped somewhat, but two weeks of quickened education was barely enough to help them internalize how to use money or bartering instead of just killing and raiding.
Erasing clan rivalries that had been simmering for generations was a different story, especially since they were finally feeling safe enough to ignore the existential threat.
He was glad that killing some of the worst troublemakers to intimidate the rest had been an acceptable way of conflict resolution by them. Meaning, threatening to kill them was a valid way to kill them. Otherwise, even with his Leadership, it would have failed.
Whenever he wasn’t addressing a crisis, he stationed himself near the tunnel exit, with Viserion resting in a visible spot … which not only showed the Wildlings exactly what they would be dealing, but also made the rangers refrain from getting any bad ideas.
Amusingly, after Mance, the two that proved the most useful had been Jon and Tormund. While the Wildlings seemed to be unhappy about Jon’s betrayal, their leaders were smart enough to realize that a connection with a Stark would prove valuable.
They didn’t understand the full context of a great house, but they accepted the explanation of Jon being the son of the biggest tribal leader.
Meanwhile, Tormund was always visible, escorting the more troublesome clans, his kind of blunt leadership, where orders mixed with obscene humor and genuine authority, kept the more troublesome figures suppressed.
"Move your asses, you frozen elk fuckers!" Tormund bellowed at a group of Hornfoots who had stopped to argue about whether the direction they were supposed to move smelled wrong according to the nose of their shaman. "The Dragon King didn't let us use the tunnel; you could stand around sniffing and clogging the way!"
Seeing Tormund in control, Rohar closed his eyes and warged into a nearby raven, and watched Mance; who was currently near the other end of the tunnel, things going sufficiently well enough.
"You look tired," a familiar voice called from behind him.
Rohar turned to find Maester Aemon approaching, and the sight made him blink in genuine surprise. The ancient maester was walking without assistance, his presence was enough to cause a shuffle in the watch members.
He wasn’t walking with the vigor of a young man, but he still moved steadily, radiating actual strength, his eyes once again sharp. Too sharp, for a man just over a hundred years old.
It looked like he adapted to internal energy better than he had expected.
"Uncle Aemon," Rohar said, knowing that their relation was in doubt, but since the old man was willing to provide him with legitimacy out of sentiment, he didn’t turn it down.
At this point, he was riding a huge dragon, and his presence was more or less accepted. Accepting the Targaryen name was no longer an issue.
"I see that the evacuation is going on smoothly," Aemon said as he settled onto a nearby rock with a grunt of effort.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Everything hurts, but when you reach my age, and your body suddenly decides to cooperate for the first time in twenty years, you prefer pain over numbness."
Rohar studied him with a flare of magic. The changes, even on the surface, were remarkable. Aemon's breathing was deeper and more regular. The tremor in his hands, which had been constant during their first meeting, had gone almost completely. His posture was straighter. Even his skin, while still wrinkly and ancient, had lost its gray pallor that marked men on the edge of death.
Internally, he was even stronger. Internal energy was being carried with his blood, each drop rejuvenating his ancient organs. Frankly, he suspected his Valyrian ancestry giving him a boost.
Or maybe, it was just his proximity to Viserion, who radiated magic. Maybe Master Aemon benefited from it even without a bond.
"You've been practicing the breathing style," Rohar observed.
"Every waking hour," Aemon confirmed. "At first, I felt nothing. Just an old man sitting in his chair, breathing like a fool. But, now I can feel the stir every time I complete a set. Warmth grows deep in my chest, like a coal that had been buried in ash for years and finally caught a draft."
"That's exactly what it is," Rohar said. "The energy was always there. Targaryen blood ensures that. You just needed to learn how to reach it."
"Targaryen blood," Aemon repeated, and the words carried decades of complicated emotion. With his history, it was an inevitable reaction. The man watched his family destroy itself out of greed and ambition, thinking that they had been lost completely.
“It has some benefits,” he said. “Any other side effects?”
Maester Aemon nodded. “Amusement, mostly. Sam was so alarmed by the change that he spent an entire day convinced I was dying, and it was a flash of vitality."
Rohar laughed. "That must have been a difficult argument for a maester-in-training."
"He's a good boy. Too afraid of his own shadow, but his mind is sharp, and his heart is genuine. With proper guidance, he'll make an excellent maester."
Discussion drifted soon. Like whenever they had time, Aemon started asking about Daenerys, and he shared stories. He could see that it was part a desire for family, and part fear, afraid that Targaryen madness would strike again.
Rohar was happy to put those fears to rest. With the support structure he created, Daenerys would have no need to pull such moves.
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the wildling fires multiply across the Gift. The scene was oddly peaceful, the distant sounds of people settling in for the night, children being called to dinner, the occasional argument that flared and died without violence.
"How many have crossed?" Aemon asked.
"About twenty thousand by tonight. At this pace, the full crossing will take six more days, possibly eight if the weather gets worse. Luckily, the Watch is accepting their presence."
That made Maester Aemon chuckle, too smart to miss that it was less the Watch accepting them, and more about Viserion intimidating them. Without it, a mutiny was almost a guarantee.
Between stories about Daenerys, he questioned Maester Aemon about the citadel, as once the things with Wildlings calmed down, he planned to make a trip south, which would allow him to get Ros back to the North.
She deserved his assistance. Not to mention, he missed her. Ros was a fun companion.
Once he arrived at Oldtown, liberating some rare tomes from the grubby hands of Maesters would make the trip useful. He could even check with Dorne and Highgarden, informing them that the North was safely taken.
He promised Daenerys the Seven Kingdoms, and if he could achieve that with limited bloodshed, it was even better.
&&&
By the fifth day of crossing, things had calmed down somewhat, though it was partially about having the most problematic wildlings on the other side of the wall while the more civilized ones — a term he had used rather generously — were settling around the Gift, while he already built up some walls to make sure they stayed in place.
He was busy calculating the ways to feed a hundred thousand people if the food from Reach and Dorne never arrived when he was interrupted by Jon.
Seeing his expression, showing both joy and anguish, he decided to listen. "Lord Rohar," Jon said, his voice rough. "I need you to come with me. Now."
He nodded, following him outside the fort, not panicking even when Jon’s huge direwolf appeared. Thanks to his multiple traits and skills, he got along with the animals well, easily reading the beast’s expression.
He was as excited as his human partner. Interesting.
But, his gaze was on the small bundle at the direwolf’s back, with a tiny head poking out. A chikd.
Rohar examined the child, a little magical touch enough to feel the familiar Stark magic. “Rickon,” he said. His recognition surprised Jon. “Sansa had shown drawings of his face,” he said.
“Ghost found them trying to find their way to Umber land,” Jon explained. “He was with a wildling woman, Osha. She’s still nearby, waiting with Rickon’s direwolf, Shaggydog. I didn’t bring her here just in case.”
“Smart call,” he said. He hadn’t spoken to Rickon immediately, instead he reached into his pouch and pulled out a piece of dried fruit. The kid’s eyes brightened, his hesitation temporarily forgotten under the allure of dessert.
His reaction was surprisingly animalistic. Rohar recognized the signs of warding. It was a problem to be solved, but luckily, it wasn’t immediate.
Politically, Rickon’s survival solved a lot of inconvenient future issues about Stark inheritance, making his presence more straightforward, but it wasn’t why he was happy. He was glad that he could bring Sansa good news.
“You know this means you finally have to return to Moat Cailin with me to meet with Sansa, right?” he told Jon.
Jon shuffled uncomfortably. “It’s not—“
“No. You’ll come with me,” he said, deliberately strict. Jon hesitated because he feared Sansa’s rejection, but he knew it was an empty concern. “You can’t expect Rickon to fly on a dragon without his brother helping him to stay calm,” he suggested.
Jon nodded as he looked at Rickon. The kid didn’t cry, showing the same stubborn Stark streak he was getting familiar with, but his grip on Ghost's fur tightened until his knuckles whitened. “You’re right,” he admitted.
“Good,” Rohar said, then paused and gestured Jon to get closer. “Any news about Bran?”
Jon looked hesitant. “Osha confirms that Bran and others had split from them more than three weeks ago. I tried to track based on the smell, but it disappeared quickly.” He hesitated again, this time longer. “Osha mentioned that Bran had several visions of … dying in flames before he made that decision.”
Rohar nodded. “Arrange to bring the direwolf and Osha to the camp, while I go and see if I can track Bran,” he suggested. Even without the mention of sudden nightmares that overlapped with his return to the Seven Kingdoms, he would have tried to find Sansa’s brother.
However, the nightmares that warned Bran away from him were problematic, especially since he had no ill will toward the Starks, and even saved their lives. He knew that on rare occasion, people of the old blood could possess the ability of greensight, which allowed them to look past and into the future, something even he wasn’t able to replicate.
There was a chance Bran could be seeing something in the future … or there was a chance that his visions could be manipulated.
“What’s the full situation with Bran?” he asked. “Is he alone?”
Jon nodded, equally tense. "No. Osha said that Bran was escorted by the Reed children and a servant named Hodor. Apparently..." Jon added, swallowing with fear. "Even without the dreams of fire, he had been talking about something calling him. Someone Bran referred to as the Three-Eyed-Raven…"
The words sent a chill through Rohar. Summoning a crippled child to the deep north, where the old magic still survived, and the dead were rising … Rohar doubted it was something altruistic.
He moved to the North, following the map Jon drew until the spot Ghost lost their track. He was an even better tracker than the wolf. However, he could also feel that some kind of magical inference, making it harder.
He was able to ignore it and continue. Momentum allowed him to move fast, and soon, he arrived at one of the sealed castles on the wall, the smell leading him to a tunnel. The smell continued, even passing through a ruined settlement belonging to a freak called Crester, and continued to follow … until he reached an underground passage, one tainted with a very distinct, cloying energy of the dead, similar to what his senses were feeling in the farther north.
He could feel two different source of magic, one carrying the feeling of nature and trees, the other pure death, leftovers still fighting.
Rohar's jaw tightened. Technically, it wasn’t the worst case. It at least implied that whoever summoned Bran through his dreams wasn’t working for the dead, but just because the mysterious figure was against the dead didn’t mean they were allies.
He was tempted to continue searching for Bran. He could feel that it was important … but there were too many things that required his presence for him to allow that. And, collapsed underground tunnels deep in the north wasn’t something he could bypass easily.
In the end, authority was a perk, but also a shackle…
With a sigh, he returned to the wall.
&&&
The next day, Viserion descended to the courtyard of Moat Cailin once more. Jon was holding Rickon, who seemed to be enjoying the flight. As for the direwolves, they were currently not with them, Ghost and Shaggydog were taking the long route.
Viserion grew bigger, but not enough to comfortably carry two direwolves. He could have probably arranged a harness if it had been a true emergency, but letting the wolves run free was the smoother option.
Interestingly, as they landed, a celebration was already going on. “They are in a good mood,” Jon commented.
“Something must have happened,” Rohar said as he led the two inside. Rickon hugged Jon’s leg, more scared of the festivities than flying.
When Sansa appeared to greet him, she already had a smile on her face, but it froze before turning into astonishment. “J-Jon, R-Rickon,” she stammered as she rushed forward, hugging both.
Rickon, despite his youth, recognized Sansa, immediately breaking into wailing sobs. Jon soon pulled out of the hug, standing to the side, shuffling in discomfort. He wasn’t unhappy; he was just surprised.
He clearly expected a colder reception.
Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice a shorter woman approach from behind, almost stalking. Rohar would have cut her path if he hadn’t recognized the familiar Stark magic in her blood.
Arya Stark. Her presence explained the sudden celebration.
He said nothing as Arya jumped onto Jon’s back like an attacker, making Jon flail in panic for a while, thinking that he was under attack. Then, he suddenly froze after catching a glimpse. “A-Arya,” he gasped.
“Jon, you’ve got fat,” Arya declared happily as she dropped.
Jon turned back, his expression even more complicated. “And, you’re even shorter,” he responded, which created another scuffle, but since it was the affection among the siblings, he pulled back, letting them enjoy their moment of calm.
It was clear that while Jon had a distant relationship with Sansa, the same didn’t apply to Arya.
He left the siblings to their reunion and retreated toward the feast table. It was interesting that there was no reward, but thinking about it, it was difficult to declare the reunion as his achievement.
Jon was the one who found Rickon, and Arya was escorted by others.
Those others were two interesting figures. One of them, he recognized from King’s Landing, the other from her descriptions. Sandor Clegane, and Brienne of Tarth.
He focused on Clegane first, mostly because he was responsible for the man’s brother. Gregor Clegane was not exactly an upstanding person, but most people cared little about the deeds of their family when swearing revenge.
His exhaustion faded as he caught Rohar approaching him. He tensed. Rohar knew he wasn’t recognized, as the famous ‘Hound’ had disappeared after the Battle of Blackwater Bay, the same event that had started his rise.
Interestingly, Clegane looked sharp. Hostile, but sharp, far smarter than his brother, not that it was a high bar to clear. “You’re an unexpected face to find here,” he called.
“My lord,” Clegane replied, even though his tone was flat rather than respectful. Interesting. His relatively tame reaction was understandable since he didn’t recognize him as the King Consort.
“What brings you here?” he asked.
“I found the Stark girl, and I escorted her. I’ll disappear once I get my reward,” he said, declaring like it was a challenge. It was against tradition, as knights loved to act like they did what they did for honor rather than money … only to betray their lords if their money was insufficient.
“Good way to live,” Rohar said as he patted Clegane’s shoulder. “Gold is more useful than honor. I’ll make sure you’ll get a fat reward, maybe even a ship to Essos if you want,” Rohar promised. He liked the way Clegane thought.
That made Clegane relax slightly, though he looked surprised. “A weird thing for a lord to say,” he said.
Rohar shrugged. “It makes things simpler,” he said. He liked Clegane, but not enough to tell him his full life story. He also looked at Brienne, standing at a distance, with a Valyrian steel sword on her waist.
Back in the capital, he had learned she was granted by the second blade made of Ice. Since it was made of Stark blade, he let Sansa handle it. He didn’t need to do anything about it. Brienne looked like one of the idealistic knights, which made her predictable.
She would offer her services either to Sansa directly, or to House Stark, and Sansa would accept. But, just as he was about to depart, he noticed another familiar figure walk into the courtyard.
A face from the past.
“Podrick, you son of a bitch, what a nice surprise,” Rohar called happily as he went to hug him. It was not a face he expected to encounter, not that he was complaining.
Podrick froze at the declaration before he finally recognized him. “R-Rohar! You’re alive,” he called back, hugging him.
It was an unexpected, but welcome, union.