The Wall was magnificent.
There was really no better word for it, and if there was, Lo Jun did not know it. The YiTish had dozens of different flowery ways to describe great things, beautiful things, and imposing things, but in this case the poets did not have the truth of the matter. The Wall—and it was just that, no more, no less—was not something to be described with paragraphs of awed prose. It simply was, like a mountain or a cliff, and the fewer words used conveyed all the more power for their presence.
As she rode the clanking elevator from the base of the Wall to the top, Lo Jun tried to compose a rather terrible poem about simplicity and the sheer wonder of this marvel of engineering. Great shield of ice and snow… she snorted to herself at the childishness of her attempt. It was not nearly distracting enough to take her mind off the terrifying sensation of being laboriously winched to the top of the Wall. The metal cage in which she rode swayed dangerously and she clutched unhappily at the bars, fighting mild nausea at the thought of plummeting back down to the earth. Abandoning poetry, she put the heavy metal chain suspending her in the air firmly out of mind, and looked out over the rooftops of Castle Black where the fires from the recent battle had burned holes in the wooden shingles.
The main fortress was without a doubt a miserable place. Lo Jun had seen hard men before, riders from the YiTish Five Forts who came to the Imperial Court with fixed scowls and eyes that seemed to always be staring at something a thousand leagues away. The ladies of the Court had covered their noses and gossiped unkindly about those bad-mannered soldiers—they had come before the Emperor smelling of the road and death, and had not bothered to wash or dress appropriately for an audience with the God-on-Earth.
The surviving men of the Night's Watch struck Lo Jun as a similar breed. They were insular, suspicious of outsiders, and by and large still traumatized by the slaughter that had almost cost them all their lives. The hate many of them felt for the wildlings bordered on lunacy—she had seen the frenzied satisfaction on more than a few faces of the brothers in black when Mance Rayder was brought to the stake. Lo Jun was unaccustomed to such naked hostility and had slipped away from the ghastly spectacle without anyone noticing—perhaps the common folk in Yi Ti had similar emotional displays during public executions, but it would be unthinkable amongst the nobility. She was no stranger to criminals and their ilk, but the more time she spent around these restless former brigands, the greater her discomfort grew.
Castle Black was a barrel full of black powder, ready to ignite. She would be glad to be gone.
The elevator swayed once again and Lo Jun turned to face the featureless ice instead, her stomach rolling unpleasantly. Her palms were clammy, but it was not caused by the black gloves she wore, or the intimidatingly long drop to the ground.
She was anxious.
She had not realized at first, many months ago in the Reach, that Stannis had begun avoiding her. At first, she believed he was simply giving her time to rest and heal without any added pressure. It was a struggle to stay awake for any useful stretch of time, and she lapsed in and out of consciousness. The wounds on her back healed as well as could be expected, scabbing over messily before fading into bright pink scars that would accompany her for the rest of her days. To her surprise, it was Cao An, Lo Shan's gold-toothed second-in-command, who tossed her an extraordinarily pungent jar of ointment with the advice that rubbing it into her scars would make them less stiff. Considering the number of old wounds that crossed his bare forearms—and one particularly appalling scar across his neck that reminded her of a noose—she figured she could do worse than follow his instructions, as offensive as the smell might be.
Her voice was another matter, one that only time seemed to be able to cure. She alternated between a ghastly, rasping tone and a complete inability to speak whatsoever, mouthing the words but unable to wheeze out enough air to say anything at all. It was immensely frustrating to be rendered practically speechless. Unfortunately, her cousin took advantage of Lo Jun's forced silence with the glee of an older sibling, and teased her mercilessly as she pantomimed the rude things he could do to himself instead of bothering her. She did it only halfheartedly, however—more than anything, she was grateful Lo Shan seemed to be returning to his old self, rather than the cold stranger she had encountered in Braavos.
She was not awake when Melisandre and Rithipol Sarey worked whatever sorcery it was that won Stannis eighteen new river ships from the Redwynes. It would have been twenty-four ships, Davos told her later, but five had burned in the confusion and the sixth was witness to such horrifying carnage wrought by the original sailors while enthralled by the spell that Stannis had ordered his men to torch it whole rather than unload the countless body parts as would have been necessary in order to turn it to his cause.
The king had sailed for the Whispering Sound immediately after, accompanied by a full contingent of bannermen and supplemented by sellswords from the Red Horde. Those who remained would march to Bandallon, a small castle home to House Blackbar, and take it. This task fell to Davos, who performed it admirably—no blood was spilled, in fact, since almost all of House Blackbar's knights had been lost in the battle with Stannis near Horn Hill, and the castellan was not interested in having his remaining son meet an inevitable end.
It galled many of the men sworn to Stannis that they were now abandoning what had been a largely successful campaign in the Reach. Lo Jun heard more than a few rumblings of dissatisfaction amongst the ranks, and turned most of her attentions to keeping an eye on those who voiced their discontent the loudest. To her mild surprise, it seemed a small war was brewing within House Florent. On the one side, those who believed wholeheartedly in the Red Priestess—spearheaded by Selyse and Axell Florent—argued that Stannis was doing what was necessary by heeding her word. On the other, those like Alekyne Florent whose faith was not as strong—or perhaps had never truly existed—found greater importance in the king having prevented the Tyrells from conquering Brightwater Keep. To them, the North was a lost cause—who cared what the irrational men at the Wall feared was coming? They were all criminals anyway.
Melisandre was not in any shape to contain the infighting. The magic she had performed at Brightwater Keep seemed to have leeched the life from her, and the few times Lo Jun saw the priestess, she seemed wan and exhausted. Instead, Melisandre spent a good deal of time alone, ostensibly praying to her god. Lo Jun did not mind in the least. There was not a shred of doubt in her mind that the Red Woman was behind the shadow demons that had assaulted her during the fire—who else could produce and control creatures of shadow and smoke? The weaker the Red Woman was, the better. Still, it would have been nice to have someone else contain the arguments over strategy that were now devolving into increasingly violent fights.
Ships appeared in Bandallon's tiny harbor before too long. Lo Jun had been eagerly expecting Stannis' arrival ever since her source in Oldtown sent word that the king had captured a number of seafaring ships belonging the Redwynes. The river ships that had carried him south were of no use for long sea voyages, and had been sacrificed in order to win more appropriate vessels. No doubt the Redwynes would be furious once they found out, but the majority of their fleet was away dealing with a recent spate of conveniently timed pirate attacks.
Salladhor Saan and his motley band were certainly earning their wage.
But Stannis did not bring her aboard with him when they set out for the Bay of Ice and the Wall. He sailed north with Davos on a separate ship, while Lo Jun had been placed aboard the Sea Hound and Selyse, Shireen, and the Red Woman occupied the Wings of Autumn. The arrangement saddened and confused her. Lo Jun did not regret confessing her feelings to the king, but it was clear he sought to distance himself from her. She had not intended to push him away, or to make any actual demands on him—she had understood and accepted his refusal, after all—but perhaps he felt he had no choice. And now it was too late to take it back.
Lo Jun's only comfort was that Lo Shan was there to keep her company, and truthfully she welcomed the opportunity to reconcile with her only remaining blood relative.
"It was the Red Witch," she told Lo Shan and Rithipol Sarey the first night she felt truly well enough to join them after the evening meal. Her cousin listened as she recounted the terror she had experienced during the fire at Brightwater Keep, lounging with a closed expression against the bulkhead atop a three-legged stool. The warlock seated beside Lo Shan was perched rigidly like an eagle in a high-backed chair, and he clucked in sympathy, drumming his spindly fingers against his crossed knee.
"Why would she want you dead?" Perhaps Lo Shan had not meant it to sound skeptical, but Lo Jun bristled all the same.
"Because I speak out against her barbarism," she snapped back. "Burning people alive is deviant behavior, cousin."
"Or because you have eyes for the king?" She glared at Lo Shan, heat rising beneath her collar. His face betrayed no opinion on the matter, but she suspected he naturally harbored a rather traditional YiTish disapproval of her lack of decorum around Stannis, even if the king was an uncultured Westerosi.
"The shadowbinders of Asshai are by and large not a lot to be trusted," the pale sorcerer told them sadly, interrupting their squabble. Rithipol Sarey had surprised her with his easy command of the YiTish language, but she supposed there was little that a man such as he could not learn. "I have encountered my fair share during my long travels, and I must admit, I have learned that in general your people's fear of them is well-founded. Even serving a foreign god would not change a shadowbinder's true devious nature—a leopard cannot change his spots."
"We'll watch her," Lo Shan told her quietly. Placated, she tried a brave smile in return, feeling very small. It had been a long time since she had relied on her older cousin for protection, and it made her feel very homesick.
"I will give you an amulet to war you against further malicious sorcery from this priestess," declared Rithipol Sarey, his fingers fluttering like moths in the lamplight. "There are no bound shadows that can penetrate its protective nature." He smiled at Lo Jun, like a shark gazing benevolently at its prey. She suppressed a shiver, unable to avoid her instinctive response to the warlock's attention. It was a mystery how Lo Shan could stand it, but she had little choice now in her allies. It would be better to have the warlock on her side than against her.
Two days and one missing goat later, Rithipol Sarey did indeed present her with an amulet to wear, strung on a delicate bronze chain large enough to slip over her head without a clasp. She accepted it nervously without touching his skeletal fingers, and studied it with what she hoped was an expression of appreciation rather than the skepticism she truly felt. There was a translucent blue gem set deep into the wrought bronze oval, like an eye peering out from the center of her chest when worn. It was pretty enough to pass as a trinket, although certainly not one of YiTish origin. She put it on, and soon enough forgot it was even there.
A few days after passing the coastline of Feastfires, a lone ship appeared on the horizon like an ill omen. Even at a distance the ship was the very picture of menace, with black sails and a hull the color of fresh blood. Rithipol Sarey joined Lo Jun at the railing to gawk.
"Euron Greyjoy's ship," the warlock mused. "The Silence.I had not thought he would return to these waters while his brother still lived."
"You've heard of him?" Lo Jun knew of the Greyjoys, but only of Balon and his unfortunate son, Theon, who was a ward of Ned Stark and had disappeared from Winterfell after betraying the family who raised him. Stannis had nothing but contempt for Balon and his claim to kingship—he had defeated the old man before and viewed him largely as an insignificant nuisance.
The warlock smiled unpleasantly. "Everyone in Essos has heard of the Crow's Eye," he replied. She resented the implicit criticism there. She had been an accountant, not a merchant or a sailor. She had no reason to know of pirates, even if Yin was a port city. Perturbed, she watched as the crew of the Sea Hound around them made the sign against evil as they stopped all work to stare at the Silence.
The dark red ship followed them for two days, circling like a hungry tiger stalking a herd of fat oxen. Unease grew almost to a fever pitch among the sailors, and Lo Jun noticed they had begun sleeping with swords and daggers hugged tight to their chests. The day the Silence disappeared from view was the worst—even the captain and pilot were convinced the dreaded ship would materialize out of the sea to destroy them all. Luckily the sun rose the next day without any further sightings, and the crew quieted once more.
"He has gone to Pyke," said Rithipol Sarey. Lo Jun did not know what to make of the thoughtful look in the warlock's eyes.
The air grew steadily colder and she found herself wearing several layers of clothing at once to compensate for the loss of warmth. Several of the men on the ship sickened and had to be consigned to the waters, succumbing to the dwindling food and the harsh climate. Lo Jun watched dully as their weighted corpses sank into the sea, too tired of shivering to do much else. One of the Westerosi knights—a large, smiling blond man with cheeks made pink by the cold—took pity on her and offered her the use of a spare wool blanket to keep warm. She suspected he also had other ambitions that involved a place in her bed, but she was in no mood, even if it would mean added heat.
It was a mercy when they made land just south of the Wall. Lo Jun was not the only person to stumble and fall once on dry land, her legs anticipating the swell of waves that did not exist. The lurch of her horse's swaying only compounded the problem—she rode a good distance to the Shadow Tower with her eyes closed, grimly determined not to let the bobbing horizon empty her stomach.
At first, Ser Denys Mallister could not decide whether he was pleased or annoyed by the arrival of several thousand men at his garrison. Lo Jun suspected that the old knight was extremely dismayed to learn that Stannis Baratheon intended to ride for Castle Black and not remain at the Shadow Tower, but Ser Denys remained unfailingly polite regardless of his thoughts on the matter. She liked him, and she certainly appreciated his gift of a spare fur-lined cloak, even if it was almost threadbare and a good foot too long. She could tell Stannis liked him too—the king left two dozen men behind to help the commander hold the castle against the imminent attack by wildlings, but he could spare no more, and they could not tarry.
Her renewed interactions with Stannis were brief and perfectly respectful. She did not seek him out when the army camped each night, and she delivered what few reports she still received from the South perfunctorily. Most times she found him with Davos or the Red Woman, and other times she encountered him alone, but Lo Jun did not impose on the king any more than necessary. A few times she imagined he regarded at her wistfully, but she pushed such thoughts aside—his reluctance to engage her further was obvious, whatever his true feelings.
They treated one another with cordial familiarity. While outwardly it seemed some degree of normalcy had returned, Lo Jun felt a profound sense of loss each time she encountered the king, as if there were an invisible hole that had opened up between them. Seeing him so close yet so far away was a strange kind of agony, repeated over and over without ever becoming truly numb to the hurt. It was easier when the ocean depths separated them—out of sight, out of mind.
"His Grace missed you at sea," was the only comment Davos made on the matter, and she had sat in her bedroll and cried angrily afterwards.
She played games with Shireen while they waited for Stannis to return from his skirmish with the wildlings. From the ferocious tales Denys Mallister had recounted during their short stay at Shadow Tower, Lo Jun was half afraid the king would not return. Before he left, Lo Shan had to remind her that Stannis' army had the benefit of cavalry and tactics—the wildlings were reportedly little more than rabble, even if they were fierce fighters. Her cousin was no fool—he could see through her courteous façade to the misery that lingered underneath. To his credit, he did not tell her she was making a mistake, pining for a cold, hard man—she would not have listened anyway.
There was a brief moment after the battle was won when Lo Jun found herself alone with the king, as the civilians in Stannis' retinue settled into Castle Black. Stannis had commandeered a large room in the main keep as his study, and she found him there staring at the cobwebs in the corners with a thunderous expression.
"I am glad to see you safe, Your Grace," she told him softly, unable to contain the relief she felt. She did not wait for him to reply, and instead bowed formally as would be expected for a sovereign. She could feel his eyes on her back as she left.
When the boy—Olly, was his name—brought her word that the king summoned her atop the Wall, Lo Jun had prepared herself for yet another strained conversation that would leave her depressed. It would have been a kindness if Stannis had simply sent her away, dismissing her from his service for good. She could not stop loving him, and each time they met, the wounds on her spirit opened afresh.
She went to find Stannis with a sigh and a heavy heart.
The elevator ground to a halt, jarring her back to the present, and she tiptoed out like a mouse in a cupboard. The handful of brothers in black currently manning the top of the Wall ignored her, save for one sour-faced man who jerked a thumb in the direction of the king when she inquired. It was apparently a long walk away—she could not see anyone.
She walked, one foot placed determinedly before the other, with her eyes fixed on the snow. Look anywhere but out, she repeated to herself, don't think about how high up you are.
Stannis was deep in conversation with Davos and a soulful-looking young man, whose name, she recalled, was Jon Snow. The men at Castle Black seemed to hold either high regard or utter disdain for him, with very few moderate opinions. From the brief interactions she had with him, Jon Snow struck Lo Jun as a quiet, serious man burdened by more than one ghost riding his shoulders—and she meant actual spirits of the dead, not the fearsome white beast of his that he had apparently named Ghost. Lo Jun liked dogs, but the direwolf was entirely something else, and she preferred it to stay as far away from her as possible. Perhaps if she were not so afraid of his pet, she might have gotten to know Jon Snow more, but even without any extended close contact she found herself drawn to him as if he were a lodestone. He was a born leader, clear enough.
Rather than interrupt, she paused a respectful distance away to wait for the men to conclude their discussion. There was a break in the great blocks of ice that served as a railing of sorts, and Lo Jun sidled up to it, halfheartedly cursing her curiosity. With one hand firmly gripping a corner of ice lest she fall to her doom, she peered around the ice to finally take in the vista that spread before her.
She gasped, and the cold wind whisked the sound away instantly.
The sight was indescribable.
The view stretched for hundreds of miles—thousands, perhaps—and she fancied she could see every hill and vale between here and the horizon. Beyond the Wall was the cold, unforgiving snow, the untouched, untamed wilderness broken into segments by thick clusters of hardy, unfamiliar trees with green spines. To the south, she could see the muddy brown of a land not yet buried in the snows that threatened to break past the Wall's protection, and the distant smoke from infrequent settlements that huddled sad and determined against the elements. It was like flying, like seeing through the eyes of an eagle—she lifted her arms and felt the wind force her back a step, so she leaned forward just enough to let the resistance keep her upright. She reached one hand forth in an effort to touch the clouds that hovered just beyond her reach, low and dark and pregnant with snow.
"What are you doing?" Stannis had finished what business he had with Jon Snow and Davos, and the two other men departed, leaving them alone without anyone else in sight. He watched her, his hard expression hovering somewhere between amusement and alarm. Her earlier trepidation was all but gone, erased along with the last months of loneliness and disappointment. Lo Jun turned to him with the widest smile she fancied she'd ever had, and laughed—truly laughed, for the first time in many long weeks.
"This is beautiful!" she exclaimed, throwing her joy freely into the wind. The twitch in his cheek might have been a smile. Her toes curled in delight—she wanted to see him pleased, or at the very least amused.
"It has its charms." Of course. Even if he did share her enthusiasm, she would not have expected him to admit it.
"How bland," she teased him impulsively. "Is it not a glory to behold your kingdom from such a view?" Stannis frowned halfheartedly, and indulged her by finally looked out over the frozen landscape of the wild, rugged North.
He looked so handsome there against the frozen sky, his eyes a dark, steel blue that matched the clouds she wished so much to dive into off the top of the Wall. The black leathers he wore suited his somber nature. As much as she enjoyed the sight of Stannis at ease in the warmer climate of the Reach, Lo Jun had to admit he was a man well-suited to the severe North in both personality and appearance.
He stood only a pace away, his body angled towards her even as he gazed grimly out over the view she had just been appreciating. Up so high, the wind stripped warmth and caution from her bones. She had truly missed the excitement of Stannis' company in the long weeks since Brightwater Keep—and even more, she missed him. Having him so close now made her giddy, as if the air were made of wine that made her abandon her usual restraint. Wonder freed her spirit and she soared, untethered and joyous. She knew, deep in her bones, that as Stannis looked back to her, the moment was unique, perfect in every way—and it would never come again.
She hopped up onto the very tips of her toes and pressed her lips to his.
He had not shaved since the battle against the wildlings, and the scruff of his growing beard scratched her skin. It was a completely new sensation—she had never kissed a man with facial hair before, and found it to be surprisingly pleasant. His lips were dry but warm despite the winter that surrounded them, with a softness she focused on in contrast to the coarseness of his beard. He smelled of horses and leather and iron, even here where the wind carried away everything but the cold. With her hands pressed lightly against his chest, she could feel his sudden intake of breath even through the gloves on her hands and the thick leather and wool that he wore.
And then, all too quickly, she lost her balance and broke away from the kiss, coming down hard on the heels of her feet. The jolt brought her back to her senses, alarm bells as loud as the Emperor's gong for midday meditations finally ringing in her head as the enormity of her actions came crashing down around her in a rockslide of bad decisions.
He stared at her in what must have been horror.
She stared back for exactly one heartbeat, equally appalled as the scorching heat of embarrassment blossomed quickly across her face, and immediately bolted without another word.
A/N: travel is boring let's get to the fun stuff
Tendevils: Thank you! I wish I could read French, since I see your stories pop up every time I revisit the GoT section!
KioshiUshima: Thank you! The merry band isn't splitting up quiiiiiiite yet, but stay tuned.
Marvelmyra: If Stannis wasn't in the picture, Jon would be up to bat-but technically, Stannis is the king after Robert. Hereditary monarchies get too messy, though; Westeros should really just have elections. #fucktheking
Theeyeofanger: I'm sorry you feel that way!