Legend says that the Wall in Westeros was built by Bran the Builder to keep the White Walkers at bay.
Thousands of years have passed since, and the White Walkers have long become the stuff of myth.
At least during the Targaryen reign, no one had ever seen even a shadow of a White Walker.
Now, the Wall primarily served as a divider—between the realm of civilization and the lands of the wild.
Stretching three hundred leagues, the Wall could be split into two sections. Its western half stood straight, like a gleaming blade drawn from its scabbard.
The eastern half, however, curled like a great silver serpent.
Lord Commander Cogger of the Night's Watch found this deeply unsatisfactory.
He believed all things should follow order. Everything should be neat and precise. Now well into his sixties, he adored uniformity.
His sleeves were always rolled up to the same length, his greyed hair neatly combed to the side.
He even crafted a special comb for his eyebrows—because age had made them long and unruly—and he insisted they too remain neat and tidy.
But the man before him, who called himself a viscount, made him deeply uncomfortable.
His hair had clearly been tended to, yet two strands at the back never stayed flat.
Despite claiming nobility, he lacked all the manners expected of his station. While speaking, he habitually reached under his shirt to scratch himself.
This "Lord Viscount" was none other than Ock Velwater.
And as he scratched, he tucked the hem of his shirt into his trousers, making him look all the more absurd.
"So, His Majesty Viserys wants me to take away those who were forced to don the black," Ock said. As a bastard, this was likely the first time Ock had ever been entrusted with such a responsibility.
But that was precisely what Viserys valued in him—his air of defiance, so at odds with his newly granted title.
Whether through pestering or persistent annoyance, Viserys had tasked him with recovering the loyal Targaryen retainers who had been forced to take the black after King's Landing fell.
These men, after all, were capable—why else would Aerys have kept them in his guard?
As for their loyalty? That didn't matter.
If they no longer wished to rot on the Wall in that forsaken land, their only choice would be to follow Ock across the Narrow Sea.
Given the balance of gains and losses, loyalty would become the only logical option.
"Ser Ock, you must understand—they have sworn the vows of the Night's Watch," Cogger said, maintaining his noble decorum.
"Sworn vows, huh? And those highborn lords also vow eternal loyalty to their wives—doesn't stop them from fathering a dozen bastards," Ock scoffed.
He spread his legs and leaned forward, his crotch practically pointed at Cogger, exuding the air of a gutter rogue.
"But their assignment here was sanctioned by the Iron Throne," Cogger countered, pulling out a document from beneath his desk.
"The Iron Throne? The Iron Throne is occupied by a usurper! A murderer of royal blood! He should be the one wearing black!"
Of course, Ock would never recognize Robert. After all, it was Viserys who had knighted him.
"Ser Ock, mind your tongue!" Cogger snapped.
"Heh, I didn't say you were the garbage," Ock said shamelessly. "His Majesty is aware of your dilemma, so he sent me with gold—to buy their freedom."
"Buy their freedom? That sounds like something you'd say in a brothel," Cogger muttered, frowning at him. His distaste for this so-called nobleman deepened.
It seemed the Targaryens really were finished, knighting people like this.
"You should leave now. I will not agree to your terms," Cogger said, waving him away like an irritating fly.
"You don't have the authority to drive me away. His Majesty Viserys is the Protector of the Realm, and I carry his royal command."
"Then tell me, where's your fief?" Cogger snapped.
He suddenly realized a crucial point—Viserys only held Dragonstone. Where, then, could he possibly grant this man land?
In other words, without leaving Dragonstone, Viserys was nothing. How could he call himself Protector of the Realm?
But Ock was quick-witted. He straightened and answered confidently, "My fief is by His Majesty's side."
Cogger blinked.
"When His Majesty knighted me, he told me there would always be a place for me by his hearth."
Cogger's attempt at verbal attack had failed. Frustrated, he stood up, "Do as you please. Stay as long as you want. But I will not allow you to take those men."
"Then you defy the king's law."
"I do not. I obey the law of the Iron Throne."
"In that case, I suppose sleeping with your wife in your own bed would be lawful too?" Ock said casually.
Cogger's eyes narrowed. He angrily drew the sword at his waist.
"What do you intend to do? Attack a loyalist knight on behalf of a usurper?" Rather than backing away, Ock stepped even closer to the blade, as if daring Cogger to strike.
"I…"
Cogger hesitated.
He realized he was in a bind—he couldn't outargue Ock, nor could he fight him.
The Night's Watch had strict rules—no involvement in political disputes.
And the Targaryens had just won two major victories; they wouldn't fall anytime soon. If he harmed this so-called knight, it might bring trouble upon him.
Seeing the commander no longer intent on swinging his sword, Ock leaned in again, grinning mischievously.
"My good Lord Commander, perhaps I have a solution that could satisfy us both…"
…...
After the defense of King's Landing, over twenty men had been forced to don black.
Aliser was one of them.
He despised the freezing cold and desolation of the Wall. He grew bitter, and even resentful toward the Targaryens.
But when he learned the Targaryens hadn't abandoned him, all his dissatisfaction melted away into one word—loyalty.
Thanks to his martial skills, he had been made a training officer.
But returning to the bustling world beyond? That mattered more. A mere training officer was nothing.
The deal between Ock and Commander Cogger was simple: Cogger would turn a blind eye to their "escape." And in exchange, Ock would provide an entire shipload of wine.
Cogger agreed.
At midnight, as the cold wind howled outside the window, Aliser's heart burned with anticipation.
He dressed carefully, as though preparing for royal court. He even trimmed his beard with great attention.
He imagined Viserys had no one reliable at his side, likely not even capable followers. If he went back now, he'd be one of the most important figures in the Targaryen court.
Maybe even… the Hand of the King?
That thought filled Aliser with giddy excitement.
"Ser Aliser."
A voice softly called his name outside his door.
He opened it quickly and saw Ock waiting, with Jeremy standing behind him. Both had held knighthood before they took the black.
"Ser, it's time."
"Alright, let me get my horse."
"Ah, no need. I only paid to redeem you—not your horse, Ser."
Aliser raised an eyebrow at Ock, wondering to himself if this man was truly of noble birth.
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