77 AC
Winterfell
A week had passed since our arrival at Winterfell, a period of delicate diplomacy and insightful discovery. Conversations with Lord Stark and his family unveiled the intricate tapestry of the North's traditions and the resolute character of its people. I had witnessed the quiet strength of Winterfell, the bustling industry of Wintertown, and the impressive intellectual rigor of the College of Winterhold, the initial wariness gradually giving way to a cautious respect and a burgeoning understanding for the Starks' deep loyalty and unwavering resolve. During one of our discussions, Lord Stark had broached the matter of the taxes levied upon the North, expressing his hope for a potential decrease to reflect the unique challenges and distances of their land. I had listened intently, assuring him that I would bring the matter before my Small Council for thorough consideration upon our return to King's Landing.
Tomorrow, our journey takes a significant turn as we venture further north, towards the legendary Wall. This ancient barrier, a testament to the enduring vigilance of the North against a mythical threat, promises an experience unlike any before. A sense of anticipation, tinged with trepidation, settles within me as I contemplate this next leg of our journey, wondering what truths and dangers await us at the very edge of the known world.
As the pale dawn painted the Northern sky in hues of grey and rose, we prepared to depart Winterfell. The carriages were brought forth, and our small company, including Artor and Maege Stark who would accompany us for a portion of the journey, made its way towards Wintertown. Our destination was the railway station, a testament to the North's progressive ingenuity.
The journey through the crisp morning air was swift. Upon reaching the station, the rhythmic hiss and clank of the Northern rail system filled the air. The train that would carry us further north, towards the Wall, was already awaiting our arrival, its carriages sturdy and functional.
Lord Stark, his expression as stoic as ever, offered a curt nod of farewell. "Safe journey, Your Grace," he said, his voice carrying a hint of the North's inherent gravity. His words held an unspoken weight, a recognition of the perilous lands that lay ahead.
With our farewells concluded, we boarded the train. The whistle blew, a piercing sound that echoed across the winter landscape, and slowly, the mechanical beast began to move, carrying us further into the vastness of the North. The rhythmic chugging of the train was a steady pulse against the backdrop of the passing scenery – snow-dusted forests and frozen plains stretching towards an unseen horizon. The Wall, I knew, lay far to the north, a silent sentinel awaiting our arrival by the morrow's dawn.
As the train lurched forward, a low rumble vibrating beneath our feet, Darlla and Rosmund exchanged wide-eyed glances. The sheer novelty of the experience was still clearly washing over them. They peered out of the large glass windows, watching the landscape slide by at a pace far exceeding that of any carriage ride.
"It's... it's truly unbelievable, Your Grace," Darlla finally managed, her voice a hushed whisper of awe. "To move so swiftly, without the effort of horses... it feels like some sort of enchantment."
Rosmund nodded vehemently, her gaze fixed on the blur of trees passing by. "I still can't quite grasp how it works. All that steam and metal... propelling us across the land. It defies all logic."
I smiled, a small amusement tugging at my lips. Their Southern sensibilities were clearly struggling to reconcile with the North's pragmatic advancements. "It is not magic, my dears, but ingenuity. The North has learned to harness the power of steam and mechanics to overcome the vast distances of their land."
Artor Stark, seated across from us, offered a rare, small smile. "Necessity is the mother of invention, Your Grace. The distances in the North are great, and the winters harsh. This railway makes travel and trade far more efficient, especially when the snows are heavy."
Maege Stark added, her keen eyes observing my ladies' reactions with a hint of amusement. "It took many years of work and experimentation to perfect. There were... setbacks. But the result has been invaluable to the North."
Darlla leaned closer to the window, her fascination evident. "But how does it stay on the tracks? And what makes it move so fast?"
Artor patiently explained the basic principles of the railway, the design of the wheels and tracks, and the power generated by the steam engine. His explanations, though straightforward, still seemed to stretch the limits of my ladies' understanding.
Rosmund shook her head slowly, a look of bewildered wonder on her face. "It's still so... unnatural. Like a metal beast with a life of its own, carrying us in its belly."
I chuckled softly. "Perhaps, but a very useful beast indeed. One that will bring us closer to the Wall by tomorrow morning."
The conversation continued in this vein for some time, Darlla and Rosmund peppering Artor and Maege with questions about the train, its workings, and the very concept of such a mode of transportation. Their astonishment served as a stark reminder of the technological gap that existed between the North and the South, a gap that the College of Winterhold and now this very train had so clearly illuminated. The North, it was becoming increasingly apparent, held many surprises.
As the train steadily chugged northward, the landscape outside the windows began to transform. The dense forests closer to Winterfell gradually gave way to sparser woodlands, the trees becoming hardier, their branches often coated in a layer of frost even in the late autumn air. The rich greens and browns of the south were replaced by more muted tones of grey, white, and the deep, resilient green of pines and firs.
Darlla, ever observant of the natural world, pointed to a flash of movement in the trees. "What was that, Your Grace? It was quick and grey."
Artor Stark, following her gaze, explained, "Likely a shadowcat. They are swift hunters, well-adapted to these colder climates. Solitary creatures, mostly."
Rosmund shivered slightly, despite the warmth of the train carriage. "Shadowcats? Are they dangerous?"
Maege Stark chuckled softly. "They prefer smaller prey, but it's wise to give them a wide berth if encountered on foot. They are fierce when provoked."
As we continued, the trees thinned further, revealing vast stretches of open moorland, dotted with hardy shrubs and tough grasses. Occasionally, we would spot herds of what Artor identified as wild deer, their thick winter coats providing insulation against the cold. Their antlers, stark against the pale landscape, were impressive in size.
"The wildlife here is so different from what we are accustomed to in the South," Darlla mused.
We passed by frozen lakes, their surfaces like vast sheets of polished silver. Artor pointed out tracks in the snow near the shoreline. "Wolf prints," he stated matter-of-factly. "They roam these lands in packs, formidable predators."
Rosmund drew closer to the window, a hint of apprehension in her eyes. "Wolves... are they a common sight this far north?"
"They are a part of the natural order here," Artor explained. "They keep the deer populations in check and are a reminder of the wildness of this land."
Maege added, "The balance of nature in the North is a delicate one. Everything is interconnected, from the smallest insect to the largest predator. The harshness of the environment ensures that only the strongest survive." The glimpses of the Northern wildlife, stark and resilient against the unforgiving landscape, painted a vivid picture of the challenges and the raw beauty of this land beyond Winterfell.
The vastness of the North began to sink in, the sheer scale of the wilderness stretching out towards the horizon. It was a land that commanded respect, a land where survival was a constant endeavor. Yet, within this harshness, there was a raw, untamed beauty that was unlike anything I had witnessed in the more cultivated landscapes of the South. The journey by train was not just a means of reaching the Wall; it was an education in the very essence of the North itself.
The next morning, a sense of hushed anticipation permeated the train carriage. As the first slivers of dawn painted the eastern sky, a colossal structure began to dominate the horizon. It was a line of impossibly high, dark ice, stretching as far as the eye could see in both directions. It was the Wall.
A collective gasp escaped Darlla and Rosmund. Even I, who had heard countless tales of its immensity, was struck speechless by its sheer scale. It dwarfed everything in the landscape, a formidable barrier against the wild lands beyond.
After a hurried change of clothes, eager to get a closer look, I stepped out onto the small platform at the rear of our carriage, the crisp, frigid air biting at my skin. Artor Stark stood there, his gaze fixed on the approaching spectacle.
"Lord Stark," I began, my voice barely above a whisper, my eyes still fixed on the towering ice, "are we... are we finally at the Wall?"
A faint smile touched the corners of Artor's lips, a rare display of amusement. He turned to me, his grey eyes holding a depth of understanding. "Not quite yet, Your Grace," he said, his voice calm and steady against the backdrop of the rumbling train. "There is still perhaps another hour of journey before we reach our destination at Castle Black."
"An hour still?" Rosmund exclaimed, joining us on the platform, her breath misting in the cold air. "It looks so... close."
Maege, standing beside her husband, chuckled softly. "The Wall has a way of playing tricks on the eyes, my lady. Its scale is difficult to comprehend until you are right at its base. What seems like a short distance can still be a considerable journey."
I continued to gaze at the Wall, its imposing presence growing larger with each passing moment. Even from this distance, I could make out the rough, uneven surface of the ice, the sheer vertical drop, and the way it seemed to cleave the landscape in two. It was a monument to an age long past, a testament to the enduring threat that necessitated its construction.
"What awaits us at Castle Black, Lord Stark?" I asked, my curiosity now outweighing my awe. "Who will greet us there?"
"We will be met by the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Domeric Snow," Artor replied, his gaze now also fixed on the approaching Wall. "He is a man of great experience and unwavering dedication to his duty. He commands the Watch and oversees the defense of the realm against what lies beyond."
After what felt like an age, the train finally shuddered to a halt at a small, austere station built in the shadow of the Wall itself. The air here was bitingly cold, carrying the faint, crisp scent of ice and something wild, something untamed from the lands beyond. Stepping down from the train, the sheer scale of the Wall was even more overwhelming. It loomed above us, a colossal curtain of ice that seemed to scrape the very sky.
We were met by a contingent of men clad in the black furs of the Night's Watch, their faces grim and weathered. They escorted us towards a massive gate carved into the Wall, a dark, forbidding opening that led into the heart of Castle Black. The sheer weight and age of the structure were palpable as we passed through the gate, the echoing sound of our footsteps swallowed by the immensity of the ice.
Inside the courtyard of Castle Black, a sea of black-clad figures stood in silent formation. As I entered, every single brother of the Night's Watch knelt in unison, their heads bowed in a gesture of respect for the Crown.
"Your Grace," he said, his voice deep and resonant, "I am Domeric Snow, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Welcome to Castle Black." He then gestured to a tall, broad-shouldered man standing beside him, his face bearing the rugged features of the North. "And this is Hother Umber, my First Ranger."