Castle Black
"Am I not the Lord Commander's steward?" Jon groans as he holds his damp hands near the burning torch. Feelings return to his fingertips as Grenn and Pyp catch up with their sledges full of logs. Their mules neigh with steam before drinking from the Wall's melt — it's a notably warm day, not that it matters so far North. "Can't we have the builders cut down the trees? That's their duty, right?" he asks Dolorous Edd who's leaning on the logs and chewing some dried meat.
"'This is an important task' was what you said some time ago, but we all make ill judgements," Edd replies before throwing the rest of his meat to Ghost. "Stewards cutting trees and rangers counting corpses… The next thing you know the builders will have to scout out the forest riding hammers and wielding nails. Probably will if the rangers all die out there; just ask Benjen Stark."
"Isn't Benjen dead?" Grenn asks, earning a pitying smile from Edd. "Oh, you mean like that. Sorry, Jon."
"It's alright, auroch," he chuckles, knowing full well that his Uncle Benjen still moves about Castle Black, albeit in a more unnatural manner. How would they even react to that? he wonders, but that's a question for another time.
"Who's going to be First Ranger then?" Pyp asks with a sparkle in his eyes. "Surely it'll be someone quite skilled, young, capable of humouring others-"
"I bet it's that prickly Thoren Smallwood," Dolorous Edd cackles, smashing the boy's dream. "The Halfhand's still at Shadow Tower and Thoren has been pushing for the rank even before Benjen Stark's body is cold. The Old Bear may be reluctant, but after seeing Benjen's fate?" he shrugs. "Not many want that risk for the title. Besides, should he join the dead, he won't be hard to kill."
"Let's not talk about death so near sunset," Jon says before leading them through the Wall's main tunnel. It's cold here, not just from the Wall but the constant reminder of what they'll be facing. The iron gate is still being mended, an obvious dent and splinter from the deer still apparent on the three-foot thick door. If that's what a Jiang-Shi deer can do, what about a mammoth? Though they'll have Lady Ran's assurances, for now he finds more comfort praying to a heart tree than runes on planks.
Dolorous Edd taps his axe against the tunnel's wooden beams, letting the dull sound echo. "The builders have let them wet and rot, and now they're nearly as soft as our skulls. Won't be long before they break."
"If they're anything like auroch's skull here then I have nothing to worry about," Pyp laughs, earning a huff from Grenn. "Besides, we're the Watch! That warg Lady said this place is magical, it won't harm us."
"Young Gared got his head picked by an icicle a year ago. He was a builder too, so the Wall's kindness didn't help him then," Edd smirks, glancing at the icy ceiling above.
Pyp's eyes widen as cold water drips on his head, but he scoffs at the notion. "Yeah, right…" With the reply, the boy spurs his horse to be the first one out of the tunnel, earning some amusement from the rest.
Once out, a fiery bright glare assaults their eyes. With the setting sun shining low, the Wall weeps as if made of molten glass and dragonflame. Jon looks up at the massive structure, one that cuts the North into two. I won't get tired of this, will I? It was my choice to come here after all… Remembering Lady Catelyn's expression doesn't rid him of that worry one bit. Perhaps sensing his distraught, Ghost pushes his wet nose onto Jon's palm. "Hungry, boy?" he asks the direwolf with a smile. "Edd, what's supper in the mess-"
His face bumps into a man's chest who then roughly shoves him aside. "Move, crow," the man barks before walking away, picking up a nearby shield painted with a roaring giant.
Dolorous Edd watches with a scowl. "Umbers," he spits, low enough for the newcomers to not hear them. The armed men move about with packs and weapons at the ready, keeping their distance from most of the Brothers. The look in their eyes give no hint of camaraderie. "Most don't even look trained, you know. Even knowing of the Others' coming, Lord Stark still wouldn't spare us his best."
"I'm sure Robb needs them for his march," Jon replies. "I much prefer them than the rapists and brigands we usually…"
"Speak like that in the mess hall and you may lose a finger or two," Edd warns. "There's not much difference between them and our Brothers: warm blood, flesh, bones… probably the same amount of training and taste for whores," he chuckles darkly. "It's not that hard to rape, Jon Snow, just ask half of the repentant Brothers here."
That brings… Uncomfortable images to his mind. "Well, we're dealing with the dead and-"
"Don't count on that either," Dolorous Edd laughs, and Jon decides to not continue the conversation in fear of what he means. Instead, the two report the number of cut logs to the commanding builders before returning to their rooms.
Well, new rooms.
With his half-brother Robb becoming Lord Stark, the promise of reinforcements is slowly being fulfilled. Though none so far professed a desire to join the Night's Watch, they've received several hundred armed men and riders so far. And that's just at Castle Black, with Shadow Tower and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea reporting Mormonts, Karstarks, and even some hill clans like the Firsts Flints and Norreys.
But more men means more mouths to feed and house. Though Castle Black is large, most of the empty rooms have either been repurposed as storage or fell to disuse — the First Builder hasn't reinforced the Lance in all these years, so there are not much expectations for the other castles to be re-garrisoned either. For now, they endear the newcomers through better rooms and better meals. Jon's was moved from Hadrin's tower to the more populous Flint Barracks, though luckily he manages to find a small room for himself and Ghost.
Taking off his coat, Jon unclasps Longclaw's scabbard before unsheathing it to the world. Light through the slotted window plays with the blade's dark ripples. I've earned this… Robb has taken the title of Lord Stark, and I… He returns the blade before sighing; he's not done enough. If the living cold is truly moving against them, then he needs to be the Watch's vanguard alongside the Lord Commander. "I'm his steward," he whispers, "and I'm worthy of leading. Don't you think so, Ghost?"
The direwolf looks back at him with red eyes, no more attentive than before. "Well, maybe you'll find a giant or two," Jon chuckles before the two exits the barracks.
Out on the yard, the sky has turned to a burned violet. The smell of warm broth and coldness linger in the air. Most of the Brothers are either at their posts or in the mess hall, stuffing themselves full like-
"That's a big dog you got there, crow," a man interrupts his thoughts. He's a large one, taller than the Lord Commander and rivalling even Small Paul. But to Jon's surprise, beneath the brown beard is a young face no older than Theon. A flaming boar-pelt cloak drapes over his back, and on his hip is a glint of steel. Though he wears fine fox furs and patterned leather gloves, there's something fierce beneath it all. The large man steps close, heavy boots thumping on the mud, and looks down at the two with curiosity. "Are you the kennel boy around here? That beast looks too big to handle for the likes of you," he smirks.
"Chett and Bass are responsible for the kennels, but only I can command Ghost," Jon replies, patting the direwolf's head. He sees a brass and silver clasp on the man's cloak bearing the face of a giant. An Umber.
"Hmm…" The man's brown eyes threaten to bore holes through his chest, but Jon keeps his smile. "Have I seen you before? What's your name, boy?"
"Jon Snow, son of Lord Eddard Stark and Brother of the Night's Watch," he declares with pride.
"The Stark bastard!?" the man exclaims with jolly laughter, the title hurting Jon more than he wants to admit. At this point, that's all he's going to be remembered as, isn't it? "Ah, forgive my manners, boy. Name's Eddy. Ser Eddy Umber." Jon shakes his hand but winces at the strong grip. "So the rumours are true, huh… You do have Lord Eddard's chin," he snorts. "What's a boy like you doing here? Should've asked your father to become a knight rather than mingling with these unscrupulous bunch."
Lady Catelyn doesn't trust a bastard and father gave me no choice. "My uncle is- WAS a First Ranger," he quickly corrects, "and he told me there's a need for good men up here. Honourable men."
"Honourable. And you're one?" Ser Eddy asks with a smirk before laughing and patting Jon's back. "Don't look so tense, Snow! That was a jape," he says with a big grin. "Maybe the Stark blood in you will show against the black. Alas, good men won't come here unless you improve things. By the Old Gods, don't you have beds with no biters in them? They're starting to become a pain."
"You'll get used to them."
"Heh, I doubt that," Ser Eddy replies before patting his rumbling stomach. "Maybe they'll have something good in the mess hall… Ah, join my table, Snow! My men have never been here and need guidance; you seem knowledgeable. How about it?"
"If you give me the best cut at the table, Ser, I'll gladly join."
"Demanding from an Umber? You really are a Stark's son," he chuckles before walking towards the noisy mess hall. Leaving Ghost near the doorway, Jon follows the Umber's massive shadow, earning curious looks from his fellow Brothers. Edd gestures his surprise and Jon replies with a shrug; perhaps he can convince the newcomers to be less of a pain in the Watch's arse. "Everyone," he introduces to the tables marked with Umber shields, "meet this young crow here, Jon Snow."
"Ah, that lad bumped inta me before," says a beetle-browed man with a roasted goat leg between his teeth. Speaking of the food, the ones spread on the table is at least a week's worth of supper in a normal sitting. All filled with spices and aromas. No wonder… "Gotta keep yer eyes lookin' up if ye wanna kill savages."
"Won't see much other than eagles and clouds on the Wall, then," Jon replies, causing laughter among the men.
"Give him one of the better cuts, Lywas, he seems sharper than you," Ser Eddy smiles before taking a seat. He pats the empty area by his side and Jon takes it, albeit with some wariness. "This one here's Lord Eddard Stark's bastard. Got his chin, hair, everything really," says the Umber before ruffling Jon's head; how old is he again?
"What d'you do up here?" asks a thin-looking fellow, a silver thistle pinned to his furry coat. "You're too green lookin' to be killing Wildlings."
"I'm assigned as the Lord Commander's Steward."
"Barely a crow yet aimin' t'be Lord Commander? A dreamer this one," Lywas chuckles before handing him a plate full of meat. I should save some for Ghost. "Been long since a Stark led the Wall, ain't it?"
"The boy's a bastard, not a Stark," the Umber reminds them, earning an unnoticed twitch from Jon. "Then again, haven't heard of a Snow in the position either," he shrugs before downing a tankard in one go.
"There were nine hundred and ninety-eight previous Lord Commanders before Lord Mormont, Ser Eddy, so I'm sure there's a Snow or two in there," Jon replies. Sam will know about that.
The Umber snaps his fingers before putting down his tankard. "Right, nearly forgot! This one here's quite knowledgeable of the Watch, and probably could get us clean beds," he says to the others. "Any of you got a question about the Wall or crows, he's here to answer it. Won't you?" he looks at Jon with a bright smile.
A bit too late to escape, isn't it?
Mess Hall
What's usually a modest dinner before a night's sleep turns into something full of shouts and roaring laughter. Without much care for the Night's Watch, the newcomers drink to their content well into the night. Some try drunkenly to pick fights with a Brother, but Alliser Thorne's firm warnings prevented any blood.
Jon, refusing to drink yet forced to hear menial questions, comes to learn that Edd was right for the most part — the newcomers are no better than us. Most of them were farmers and guardsmen who never saw much action — Lywas was a hunter at the Last Hearth before coming here. Though some claim to be veterans of Robert's Rebellion, they're few and far between. "Lord Stark said the Others are coming, lad," says the thistle-pinned Ser Owen Norrey with nonchalance, cheeks blushed from the liquor. "True or not, ne'er been so near the Wall myself. Sure is a sight…"
As the night stretches on, the hall empties to about two dozen people. Eager to continue their conversation — though not so much Jon — Ser Eddy moves them beside a burning hearth with colourful shields decorated atop it. He can't quite make out the Houses for most of the paint is faded. The knight keeps pressuring him to drink, making him quite wary of the Umber's intentions. Even so, the mood remains jovial for a better part of the night, especially with the sudden entrance of Ghost. The direwolf eats the leftover meats and marrow in the mess hall, much to the excitement of the drunken newcomers and the laughter of Ser Eddy. "That boy'll be full as a hog tonight," he smiles.
"Still growing strong," Jon adds. "Maester Aemon says he'll be bigger than a pony in a couple of years."
"Hah! Intending to ride him, Snow? With that wiry body of yours, it'll be easy."
"I'm always eager to teach him new tricks," he chuckles.
Ser Eddy tugs on his beard, watching Ghost with sparkling eyes. "Maybe I should take a pup for myself and train it to hunt. That'll be a surprise for those savages," he grins, large teeth glinting off the flame's light.
"But that means you must find one first, Ser."
"Keh, I know," he grumbles. "The Old Gods' blessings for the Starks, I tell you. Never even thought they lived below the Wall. Your father was lucky to find them, let alone as pups."
Maybe it's an omen, Jon thinks. "Perhaps you'll find a giant, Ser. That'll be easier for you to ride. My Uncle once said they live beyond the Haunted Forest."
"Snow, I'd rather trust my father's tall tales than the words of some dead crow," he snorts, this time bringing Jon's anger into a bubble. He's talked with the man, dined with him, shared bread and meat… Yet his attitude towards Uncle Benjen is becoming a step too far. The Umber notices this and his smile grows to a crescent. "Are my words false then, Snow? Was he not a crow and dead? That's what a messenger told me after father visited Winterfell, your half-brother's words."
Uncle Benjen can still beat you as a corpse, Jon wants to say. But rather than grinding his teeth, he takes a deep breath before speaking. "Benjen Stark was one of the Night's Watch best, rising to First Ranger in a few short years-"
"Aye, as per the Lord Commander's decision, was it? And how did that position become empty? The previous one died to a savage in bones and furs?" he cackles. Jon's retort is cut when the Umber puts a hand on his shoulder, its grip heavy and warm. Though the smile is still present, a great shadow descends over his eyes. "We Umbers know our Wildlings, boy. I've killed my first at nine name days and never stopped since." His free hand reaches beneath his cloak to reveal a terrible falchion, its blade so polished that Jon can see his own trembling eyes within it. The man sets the weapon on his large lap, a hand over the blade. Jon gulps; it'll be madness for the Umber to kill him, Lord Eddard Stark's bastard. But even the slightest chance of it gives him worry. "My great-uncle Mors know of their trouble, and the smallfolk on our land as well. Even that poor village — Mole Town was it? Where your fellow Brothers were fucking whores in — they know a raider's danger.
"But," he releases his grip on Jon and leans back on the chair with a creak, "I'm sure you're better than those lot, Snow. Earning the Lord Commander's blade is no easy feat. Bastard or not, you have Lord Eddard's blood in you." The Umber smiles before poking Jon's chest with the tip of his blade. "So," he taps his fingers against its metal, "this matter about the Others… I can hardly believe it, even if it was the young Stark's words," he sighs. "He said your Uncle was one of the raised dead. Is this true?"
"…Yes he was." In a way.
"Condolences to the late Stark." The man clinks Jon's cup before taking another swig of the drink; his tolerance for liquor is astonishing. "But how long has it been, you reckon? Since the days of the Night's King? When was the last tattered corpse walked the snow?" There's a small smile on his lips as he taps his blade again. Wiping beer from his moustache, he continues: "You know, Snow, I'm quite familiar with wargs myself."
The hair on Jon's back stand on ends. Wargs. Even Ghost has stopped his eating to stare at the Umber, hopefully unnoticed owing to the large man's drunkenness. Those kinds who could skinchange and enter beasts are often hunted down throughout the Realm; a dangerous reality as he's one of them. His experiments with Lady Ran Told him that much at least. "I'm… Sure that there are many wargs among the Wildlings, Ser."
"Heh, they're scant few, Snow. Even those lawless Wildlings know how savage they are, entering beasts to eat the flesh of fellow men. I always make sure to kill every single one I find." Another tap to his blade before his face turns dark. "So why in the cold hells is a nine-tailed whore beast nesting in the King's Tower? Has the Watch gone mad!? I thought the whores in that little village was enough oath-breaking for you lot."
"Ser Eddy, the Ladies that were taken in-"
"Ladies," he sneers. "Best be rid of courtesies for their kind, bastard, else a Wildling 'Lady' pull wool over your eyes before spearing your arse. Savages can wear all the golds and silks they want; unlike my blade, it won't rid them of their blood. You look sharp, Snow, so learn this: you can't trust Wildlings. Not the one that killed your Uncle, not the one who's in your tower, and certainly not the one who whispers in your half-brother's ears." The Umber throws the rest of his drink into the hearth, billowing the flames that illuminate the fury in his eyes. "Damned bitch lopped off my father's hand and HE'S the one who apologised! At least my brother understands reason…"
…
What can Jon say in this situation? Lady Ran's teachings have been instrumental in the Wall's growing defence against whatever lurked in the forest, and he's been her best student in paper sorceries — that's what his fellow Brothers call it, and frankly, it's a fitting description. Will he find a like mind in Ser Alliser Thorne? he wonders. Fearing that outcome, he nearly says something in Lady Ran's defence when the large door to the mess hall opens.
Lady Reimu is quick to close it again, a light mist streaming out of her thick scarf. It's a surprise to be sure since she's usually already fast asleep at this time of night; everyone else had done so not long ago, leaving the mess hall empty except for them and a few cleaners. The large red bow on her head droops with little sparkles of frost; where was she?
Jon hears the creaking of leather. Beside him, Ser Eddy's face has gone taut and his right hand tight on the handle of his blade. The red complexion doesn't seem to be from drinking. Shit. "Lady Reimu," Jon quickly moves to greet her, stopping the woman far from the Umber. Of all times to not bring my sword… "What brings you here? Did Sam forget to bring your dinner?"
"No, I already ate. It's not that," she sighs, slowly petting the sleepy direwolf's head. For someone who spends the better part of the day sleeping, there are bags under her eyes and… Redness? Whatever it is, she doesn't seem happy. "The large guy with the crow — Jeor, was it? — he's on the Wall and wants you there."
"Shit, did I forget a meeting?" he groans, pinching his brow. The additional duties of cutting trees and caring for his corpse-of-an-Uncle have messed with the usual routine, let alone his strength. "Right, um, tell the Lord Commander I'll be there in a moment. I just need to-"
"Excuse me, little Lady," says the Umber before standing tall, the hearth stretching his shadow to the other end of the mess hall. She looks a bit apprehensive of his appearance, especially with that shining blade in his hand. "I heard something regarding the Lord Commander, and I've yet to speak much with him after our initial meeting. May I join young Snow here?" he asks with a smile.
"Um, who are you?"
"Ser Eddy Umber, second son of Lord Greatjon Umber. I'm here to kill Wildlings," he smiles back at her.
"Uh… Yeah, sure. You can come along."
The Wall
The cage lift sways and groans at the lick of the midnight wind, up and up into the dark. A year ago his legs would tremble and buckle like jelly at the sheer height, but the soft movements of the cage only brings much-needed comfort to Jon's spirit. Even Ghost takes enjoyment in it, looking down at Castle Black like a snow owl.
The same can't be said for the Umber, whose free hand holds the wooden railing firmly. His eyes remain locked to the sky, a scowl on his face as he watches Lady Reimu fly above them — with her magic, she has no need for lifts and stairs. A part of him wishes to do that but he's had a hard enough time trying to throw paper, the Gods know how long it'll take him to fly.
*Ting ting ting*
Even now the Umber's fingers are dancing on the blade of his falchion. If she had taken the lift, would he try and cut her down? Jon wonders. He's not even sure if he'll be able to stop a man that formidable, least of all without Longclaw. The fire from the hearth still lingers in the Umber's eyes, accentuated by the worrying growls and foggy huffs he sometimes makes.
*Ting ting ting*
Old Henly the winchman gives a pleading look to Jon, prompting him to remind the knight: "We'll be meeting with the Lord Commander, Ser Eddy, and no doubt fellow Brothers. They won't take kindly to a drawn weapon, even from an Umber." The man gives a small twitch of an eye but doesn't sheathe his weapon. "Take my advice, Ser, else you'll slight the Lord Commander's hospitality."
"A warg and a sorcerer at Castle Black," the man spits, ignoring all that Jon said. "What were the Watch's vows for you lot? Just some bloody words in the wind?"
"They ate our bread and salt, Ser. An Umber should know that guest right is sa-"
"DON'T you assume what an Umber can and cannot do, bastard!" Every word out of his mouth sounds like the splintering of timber, and for a moment Jon thinks he's about to be chopped. Though that's not the case, the Umber's hand remains firm on his blade. "Why in the bloody Others' arse did the Watch broke bread with their ilks!? Was it the Lord Commander, that Mormont who let them in?"
"It's bad tidin' to leave women in the snow, M'lord," Old Henly pipes up, but a simple glare shuts him quickly.
"'The Watch never wastes and takes all the help it gets,'" Jon repeats the Lord Commander's words, "whether it's fools, rapists-"
"And women?" the Umber cackles, his smirk more cat-like than the giant embroidered on his cloak. "Wargs? Sorcerers? May as well take those whores from the town down South, let them help out the crows here." They already do, Jon smirks at the thought, but the Umber clicks his tongue at that. "'Hospitality'… Hmph, no wonder the Watch's of ill-repute. Your maester's wrinklier than ol' Whoresbane, your Lord Commander's nearing it, and new recruits are saplings in the snow," he spits over the railing.
…
Silence claims the cage until it jolts and halts at a wooden landing. Jon sighs in relief when the Umber sheathes his weapon — at least there's still some sense in the man, not that his distrust of the Ladies here is unfounded. Before they could leave, the cage door is swung open by a scowling Bedwyck who nearly bumps into the Umber. "Sorry, my Lords," he mutters before settling into one corner of the cage. Jarman Buckwell follows him, giving short greetings to the two before talking with his fellow ranger. Jon only catches a few things — leadership and disappointments? — before the cage lowers back down the Wall.
A strong breeze brings shivers down Jon's back, making him regret removing his cloak for the night. Ghost moves close to him for warmth while the Umber simply closes his embroidered pelt with a clasp. "Over there, Ser Eddy," he nods at a wooden outpost built on the Wall's Northern edge. Though often drafty and full of leaks, its warmth is a welcome up here.
"Apologies," says the Umber as he swings open the door. The inside is already lit with lanterns and full of people, but some of which Jon didn't expect. He notices Lady Reimu and the Lord Commander quite quickly, but alongside them are the First Builder Othell Yarwyck and First Steward Bowen Marsh. Lady Ran is in the corner shuffling through sheaves of paper — though the Umber is smiling, the tugging in his eyes is apparent enough. Thoren Smallwood is here as well, kneeling in front of the unexpectedly sober-looking Septon Cellador who bristles at the direwolf's sight. "Have I interrupted…"
"Not at all, Lord Eddy!" says the Lord Commander with a bright smile — the arrival of newcomers is brightening his dour spirit, Jon muses. "My Lord is always welcome at the Night's Watch. Ah, Snow, fetch a quill and paper. We've matters to discuss tonight and I'd rather not forget once the morrow comes."
"Snow! Snow!" his raven caws up in the rafters, its dark wings halfway to healing.
While taking some from a nearby table, Jon keeps one eye on the Umber. The threats and fury from before have melted away like spring snow, or perhaps only hidden underneath that thick cloak. Whatever the case, he remains in between the Umber and the Ladies. With ink ready, the Old Bear continues their meeting. "With the First Builder, First Steward, and the Seven as my witness, I raise Brother Thoren Smallwood as First Ranger of the Night's Watch."
Jon's quill pauses for a moment as the septon dabs the Warrior's oil onto Thoren's sword hand. With his Uncle's death, of course the Lord Commander is going to appoint a new First Ranger. But Thoren? Jon could think of a dozen better men to lead the rangers, especially those who aren't Ser Alliser's lackeys. And judging from the Old Bear's expression, he's probably thinking of the same thing. Did Alliser Thorne push his name? Jon wonders. Maybe fate does go to the adamant. "The honour is mine, Lord Commander," says the newly raised First Ranger before rising to his feet. The smug look on his face is only accentuated by his weak chin and ill-temper, something many recruits experience in the training yard. "In the Warrior's name and the Night's Watch, I vow to cut all who threatens the Realm! Whether it be living or dead."
Don't forget your shield, Jon wants to add, but he's not planning to sleep in an ice cell for tonight. Ghost walks past the septon and curls up near Lady Reimu; the man nearly jumps from his skin, muttering "Damn beast," before closing his vial of oil.
"You must be a fine warrior to receive such title, Ser," says the Umber, making Thoren glow in pride. "Tell me, better the previous one?"
The First Ranger gives a mirthful glance at Jon before answering: "I'll prove my worth on the field, my Lord. Dark times are ahead of us."
"Dark! Dark!" the raven caws. The Old Bear shuts it up with a bowl of corn.
"Dead things… And some say the walking cold, aye, though I've seen nought of their masters," says the Lord Commander, petting the raven like a cherished friend. "Three bodies walked again one night in Castle Black, slew some of my best men before being put down. Then the corpses in the forest, so near the Wall…" He shakes his head. "It was no wonder Benjen Stark perished out there, let alone Waymar Royce and the others."
"The forest just below the Wall?" the Umber asks. "Forgive me, Lord Commander, but I hunted in those woods just this afternoon and saw no corpses nor snarks. Just a few rabbits and foxes, a bit too thin for my liking."
"Aye, and we have Lady Ran to thank for that." At the Umber's raised brow, the Old Bear urges them towards the cabin's open edge. Septon Cellador takes his leave — his drunken balance will do no good there. The raven takes off into the night sky, as black as the Watch if not for the twinkling stars and the red comet. It reminds Jon of the leaves in Winterfell's godswood, where his father would clean and oil Ice beneath the heart tree.
But that's not where their eyes are drawn to. Before them, Haunted Forest's edge has been cut back to a little less than half a mile, leaving a large band of stumps, hard dirt, and some sentinel trees. Tall sentinel trees, each of their tops adorned with paper tassels, rope, and wooden staves that Jon helped to carve. Now and then, glowing purple mists would jump from tree to tree like some ghostly rabbit prancing through the air. The Umber looks on in horror. "What… Are they?"
"Deterrents," the Old Bear answers, "if that is the correct term, Lady Ran?"
"It is applicable, Lord Commander. They've been designed around the necromancy of Jiang-Shis and my analysis of both this ice structure's wardings and the wighted animals." The fox woman remains focused on the papers, sticking a few onto the walls. Upon closer inspection, they're not paper talismans but ink-drawn maps and diagrams. "Currently, three-hundred and seventy-five wooden wards and talismans have been placed atop one-hundred and twenty-five trees. This, however, only stretches ten kilometres East and five West; six-point-two and three-point-one miles respectively," she explains, her many tails twisting and turning in thought. "Wood is in no short supply, but the paper is."
"Has Denys Mallister sent a message regarding that, Bowen?"
The First Steward wrinkles his face. "Not much, my Lord. The purchase from White Harbour was few and costly, and it's best to preserve our coffers with the Realm's tidings. Perhaps we should make our own? Maester Aemon may know a mill's layout."
Lady Ran's tail stop moving. "I'm knowledgeable in three methods of printing, Bowen Marsh. Though, I must adjust for the change in chemicals, minerals, and wood type to create the proper paper talismans."
"Printing paper," Thoren snorts at Bowen. "We're the Order of the Night's Watch, not maesters. Else you want to be throwing paper like Lord Snow in the yard, we're better off hammering steel and swords. Try a paper shield against one of the Wildlings Halfand slew, they'll tear both you and it to pieces. My Lords," he steps to the edge and turns to them, his sable cloak blending into the night, "we'll do no good huddled here like snow-shy crows while both the living and dead conspire against us. As First Ranger," he thumps his sword to the wooden floor, "I suggest a great ranging reaching far Beyond-the-Wall to drive them into the cold earth. Let's end the Others where they stand and remind the Wildlings who the Watch is."
Wait.
This is it.
The chance that Jon's been waiting to prove his worth, his valour, his honour! The things his Uncle Benjen have told him about; not even he can claim to have slain an Other, but Jon may be able to. "We should have over two thousand men on the Wall, my Lord. My brother's work," Jon reminds him, nearly jumping in excitement with each word. "We can send rangers without risk of depriving the Wall, perhaps with aid from the newcomers as well?" He looks at the Umber with expectation. For as much the man not like him, can he turn down the chance of killing-
"I don't believe much of… The Lady's words on magic," Ser Eddy replies whilst tugging on his whiskers, "neither do I know well anyone in the Watch. Who'll lead this ranging? You, First Ranger?"
"I will," the Lord Commander answers, quickly stopping any of Thoren's protests. "More men means more capable leaders are needed, Thoren. And while you're First Ranger, men may not be so eager to follow someone new. I'll give you command of rangers, aye, and I'll lead the ranging." Thoren nods solemnly at the decision, sending a glare at Jon as if it's his fault. "Boy, remind me to write for Shadow Tower. We'll need the Halfhand's men for an effective ranging beyond the Haunted Forest, as well as supplying them against the dead."
"What of the Wall, my Lord?" asks First Builder Othell Yarwyck. Apologising to Lady Ran, he picks up a lantern and brings it close to a map on the wall. "If what Lord Stark said was true, then Wildlings — and Gods forbid, the Others — can simply pass through our many ruined castles. We've newcomers, aye, but none I heard are interested in stonemasonry."
"I've concerns regarding the ranging as well, Lord Commander." This time, it's the First Steward Bowen Marsh who speaks up. "We've lost our ravens and it'll take some time to catch and train them again, as Maester Aemon said. How will we know of reports? Or your location and safety? Pardon my bluntness, but we'll be sending men blind into the North against corpses. A fool's errand, my Lord."
"Aye, that is so…" the Old Bear sighs, looking out the vast darkness beyond. That's when his eyes shine in realisation. "No, we do have a communication method." For that, he turns to the tired-looking Lady Reimu seated near a small hearth, face still wrapped in scarves. She looks back at them with worry. "Lady Reimu, do those orbs allow us to speak farther distances?"
"Wait wait, I don't want to-"
"The magical power needed is square of the distance in kilometres," Lady Ran interrupts, though her words aren't parsed by all. Her tails twitch again before elaborating: "Higher magic input means more area covered. With the current training, my best students will be unable to maintain more than a mile of communication. If you are planning for a ranging, however, I propose sending Miss Reimu as means to communicate and battle."
"W- Excuse me!?" She jumps out of her seat, nearly knocking over a nearby lantern as she floats over to Lady Ran. "I didn't agree to this! Why don't you go instead, Ran? A bunch of Jiang-Shis should be no problem for a nine-tailed fox."
"Apologies, Miss Reimu, but I have many duties, you see: training the magically adept, analysing the Wall's specific border magic, improving the wooden talismans…" With each problem she lists, one of her tails would twist in an exaggerated manner; Jon has trained with her long enough to notice her annoyance in both voice and tail. "This would have been resolved faster if we're to receive aid. Alas, they came from the magically inept," she pushes on with a smile sharp enough to cut flesh. "Of course, my words were not commands but merely suggestions."
"If the Lady said she'll stay, then she'll stay," the Old Bear makes clear. "The Watch will make do; we've been through worse."
I'm not so sure on that, Jon thinks. As the Lord Commander discusses the details of the ranging, he puts down the quill and paper and quietly moves to Lady Reimu's side. "Are you sure you won't be able to lend me those orbs?" he asks her. "With my training, I can-"
"In comparison to Miss Reimu," Lady Ran interrupts, "your skill in magic is, as previously stated, inept. You require focus while she may send magical energy passively through her presence." The fox woman looks down at her companion again before smiling. "We are trying to save human lives here, Miss Reimu Hakurei. But, if you are so adamant about staying, that is fine as well. It seems to me that the Night Watch has spares; tell me, how old are you again, Jon Snow?"
…He doesn't answer since it'll be twisting the knife. Lord Eddard never raised his sons to endanger women, let alone do the battles for him. No man with a lick of honour would even consider that. "I'm joining the ranging, Lady Ran. If it's possible, can you supply me with more of those wooden wards? It may prove useful when-"
"I'll do it."
"I'm sorry, Lady Reimu?"
"I said I'll do it," she sighs. For a moment he sees the face beneath those scarves. 'The Hero of Gensokyo' he once heard the Lord Commander call her, but do heroes ever look so solemn and lost? Before he could refuse, she floats past him and towards the Lord Commander, her long scarf trailing behind like a wisp of mist.
"It's for the better," says Lady Ran, watching the other woman like a proud parent — they look similar enough in age, however. "It'll do no good for her to remain in bed, and the threat you'll be facing is unlike any other."
"…How do you know?"
But the fox woman doesn't reply. She simply pets his head like a dog before joining the others, discussing the problems of supplies and the Wall's reinforcements. He's trained under her for many days, and so far nothing about her seems to be coming from a skinchanger. The Umber has her wrong there, he notes, watching the larger man take a curious look at her tail. She's not a warg…
A demon?
Maybe.