Chapter 44 — The Hand's Suspicion
Saelen's consciousness snapped back into his body.
He immediately shook the others awake, urging them to move at once.
Robb, still groggy, approached him. "What is it?"
Saelen glanced at the exhausted group and spoke in a low, steady voice:
"I saw them. Wights—countless wights. Craster's Keep has fallen. We're still too close. We move. Now."
Robb and Benjen stiffened. The last traces of sleep vanished from their eyes. Without another word, they began packing, hands moving quickly despite their fatigue.
Among the women, some looked stricken, others let out small cries. A few covered their mouths and wept softly. It was clear that among those who had chosen to stay behind were sisters, mothers, friends.
Driven by fear of the White Walkers, the entire group forced themselves onward once more.
---
Far to the south, in the capital of King's Landing.
The Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, and the Master of Ships, Stannis Baratheon, arrived together at a modest tailor's shop, each accompanied by a retainer.
The proprietress, Lunna, hurried forward and bowed deeply.
"My lords. How may I serve you?"
Jon Arryn inclined his head slightly. "Bring the boy."
"Yes, my lord. At once."
She ushered them into a private room for discretion, then withdrew. Their attendants remained outside the door.
A short while later, she returned with a boy of about fourteen.
"My lords, this is Henry," she said quietly before retreating again.
"My lords," Henry greeted respectfully, bowing his head and standing with lowered eyes. He was clearly puzzled as to why such powerful men sought him—but he had the sense not to ask.
From the moment the boy entered, Stannis studied him without blinking.
Thick black hair.
Blue eyes.
A tall, sturdy frame.
Every feature bore the unmistakable stamp of House Baratheon.
After a long silence, Jon Arryn spoke gently.
"That will be all, child. You may go."
"Yes, my lord."
Henry bowed and left without hesitation.
When the door closed, Jon Arryn's expression turned grave.
"Well?" he asked quietly. "That makes ten. Boys and girls alike—blue eyes, black hair. Should we continue examining the other bastards?"
He paused.
"With Edric Storm and Mya Stone as well… the evidence is mounting."
Stannis's jaw tightened.
"There is no need to see more," he said coldly.
"If this is true… then those three children are born of incest."
Stannis's rigid face turned faintly pale-green with suppressed fury. The muscles along his jaw twitched, and when he spoke, his voice was sharp with cold anger.
"They are mocking the king. Mocking House Baratheon. This is treason."
He drew in a long breath, forcing himself to calm down. After a moment's thought, he shook his head.
"It is not enough. This alone is nowhere near sufficient to bring down the Lannisters. We need irrefutable proof—something undeniable."
He paused, eyes hard.
"And you must be the one to tell Robert. If I go to him directly with this accusation, he—and everyone else—will immediately question my motives. They will suspect ambition. They will doubt the evidence before even considering it."
Jon Arryn fell silent, reflecting on Stannis's words. After a long moment, he nodded.
"You're right. I did not consider that carefully enough."
The discovery of this staggering secret had shaken him deeply. His first instinct had been to seek out Stannis Baratheon, to confide in him and secure his alliance. He had not fully accounted for how precarious Stannis's position would appear in such a matter. As for Renly Baratheon, he had dismissed the younger brother outright as too frivolous to rely upon.
"Do not worry, my lord Hand," Stannis continued. "Though I cannot act openly, I can assist you from the shadows. You take the lead publicly—I will support you quietly. And when the time is right, I will stand firmly at your side."
Jon Arryn nodded again in agreement.
The two men then carefully discussed their next steps. Before long, they left the tailor's shop with their attendants, each carrying the weight of a dangerous truth.
---
Meanwhile, in the snow-choked wilderness north of the Wall—
Saelen frowned at the Wildlings blocking their path.
Truthfully, he had no desire to fight them now. Since discovering the day before that the White Walkers had already overrun Craster's Keep, there was no telling whether the dead might be pursuing them even now.
They had marched relentlessly through the night—another full day and night without proper rest. By dawn, thick fog had rolled in, blanketing the forest. Visibility dropped to less than ten meters. Saelen could not even skinchange into a hawk to scout the area.
With no other choice, he ordered a brief rest.
Many collapsed where they stood, too exhausted to care about comfort or caution. But they had barely closed their eyes before they encountered this group of Wildlings.
There were perhaps one or two hundred of them—ragged, poorly armed, many wounded. By the time either side noticed the other, they were already face to face.
"Crows! Bloody crows!"
The Wildlings shouted in alarm. Some children began crying.
"What do we do? Those damned crows behind us will catch up!"
"Kill them!"
"Kill them!"
The mob surged forward in chaos—but halted when they saw Saelen's men: armored, disciplined, weapons gleaming.
The cries of "Kill them!" grew weaker. The tension thickened like the fog itself. Both sides stood poised, waiting for the other to strike first.
Saelen quietly exhaled in relief when the Wildlings stopped advancing. His own people were barely holding themselves together. A fight now would be disastrous.
He beckoned Val to his side.
"Val," he said, pointing toward the Wildling group, "Mance is your king. You've seen many of the Free Folk at his side. Look carefully—do you recognize anyone among them?"
Val looked utterly drained now—no longer the wild, spirited beauty of the mountains, but pale and worn. Her blue eyes scanned the opposing group carefully.
After a long moment, she shook her head.
"No. I don't know any of them."
Then she added quietly:
"And let me correct you. Mance may have united many tribes, but not all Free Folk follow him. There are still some who refuse to kneel."
She tilted her chin toward the Wildlings ahead.
"Those are the ones who won't bend."
"And even among those who have sworn to him, many did so only because of the White Walkers. Fear forced them together. Once south of the Wall—once the threat of the Others is gone—who's to say Mance can still control them?"
Saelen gave her an appraising look. Since volunteering to accompany them as a hostage, Val had mostly kept to herself, staying near Dacey and speaking little. He had not expected such clear-headed political insight from her now.
"Thank you for the warning," Saelen replied calmly. "But don't worry. I've already made preparations."
Outwardly polite.
Inwardly calculating.
Once they crossed south of the Wall, he had more than enough methods to deal with the unruly.
Val studied him for a moment, puzzled by his confidence. What was he relying on?
In the end, she said nothing more.
She had spoken her piece. The rest was beyond her control.