Tyrion could not suppress the smile that spread across his mismatched features.
Nine captives knelt upon the frozen ground before them, their breath forming small clouds in the bitter northern air. Seven men and two women—all of whom had taken up arms against them, all of whom had blood on their hands.
By some stroke of fortune—or perhaps misfortune, depending on one's perspective—the bald man who had hurled insults at Tyrion's stature had survived the skirmish. The dwarf's mind danced with delicious possibilities for how he might repay such courtesies.
Yoren approached, his weathered face impassive as he carried a grisly trophy—a string of severed heads that swung from a leather cord like grotesque fruit.
"Thanks to Your Highness," the grizzled recruiter of the Night's Watch announced, "these wild dogs are finished. The Wall shall have a few more decorations upon its battlements."
Joffrey regarded the man with a measured gaze. "Perhaps we need not be quite so harsh in our assessment," he said. "After all, two among their number are deserters from the Night's Watch. Can we truly call them wild dogs when they once stood among your brothers?"
His emerald eyes fell upon the two men in question, their black garments faded but unmistakable.
The deserters slumped in defeat, offering no denial of their treachery.
Benjen Stark snorted with cold contempt. "Worse than dogs!" he spat. "I doubt they've forgotten my face, though they might wish they had. Your Highness, I ask the honor of executing these traitors myself."
Tyrion interjected quickly, "Leave the bald one to me."
Before Joffrey could respond to either request, he addressed the prisoners directly. "Tell me what you know," he commanded. "Whoever provides the most valuable information may yet live to see another dawn."
A flicker of desperate hope kindled in the eyes of the deserters.
They had learned the golden-haired youth's true identity during the battle. If they could somehow secure the Crown Prince's pardon, would even the Night's Watch dare gainsay such royal mercy?
The two men exchanged a swift, calculating glance.
The bald giant was first to speak, scrabbling forward on his knees. "Your Highness, I confess I abandoned my post at the Wall," he said, words tumbling forth in his haste. "But you must understand—I was patrolling beyond when I encountered the Others themselves! Becoming a wildling was my only choice for survival."
The second deserter, a gaunt man with iron-gray stubble, was only a heartbeat slower. "Stiv, how dare you spin such falsehoods before His Highness?" he cried, his voice dripping with feigned outrage. "I, Warren, have done wrong, aye—but at least I have the courage to admit my crimes honestly!"
Joffrey regarded them both with an expression as cold and unyielding as the Wall itself.
"Enough of this mummery," he said. "I seek information, not confessions. What manner of men you are and what crimes stain your hands is of little concern to me."
His gaze hardened. "Who was the skinchanger who led your band? How did you assemble your force? What drove you to pursue us with such determination? What transpires beyond the Wall? Have you encountered others with unusual abilities?"
Warren responded immediately, his tone obsequious. "Your Highness shows great wisdom in your questions. The skinchanger was called Varamyr, though wildlings named him 'Sixskins.' He once commanded three wolves, a snow bear, and a shadowcat, but brought only the bear when he crossed the Wall."
He licked his cracked lips nervously. "Mance Rayder—the King-Beyond-the-Wall—recruited Varamyr to strengthen his army against the Others... or perhaps against the Wall itself. Few have true faith in either endeavor."
Stiv interrupted, eager to provide his own testimony.
"Many wildlings flee southward in fear of the Others," he said. "Most travel in small bands of a few souls or perhaps a dozen at most. Varamyr used his snow bear to force several such groups to serve his purposes. That is how we came to march under his command—not by choice, but by compulsion."
He spread his bound hands in supplication. "As for why he attacked Your Highness, I swear by the old gods and the new, he never spoke his intentions aloud."
"Varamyr kept his own counsel throughout our journey," Stiv continued. "Save when taking sustenance, his spirit dwelled almost constantly within the snow bear's body."
"Oh!" Warren's eyes suddenly brightened. "There was something most strange—when Varamyr's consciousness inhabited the bear, his human body could still speak! I have never witnessed such a feat in all my years beyond the Wall."
Upon hearing this, Joffrey felt the final piece of a puzzle slot into place.
A skinchanger of sufficient strength might control multiple bodies simultaneously, but this Varamyr clearly lacked such ability. Who, then, had controlled him? Or worse—who had controlled both the skinchanger and his bear at once?
Only one answer presented itself: the Three-Eyed Raven.
Well played, old bird, Joffrey thought with cold amusement. Your hostility toward me reveals your fear. You truly comprehend neither who I am nor what I am capable of.
Benjen stepped forward, his patience wearing thin. "Speak!" he demanded. "How did the snow bear cross the Wall? It could not have climbed seven hundred feet of ice, nor sailed across the Bay of Seals on some wildling coracle!"
The two deserters fell silent, having exhausted their knowledge of matters beyond their involvement.
"Lord, I know the answer you seek."
The taller of the two wildling women suddenly spoke, raising her head to offer Joffrey and Benjen a knowing smile.
Benjen's expression soured further. "Speak plainly, spearwife," he commanded.
Among the free folk, women who took up arms were known as spearwives—though to Benjen Stark, any wildling who bore weapons against the realm was simply an enemy, regardless of their sex. His heart harbored not a drop of mercy for such foes.
"I have a name, lord," the woman replied with surprising dignity. "I am called Osha. And might I suggest—His Highness has not yet spoken. Perhaps you should await his command."
She had discerned the true power structure within the group all too quickly.
Joffrey regarded the woman with renewed interest. He recognized her from his knowledge of what should have been—in that other path of fate, she would be captured by Robb Stark and later become a guardian to Bran and Rickon during their flight from Theon Greyjoy's betrayal.
"Tell me what you know, Osha," he said. "I share Lord Stark's curiosity about how a beast of such size breached the Wall."
"As you wish," she replied, desperation for survival evident beneath her calculated composure. "I witnessed it with my own eyes. Varamyr's snow bear entered through an abandoned passage that cuts through the Wall itself."
Benjen's face flushed with alarm. "That's impossible!" he snapped. "Would you dare point out this supposed secret passage?"
Osha's lips curled into a slight smile. "Most willingly, lord. Provided His Highness allows me to reach the Wall with my head still upon my shoulders, Osha will lead you directly to it."
Joffrey's gaze swept across the remaining wildlings. "Does anyone else wish to share what they know? This moment is your final opportunity to purchase your lives with words."
Panic spread through the kneeling captives.
They had fled their homes beyond the Wall only to find themselves prisoners, no longer the free folk who answered to no masters. One by one, they prostrated themselves, begging for clemency.
"Lord! Your Highness! Spare my life! I shall serve you in any capacity you require!"
"I know the lands beyond the Wall better than any man here! Lord Benjen, I would guide the Night's Watch and offer all assistance within my power!"
"I have seen Mance Rayder with my own eyes—the Watch has need of such intelligence!"
"Your Highness, show mercy! I am prepared to swear fealty to you until my dying day."
Joffrey shook his head with feigned regret.
He doubted any further valuable information could be extracted from this rabble.
Nevertheless, he had already collected more than thirty items—weapons and clothing—from the wildlings during and after the skirmish. Though the retracing rune could not directly probe the memories of people or animals, many scenes from the past could be gleaned through personal possessions. Perhaps something of value might yet be discovered.
And then there was the snow bear itself.
Though Joffrey had spared the creature, it could not speak its secrets. He had placed an information rune mirror upon the bear, hoping in time it might learn to communicate through this magical conduit.
He had attempted contact through the information rune, but received only primal emotions in return—fear, confusion, and resistance.
"Uncle," Joffrey said, turning to Tyrion, "this magnificent though somewhat dull-witted beast is yours. Speak with it often. I look forward to learning what secrets you might uncover."
Tyrion immediately grasped his nephew's meaning. "Fear not, good nephew. Under my expert tutelage, I promise the creature will recall even how many mouthfuls of milk it suckled as a cub."
With undisguised excitement, the dwarf made his way toward the snow bear. At last, he would have a mount to match his outsized reputation.
Joffrey exchanged meaningful glances with Benjen and Yoren. "Rise, Osha," he commanded. "Your service begins now."
The remaining six wildlings watched in horror as the brothers of the Night's Watch bound them roughly and arranged them in a row upon their knees.
The two deserters waited in nervous silence for their final judgment.
Joffrey's mind turned to the various clues he had gathered over the past months. The time had come to test his theory.
"Stiv, Warren," he said, his voice carrying the finality of judgment, "I regret that this shall be the last time I speak your names. You should not have betrayed your sworn brotherhood, nor should you have offered falsehoods to your prince."
The deserters collapsed in despair, their incoherent pleas lost in the cold northern air.
Had they lied? Joffrey knew the answer well enough.
Benjen Stark, at last granted his wish, dragged the two traitors into line with the other wildlings, one in each iron grip.
"Consider yourselves fortunate," he told them grimly. "You shall receive a clean death, free from lingering pain. Your former companions were not afforded such mercy."
Joffrey drew Dragonflame from its scabbard. The blade ignited with searing crimson light that cast eerie shadows across the snow.
"These three belong to me," he announced, indicating his chosen victims. "Each of you take one. When I count to one, we shall strike as one."
Tyrion positioned himself behind the bald man who had mocked him, a thin smile playing across his lips.
Joffrey raised Dragonflame high above his head, its light bathing his face in blood-red hues.
"In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm," he proclaimed, voice carrying across the silent forest, "I, Joffrey of the House Baratheon, Heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone, hereby sentence you to death."
"Three!"
The condemned closed their eyes.
"Two!"
The executioners tightened their grips.
"One!"
Dragonflame and five other blades fell in perfect unison.
Hot blood erupted from severed necks, spraying several feet through the frigid air. Steam rose from the crimson pools as eight heads tumbled across the snow, desperate eyes freezing in the moment of death.
The consciousness of eight humans fell into eternal silence.
An invisible force rippled through the air—present for the briefest moment before vanishing like morning mist. The light emanating from Dragonflame seemed to intensify, burning more brightly in the aftermath of death.
That invisible force was Source Energy.
Joffrey withdrew the ruby pendant hanging around his neck. After careful examination, he confirmed an unmistakable increase in the Source Energy contained within the gem.
He had found his answer.
Source Energy struggled to maintain its existence in the material world, but it could be stored within suitable vessels—gems, runes, and other such mediums—where it could be transformed into magical power.
More crucially, it could be brought into this world through a person's soul or thoughts, if only for the briefest instant after death.
Joffrey had discovered a method to harvest from the magical web of creation itself.
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