ASOIAF/GOT: The King On The Wall

By law, deserters from the Night's Watch are considered criminals, and all lords of the Seven Kingdoms are bound to hunt them down and execute them. This is particularly true in the North, where the Stark family and their bannermen hold a close relationship with the Night's Watch and show no mercy to deserters. For those who attempt to flee south, the journey is fraught with peril. For those who flee north to join the wildlings, their fate is equally grim, perhaps worse.

Aegor wanted to escape the black cloak and distance himself from humanity's enemies. But how could he flee north and join the wildlings? That path wasn't an option.

As for fleeing south... it was a tempting dream, but one that required careful planning and preparation. First, he would need a fast horse, ample provisions, and plain clothes to replace his black uniform. He'd need to choose the right moment to slip away and avoid all inhabited areas along his path. If he could cross the Neck and make it out of the North, his chances of success would rise dramatically.

Once in the southern regions ideally in the fertile lands of the Reach or the Riverlands, lords and common folk alike would care far less about the Night's Watch. There, he could find a small town or a safe haven that wouldn't ask too many questions, where he could start a new life.

The plan sounded simple. The reality, however, was daunting. In a feudal world with slow transportation, low mobility, and a legal system built on rigid hierarchies, his distinctly foreign appearance and lack of identity papers would make him stand out like a sore thumb.

It was almost impossible.

Shaking his head, Aegor pushed the thought aside. Now wasn't the time to fantasize. As the muffled crunch of horses' hooves broke through the snow, the trees thickened, blocking out the sunlight. The patrol had entered the vast boreal forest north of the Wall.

"These damned savages," Gary grumbled. "The weather's colder by the day, but they still won't stop."

"They're wildlings. They don't know when to quit," Aegor replied, brushing the snowflakes off his sleeves with an air of casual disdain.

The Night's Watch, short on manpower and supplies, had long abandoned routine patrols in favor of targeted missions. Patrols were now sent out only when there was an urgent reason. Two nights ago, the watchmen stationed atop the Wall had spotted a fire flickering several miles to the north. That was the sole reason why the commander and the chief ranger had ordered today's mission. Otherwise, the four of them would still be in Castle Black, finishing their morning drills and warming themselves by the hearth.

"Enough chatter. Spread out and move forward in a line. I don't want anyone missing even the smallest trace," said Waymar Royce, their leader, in a curt, frosty tone.

Hearing the command, Gary and Will exchanged looks and rolled their eyes behind Waymar's back. The group was arranged by age: Gary, the oldest; then Will; Aegor in the middle; and Royce, the youngest, leading from the front. This dynamic didn't sit well with the older three.

Sir Waymar Royce was a young noble from the Vale, the third son of the Lord of Runestone. He had joined the Night's Watch for one simple reason: as the third son, his chances of inheriting his family's title or lands were slim. His father had personally escorted him to the Wall, along with a wagon full of supplies. That detail alone had made him a frequent target of ridicule among the men at Castle Black. To many, it seemed that the great Sir Waymar Royce hadn't come to serve the Watch but to enjoy a vacation.

The Night's Watch had a creed: all brothers were equals, bound by their oaths. Yet here was a young, inexperienced noble suddenly promoted to a position of authority. And worse, this was Waymar's first time leading a patrol beyond the Wall. It was hardly surprising that the others didn't trust him.

But discipline was discipline. The three of them followed orders, spreading out in a line to comb the area for signs of wildling activity.

Before long, they found what they were looking for: clear signs of human presence. The snow had held firm since the day before, preserving footprints and the blackened remains of a campfire.

"They're already gone," Gary said, hesitating as he glanced at Waymar.

---

The Night's Watch was born in the aftermath of the Long Night, the cataclysmic winter that had lasted a generation. During that dark age, the White Walkers had nearly wiped out humanity. In the wake of the devastation, the Wall and the Night's Watch were established to protect mankind from the terrors of the far North.

For a time, joining the Night's Watch was considered the highest honor. Its ranks were filled with the best and brightest, and its entry requirements were strict. Men volunteered eagerly, drawn by a sense of duty and glory.

But that era had long passed.

As the White Walkers retreated to the Land of Always Winter and faded into obscurity, the memory of the Long Night began to dim. Generations passed, and with them, the importance of the Night's Watch began to decline.

Even so, the Watch managed to retain some degree of relevance, for the Wall served another purpose: keeping the wildlings at bay. For thousands of years, the Wall had been a shield against the free folk of the North.

That all changed with Aegon's Conquest and the rise of the Targaryen dynasty.

The Targaryens never sought to undermine the Night's Watch. In fact, the kings of Westeros respected the Black Brothers. But Aegon the Conqueror had brought dragons to Westeros, and dragons changed everything. When wildlings launched a major attack, Aegon simply mounted his dragon and scorched their forces, scattering them back to the wilderness.

It was an efficient solution, but it came at a cost. The role of the Night's Watch diminished in the eyes of the realm. Why risk lives defending the Wall when the King of Westeros could dispatch his dragons to deal with any threat?

Over time, the noble sons and knights who had once flocked to the Watch lost interest. Recruitment dwindled. Standards fell. The Night's Watch was forced to lower its entry requirements again and again, until it became what it was today: a shadow of its former self.

---

The oath of the Night's Watch still rang with a certain grandeur:

"Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, and father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

It was a stirring vow, filled with solemn promises and lofty titles. But few knew how many revisions it had undergone over the centuries or how much bitterness and resignation lay behind the words.

The dragons of House Targaryen were long gone, but the Watch's decline was irreversible. By now, the Black Brothers were little more than glorified gatekeepers. Their numbers had dwindled to fewer than a thousand, and the men could be roughly divided into three categories:

The first and largest group consisted of criminals like Aegor, men who had chosen the Wall over punishment. Thieves, poachers, rapists—these were the dregs of society, unfit to serve in the glory days of the Watch but now its main fighting force. Their only futures lay in death, either at their post or as deserters.

The second group comprised those forced into the Watch by circumstances. Bankrupt merchants, illegitimate children, disgraced nobles, or farmers who had lost their land, they joined not for glory but for survival. Many of the Watch's craftsmen and stewards came from this group, though their numbers had also dwindled.

The final and smallest group consisted of men like Waymar Royce: volunteers driven by honor, guilt, or political necessity. These men still existed, though they were few and far between. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, Chief Ranger Benjen Stark, and Maester Aemon of the Targaryen bloodline all fell into this category.

Such men often rose quickly to leadership roles. It was an unspoken rule, rooted in practicality. In a remote and frozen outpost like the Wall, leadership couldn't be left to the criminals and peasants who made up most of the Watch.

But even the noblest recruits soon found their ideals crushed beneath the weight of reality. The Wall was no grand stage for heroics; it was a frozen graveyard of broken dreams.

Sir Waymar Royce was no exception.

He'd joined the Night's Watch full of youthful zeal, inspired by its storied oath. He'd wanted to prove to his family—particularly his beloved brother that he had no designs on the family fortune. But standing here now, on the edge of the Haunted Forest, Waymar couldn't help but regret his decision.

There was no turning back. His oath had been sworn, his words spoken. Even if he fled home now, his family would never welcome him back with open arms.

His only hope was to achieve some kind of success to prove himself a capable leader. Perhaps then he could petition for leave to visit his family without being branded a failure.

Circling the site of the abandoned wildling camp, Waymar's eyes narrowed. After a moment's thought, he made his decision:

"They're not far ahead. Follow their tracks. We're going after them."