JON

The brothers of the Watch crowd surfed Sam and his ghastly bride back through the tunnel to Castle Black. Sam complained numerous times when the tidal motions of the crowd pulled his dong temporarily out of the mouth of the undead girl, but eventually they reached the gates and carried him inside to install him in the Lord Commander's chambers.

It was a night more wild than any could remember. What would it mean for the Watch? Jon fretted away the dark hours in his steward's cell, wondering if the Lord Commander would send for him. And at about five in the morning, as the first new light was fracturing across the peaks of wilding mountains beyond the Wall, Sam called for his steward with several loud raps on the floor.

Jon hustled up the stairs and knocked on the door. "Come in," Sam bellowed mannishly. His voice had dropped several octaves since last night. Jon entered and found Sam sprawled naked on the Lord Commander's featherbed, fingerpicking on a lute and still wearing the sunglasses. The undead woman had tastefully dressed herself in some furs and was seated at the writing desk, apparently drafting a letter to someone. She looked up at Jon and gave him a shy smile as he closed the door. "Yes, my dude?" Jon asked.

Sam looked up. "Check this out, man." He began to unleash a wild lute solo, 32nd notes for days, up and down the neck and then back up again, making his own harmonies and effortlessly forming barre chords unplayable by mortal men since the Age of Heroes. Jon's mouth dropped open. Sam stood up and windmilled his head as he shredded.

"Whoa!" Jon cried.

Sam finally concluded the solo with a flourish and a death metal scream, and then smashed the lute over an iron brazier. Strings whined and wooden shrapnel rained against Jon's legs. Sam dusted off his hands and stepped clumsily into a loin cloth. "You met Tammy?"

Jon looked to the undead girl. She gave him another quick smile and then went back to her letter. "Pleasameetcha," Jon mumbled, mildly horrified.

"Jon, I need you to send a letter to my lord father, Randyll Tarly."

"Oh. Uh, I mean, yes, my lord! What should it say?"

"That he's a mothafuckin fake," Sam shouted, beginning to beatbox. "A death without a wake. A flat broke, weak joke, clown ass dope, ain't even worth a trope, nope. Tell him he ain't never be famous, never be cool, never had no money, never had no bitches—ain't got nothin but snitches and ditches up at his bitchass Horn Hill. Tell 'at mothafucka to bring his ugly ass up north, to my Wall. The Wall calls, and if the bitch don't answer, I'm'a come for his ass. Tell him he's about to get buried up to his ovaries in a pit full of shit. You get all that down?"

Jon scribbled wildly.

"Could you also send a raven for me, Jon?" Tammy asked in a cute, lilting voice. She smiled. "I only just turned undead, like, a couple of days ago, I think?" Her blue eyes sparkled. "Um, and my mom and dad, out there with Mance's host, they might, like, not even know yet that I'm Night's Queen?"

"Sure, sure, no problem," Jon said, continuing to write.

"Have Ser Alliser bring me up a keg of rum, too," Sam told him. "That's right, bitch. A keg. Also some grapefruits."

"Anything else, my lord?"

"A knife to cut them with. And not some little pussy knife from the kitchens. Find me a gilded dagger from the armory. The finest blade the Watch has."

"My lord? Could I speak to you briefly in the hallway?"

"You can speak freely in front of Tammy," Sam replied. "She's cool."

Jon shuffled nervously. "My lord, could you… remove your sunglasses for a moment?"

Sam did so, and relief flooded Jon's heart. Sam's eyes had not gone undead blue—they were the same dull green as they'd always been. "I know what you were thinking," he said, his many chins bouncing as he nodded. "But no. She did not receive my seed, and thusly did not receive my soul. I'm no fool. I wrap my chili dog, Jon." Sam pointed to the wastebasket, where there was a small pile of damp sheepskin condoms he'd apparently fashioned himself. Jon found himself impressed.

"Now go, and be about my work."

"As you command, my dude," Jon said, and left the room. He found Ser Alliser in the common hall, gloomily picking his toenails with a bit of sharpened flint.

"The Lord Commander needs rum," Jon barked. "A keg."

Ser Alliser looked up. "A keg?" he said.

"Did I stutter? Yes, a keg. He wants it now."

Ser Alliser's mouth curled into an ugly shape, but he put his shoes back on and went to get the rum.

As Jon Snow hunted through a pile of armaments with the new blacksmith for the perfect grapefruit dagger, he began to ponder. It seemed forsaking your vows with an undead girl… actually… wasn't that bad. In fact, it seemed kind of cool. Who had been the one to tell him not to get undead blowjobs, anyway? He couldn't even remember. Getting one had sure worked out well for Lord Commander Samwell, and now even Alliser Thorne couldn't refuse Jon's orders.

What else, he wondered, were they lying about?