Wolves of the North

by SsgtC

Jon is Legitimized by King Robb, but never learned of it. What if he had? Here, Jon gets the letter from his brother naming him Jon Stark and his Heir. But not until Robb has already died. Long Live the King

4. Wolves of the North-4

Roose

This was humiliating. He was having to sneak into his own lands. The fucking Ironborn still held Moat Cailin. He had ordered Ramsey to retake the castle. But apparently his bastard had failed. That failure had only served to sour his mood even further. The ambush at the Twins had not resulted in the outcome he had wished for. Too many of his fellow Lords had been killed instead of captured and held as hostages.

The one that rankled the most was the Greatjon. The fucking Freys were supposed to get the man drunk and subdue him. Instead, the man had only sipped his ale all night while taking his son's place as Robb Stark's bodyguard. Now the man was dead. But being the Greatjon, he hadn't gone down until he had killed a dozen men. Now he would have the undying enmity of the Umbers to contend with.

Maege Mormont was nowhere to be found after the attack either. Gods only knew where she had gone. Back to Bear Island was the best he could realistically hope for. The Mormonts would never submit to his rule unless their Lady was a prisoner. Having the She-Bear back on her island was the best of the bad options for him at this point. While not a powerful house, the Mormonts could still cause untold amounts of misery for him. More if Maege decided to remain at large stirring up trouble rather than husbanding her strength at home.

Then there was Wendel Manderly. Though only the second son of Wyman, the man loved all his children dearly. He needed Wendel to force Wyman to abandon the Starks and open White Harbor to trade and reinforcements, sell swords mostly, from Tywin Lannister. With the Ironborn closing the King's Road at Moat Cailin and the Manderlys closing the only real port in the North, his domain would be strangled slowly but surely. And the people would grow more and more resentful, until eventually there would be a revolt. Though Wyman's firstborn Wylis had been captured by the Lannisters, he was a prisoner of only marginal usefulness to him. Wylis could be used to force Wyman to do what Tywin wanted, not necessarily what he wanted.

Then there were the Karstarks. Their support at The Twins had been somewhat less than enthusiastic. Though Robb had executed their Lord, and they were rightly furious over it, fighting their fellow Northmen was still something they seemed averse to. He should be able to count on their support with Harion a prisoner of the Lannisters, but Arnolf was a conniving bastard and just may declare for House Stark in the hopes that Tywin would order Harion's execution. That would make Alys the Lady of Last Hearth and Arnolf's son Cregan could always force a marriage to move the Lordship to Arnolf's line. Until the situation at Karhold could be resolved, he would have to be extraordinarily careful about relying on the Karstark forces.

Roose had made a deal with Tywin Lannister. He would end the Northern rebellion and return the North to the fold. In exchange, he would be named Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. But without doing the former, the later would be useless to him. No man could call himself the Warden of the North if he couldn't even control the North. And at the moment, he couldn't control the North. Not all of it. Not the parts that really mattered. All he could control were his own lands, the Barrowlands and the Rills. Winterfell was an abandoned and burned out husk. The lands around White Harbor and the White Knife would do whatever Lord Manderly told them to. The Neck, the parts that were under the control of the Reeds anyway, would back the Starks until the last Stark was dead. And probably for a few years after that as well. The Umbers controlled the lands between the Wolfswood and the Wall, and with the Greatjon dead, he had no way to force their compliance.

The Wolfswood, the Stony Shore and Sea Dragon Point were all under the control of the Ironborn. As were parts of the Neck. He had hoped to use the campaign to expel the Ironborn to unite the North behind him, despite his killing of Robb Stark. The lack of news from the Twins would have played to his advantage here. He could have spun it as making the hard decision to betray the Starks for the good of the North. That he was saving the North from the ambitions of a reckless and misguided King hellbent on conquest. It would have been a hard sell, but he could have sold it.

That was out of the realm of possibility now. Smalljon Umber and Dacey Mormont had escaped from the Riverlands and with them had gone Robb Stark's will. The will naming his bastard half brother Jon Snow his heir. If they could reach Castle Black with it, they could rally the North behind the boy. And that would be a disaster for his House. All he had done to raise his House up could be undone all because of a scrap of paper and a bastard boy. That he could not and would not allow. He would have to move quickly to secure the North for himself.

So busy was he making his plans, that he scarcely noticed when his party arrived at the Dreadfort. Dismounting, he noticed, but did not acknowledge, his son waiting for him in the courtyard. Instead, he strode past him and issued him a curt order, "My solar, now."

Upon reaching his solar Roose rounded on his bastard son and slapped him across the face. When Ramsey opened his mouth to speak, Roose held up a single finger and said in his low voice, "Not a word. I gave you simple instructions to follow. Simple tasks that needed to be accomplished. You failed them. And in failing them, you failed me. I had to sneak into my own lands because you failed to take Moat Cailin as I instructed you."

"Father, I..."

This time Roose backhanded Ramsey.

"I told you, not a word. Everything you have, you have because I saw fit to give it to you. What is your name?"

"Ramsey Snow."

"Yes, Snow. A bastard. Tell me Ramsey, how many bastards do you know that are given the authority I gave you? Don't answer. I'll tell you myself. None. Remember that. What I have given you, I can take away. Now, Moat Cailin still needs to be taken. Take two hundred men and Theon. Capture Moat Cailin and then perhaps we will discuss your position in my House. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Father."

"Good. Now go."

As Ramsey left, Roose walked to the small table along one wall and poured himself a glass of well watered wine before sitting in his chair and sipping lightly from his glass. The bulk of his men were trapped south of the Neck. He needed those men. Ramsey should be able to take Moat Cailin from the rear with the forces at his disposal. Once the King's Road was clear, he planned to move up through the Barrowlands to Torrhen's Square and then on into the Wolfswood and free both Torrhen's Square and Deepwood Motte from the Ironborn. That would gain him the loyalty of the Tallharts and Glovers. Or at least it would keep them from supporting the Starks. But only if he could execute his plan before the Starks could secure the loyalty of those houses themselves.

He would need to move quickly once the King's Road was once again open to him. He had a window of opportunity here. Delay but an instant and it would close forever. Falter in the execution of his plans, and the shutters would slam shut in his face. It would be like shooting an arrow through a knothole. Difficult, but not impossible. He was committed now. The North would be his. The Southorns called this kind of maneuvering the Game of Thrones. To him, it was survival. And Roose was determined to survive.

Looking up at the sound of a knock from the door of his solar, Roose barked out, "Come."

As his steward entered, the man bobbed his head in respect and said, "My Lord, what should we do with the girl you brought for Ramsey and the letter legitimizing your son as your heir?"

Frowning, Roose replied, "Place the girl under guard in a chamber. Use only men you trust not to be foolish and risk my ire by abusing her. If my son accomplishes his task, he shall have both. Until then, make sure the guards know that they are guarding Arya Stark."

---

Davos

Lord Davos Seaworth considered himself a simple, blunt, loyal and honest man. And because of that, he couldn't stand to see the man he loved more than any other in Westeros become a kinslayer. He had begged and pleaded with the King to refuse that Red Witch's request to burn Edric as a sacrifice. But Stannis was adamant. The boy would be offered to R'hllor. Over his dead body.

Davos was moving swiftly. The King had told him that Edric would burn tomorrow. Melisandre was busy preparing the pyre and the King himself was still locked in his chambers. It was now or never if he wanted to save the boy's life. He'd already gathered a few trusted men, men that were as loyal to Stannis as he was. And men that were sure not to cave in to that red witch's mad desires. Ser Andrew Estermont was the man he'd put in charge of young Edric's safety. The man was honorable, brave and the boy's cousin. Edric would be safe with him.

Along with preparing a guard, Davos had ordered one of Salladhor's ships to be ready to sail this night. The captain of the ship and Ser Andrew would decide where to take Edric after they had sailed. Davos had suggested Essos. But their final destination was left up to Ser Andrew and Salladhor's captain. Wherever they ended up, Davos wanted the boy to have a good life. He was too good a child to be burned alive in some mad religious ceremony. He deserved better than that. And it was the right thing to do.

As he reached Edric's chambers, he used his authority as Hand of the King to relieve the two guards that were outside the door. Going inside, he saw that Edric was practicing with his war hammer. If anyone needed more proof that the boy was Robert Baratheon's son, this was it.

Whirling about, his hammer at the ready, Edric saw Davos enter his room and relaxed slightly. Nodding his head at him Edric said, "Lord Seaworth."

Smiling in reply, Davos said, "Young Edric. How are you this evening?"

"I'm well, Ser. How are you, my Lord Hand?"

Grimacing a little, Davos turned and sat on the bench by the wall before answering. He then said, "I'm troubled Edric. I've just come from your uncle. I want you to come sit by me. I've got something to tell you."

Upon hearing this, Edric gained a troubled expression himself. Setting down his War Hammer, the last gift his father had sent him before he died, Edric walked over to bench and sat beside Ser Davos. As the boy looked up at him, Ser Davos could see pain already forming behind the lad's eyes. It was a common saying that bastards grew up faster than others did, and Edric was proof of that. The boy was wise beyond his years.

Turning slightly to face Edric more directly, Davos placed his hand on Edric's shoulder and said, "Lad, your uncle the King received news this evening. The North has named a new King and has no intention of returning to the Seven Kingdoms. He was convinced by the Lady Melisandre that he needs to prove his devotion to the Red God. And the only way he can prove that, is by offering him a powerful sacrifice. A sacrifice from King's blood. Only then will his god grant him the Realm."

Edric visibly shudder and his face paled. In a soft, quiet voice, not at all like his father, he asked, "The leeches again?"

Davos was feeling physical pain now. Gods, this was harder than almost anything he had ever had to do before. Only the news that his sons were dead had hurt more than this.

Davos chocked out, "No lad, not the leeches. The Lady Melisandre convinced your uncle to burn you alive."

At that, Edric recoiled in horror, his mouth opened in a silent scream. The shock of what he had just heard seemed to freeze him for a moment. And then Davos saw his face change. It changed from horror to anger. His eyes went from showing shock and pain to showing rage. In that moment, it was like looking at Robert Baratheon reborn.

Jumping up from the bench, Edric swept up his war hammer and faced Ser Davos with rage burning in his eyes and his face fixed in a defiant snarl. Edric said in a voice that screamed 'danger' to anyone who could have heard it, "No man will burn me alive. I know I'm young, not yet a man grown. But I won't go down quietly."

Smiling at the lad, Ser Davos told him, "I never doubted that for a second. I'm not about to let you get burned either. Gather your things. I'm getting you out of Dragonstone tonight. I've got a ship standing by and your cousin, Ser Andrew, is waiting for you down by the docks. Your worth more than a sacrifice lad."

"How can I trust you? You're my unc..., you're King Stannis's Hand. How do I know that you weren't sent here to lure me into going with you peacefully?"

"You're a smart lad. That'll serve you well in the years to come. Either you trust me or you don't. Nothing I can say will change your mind one way or the other. But if you want to live, we need to go now."

Edric stood there, his war hammer still at the ready, his eyes searching Davos' face. His bottom lip was tucked between his teeth as his mind ran through his options. Eventually Edric said, "Alright. I'll go with you. But I'm keeping my war hammer with me and my hand on my knife. One hint that you've lied to me, and you'll be the first person I kill this night."

Giving Edric a lop sided and somewhat rueful smile, Davos told him, "I would expect nothing less from a member of House Baratheon. Now, we have to hurry."

Having said that, the old smuggler turned Knight, Lord of the Rainwood and Hand of the King and the young boy who bore a striking resemblance to King Robert left the small chamber in the out of the way tower on Dragonstone. Their journey to the sea would be fast and silent.

Davos and Edric made it to the docks without incident. Ser Andrew had taken Edric under his protection and the ship had slipped her mooring and was even now disappearing into the night. With most of the King's fleet destroyed in Blackwater Bay, there would be no pursuit.

Young Edric had turned before going below decks and said, "Lord Davos! Thank you."

Davos had smiled and replied, "You're very welcome. Now go before someone sees you."

Turning to Ser Andrew, the old knight told the Reacher, "He's in your care now. See that he lives a long, full life. And take this, it will help make things easier for you."

With that, he had placed a bag full of Dragons in Ser Andrews hand and turned and walked away. For now began the hardest part of this night's work. Telling his King that he had betrayed him. Well, perhaps that could wait until morning when Melisandre discovered that the boy was gone. No sense in risking the lad's safety now.

That night, Davos didn't sleep at all. He knew he had done the right thing. He could not stand idly by and let Stannis become a kinslayer. But to save his King, he had betrayed his King. He had done what was right. And for doing what was right, he might very well pay with his life. So be it, he thought. If that was what the cost would be, he would pay it. He would go to meet the Stranger with a clean conscience.

With the coming dawn, there also came a pounding on the door to Davos' chambers. Looking up from his desk where he had been laboriously penning a letter to his wife, he shouted "Come!"

As the door opened, he saw a guard in Baratheon livery in the door who then said, "My Lord Hand?"

"Yes?"

"My Lord, the King requires your presence in his solar immediately."

"Very well. I'm on my way."

As the guard withdrew, Davos finished his letter, signed his name and then sealed it with his wife's name on it. If all went well, it was a letter she would never read. If it didn't, well, hopefully someone would send it to her. Rising to his feet, Davos took one last look around his chamber, smoothed his clothes a bit with his hands, and made his way to the King's solar.

Upon entering, he saw at once that Melisandre was already there. As usual, her face showed not the slightest sign of emotion. The Gods damned red witch was impossible to read. Even for someone like him who had been reading people his entire life.

"Lord Davos," the King said. "Edric is missing. The Lady Melisandre went to his rooms this morning, and the boy, along with most of his belongings, were gone. You spoke most vigorously with me yesterday about sparing the boy's life. I'll hear it from you now Ser. Did you help the boy escape?"

"I did, your Grace. No man is more accursed than a kinslayer. And with all due respect your Grace, I'd not be serving you faithfully if I stood by while you murdered your nephew. The Iron Throne is yours by right, but no man will support you if you burn your own kin at the stake. No matter what poison she drips in your ears."

Stannis stood by his desk, a hard look on his face while the sounds of grinding teeth could faintly be heard. Melisandre stood by the hearth, her hands folded in front of her, her face as inscrutable as ever. Finally, Melisandre turned to Stannis and said:

"My King, Lord Davos admits his crime. He has betrayed not only you, but R'hllor as well. There can be only one punishment for such a crime. Have Lord Davos take young Edric's place."

Speaking up, Davos said, "Your Grace, I disobeyed your orders, it's true. I won't deny that. I did what I was thought was right. When you made me Hand of the King you made it my responsibility to look out for your interests. And letting you kill your own nephew to please some mad god would not be fulfilling my duty to you. Now if you decide different, then fine. I'll gladly pay with my life if you demand. But don't let her burn me. If you truly believe I need to die, let it be you that swings the sword, same as when you took my fingers."

The sound of tooth grinding continued for a moment longer, then Stannis spoke.

"Lord Davos Seaworth. By your own admission, you've betrayed your King and committed treason. I, Stannis of the House Baratheon, King of Westeros, sentence you to die." Drawing Lightbringer from the sheath at his side, he asked, "Do you have any last words?"

"Yes, your Grace. I received this letter from Maester Pylos to practice my reading. Allow me to read it now. It's from Maester Aemon of the Night's Watch.

"To all the Lords and Noble Men of Westeros

The Night's Watch implores you to heed our warning. Winter is coming, but not as we have seen for hundreds of years past. Only one man has returned from North of the Wall, the only man left from my company of brothers with news of sights I never thought to report. The Others have arisen again and they ride through the northern lands beyond the Wall, taking our fallen and making them their own kind. An army of the dead marches forth hundred, perhaps thousands, who can only be killed by fire. Prepare your defenses my Lords. They are coming.

Aemon, Maester of the Night's Watch, Castle Black."

What followed was a moment of stunned silence. Melisandre then quickly turned towards the fire that was blazing in the hearth, muttered a quick prayer under her breath and peered into the flames. Suddenly, the Red Witch drew a sharp breath that was audible across the room.

"He speaks the truth. The Great Other is awake and marches on the Wall. My King, we must act."

The room was silent again, the only sound coming from Stannis as he ground his teeth.

"Your Grace, if I may?" Davos cautiously said. "Sail North. Show the realm that you are the rightful King by being the King. Lead the defense of the Realm."

"No. The North still rises in rebellion. They've named Jon Snow King in the North. The Wall was built to keep The Others at bay. It can continue to do so. If the North wants my aid, they must bend the knee."

"But Sire..." Melisandre began.

"No. They have named Jon Snow King in the North. Westeros only has one true King. Me. I'll not spend my strength fighting for rebels."

"Then allow me to treat with them, your Grace," said Davos. "Allow me to go to them and ask them to bend the knee."

The silence stretched on and on. Melisandre continued to look into the flames, Davos remained on his knees looking up at the King while Stannis himself stared at the glowing sword in his hand. Finally Stannis looked at Davos.

"Go. Set sail for White Harbor. Speak to Ned Stark's son when you find him. Bend the knee, and I'll name him Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. And the North will have my army to fight off the Others and ward off the Long Night."

---

Smalljon

Mole's Town was a ruin. The village reeked of burnt wood and peat, spoiled and burned food and charred meat. What few bodies they had been able to find had been burned to bones and ash. Someone had put the torch to the village. And recently, too. The ashes were still hot. One of the Manderly scouts thought that the town had been burned just this morning. Another had ridden hard up to them just an hour ago with a report that he had found the remains of a Wildling camp just to the west of here. A large party too. Put the two pieces of the puzzle together, and the answer soon became clear. A Wildling raiding party had come through here and sacked the town. If the Gods were good, perhaps they could catch them and kill them before they could cause any more mischief in the North.

At a signal from Lord Marlon, they all mounted back up on their tired horses and shook themselves out into some kind of order. Castle Black was only half a league away and already an outrider had been dispatched to scout the road ahead. With Wildlings, Ironborn and Bolton men on the loose, you could never be too careful. Especially now that they were so close. The sun dropping in the west didn't help matter much either.

Just as the party was about to ride out, the scout they had sent ahead to Castle Black came riding back at a gallop. The man was pushing his horse for everything it was worth. A fact that was born out when the animal let out a scream and collapsed as the man reigned it to a stop. The man that had been atop the beast was not in much better condition seeing as he was swaying on his feet with an arrow in his shoulder and blood pouring from the wound and cascading down his arm.

Panting from the pain and the exertion, the scout ran up to Lord Marlon and the Smalljon and said in a hoarse voice, "Wildlings! At least two hundred of em. Just outside the gates to Castle Black. They're launching an attack on the castle!"

Shaking his head, Smalljon said, "Well that's the height of stupidity. The Night's Watch will slaughter them where they stand!"

Giving a tired shake of his head, the scout replied, "No, M'lord. I counted no more than ten men of the Watch on the walls. They'll be crushed by sheer numbers."

"Only ten men," exclaimed Marlon Manderly! The Lord's eyes were wide as an ale horn as he heard the news. "There were over two hundred men there the last I heard!"

"Only ten, M'lord," slurred the scout.

Looking at the man Smalljon realized that he was on the verge of passing out from the pain and the blood loss. No matter. The man had done his duty and warned them of the danger. Now they could do theirs.

Motioning to the two Manderly men-at-arms that had come up behind the wounded scout, Smalljon told them, "You two stay here, tend to his wound. Get something hot into him if you have anything in your saddlebags. We'll be back shortly."

Seeing Dacey near them, Smalljon waved her over and asked, "You heard, then?"

"I did," Dacey replied. "We need to ride hard for Castle Black. If we can hit the wildlings in the rear, we can run a lance so far up their arses that they'll be able to taste the steel at the tip."

Nodding his agreement, Marlon said, "Aye. But we need to move fast. Even with the walls, ten men can't hold off two hundred for long."

"Agreed," said Smalljon.

"What about the banners? I think we should fly our banners when we hit those fuckers so they know who routed them," suggested Dacey.

"Aye, lets," said Smalljon. Pointing to one of the Stark guardsmen with them, he shouted at him, "YOU! Unfurl His Grace's banner! Let's make sure those wildling fucks know that the North won't stand for their raiding and murdering! FOR THE NORTH!!"

Raising their spears, swords and bows into the air, the men in their party shouted out, "FOR THE NORTH!!"

As the small host remounted their horses, the running direwolf banner of House Stark began snapping in the breeze above them. It was soon joined by the rearing bear of House Mormont, the trident wielding merman of House Manderly and the roaring giant of House Umber. As their banners whipped in the wind above him, Smalljon Umber's face wore a predatory grin as his eyes glinted with anticipation. He was eager for the fight that was coming. Killing wildlings wouldn't give him the same satisfaction that killing the Bolton's or the Freys would, but it would still somewhat slack his bloodlust. Dropping his left hand down to his side, he made sure his great sword was still strapped to the side of his saddle. Soon enough, it's blade would be red with blood.

Moving at a canter, Lord Marlon led them up the King's Road towards Castle Black. At this pace, they would save the horses enough so that the final charge into the wildlings could be made at a full gallop. The murdering whoresons would be crushed under the weight of their spears and would likely shatter into a thousand pieces. That would suit him just fine. The North needed to preserve it's strength now, not waste it fighting wildlings. Not while The Wall still stood between them. They had a war to win against the Boltons, Freys and Lannisters first. A war that the North needed to win.

Just as the sun disappeared in the west, Smalljon began to hear the sounds of battle ahead. There was steel ringing, men screaming and a constant, heavy thud. With his eyes narrowing, Smalljon realized that the thud must be a battering ram, trying to break down the gate to Castle Black. As they rode closer, he started to get a sinking feeling in his gut. The northern horizon was glowing red, orange and yellow. The fucking wildlings must have started to set the wooden walls of Castle Black on fire. His suspicion was confirmed once they drew near to the castle as the smell of burning wood, boiling pitch and blackened flesh filled the air.

Reaching the last rise before Castle Black, Lord Marlon slowed their party to minimize their noise in an attempt to take the wildlings in the rear by surprise. Peering over the crest of the small ridge, Smalljon turned his head and nodded to Marlon. The wildlings were unaware of their presence.

With an eager grin, Marlon quietly ordered, "Up and over lads. No noise until we're right on top of them, then scream like the demons from all Seven Hells are trying to bugger you up your arse!"

Before riding over the crest, Dacey turned to the archers with them and said, "Bowmen! Once we're over the crest, move to the top of the hill and nock your arrows! As we draw close, let them fly! Move forward as we enter the castle and pick your targets! For the North!"

With the orders given, one hundred and twenty mounted men launched themselves at the wildlings. Closer and closer they charged, their mounts building speed with every passing breath. Thundering down the ridge and across the valley floor. At last, the wildlings began to realize that they had an enemy in their rear. First one turned, then another. Before the first could even shout a warning however, an arrow sailed out of the night sky and plunged into and through the man's neck, ripping his throat in two. The arrow prevented him from uttering more than a gargle as he died. The second man took an arrow through his eye, killing him. But not before he let out a blood curdling scream. A proper warning it may not have been, but it was enough to alert the wildlings to the danger behind them.

But it was too late. Just as the wildling chieftain gave the order to turn to face this new threat, the Northern host slammed into them. With a roar, their horses broke into the wildlings. From the men erupted shouts of, "THE NORTH!" "THE KING IN THE NORTH!" "WINTERFELL!"

Smalljon's sword was in his hand as his courser slammed into the wildlings. With a roar that seemed more beast than man, he swung his great sword down in a vicious cut and cleanly took the head off a Thenn who had turned to face them. Redirecting his blade, he took the arm from another man who had yet to turn. A third ran at him with a spear which Smalljon deflected before running his sword through the man's gullet, at least a foot of his sword showing through the man's back. Smalljon put his foot on the dead man's chest and wrenched his blade free.

Looking around at the rest of the battle, he saw Dacey laying about herself with her mace. She was surrounded by a growing pile of bodies as more and more wildlings fell to her. Ser Marlon was cutting down yet more Thenns with his long sword, it's blade running red with blood. Deciding that he had spent enough time looking about, Smalljon pushed his warhorse closer to the gates of Castle Black. Through the broken gates, he saw a small man in black leading the defenders, a bastard sword in his hand. From the look of him, he could only be Ned Stark's son and his King.

Cutting his way through the Thenns, he pushed closer and closer to the line of Black Brothers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a wildling woman with flaming red hair and a bow sending arrows into Men of the Watch, perilously close to his King. Switching his sword to his left hand, he drew his knife from his belt, and with a powerful throw, buried the knife to it's hilt into her chest. Smalljon didn't particularly like killing women, but she was a wildling and she was trying to kill them.

As the two Northern forces pushed closer together, the wildlings were being squeezed between them. More and more of them were being cut down as the beleaguered Men of the Watch rallied and the Northmen continued their assault. With Smalljon in the vanguard of the assault, the Northmen were pushing closer and closer towards their King. The Black Brothers, for their part, took heart at the sight of the proudly flapping banners above them. Cries of, "FOR THE WATCH!" rose around him as the pitifully few defenders made yet another charge against the wildlings. Courage was certainly not lacking on this day.

Finally, it was finished. The battle was won and Castle Black relieved. The wildlings had been slaughtered to a man, none survived. No quarter was offered, nor was any asked for. The centuries of violence between them had seen to that. As the men began to tend to their wounded comrades, Ser Marlon Manderly, Lady Dacey Mormont and Lord Jon Umber approached the man who would be their King.

As the trio approached, Jon Snow said to them, "Thank the gods you arrived when you did. Did my brother send you?"

Speaking for the three of them, Smalljon said, "In a way he did." As he said that, Smalljon hung his head in shame. Shame that he hadn't been there to protect his friend and his King. Shame that he had survived when so many good Northern men hadn't. And shame that he was having to give another man some of the worst news any man could receive.

Looking back at Jon, Smalljon continued, "His Grace, King Robb is dead. He was betrayed and murdered in a plot by the Freys and Boltons. Before he died, he commanded Lady Dacey and myself to bring this letter to you and to Lord Commander Mormont."

Saying that, Smalljon pulled the sealed letter from the pocket in his tunic and held it out to Jon Snow. Just as Smalljon pulled the letter out, Jon Snow gave a strangled cry, dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands. Smalljon couldn't even imagine what the man must be feeling. First his father, then in rapid succession all three of his brothers. And the gods alone knew what was happening with his sisters.

When Jon looked up, he saw the letter in Smalljon's hand. With a trembling hand, he took the letter, saw the Seal of Winter upon it, broke it, and began to read before seeming to freeze. As Jon Stark looked up from the letter, Smalljon, Dacey and Marlon all dropped to one knee and bowed their heads to their King.