JON
Ghost paused, hackles rising, and snarled in the direction of the forest. Jon stopped what he was doing and knelt in the snow. He had learned to rely upon his direwolf's sharper senses… but he did not need them to feel the unmistakeable sensation of being watched. They call it the haunted forest for a reason. He curled his fingers tightly around Longclaw.
They had travelled four days from Hunter's Hermitage, starting out the morning after Bran, Meera and Hodor had headed south. Their final goodbye took place at a ford of a frozen river, as the stars were coming out over the forest. The two brothers had said few words as they embraced for a last time, but Meera brought him Dark Sister and its ruby-decorated scabbard and thrust it into Jon's hand. "I can't have it," she said, "I won't have it. It reminds me too much of what happened to Jojen."
Back at the camp, Jon entrusted Dark Sister to Mance Rayder, who received his prize with an odd, almost concerned look, yet no protestation. "One man cannot fight with two swords," Jon told him, "nor should we waste our Valyrian steel."
Longclaw had been the ancestral sword of House Mormont once, so he could have passed it on to the She-Bear and taken Dark Sister for his own, but the Targaryen sword was to be wielded with one hand instead of two, as he preferred, and besides, Longclaw had not failed him yet. A bastard sword for a bastard boy. It was almost poetry.
Mance and his chiefs sent patrols to circle the camp borders, and his Sworn Brothers took up guard duties too, but Jon liked to venture out on his own occasionally, to simply walk and think in solitude.
The trees were beech and pine and fir, differing in height and breadth and form, yet all in the light of the setting sun they all had a certain chilly similarity. Icicles hung from the branches, glowing pale-blue, each as long and thin as a ghoul's finger.
Ghost shifted suddenly, turning back towards the camp. The flames from the roaring cookfires reflected in his bright red eyes, but their stare was fixed upon something – or rather, someone – else.
It was not until Jon saw the shimmer of Aly Mormont's black ringmail that he realised it was her and not a real bear amid those furs and skins. "Lord Snow!" came the She-Bear's muffled call as she trudged up the ridge. "Jon Snow!"
When she reached the top her cheeks were red with cold. "My lady," said Jon, ducking his head.
"Spare me your silly courtesies, Lord Snow. You're a Stark of Winterfell, not some perfumed ponce from the south."
"I'm a Snow, my lady. I've learned to speak carefully."
"I've got bastards as well, Lord Snow. But I'll be damned if they have to kneel and lick the boots of highborn folk just for being born on the wrong side of the bed."
"How many—?"
"Just the two for now, Lord Snow. Bedded down with a bear, or so that's what I tell them."
Jon smiled weakly. "I know someone who'd love to meet you, my lady." He thought of Tormund Giantsbane, and his tall tales of adventure that went far beyond ridicule. And he remember the way Ygritte had laughed at them. You never fucked no bear, Tormund… you know nothing, Jon Snow…
"I suppose I'm something of a hypocrite, calling you 'Lord Snow' and all that. Just a habit. Everyone calls you Lord Snow, I wonder if they actually know your name."
Under the hill, I was just Jon, he thought. The boy. But Lord Snow killed the boy long ago. He gritted his teeth against the chill. See what you have made of me in your mockery, Ser Alliser? "I am a Snow, for certain. As for a lord, well, that's a different matter. My lady."
"You've grown old before your time." She sounded almost sorry for him.
"I had no choice. My brothers named me Lord Commander. I did not want it."
"And yet you took it. The post my uncle was grooming you to hold. You could have refused it and gone back to stewarding for the new Lord Commander. They chose you for a reason."
Would that I knew what it was.
"This is growing deadly dull," the She-Bear said pointedly. "I've only been here half a minute and already my fingers are starting to freeze. How do you make sure they don't fall off while you're not looking?"
"Gloves," Jon answered.
Alysane chuckled. "Quite right. I'm afraid we Mormonts are not known for our patience. If I had it my way, I'd make for Hardhome as fast as I could, without none of this stopping and pitching tents and patrolling and things. Then again, we'd likely end up dead."
"Or worse," Jon muttered darkly.
The She-Bear heard him. "Call me a blind fool if you will, but I cannot fathom fear of these foes whom we never see. Can you draw one of these Others for me, Lord Snow? Can you bring me one's head?"
"The Others… shatter, my lady, when touched by Valyrian steel or dragonglass. Sam Tarly told it so, and I saw the same when I fought one of them off myself."
She thumped his shoulder heartily. "A Slayer too, eh? A wonder they're not singing songs about you already."
They do sing songs, Jon thought, just not the sort you are thinking of.
"Well, I'll leave you to your patrol," Alysane said. "The campfire is doubtless getting lonely without my presence. You're welcome to join us."
"Not tonight, I fear." And not for many nights, like as not. When Alysane was gone, Jon turned his gaze eastward, deeper into the Haunted Forest, towards Storrold's Point and Hardhome, towards to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. I left Cotter Pyke the command, Jon thought, and Ser Denys Mallister at the Shadow Tower, but what of the others? Bowen Marsh had been overthrown by Mance's men at Castle Black, true, but the Old Pomegranate was not without friends, and those friends might see Marsh's imprisonment as a calculated move against him.
Damn them all, Jon decided.
An hour before midnight, Black Jack Bulwer and Tumberjon came to relieve him of his duty. "Satin's waiting at your tent," Tumberjon told him, "he's been there nearly an hour."
He had forgotten Satin. Jon had not expected to see the Oldtown boy on this ranging, yet here he was, and he was committed to serve his lord commander as best he could. "I am not hungry," Jon told his rangers, and felt absurdly guilty for doing so. Every moment I spent guarding this perimeter, I left one of my brothers in the cold.
Nor did he return to Satin at once, but instead hastened to Mance Rayder's tent. The King-beyond-the-Wall's 'tent' was no proper pavilion like the ones the Northern lordlings had raised at Hunter's Hermitage, but it matched them for size several times over, and inside there was enough space for most of the twenty-four wildling chieftains to meet. Two lanky spearwives stood outside with crossed spears, rubbing sleep from their eyes. "All hail the Lord Crow," one muttered as Jon approached. "I swear, you're lucky that Mance is late to bed and early to rise; if you came to my tent at this ungodly hour, I'd send you right away."
His own Sworn Brothers would never have dared to speak to him so brazenly. But courtesy meant little to the free folk. "Then I'd best not come near your tent," Jon muttered.
He found Mance seated on a camp stool, with a cup of mulled wine in one hand and a flagon on a nearby table. "Want some?" he asked, already starting to pour. "You'll find it warms you more than most; I have a liking for cinnamon." He stirred Jon's cup with a spoon. "All men like their mulled wine a little differently, but it's the same thing in the end."
Jon frowned. "Are you making a point about the free folk and the Night's Watch… cinnamon and cloves… yet the same wine…?"
Mance laughed throatily. "You think too much, Lord Snow. Sometimes a man has to take a little time away from his woes and his troubles. But if you must find some worth in my words, then let it be this: the Others feed on darkness and despair. What better to oppose that than with some joy in the world?"
"You sound like Melisandre," said Jon.
"Perhaps the red woman had the right of it. She certainly knew what she was doing when it came to keeping me alive. I owe her something, as a man of my word."
"I doubt either of us will see her again. Stannis is gone for good. He will take the Iron Throne, or die in the attempt."
"If I were you, I'd throw my support behind this new southern queen—"
"The Night's Watch takes no part in the wars of the realm," Jon reminded him.
"As you will. But while we were at Castle Black some queer folk came in from Eastwatch, claiming she has three dragons. Would that we had a dragon here… we have a dragon sword, aye," He indicated Dark Sister, hanging from his belt, "but no dragons…" There was no use dwelling on such things, though, and Mance knew it. "You look like you have a purpose here, Lord Snow, not just a desire for idle conversation."
"Aye. Hardhome is barely a week away, and yet we don't have even an inkling of a plan."
"Too much planning can be as bad as too little," said Mance. "It leaves you open to the unexpected. And if you do come up with some complicated plan, Lord Snow, you should not expect the free folk to follow it. Numbers will be our strength."
Jon opened his mouth to dispute that, but his words were lost to a low wail from the east: Aaaaawhooooooooooooooooo, it came, a single loud ululation that knifed through the silent night before dying down in a whimper. They both stood, reaching for their weapons, waiting for the call to come again.
It did not. One blast means rangers returning. Jon turned and met Mance's eyes. "Tormund?"
"Perhaps." Mance sheathed his sword. "No, I would have known by now. We both know Tormund is not the sort to come sneaking in quietly under the cover of night."
"Better one blast than three," Jon said gloomily. He ducked out through the flap of Mance's tent, and came face to face with Whoresbane Umber and Asher Forrester.
"We heard the horn," said Asher.
"Everyone in the damn camp heard the horn," said Whoresbane. "The question is: who did it blow for? You send any scouts down that way, Lord Snow?"
"No. I thought it best to stay together."
"Aye," said Asher, "I wouldn't like to be lost tonight. I'm getting chills, and not from the cold."
Jon could not blame him. Not for the first time, he felt cold fingers of dread crawling up his back. He clasped his hands and ran them over Longclaw's hilt. The white wolf on the pommel looked unimpressed… but the other white wolf was nowhere to be seen. Where is Ghost?
Aly Mormont came to the hill next, then Harrion Karstark and Donnel Flint of Widow's Watch, and Ser Rickard Ryswell. Then Devyn Sealskinner and Old Halleck, then Leathers and lanky Iron Emmett in their blacks. "Those aren't our men out there," said Emmett, "Toad was shitting bricks when he heard the horn, seeing as he never saw anyone going out. Like as not they're just Mance's men."
If these are Mance's men, then why did he seem so surprised? Jon wondered. "Are Bernarr and Tumberjon still out on their patrol?"
"Aye, m'lord," said Leathers, "and Matthar too, and a couple of others. Tumberjon came back and got a dozen brothers to search the perimeter with him, and some wildlings as well. A couple of them Northmen went too, the one with the buckets on their banners."
"The Wulls." Jon was reassured by that. Big Bucket Wull was a trustworthy man, and a capable fighter, which might be more important if things went sour. "With luck they won't venture too far out."
As more wildling chiefs crowded up into the clearing outside Mance's tent, Jon felt a little less uneasy… until Leathers said, "There's something strange in the air tonight, m'lord. Wun Wun felt it too. Says that the cold's different, like it's gone all funny."
"Giants probably feel funny all the time, 'cos they're giants," Iron Emmett said. "Must be hard, having your head in the clouds for hours and hours."
Jon was not so certain.
Another ten minutes passed; by then more than forty chiefs and leaders had gathered outside Mance's tent. Tumberjon returned, along with Left-Hand Lew and Jeren of the stewards, announcing that Lord Norrey was raising a second party to join Big Bucket's search. Impatience gnawed at Jon as the minutes lengthed and lengthened…
Then at last Satin appeared, red and flushed. "That wildling woman with the mask, my lord, she's bringing them over," he said. And Morna o'the White Mask was not long arriving after that. When Jon saw who was with her, he felt an overwhelming sense of relief.
Mance spread his arms wide to greet the first man. "Toregg." Then his face creased with worry. "Your father?"
"He made it out of Hardhome, but most weren't so lucky. Mother Mole and half her flock got out, and my father too, but we can't say the same for all of them. That fool Gerrick Kingsblood is dead, and Bluefingers, and countless others."
Dolorous Edd nodded. "It was bloody horrible. And too cold by half."
"It were the white walkers that did it," Val said. In the low moonlight her honey-gold braid shone especially bright. "The Night King came down with thousands of wights. Thousands died, on our side and theirs, but when the battle was over he just raised his arms and they all climbed back up like they'd never been dead in the first place."
"Are they coming this way?" asked Whoresbane.
"Stopped following us after a while," Toregg replied. "Tormund's got the rest of them, but he sent us ahead to bring the word. It'll take us a few days, maybe a week, before we're all together. We should start heading back to the Wall."
Jon spoke up. "When we parted ways, we were headed north of Hardhome, up into the Frostfangs. How did you find your way back to Tormund?"
Val stepped forward. "The truth of it was that we'd given you up for dead, Lord Snow up for dead, sad as it is. But not long after we lost you a few rangers popped up, bold as you please, out in the middle of nowhere. They took us to a place called the North Grove."
A young man in worn Night's Watch leathers stepped forward, a faded fur cloak across his shoulders. It was a moment before Jon recognised him. "You were a deserter," he said icily. "Gared Tuttle. You killed a man and threw him from the Wall."
"That I did, m'lord," replied Gared, "and I fled, though not without reason." His eyes moved from Jon to Asher Forrester. "Lord Asher. I went north to answer your father's last command, to find the North Grove and—"
"What the fuck's the North Grove?" asked the fat chieftain they called the Great Walrus.
"Ironwood trees," said Gared. "The last stronghold of House Forrester north of the Wall. But it's the ironwood itself that matters; it makes for a good strong shield, and the Others hate iron… just as they hate the ironwood. Their swords won't break through it. They can't."
For a moment there was complete silence. Then whispers turned to spoken words, and then to shouting, and the tumult grew and grew. Shields that stop the Others? Why not? Eventually, Mance managed to bring back some sort of order by banging two shields together over his head. He looked at Gared. "So what you're saying, boy, is that a man armed with dragonglass and ironwood would be more than a match for a fully armed Other?…"
Gared nodded. "Aye. Perhaps the gods are on our side after all."
Jon was not so sure. "That won't be enough," he said quietly. With Emmett's help he pushed through the crowd. "That won't be enough!" he said loudly. "Aye, we may have shields to deal with the Others and dragonglass to destroy them, but those weapons are useless if we haven't the men to wield them." He turned a full circle, once, twice, and his eyes came to rest on Tall Toregg. "Men like you. Standing together."
"We are not afraid to fight," Devyn Sealskinner proclaimed.
"That is what you say now. But men change. And when they venture out into the night and see what is coming for them, they will change their minds very quickly indeed."
"We do not kneel," said Mance Rayder stolidly, "not to your southern kings and certainly not to our northern foe. We do not flee either." A sound of general agreement rumbled around them, but not all of the wildlings joined it. So few speak for so many, Jon thought, but when the fight comes, the many will break and flee. "Nonetheless," the king went on, "that is for the morrow. Tonight, we could all do with a few hours of rest. Morna, Halleck, take up your duties on the perimeter…" The rest of his words were drowned out.
Jon was turning to go when Val caught his arm and held him back. "We thought you dead, Lord Snow," she said, anger brimming her voice, "thought those cold things had carried you off." Then her voice softened. "I-I prayed for you."
"You did?"
"No!" Val said, indignant, "Not like that, only… you're the only crow commander in thousands of years that's tried to bring our people together. To save the lives of not only your crow brothers, but of the free folk too, men and women and children. Without your help, I did not know if we would ever get south of the Wall." She met his eyes with her silvery-blue ones. "So thank you, Lord Snow. Thank you for not being dead." She went away without another word.
Jon led his Sworn Brothers back down his hill, Dolorous Edd now among them. "Tumberjon," he instructed, "go with Toad and ten others; send men out to bring back Lord Wull and the Norrey. Tell them that there is no danger here… for now." It would not hurt to be over-cautious. Tumberjon and Toad went. "Edd," Jon said, "Toregg said Tormund is a few days away; do you have anything to add?"
The dour-faced steward shrugged. "Nope. Well, nothing useful. I can tell you all about acorn paste, though, if you want. I could probably study acorn paste at the Citadel now, only it's not very useful unless you're starving. And you need some acorns, of course."
Jon did not have any acorns, nor did he think that Edd's knowledge would come in helpful. But if our food stocks run out, we may come to rely upon Dolorous Edd and his acorns when things turn dire. Satin conducted Jon back to his tent. "Will you need me to patch up your boots, m'lord?" he asked as Jon stepped inside. "They've got some wear on them, that's all."
"No. If it comes to it, I'll get some more when we return to Castle Black. You should get yourself some sleep, Satin. Tomorrow will be a long march." Mance would want to meet Tormund halfway, to spare both armies a couple of days' march. The faster we meet up, the faster we can put the Wall between us and them.
That night, sleeping on a scratchy straw pallet beneath his cloak, Jon Snow dreamed the wolf dream.
He was far away from the camp, beyond the city of tents, beyond the frozen stream and the patrol torches, walking a path that cut through the heart of the haunted forest like an icy wound. The white wolf perked his ears up. Was that the sound of water trickling over there? That was strange. Everything ought to have frozen over by now, unless men were about, changing the world as they often did, if only for a few days before the will of the seasons overpowered them and time went on as it always had and always would.
Yes. Men are here. He smelled blood, and the smoky scent of charred meat. The air was hazy with woodsmoke. Cautiously, he crept on. Snow crunched beneath his paws. He passed through the last of the foliage, and saw them.
There were not nearly so many here as there were at the other place, but the number was still in the hundreds. The white wolf smelled man-smells, of blood and piss and sour sweat. He turned his gaze to the night, where banners flapped insolently in the wind. Not the black cloth squares of the Night's Watch, nor the felt-and-fur pennants of the free folk, but an old, ancient device, a man splayed against an X-shaped cross, red on black.
When he turned the trees of the great black forest had risen up around him, and suddenly he was no longer a wolf but a man, lost and lonely. Snow, the leaves whispered, snow, snow, snow. Far off, a raven cawed and took flight, flapping great black wings. Death, it called out, death, death, death.
The wind picked up. Suddenly Jon heard the howl of another wolf; aaaawhooooooo, it went, aaaawhooooooo. As he looked in the directions of the sound, shards started flying through the night, humming as they went. He reached up to touch one… and cried out in pain as it sliced through his palm, scattering brilliant droplets of bright red blood in the snow.
Aaaaawhooooooo, the wind screamed back, aaaawhooooooooooo…
Jon opened his mouth to reply, but no sound would come forth. He was cold all over, save for the one spot in his chest where he burned white-hot. "Promise me, Ned!" a woman's voice screamed. "Promise me!" The night air smelled of blood and roses.
The Other appeared from the trees, slender, twisting a pale blue shard between its fingers as it advanced. When it stood mere feet before him it paused, and for a moment some flicker of emotion lit those ice-blue eyes. Recognition, was it, or… sadness?
It raised its ethereal blade high, and swung.
Jon woke gasping for air like a drowning man. Sweat drenched his brow and plastered his hair, but there were goosepimples all along his arms, and the cold bit at every inch of exposed skin. He pulled his cloak around himself so tight it seemed like to rip, and stumbled to his feet. His heart was beating as fast it had ever had, and he felt a strange chill on his left side, though it was fast fading. The Other, Jon remembered, when it cut me, as I was escaping the cave. The scratch had scarred over with unnerving quickness, and it had been barely noticeable until just now. But when Jon put his fingers upon it a chill went through him, making his teeth chatter. "Cold," he muttered confusedly.
The wildlings will have seen stranger things, he thought, one of them will know what this means. He buttoned his shirt again and shrugged back into his black cloak, strapping Longclaw at his waist. Night gathers, he thought, pushing through the tent flap into the new-broken morning, and now my watch begins.
