Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall
The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it.
I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.
I….am so…so…sorry. I took forever with this, I know. But…I went through like five or six drafts of this one chapter! I was nearly done it multiple times but I kept feeling dissatisfied with it! Then I had other things pop up including working on my own personal project (which I'm 14 chapters into out of almost 30 planned chapters) and I'd taken some hobbies up during the latest lockdown in my province. I've learned to make pizza dough- and bake it into one hell of a pizza too.
Also made garlic cheese sticks, and I'm experimenting in new things and looking forward to it. Also dabbled in sketching and mastered making basic but consistent figures where before it would take me an hour of careful scribbling and measurements to do it.
In short my life has been full of small changes recently, but I managed to buckle down a week ago and really work on this to try and get you all something that I hope satisfies you.
For some idea of the things you could have seen…
One draft had Jon rally people to work on projects to better the situation of he refugees crowding the city.
Another had him go out to Ramsgate to stall the CoA army as it crossed the Broken Branch.
Another had him go to assassinate the leaders of the CoA army amidst a pre-emptive night attack on their camp.
But those all would have stretched things out by several chapters much like with the Skagos Arc. I want to try and condense my stories down a bit without detracting from their quality, and I wanted to try making a chapter that was full of some more wholesome personal moments rather than more endless action.
So here it is. I hope you guys enjoy it. A very late 'Merry Christmas' and Happy New Year' to you all.
Xxx
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Final Hours
8th Day of the 12th Moon of 300 AC
The North, White Harbour
It had been foolish to think that as the defences of White Harbour grew, Jon's worried would shrink. As each day drew to a close and he tirelessly laboured to prepare the city for siege, he found more concerns to divide his attention further.
Thieves making off with supplies forced him to conduct a thorough search of the harbour where he found several caches and arrested their overseers.
The Wolf's Gate and the whole outer wall of the Wolf's Den were weak from disrepair, only maintained enough to seal a path into the city for raiders or out for fugitives. Repairing and fortifying both without the Fist's matter altering powers would have consumed time that existed in short supply and manpower that couldn't be spared presently.
A brawl over rations turned into a riot, another over an Essosi accused of being a spy for the enemy and a murder arising from a man killing someone's pet dog for extra meat had become a tedious and consistent distraction now that Jon had dealt with the grander tasks and had no excuse to remain uninvolved. And when he'd finally dealt with the worst of it: men down in the harbour, preaching to be generous alchemists, sold mummers' remedies to the desperate and the sick.
He was certain that he and Robb had never, in all their games of defending Winterfell from the Red Kings, considered that the worst part about a siege was waning days leading up to the actual battle.
Any who could afford it had already fled by ship, but few enough came to even do business- much less take on desperate refugees. The flow of refugees had dried up and outriders had raced to the city gates in the middle of the night, speaking of how the Company of the Axe made shocking progress as they closed upon the city.
Yet the greatest issue facing him was one that he couldn't bludgeon, slice or intimidate.
"It's him, the sorcerer." A boy whispered, as clear as day to Jon's heightened hearing.
"Shh!" His mother hushed the boy and ushered him along.
"At least that one didn't shove a seven pointed star in your face and pray for the Father to strike you down." The Bright Stranger trudged through the slowly rising snow by Jon's side. "Or splash you with cat piss and powdered silver and command you back to the Stranger's asshole."
"Don't. Remind me." Jon glowered at the mud and slush covered whitewashed stone ahead of him, trusting in the presence of the pony size direwolf at his size to prevent that event from repeating itself. "I still don't know if he was drunk or just stupid."
"After a punch like that he might very well be indistinguishable from either." The Bright Stranger snorted in a rare moment of humour before resuming his typical demeanour. "We cannot defend this city if its people are convinced that we are anathema to their false gods. There may yet be pious persons who will open the gates because they think we are pagan demons."
"They wouldn't be entirely wrong to think that." Jon pointed out as he came to one of the square set aside for housing refugees out in front of the Sept of the Snows, one of the few structures which had been afforded greater aesthetic features in keeping with the Andals' devotion to their seven-who-are-one. "But we haven't time to persuade them."
He was not there to win hearts and minds in any case, but to reach a meeting that had been long in the waiting since his arrival. The sheer volume of work he had devoted himself to had aided in forestalling it, but eventually he had found the time to ask and by fortune had received an answer.
As he crossed the square to the Sept he could feel many looking to him in fear or suspicion, but others bowed their heads or whispered reverently.
White Wolf.
When finally he reached the top of the steps he found himself before a tall door flanked by rows of white pillars. From here he could see the depictions of the Seven, only instead of regular wood or stone they had been carved using the famous ironwood of House Forrester- an exorbitant purchase under any circumstance, least of all for making idols of gods not native to the North.
"Jon."
Jon turned to see the green and bronze clad form of Howland Reed on the steps of the Sept. There had been no warning of the crannogman's approach, which in itself was concerning for Jon after having grown used to sensing anyone and anything within his immediate proximity.
"Lord Howland." Jon stepped down onto the same row as Howland. "You wish to speak with me?"
"I've always wished to, but I saw how busy you were." Howland confessed, sitting himself down on the highest step and pulling a stringed instrument from under his cloak. "I suppose that on the eve of battle there could be no better time."
He strummed his fingers across the harp several times as Jon considered asking how Howland was certain that battle would be so soon. "Forgive me if I offend your ears. I've been trying to take up a new hobby. Contrary to what most think of us, we get a little bored out in our swamp."
"I can relate." Much of Jon's earlier days before the discovery of the coming Long Night and his ascension to Lord-Commander had consisted of little more than work, rest, eating, more work and sparring.
The Lord of the Neck tried several more times to string together a tune, but even Jon-who had never touched a harp in his life, could tell the crannogman was fumbling more often than not. Ghost sat on his hind legs next to Howland and curiously sniffed at his cloak and armour, both of which Jon was certain came from a place entirely foreign to the albino.
"I was never much good with string instruments." Howland finally muttered and set it aside. "What of you, lad?"
"I never tried it." Jon answered. "I had few hobbies outside of training and hunting."
"Ah, a shame." Howland motioned for Jon to join him. "I've been watching you these last few days, Jon. It's impressive, all the work you've done. You've gained a good following among the soldiers."
Jon sat next to the Crannogman. "I find that keeping folk busy helps distract them from my shortcomings."
"Such as your silent, unbeating heart?"
The blunt delivery of Howland's insight stunned Jon into silence.
"Yes, lad, I know." Lord Reed nodded. "I imagine there are few with the Sight who don't know."
Jon had heard that word before, in his tutoring under Nettles. "You mean the Green Sight."
Howland smiled. "You know more than I thought, Jon Snow."
"I had a teacher. Or several." Jon deflected. "You have the Sight?"
"On occasion. Once it was stronger, but so was I." Howland hummed, trying and failing to string notes. "It reaps a cost on you. My son Jojen's price was twofold: that of a weakened body….and a mind that knew too much." He squeezed his eyes shut, and Jon could see the tears that the Crannnogman fought back. "But the moment that your heart was stilled I felt it, all the way from my home. I felt something of its like again…the final breath of something that was old when the first man took his first breath. And if I felt it, as eroded as my Sight is, others felt it as well."
You…cannot conceive…of what you've done…today…
Howland must have seen his troubled expression. "There will be wars to come, Jon. For now, ours is merely that of men and steel." He patted his shoulder.
You'll be fighting their wars forever…
"But I didn't ask you here to trouble you with these fears." Howland held up the harp with both hands. "Do you recognize this?"
"I've never seen it before in my…" Jon couldn't bring himself to finish speaking as he truly looked at the harp, examining it closely. "I…think I remember it. I'm not certain from where or when."
"That is no surprise." Howland sighed. "Ned should have kept it in Winterfell for you to take up, but…he disdained any reminders of your mother."
"My- this was her's?" Jon cursed himself and schooled his features. "My mother played the harp?"
"No. But she wished you to receive it all the same." Howland let Jon take it from him. "I know now is
the worst time to take up learning, but the past years have demonstrated how short life can be. This is yours by right of birth, and yours alone. I might not last this battle to give it to you later."
"Thank you." Jon brushed his hand through the silver strings. "Did you know her well? My mother."
"I did." Howland sighed. "I doubt you need me to say what has become of her."
My mother is dead.
"Can you tell me of her?" Jon requested, cradling the harp with tender care. "My father…he promised to tell me the next time we saw one another."
Howland exhaled heavily. "Of course he would." He sighed softly. "Only after you'd taken your vows."
Was that…resentment in the Lord of the Neck? He and Ned Stark were supposed to have been close friends. But the same could be said for the Quiet Wolf and the Demon of the Trident, despite how they'd quarrelled over the slain Targaryen babes.
But knowing what he knew now of the world, Jon was no stranger to quarrelling with friends. Once Tormund would have gladly tossed him from the top of the Wall or gutted him and strung his intestines across the branches of a Heartree. Pyp and Grenn had once nearly taken to beating him for humiliating them. And Olly…
"Unfortunately, Ned compelled me to swear before a Heartree." Howland explained. "He would not stomach anyone but him telling you, and only at a time of his choosing. He made me swear to never reveal her to you while I still live."
It took every fibre of self control to keep from crushing the harp into splinters.
"…why?!" Jon gasped.
"Ned…had reasons. Not all of them I agree with." Howland rested a hand over his chest. "But as you are now, you know that oaths to the gods of the forest are more consequential than any other. Were it not for fear of what they might reap of me and mine, I'd scream her name for all the world to hear."
Between Nettles and the Stranger, Jon's education on the wrath of the gods was more illuminating than any lesson by Maester Lewin. They'd shown him through the Heartree on Skane what befell those who offended the gods in the past: the Rat Cook of the Nightfort, more than one of the Red Kings of House Bolton, the Blood Raven, Aerys the Mad. Each of them, for whatever reason, had committed atrocities and were made to pay for it, be it by death or suffering.
Some details had been twisted around entirely. The Rat Cook certainly didn't turn into a rat himself, but the part about being made to eat his own children was accurate. In any case, Jon had come to learn that while the Old Gods were sometimes slow to act, they would act eventually.
And of those who broke an oath made in their sight, the punishment could extend to their kin. It would not always be immediate, sometimes it could take years to manifest, but eventually the gods would have their pound of flesh. Jon could not blame the Lord Reed for being concerned, but this did not change that once more, with the truth so close: it was held just out of reach by the memory of Ned Stark.
"But…I never vowed to never speak of her." Howland revealed. "I dare not share anything that might leave me an oath breaker, but I will share what little I can."
Jon accepted the crannogman's invitation to sit down with him. "I would be eternally grateful for that. If I must ask anything of her then it would be this: did she care about me?"
"She loved you more than anything else in the world." Howland did not hesitate to answer. "Were fate kinder, she'd have been with you as you grew up. She was not the meek and pliable woman preferred in the south; if she'd heard Ned had let you go off to the Wall she'd have shown him the true meaning of the phrase 'fury of a mother wolf'."
This led Jon to share a soft chuckle with Howland. "Was she of the North?"
"With fire in her heart and ice in her glare." Howland nodded. "I met her at Harrenhal, where she defied tradition and risked her life to bring justice to some squires who'd attacked me. You would know her as the Knight of the Laughing Tree."
His mother had been the legendary hedge knight! Jon almost laughed, imagining how well she and Arya may have gotten along. That was one of her favourite tales next to those of the Queens Visenya or Nymeria. Sometimes he had wondered if she imagined the mysterious knight who'd gained Aerys the Mad's ire as some warrior maiden in disguise.
How right she would have been. It was among his favourites for different reasons. The knight had been described as wearing assorted armour pieces cobbled together, a pauper of chivalric virtues. Jon oft liked to play as them…as her during some games where he, Robb and Arya would re-enact the legendary jousts.
All this time…his mother had been one he already looked up to.
"Your parents were prepared to follow their hearts, but then …" A haunted look filled Howland's eyes. "Your grandfather…Brandon…the war. Your mother was deep in the south when it began, by the time she and Ned next saw one another he was wed to Catelyn Tully. But by the war's end you were born, and your mother succumbed in the sands of Dorne. With her last breaths, she begged Ned to protect you and named you." The older man sniffed. "I was there in her final moments. No matter what anyone may tell you Jon, your parents loved one another dearly."
Jon held the harp like a child might cling to some toy or blanket for comfort.
He had been a motherless child all his life, but he'd been loved by his mother for what little time she'd had. Something within that simple fact gave him a sense of contentment, however transient. He still wished to know more, but already he'd learned more of her in one conversation than he had in a lifetime.
"Perhaps we should stop for now, I fear I've overwhelmed you." Holland suggested. "But if fortune favours us, I would like to tell you more of her."
"As would I." Jon swallowed and climbed to his feet. "But if the worst should happen…I just want to thank you, Lord Reed. You've told me more of my mother than my father ever did, and I won't forget your honesty."
Howland's smile shrank a bit, but he responded amicably. "…I wish you the best of luck in the wars to come, Jon." And then he departed.
Jon felt the Stranger manifest by his side. "I don't want to hear it."
"I'm a cold man, but not heartless." The Stranger said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "I'm sorry that you could not learn more of her, but perhaps with time we may discover the truth on our own. I too pray to rediscover what was lost to me in my first life."
"You loved someone?" Jon whispered.
"Few ever die without knowing love." The Stranger nodded. "I can't remember her name or her face. Just this…sensation that there is some part of me that was ripped away before my death. I remember dancing under a full moon atop a tower. I remember the feeling of a kiss, of all my chains of duty and obligation falling away for just a few moments. I remember feeling…"
"Free." Jon finished for him, looking at the Stranger with a new sense of understanding.
His time as a Gravewalker had been marred by fears of outliving all that he loved, but his companion was already living that nightmare. He had lived and died centuries ago, maybe thousands of years ago, as had everyone the Stranger had ever known or cared for. He did not even have memories of them, of the happy days in his life. If anything, the lack of full recollection could be construed as some twisted mercy.
"I promise that we will be free one day." Jon told him. "I won't keep you bound to this world forever. One way or another, our watch will end…and you may be with her again."
The Stranger's necrotic face fell a bit as he looked off to the side. "Thank you, Jon Sn-….Jon, but it seems that our watch has only just begun." He lifted his head as bells began to ring from the outer harbour. "Ships approach."
Jon's heart would have jumped, but he still felt the rush of energy bringing about a state of alarm in him, sending him shooting to his feet while stowing the harp beneath his cloak. Ghost stuck close to him, using his bulk to push through the mass of bodies. They both found a stream of smallfolk and traced it back to where it was spilling through the harbour gate while defenders atop the wall gazed out at the exchange of burning scorpion bolts. Edric Mallister bellowed out orders from the battlements.
"Ghost, get any stragglers and bring them in." Jon ordered before scaling the stairs.
Out on the bay there were dozens of sails topped by the fluttering banners of the sword and stars. The ring fort on Seal Rock lobbed bolts with heads set ablaze towards the nearest of them. In return several of these ships began circling and bombarded the island.
"Keep them coming, lads! Steady as we go, no pushing or trampling!" The Mallister knight almost jumped off of the wall entirely when he saw Jon by his side. "Snow! Fucking hells, don't do that!"
"Sorry, Ser Edric." Jon looked out over the bay. "How long have they been there?"
"Only a few minutes now. Seal Rock lit its warning beacon before we saw them." Edric explained. "We think they tried to slip men onto the island and take the fort before it could warn us."
"The garrison there will need to hold out." Jon did not envy them.
"They'll hold if we hold." Ser Edric said confidently. "But if the enemy fleet is here, where is their army?"
"No far." Jon said as the gates were closed and the portcullis dropped just after Ghost made it through, remaining at the tail end of the fleeing smallfolk. "They're tightening the noose around the city."
Sooner than he thought. By dusk, just as Jon had tracked down and dealt with the self proclaimed Miracle Alchemists who'd sold faulty medicine to desperate families, there were outriders racing to the city gates, blowing their horns as they rode their mounts half to death to deliver warning. The gates opened to admit them, then were shut and fortified by great barricades of timber beams between the portcullises.
Word spread through the city like fire: the Company of the Axe would be within sight of the walls by dusk the next day.
Xxx
9th Day of the 12th Moon of 300 AC
Lord Wyman had invited every Lord, landed Knight and noble with even a modicum of influence and more than a handful of soldiers to the final war council. Assignments were distributed and a slow but steady trickle of officers spilled out of the Merman's Court as time progressed.
Jon waited off to the side, having dealt with the gawking of nobles quite enough for one lifetime. He'd ever had to endure so much attention and interest…but the occasional look of scorn was a welcome moment of familiarity.
"…batch of recruits puts us at under seven thousand." Ser Wylis slid a merman token out to Seal Rock. "The garrison guarding the bay is well supplied, but they will be without support."
"Your cousin Wilber will make them feel quite welcome." Wyman chuckled.
"We still need to man the fortifications facing the harbour." Edric Mallister said. "That flank is weaker, the walls shorter and these sellswords are trained in siege tactics. Unopposed they can pour over the wall on that side. Who is leading the defence there?"
"Lord Glover, with half of our recruits to make up the bulk of his forces there. But we should have some of our sellswords and watchmen there. Some experienced fighters to keep the smallfolk in line…"
Jon's attention wandered from Ser Wylis to his daughters, both of whom had been permitted to wait in the wings with the other ladies of noble birth. The elder of the two, Wynafryd, had been cold to him but not unkind- disappointment at his decision with Robb's will as her grandfather put it. Her younger sister on the other hand, the fiery and green haired Wylla, had proven that she and Arya were two of a kind. She had very bluntly confronted him and demanded to know why he had disobeyed Robb's final wishes, why he had forsaken the Northern crown that many had died for.
Only the coming battle and Lord Wyman's council accepting his choice had kept it from being a recurring issue. Not all Northern Lords would be so understanding, but Wylla Manderly made for good practice. The oaths given to Stannis, who had long proven himself the lesser of evils, mattered less to her than the more practical issues that would face Jon's reign: the shortage of manpower, the lost harvests and the looming threat from further north compounded by the threats to the south, east and west. She came to understand his decision, though she disliked it still and feared not what others thought of her words.
Beyond that he had associated sparingly with them both, not for a lack of trying on their part. He was certain that they were trying to make time for him on their grandfather's recommendation, hoping for a betrothal with the only son of Ned Stark who was not dead, missing, crippled, too young or any combination thereof. Bastard or not, by actions direct and indirect in aiding Stannis' campaign his prospects would have been higher than ever before.
His duties had made an insurmountable defence, but the time would come when the Manderly girls would be the first in a growing line of maiden daughters with fathers seeking advancement. And he would be drawn into the Game of Thrones, dangled as a prospective suitor to build an alliance as the political landscape shifted.
All he could do was be thankful that none of the Mormont girls had their eyes on him and hope that the next lady to try would be deterred by his bastardry- how Tyrion Lannister would laugh if the lecherous dwarf could witness his advice be interpreted as a shield of chastity.
"Lord Snow?"
Jon realized that he'd been smiling at the floor and quickly adjusted his features as he stood. "Forgive me, my lords. I'm afraid my mind had wandered." He said, tilting his head forward with an expression of remorse.
"To better times, I trust." Wyman Manderly chortled merrily as he pried apart a lobster for the succulent bounty within. "Wylis?"
The heir of White Harbour placed the figurine of a white wolf alongside those of a bear and a lizard-lion along the outer wall. "The morale of the men would be raised by the…by your presence."
Jon suspected the knight had meant to say 'by the son of Ned Stark' or 'brother of King Robb'. Word of mouth had carried further exaggerations of his prowess as a leader, part of a propaganda campaign to depict Jon as the equal or superior of Robb as a commander. If one were to believe it all: Jon held the Walll against a quarter-million men, wrestled the Stonelords into submission and won the Skani over through his silver tongue.
"I always intended to fight at the front." Jon nodded. "Where will I best serve the defence?"
"At Garth's Gate." Wylis answered. "If the enemy sends forth an emissary to demand our surrender, any response from you would strengthen the resolve of our troops."
"And cost the enemy one good messenger." The Stranger snorted, manifesting in an empty chair. "But the fat knight speaks true. The gate is where we are needed."
"I will be there." Jon said.
"Fully rested." Wylis insisted.
"Fully rested." Jon agreed.
"Then off to your chambers." Wylis commanded with a tilt of his head towards the doors. "I'm aware of your nocturnal habits and applaud your commitment, Lord Snow, but we need you with a clear head. Wynafryd, Wylla, see that he stays there even if you must lock him in."
"You're sending me to my room?" Jon asked, incredulous. "And having your children see to it?"
"Would you rather I have Maege's girls do it?" Wylis challenged,
Jon held his hands up. "I think I'll be off to my chambers." He decided. "Ladies?"
He left behind the tittering of those not yet excused and joined the Manderly sisters on a walk to the guest wing.
"Father seems to think that you can fly, Lord Snow." Wynafryd said, walking arm in arm with him. "Or at least climb like no other. He'd left guards at your door every night who would swear by every god they could name that you'd never left."
Jon had taken to using his window to slip away during the hours when he was supposed to be asleep so he could continued his work down in he streets. He'd kept his face obscured, but it stood to reason that someone might open his door and test to see if he was really in bed at least once.
"I can be silent when I need to be." He said, spying Ghost enjoying the affectionate ear-scratchings of Wylla. "Sometimes I need to be silent for two when I find myself standing alone." The direwolf gave a remorseless glance and leaned into Wylla's hand. "Traitor."
"Your fault for leaving him unattended, my Lord." Wynafryd gave a sly smile. "Wylla spend days making him her's with bribes so foul."
"I thought he was gaining weight." Jon japed and received a sharp glare from the albino."One or both of you seems intent on claiming a wolf."
"Grandfather said to try." Wylla shrugged. "We told him it wouldn't work."
"You had me figured out that quickly?" Jon asked.
"We had you figured as a man with no time for dalliance, much less courting." Wynafryd replied smoothly. "Much like your father."
There it was again.
His expression must have wavered enough for Wylla to see. "You don't like that." She said. "People comparing you to him. We can relate."
"Can you?"
"When people see our father, grandfather-" Wynafryd began.
"And all of our cousins, their fathers and then their fathers." Wylla chimed in.
"-what do you think they imagine when envisioning a Manderly lady?" Wynafryd finished.
Jon looked at the floor, suddenly feeling heavy with guilt for having done exactly as Wynafryd had implied in his youth. In his mind, children always turned out to be a copy of their forebears, inheriting from them the most significant and unmistakable traits. It was seeing this viewpoint repeated from Theon Greyjoy that first made him reconsider it, given how his grandsire Quellon was supposed to have been of far greater character for an Ironborn- according to Ned Stark anyways.
"I beg your forgiveness then." He said.
"Save our home and we'll consider all debts paid." Wynafryd offered.
Jon's chambers were larger than both his old room at Winterfell and his quarters at Castle Black. The décor was distinctly of Andal design, the furnishings more generous than what he was accustomed to and a view of the harbour just perfect to see at least one ship set ablaze on the bay.
"Thank you, ladies." He made a show of removing his cloak and gloves. "I'll not make you stand vigil over me."
"That's what the guards are for." Wynafryd took his cloak before he finished shedding it. "We're here just so grandfather knows you haven't wandered astray."
"Give him my thanks for his concern." Jon bade, secretly cursing Wyman for confining him to a small space at a time when sleep was sure to elude him.
"Before we depart, Lord snow," Wylla stopped in rubbing Ghost's belly. "Might I ask you something?"
Jon braced himself before answering. "You may, Lady Wylla."
"Why Baratheon and not Bolton?"
That took Jon by surprise. "Rose Bolton is a traitor."
"And winter is upon us." Wylla stared at him curiously. "The longest in living history. With dead men walking in the night as every Lord from Bear Island to Karhold now believes. So why did you side with a Southern King instead of making peace with a Northern Lord? You've the dead men to convince him of your claims, a prudent man like him could be persuaded that every living man is needed to aid the Watch and those loyal to House Stark could be made to agree to peace in the face of the Long Night returned. So why Stannis and not him?"
Fighting temptation against a heated response, Jon reminded himself that Wylla was as much southern as she was northern. And in the south they played their game where all were either an asset or adversary- and the former would be either puppet or partner. Even her grandfather was no exempt from it, and though him she would have been keenly tutored. She was weighing him to see which one Jon would be: ally or adversary, puppet or partner.
On one hand she could expect him to repeat his previous answers to her, word of the older and colder days before the Conquest. In this event she would deride his devotion to that spiel and accuse him of using Stannis as a convenient excuse to seek justice for his family instead of thinking of the North in the long term. Or she might expect him to preach of his brother's murder and Bolton treachery, marking himself as an honest fool more focused on avenging his family than saving his people.
She wanted to hear excuses, he would gladly deny her.
"Because the North cannot weather this storm alone, Lady Wylla." Jon set Blackfyre on his bed. "We need all seven Kingdoms, and perhaps more, to take part in the coming war or we will all die. Then it won't matter who we kneel to or whose ass polishes which throne. With Roose Bolton I might have gotten some Northern support- some, but he would never agree to an alliance with the Free Folk."
"Why wouldn't he?" Wylla asked, feigning ignorance.
"You already know why." Jon countered smoothly. "You aren't dim, Lady Wyllla, and pretending to be ill-suits you."
Stannis had permitted their passage through the Wall, and only the wights provided by Jon as well as his father being Ned Stark had kept that from being a detriment to the Baratheon campaign. If Jon had sided with the Boltons, denied any involvement in aiding the Free Folk and helped massacre them to the last child it would have been seen as Ned Stark's last known son and the Boltons putting aside their war to defend the North together. There would be no better way to commemorate a reunification of the North than by slaughtering wildlings and putting down the man who brought them past the Wall. Bolton might even play into it for a while until Jon stopped being useful, but he could also manipulate events so that his remaining enemies would find their men in the thick of any fighting.
Just like in the Riverlands.
And all of that in return for potentially a few thousand Northmen. At best.
"With Stannis, we have at least the chance of getting more men on the Wall." Jon continued. "And for that, I would side with him a thousand times over Roose Bolton. I won't deny that I seek justice for my brother, but that desire will be fulfilled within the context of reuniting the kingdoms rather than fulfilling my own ambitions. I burnt away the last token of love my brother left for me to that end. I made friends of old enemies and enemies of old neighbours. I have collected armies from the unlikeliest of places and worked at a pace that would astound you. So if you are concerned at all that my motivations are in question, then I would beseech you to tell your Lord Grandfather, that he might be appropriately cautioned of the next Daemon Blackfyre in his midst."
Wylla nodded slowly, wearing a countenance of intrigue. "That won't be needed. Forgive me for my words, Lord Snow. I had wished to be certain that you were acting in more than your own interests. I believe that now."
"There is nothing to forgive." Jon allowed himself to relax. "We stand where we are now because self-interest has overshadowed loyalty as of late."
"I suppose that the dream of an independent North was always going to be just that then: a dream." Wylla sighed.
"The North is always free." Jon countered, not unkindly. "Someone may claim to rule it from Winterfell, or from King's Landing. But as long as its people remember the old ways, as long as its Lords remember that there is more to life than gold and thrones, it will be free."
"A merry world, that would be." Wylla said softly, almost wishfully.
"I think we've disturbed Lord Snow long enough." Wynafryd took her sister by the arm. "Rest well, Lord Snow." She said, and departed quickly with Wylla in tow.
Jon let himself fall backwards onto the bed with a sigh after he heard the door shut. "If only." He murmured, and felt Ghost climb up onto the bed next to him. "Oh, did Wylla leave with all the sweets?"
Ghost pressed his wet nose against Jon's cheek and nuzzled him affectionately. Jon rubbed his ears in turn. "Oh very well. You're forgiven. Just don't tell anyone, I don't want them thinking I'm forming a habit of forgiving treachery."
Somehow, with Ghost's head resting over his chest, Jon was able to will himself to sleep and dreamt of wolves by the hundreds prowling dark forests, maws dripping with the blood of lions.
Xxx
Morning came and passed silently. The guards were surprised to find him still abed and took the time to wake him so he might join the other Lords and break their fast one last time. The meal was equally quiet until Lyra and Jorelle persuaded Jon to tell them stories of his time in the Watch and among Mance Rayder's host. They in turn shared tales of battles against raiders who'd rowed or walked across the Bay of Ice or Ironborn who'd crept up from the south. When the topic turned to that of Dacey their eyes brimmed with tears, but their voices remained jovial and their spirits high as they spoke of her crushing the head of a reaver who'd tried to steal away with their sister Lyanna, then only a babe.
He told them of the Final Ranging, of his rescue of some ten thousand souls. Some details were to be altered, but he'd had many weeks to rehearse ways to avoid speaking of his true abilities. Then of his voyage to Skagos and Skane. Sheep was to remain a secret for as long as possible, but Tar-Medine he gladly cast as a demon who he slew with Valyrian steel and the heroic sacrifice of Ser Narbert Grandison- the man may have been an ass for the most part, but Jon would never allow the final moments of those seven knights to be overlooked.
Then Edric Mallister joined in with a tale of repelling Ironborn at Seaguard in the Greyjoy Rebellion. Lord Galbart retold the Battle of the Ruby Ford where he'd held against a cavalry charge of Crownlander knights. Maege joined in with a boast of her victory over a raider said to be half giant. Even Lord Wyman reminisced over repelling a foolish slaver who thought to sack a town within White Harbour's domain some fifty years ago- that even Wyman could not recall their name spoke of how successful they'd been.
A merry atmosphere filled the Merman's Court as some guardsmen and servants were permitted to gather around and listen as old deeds were weighed and compared, new deeds promised and the memory of the fallen toasted. Before Jon had realized it they had gone on until the morning had near expired.
Dusk was only a few hours off, and with it the enemy. A more somber air fell over the hall as some excused themselves to go and see to their duties out across the city. A few lingered, but all the smiles and cheer had been routed from the room as it subsided back into grim silence.
Then, as Jon prepared to set out, he saw Wynafryd Manderly nudge her sister and whisper into her ear. Wylla flushed and shook her head, but with some prodding she was made to stand up and accept a harp which had been resting within arm's reach. She stepped down from the high table, her father and grandfather watching silently.
Then, strumming a tune from the harp's strings, she began to sing.
(AN: The exact name of the one who wrote the following song eludes me but you may find it on Natural 1's channel on youtube under 'From Dogs to Wolves'. I in no way take credit for its creation, nor am I benefiting financially from its use. I simply felt that it perfectly fit this setting. There are some minor alterations made which you may very well notice upon comparing this to the original lyrics.)
The torches were lit and the banners were raised.
The flames within us forever will blaze.
It was not a happy song. Her low, dolorous voice drifted across the hall to make many look up from their drink and meal. Jon slowly sank back into his seat to listen.
The tyrants fear us now, though their hands are on our necks.
And by this fire we claim our respect.
Her eyes fell upon Jon, lacking any of the speculation and suspicion from the last night. Just as quickly she averted her gaze.
You see, you can kick a dog…only a few times.
But soon a wolf will make you pay for your crimes.
Ghost rested his head on Jon's lap and watched Wylla intently.
And the wolves we are, we came in the night.
No wall could hold us, they know of our bite.
Inspired by some who shan't be forgot.
Against fire and blood, what victories they wrought.
Forever with them our lots we did toss.
For without them, our souls would be lost.
More than a few eyes shed tears by this point as River and Northmen alike raised a silent toast.
Then Wylla began reprise of the initial verse, but unlike before this carried with it a more confident energy.
The torches were lit and the banners we raised.
A flame within us forever will blaze.
The tyrants fear us now, our hands on their necks.
And by this fire we claim our respect.
Jon joined the light round of applause for Wylla as she held the harp to her chest and bowed her head. With somewhat renewed energy, more men finished their drink and marched out in better spirits than they wold have otherwise. Ghost got up and moved to Wylla's side, nuzzling her leg and receiving a generous ear rub in turn.
"I didn't know you play the harp." Jon said as he approached.
"I play several instruments." She shrugged. "You would be shocked by how loose the tongues of men can be when they think I'm too invested in entertaining them to overhear."
"I…recently found reason to explore learning the harp, myself." Jon confessed. "After we have triumphed, would you care to indulge in teaching me?"
There came the appraising, suspicious eyes again. "You don't strike me as a minstrel."
"I'm not." Jon agreed. "But…Lord Reed has confided in me some knowledge of my mother. She left me a harp, one of fine make. It would be a crime not to use it and I won't sell it to someone better suited. I've not the hands of a minstrel, my lady, but I've the patience to learn if I have a tutor with the patience to teach."
Her eyes softened. "Your mother? That's one of the greater mysteries of this age. Who is she?"
"Was." Jon corrected. "She passed after birthing me. My father swore Lord Reed to and oath of silence until death, but he imparted what he could without breaking that oath. That harp might be all that I ever have of her."
"Then if you survive the coming battle, you will learn all that I have to offer." Wylla promised, a smile sneaking its way onto her face. "This I swear by the Gods Old and New, Lord Snow."
Jon barely concealed a knee-jerk reaction as he realized that his request may have come off as a little more intimate than intended.
The Stranger snorted as Jon smiled graciously and bowed his head. "Then I swear to return, Lady Wylla."
When he managed to drag himself out of the Merman's Court the Stranger chuckled at his expense. "Everywhere you go, one woman or another lusts after you."
"She is not-" Jon looked around to make sure they were alone in one of the corridors leading up to his chambers. "She is not lusting after me."
"Neither was Val, nor Rhae." The Stranger said disingenuously. "They just admire you greatly for your noble spirit, growing list of heroic deeds and mighty-" He smirked as Jon shot a glare towards him. "-sword arm."
"I wouldn't imagine you as the first to encourage me to partake in a dalliance." Jon shook his head. "Usually it's just 'do this, Jon Snow' or 'do that, Jon Snow' or 'do as I do, Jon Snow.' You weren't nearly as annoying back then."
"If you awoke in my position, tethered to the body of a foolish boy who was stabbed to death for trusting the wrong people, your ire would match mine." The Stranger countered. "But since then you've done much in so little time. It's been not even two months since we became bound and you are already making more progress than you did after years of leading the Watch."
"I thought I made a fine Lord-Commander." Jon replied defensively.
"You did. Then you died." The Stranger shrugged. "But you had only a fragment of the Watch's former might to call on. A pale shadow of the army it could once field. And still you made good use of it. Other Lord-Commanders barely cared to maintain the Watch as it was when they had come to obtain their office. You took steps to remake what they squandered and made some progress. I could have been left with much worse for a…partner."
"I think today and yesterday are the closest that you've come to being nice." Jon japed, seeing the usual scowl return to the Stranger's long features.
"Do not think me sentimental." He said sharply. "I can recognize potential and greatness, but that does not mean I will coddle you like your Andal-raised father did."
"I'd have it no other way." Jon came to a window that provided a view of the city wall facing inland. "…everyone is confident that we shall prevail."
"Sometimes confidence in the face of adversity is needed to overcome it." The Stranger said. "It won't be an easy fight, you may even lose that girl who has taken a liking to you. But regardless, we shall smash these invaders and throw them back into the sea."
Jon had to agree with that, if only because he didn't like to consider the alternative: like just where he would go if he lost.
Xxx
Silence fell over the city as dusk closed in. The smallfolk were herded into the tunnels beneath the streets, into the Sept of the Snows and New Castle, into anywhere that could shelter them. The streets, once crowded from one end to another, were almost deserted except for occasional patrols.
But the walls and the area immediately behind them were crowded by thousands of fighters. Jon saw City Watchmen on the wall directed by She Bears at the siege weapons while down below Ser Edric speaking to a mass of recruits who knelt for a Septon to grant the blessings of the Seven to them. Ser Wylis rode by at the head of a column of knights, making rounds between here and the sea-facing wall where the Glover-led forces were similarly massed. Crannogmen of House Reed in their billowing dark cloaks with longbows in hand lined the wall closest to the Gate of Garth.
Jon ducked back into the gatehouse, wishing that his heart could still race. It felt unnatural to be so ill at ease yet not feel the compulsions all men would endure if they stood where he did. He moved to the other side of the gate house and peered through an arrow slit towards the darkening plains, both wishing the enemy would show themselves and hoping they wouldn't.
Maege Mormont intruded on his pondering of which was worse. "Was it this bad at the Wall, Snow?"
Jon turned from the arrow slit. "Not quite."
"You find this worse than fending off a hundred thousand Wildlings?" She snorted.
"I had a seven hundred foot wall between me and them on one side, and only a few hundred to the other." Jon responded. "And most who followed Mance Rayder were not warriors. It was an entire nation on the march, fleeing for their lives. If there'd been a way to let them through peacefully I would have allowed it."
"Wouldn't have sat right with me, but I know what's at stake now." Maege grumbled. "I still think that's doomed to fail, peace with their lot. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but they'll slip back to their ways eventually."
"At least you're optimistic, Lady Mormont." Jon smiled at the look she gave him. "I was worried that you would be among those who think we'll all be butchered and raised as wights in the end."
"Hah!" The Lady of Bear Island sneered and walked back out to the ramparts. "Point me to one who does. I hear a good knock to the head is just the thing you need to dash those worries away."
Darkness fell soon after, and with it came a curtain of silence over the walls of White Harbour, save for the whistling of wind blowing in from the sea. The banners of the merman, the eagle, the lion-lizard, the bear and above them all the inverted sigil of House Stark- Jon's own banner as gathered from word of mouth, fluttered in this cool breeze.
Then, peering into the Wraith World, Jon saw a sea of red against the dark background, slowly bleeding out of the hills to the north east to spill onto the plains like from a great knife wound. He his chest ache from nostalgia.
"There's thousands of them." He whispered. "But…not as many as we'd expected."
"Fewer than there are defending these walls." The Stranger agreed. "But we are ready."
Then, out of the great mass, a single figure separated from the rest and rode out atop a horse. Returning to view the mortal realm revealed this rider bore with him a great torch so that he stood out. Behind him, the rest of the army cloaked in darkness.
"How are they moving entire formations without any light?" Jon wondered.
"Vision adjusts to darkness overtime." The Stranger offered. "If one eye remains covered for long enough, it can be immediately ready to see at night when uncovered."
"Do you know of any army that's ever done this?" Jon asked.
"No army, but your Ironborn might be familiar with it." The Stranger followed the progress of the lone rider. "They seek to speak, it would seem."
"It would seem." Jon agreed before a Manderly knight stepped in, followed by some Reed bowmen who took up positions at the arrow slits.
"Lord Snow-"
"I know." Jon stepped past the knight and onto the battlements. "If he is sent to treat with us, he can shout it from the ground."
The lone rider drew closer to the gates, his horse kicking up geysers of white powder. He was clad in thick furs that Jon almost mistook for being of Free Folk make, and held in one gloved hand a banner of the Sword and Stars which he planted almost a hundred paces from the gate. Then he drew a glittering sword and held it high, his mount pacing in a circle.
"The day of reckoning has come! This city, a den of pagans and traitors to the one true faith, shall be cleansed from this world!" The man cried, his accented voice betraying his Essosi roots.
Jon heard the Stranger groan. "How delightful."
"For the crimes of sheltering followers of the false gods! For abandoning the true faith to consort with the hated Starks! For aiding in the murder of countless sons of the Seven! Only in the light of the Seven-Who-Are-One can there be victory!"
Jon diverted his gaze towards Maege. "Well, that's nothing we weren't expecting to-"
"May the Father cast his judgement upon this city of heathens!"
"Is…is he…?" Jon looked to the messenger, who continued to circle around the banner he'd planted.
If the man intended to go through all seven- or at least all save the Stranger, this was going to become tedious very fast.
"May the Mother wither the wombs of every Northern whore!"
He really was going all the way. Fuck.
"May the Warrior grant strength to his followers, that they may purge this land of its false gods!"
Jon sighed in exasperation and made a show of yawning audibly, drawing a few chuckles from the men nearest to him.
"May the Smith frown upon your walls and find them wanting!"
"Do we need to listen to this?" Maege Mormont asked.
"Not if one of Lord Reed's men can shoot that far." Lyra sighed.
"They can." Howland answered, causing the Mormont girl to jump in shock as he brushed past her to stop by Jon's side.
"May the Crone deprive your false lords of their wits and cast you back to the muck!"
"Just give the word and he will be riddled with arrows, Jon." Howland said.
"No." Jon sighed. "He might be an irksome wretch, but they are only words-"
"And may the Maiden forsake the red harlot of the Starks! Let her be fucked like the godless whore she is until she carries the children of godly men! And may the Stranger steal her final breaths-"
Jon hadn't realized that he'd loosed an arrow, much less manifested his bow, until after he saw the messenger's head snap backwards and his body topple from his horse, which neighed in distress and bolted. A heavy quiet followed as the horse faded out of the fading light of the torch.
The spectral bow dissolved in his grasp as Jon sighed a curse under his breath. It was considered dishonourable to kill a messenger, but hearing him invoke Sansa's name and wish such things on her, a girl who had more closely followed the Seven all her life and never raised a hand in violence…
Wait…why had they spoken of Sansa specifically? She was married to the son of the man who had invited them here. Why not focus their insults upon Jon himself, a bastard who would be an irresistible target for zealous followers of the Seven? Or upon Rickon, whose survival must have become known to them by now?
Had Roose Bolton promised to give her to their leaders? Was she the price that bought this selllsword army?
Howland cleared his throat. "I think we can all agree that was less of a messenger and more of…a man with a death wish."
Jon peered into the Wraith World to see how the enemy had reacted to his rash, impulsive move. The army was still getting into position, but the dispersion of their forces seemed far too…thin to be a great army. They were dividing into three large groups with small stretches of troops spread between them, forming a loose semi-circle curving upwards away from the city walls, far beyond the reach of the siege weapons.
"Gods above…" A man whispered, and Jon was forced to return his vision to the material realm to see what was wrong.
There was a glow flickering out of the nearby hills that the enemy army had emerged from. A golden, flickering glare of thousands of torches held by a great host, several times that of the first. Across the expanse between them and the city, the echos of a great chant filled the night air. Spear butts were bashed against the ground, swords and axes against shields, reverberating like the crack of thunder.
And the chant was formed of a single phrase.
Winter shall fall.
"Gods save us." A recruit whimpered, clutching his longbow tightly.
"I don't think they can." Another said, and Jon couldn't find it in him to argue.
Xxx
End of Chapter
