Chapter 125 – The Trial
"May the Seven bless me…"
Walking through the narrow passage beneath the Wall that led outside, Sardin drew in shaky breaths, repeating the words over and over like a prayer.
A group of Night's Watch brothers escorted him from both front and back. One by one, they stole glances at him from the corners of their eyes—some filled with pity, others with sympathy, and a few with barely concealed schadenfreude.
As if this were a one-way trip.
And perhaps it was.
The icy chill radiating from the dark gray walls on either side was nothing compared to the cold spreading outward from his heart. Facing the fate of imminent beheading, Sardin was gripped by dread.
Even though the legendary figure's methods were said to be miraculous.
Even though he felt… different somehow.
Still—
"Damn it, can you hurry the fuck up?" A big man behind him shoved him impatiently when Sardin slowed to a hesitant crawl.
"You're not the one getting your head chopped off!" Sardin snapped back, turning around. His voice shook with anger barely masking the sob beneath it.
In the past, he had been terrified of the infamous Hound. But now, standing before death itself, that fear had long since vanished. All that remained was anxiety and despair.
"If it were you getting beheaded, do you think you could walk any faster?" he demanded.
"That'd require me chopping my brother's head off first," Sandor Clegane replied dryly. The burned half of his face twitched, cracked skin pulling to reveal hints of raw pink flesh beneath.
Seeing Sardin on the verge of collapse, someone nearby spoke up to comfort him.
"Don't worry, Sardin. The Seven are watching over you. You'll be fine."
"Maybe it's them who want my head cut off," Sardin muttered. He raised his sleeve and wiped his nose—whether the wetness came from tears or the cold, even he didn't know.
---
The underground passage beneath the Wall wasn't particularly long. After passing through a barred checkpoint near the center, the space suddenly opened up.
The suffocating darkness gave way to an endless white expanse.
Snow stretched as far as the eye could see, broken only by jagged tufts of withered grass. In the distance, thin columns of smoke rose into the sky, while countless wildling tents—patched together from hides—spread out in dense rows, extending from the White Tree forest all the way beyond the Wall's firing range.
At the boundary where the Wall's arrows could reach and the wildling camp began, a group had already gathered.
They wore fur and leather, tall and short, young and old alike. When they spotted the Night's Watch delegation, they began shouting loudly, voicing their impatience.
"You crows are never this slow normally!"
"Hurry it up! Mance is still waiting to go back and deliver his child!"
"Enough talk."
As the two sides drew closer, Bowen Marsh—the highest-ranking officer present for the Night's Watch—cut them off. Red-faced and stout, his voice sounded oddly soft and sluggish when he spoke.
"It's time to begin."
At his words, a short, bearded old wildling couldn't help but grin, his beard quivering as he laughed.
"That's right. If we don't finish soon, my chicken's going to burn."
"Let's hope you don't regret this," another thin wildling muttered darkly.
"The Night's Watch honors its oaths," Bowen replied coldly. "Unlike you barbarians, who have no concept of integrity."
The wildling snorted in disdain and said no more. Soon after, the two sides began exchanging their "prisoners."
This moment was not only being watched by those present.
High atop the Wall, countless figures stood along the battlements, gazing down. In the wildling camp beyond, the same was true—rows upon rows of onlookers stared toward the meeting ground.
Though distance blurred some details, the overall scene was unmistakable.
To prevent any accusations of cheating, each side would carry out the execution of the other's champion.
On the Night's Watch side, Sardin was shoved forward and knocked to his knees by a bald wildling. His legs trembled uncontrollably, but his fear only drew mocking laughter from the wildlings.
On the opposite side stood Jon Snow, the Stark bastard. Because he wielded a razor-sharp Valyrian steel sword, the task had fallen to him—despite his clear reluctance.
When all preparations were complete, the two "executioners" exchanged a brief glance, then lowered their gazes to the men at their feet.
The young wildling at Jon's feet was tightly bound, his mouth stuffed, utterly unable to move.
Sardin, meanwhile, had gone weak at the knees, restrained firmly by several wildlings, equally incapable of resistance.
Both blades were raised.
And then—almost simultaneously—they fell.
Under the sunlight, steel flashed brilliantly. A heartbeat later, screams rang out.
Both were fine weapons. There was no clumsy second strike, no lingering horror.
The cries were short. Fresh blood erupted, spraying vividly across the snow.
Both heads were severed cleanly, rolling away across the ground.
The wildling's body collapsed, twitching violently. At that moment, a black shadowcat burst from the nearby brush. Its piercing screech drew immediate grins from the wildlings.
But their smiles froze almost instantly.
The shadowcat lunged straight at a round-shouldered, short old man among them. Caught completely off guard, the elder was knocked flat as the hound-sized beast slashed wildly at his face, blood splattering everywhere.
"Santoro, stop!"
"Get off Varamyr!"
"What are you doing?!"
The wildlings shouted in panic, but the shadowcat ignored them entirely, its claws flashing, shrill cries ringing out like furious curses.
Unfortunately, it didn't last long.
Pinned beneath the beast, the old man struggled, finally wrenching a dagger from his belt and plunging it into the shadowcat's belly.
The animal's strength drained away. Moments later, it collapsed, twitching weakly atop the old man.
Silence swept through the wildlings.
They stared at the dying shadowcat… then at the six-skin lying in the snow, gasping for breath, his face shredded and bloody, unable to speak.
No one knew what to say.
Fighting among themselves in front of the enemy—what could be more humiliating?
"Even so, we still won!" a wildling blurted out.
But when he turned back toward the Night's Watch—
His words died in his throat.
His eyes went blank.
Not just him.
Every wildling stood frozen in shock.
Sardin's head had been severed. His blood had pooled beneath the corpse, soaking into the snow. The body had long since stopped twitching.
Yet suddenly—
The blood began to flow backward.
The sound of it—wet, sucking, unmistakable—was painfully clear in the sudden silence.
Then something even more horrifying occurred.
As the blood reversed course, the severed head lying nearby abruptly crumbled into gray, flaky ash, scattering into the wind—eyes, ears, nose, mouth, even hair vanishing without a trace.
At the neck of the headless corpse, raw flesh suddenly began to sprout.
Muscle fibers grew at visible speed. Bone extended outward, vertebrae stacking one after another.
The spine expanded, forming a skull.
Eyes emerged where none had been. Red muscle wrapped bone. Skin spread, sealing everything together.
A handsome face took shape from the neck upward.
Hair burst forth in rapid growth.
In moments, the once headless body had returned to its original form—identical in every way, save for the slightly different coloration at the neck.
Under the open sun, every detail was laid bare.
Absolute silence followed.
Only when the man himself slowly opened his eyes, sat up, and instinctively touched his neck did anyone finally react.
"S-Sardin… how… how do you feel?"
"I…"
Sardin opened his mouth but couldn't speak for a long moment, staring blankly at his surroundings. When his gaze fell upon the corpse across from him, his fear deepened.
At last, under countless stunned stares, he managed to force out a single sentence:
"My neck really hurts."