Brothers in Black

Winter fogs flurried thick above the shrubbery of snow. Many Wildlings lay dead and rotting along the face of The Wall, decorating the outskirts of Castle Black.

Not long now. They had been riding hard for hours, a garrison of two thousand men on horse back. Seventeen men of the Nights Watch, fifteen hundred of the kings men, and five hundred or so Freefolk.

Stannis had left a force of almost ten thousand on ships at East-Watch by the sea, with his remaining cavalry, three thousand strong, camped outside Castle Black's walls. The latter of his army escorted the rest of the Wildlings on foot back to the heart of the Night's Watch. Stannis demanded all the horses shall make haste to base, in attempt to prepare for a march against Winterfell.

Not much had been said on the sail back. A few minor disputes with the Wildlings resulted in three dead, countless beyond that injured and they weren't even at The Wall yet. It would be a miracle if the party made it back without killing each other. Spirits were low, all the men had seen things they wish they hadn't. A well earned rest at Castle Black was welcomed, even his grace agreed.

Tormand rode up beside him. Patches of blood stained his grey cloak; Jon mused whether it was his own. A stone-like greyness coloured his face, a frosting of ice settled amongst the ginger tangles of his beard…the man had truly lost hope.

In an odd way, Tormand Giantsbane had grown into a friend for Jon. The notion of a Wildling and a Crow being allies was still a difficulty to contemplate, and he knew his brothers in black resented him for trusting a man who'd killed those sworn brothers, but Jon enjoyed him all the same.

He had said little since Hardhome so it was a surprise to Jon that he'd come to him now.

'How do we know your crows will keep their word?' He'll never trust a crow. And why should he? They'd sooner slit their throats before making peace. Jon was different. The bigger picture was clear as daylight, to him; if they didn't unite, everyone who ever was would be dead, including them.

He was unsure himself if Ser Alisser would open the gates willingly. Their grudge had taken sours turns before, nothing stopped him keeping the gate sealed and leaving them to the cold.

'We don't. I just hope Thorne see's we outnumber him almost fifty to one. And a giant. One look from atop The Wall and he'll open the gates. I know it.' He was still Lord Commander and his orders were still in place. Honour was a Knights mantra, and Thorne could at least shred that much.

'We're not the only ones with a giant on our side, now. Fucking Grognak. The big bastard never could run from a fight.' Tormand sounded halfway between angry and depressed, spitting venom in his words, with a deep northern grunt.

Jon remembered it well. How could he not? He saw it, every night in his sleep since. That moment, when the Other King downed the Wildling giant, only to have him rise again, another member of his dead army. The Wildlings they had amassed were not enough to give them the edge over the White Walkers, and none would fight in a southern kings war. They needed a leader to unite them once more, as Mance Raider had done.

'Those people…they listen to you Tormand. You're the only one who can keep them in line, and you're the only one they have respect for. I know you'll never go south and fight for Stannis,' an impatient Tormand interrupted him before he could finish.

'Too fucking right. He put Mance to the torch. The Freefolk would never have fought for him before…your Fire King has no chance now.' Tormand kicked his heels into his horse, striding off. Jon did the same, mirroring his pace, but he struggled to keep up.

'But maybe they'll fight for you. You could be their leader.' Jon was sure Tormand would be on on board. Who better to lead a band self defined savages? They respected him, Jon did to; they had been through a lot together.

'And when I take up this crown you offer me, will I have to get on one knee, swear I'll fall on my sword when you feel like it?' Tormand spat. 'Piss on that. We do not kneel for any man. Especially a southerner.' Tormand rode off again, Jon made no attempt to follow this time. There was no speaking to the man. The Wildlings were as stubborn as Stannis, and Tormand didn't seem in any mood for company. That they had in common at least.

Castle Black was within sight now, tucked nicely behind The Wall, standing barely a fraction from the bottom. He was awed upon every glance, even after standing atop it, even after climbing it, The Wall remained just as magnificent as the last time, all the while wondering what magics had conjured up this great monstrosity. Jon eyed atop The Wall. He could see a few shadowy figures patrolling the shack like outposts. But how many times will they blow the horn. One for friends, two for foes…and three for them. The party had been spotted, giving way to the first AAAAHOOOOOAAAAA.

Moments passed and they did not hear another, to Jon's relief. Jon cantered off to the front of lines, where Stannis rode. The crank of the gate to the tunnel thundered off for miles, loud and in use of some oil. Somewhat down The Wall, lay the carcass of the giant Grenn had killed in the tunnel. Jon guessed Ser Alliser had it put there as a message to the Wildlings. He'd have it burned before he gave up his power. Chills crept up his back just remembering those blue, giant eyes. That one coming back to haunt us…a pitiful fight it would be.

A flurry of doubts sat in the pit of his stomach, as Jon tried to imagine every possible reaction his men would have when he returned alive. A warm welcome was far from what he expected. Samwell Tarly however, he was eager to see. Old books were a resource that may prove useful, despite the limited range of reading at Castle Black. Whatever magics the north holds, I must know as much as I can. Maybe they have more to fear than fire, dragonglass and Valyrian steel. If anyone could scour through those dusty old pages and answer his many questions, it would be his dear friend Sam.

Entering the tunnel, into Castle Black had always bred a sense of fear of some sort. Terrible stories had always been welcomed through this tunnel, and another far more terrible rode through the frigid cavern this time. Jon's breath was thick and harsh, he felt the nip in the air to his core down here. The frosted earth crunched under the weight of a thousand horses, as the party returned home. No torches lit the way; the tunnel had likely not been touched since dragging the Giant out, Jon guessed. They followed the light splitting through the darkness, like flaming swords, as the gate was hauled up.

Upon entering the courtyard, the whole Watch looked to be gathered, all armed up to the teeth with the last of Castle Black's steel, backed by over a dozen archers and more men than that surrounded the ramparts armed with crossbows. And the crows will never trust the Wildlings…and why should they? Bitter enemies brought to a standstill because of me. The tension was thick in the air, like a foul stench. Was this an ambush, set up by Thorne as a last stand? But no one made a move, everyone rode through slowly, a sign of peace of sorts.

Jon wondered if he should feel accomplished for bringing these two mortal foes so close without any conflict. He knew his brothers wouldn't appreciate the gesture, fighting Wildlings was all they knew, and the only family they would ever have had died had fallen to these people.

A door burst open suddenly, and brother fired a warning shot in shock. Stannis's men drew arms immediately, and circled their King in defence, but not a man in that courtyard said a word. It fell silent as the crypts at Winterfell. Before tensions could arise anymore, Ser Alliser Thorne, broke the silence upon entering the yard, accompanied by Bowen Marsh and a few of the other officers, a rough echo escorting their every made their way up the steps, no doubt to look down on the Wildlings they considered as scum and assert their unjust dominance.

'How many did you lose?' Thorne queried, his eyes daggers, staring Jon to death in his fantasies. A familiar look Jon had grown much used to, he knew how to parry this standoff of 'light chat'. I shan't rise to his games, not even once, or he has already won.

Jon was blunt but honest. 'Four brothers fell in battle. Their like will never be seen again,' he said, trotting off, giving the knight no room for reply. Jon wouldn't give him the satisfaction of having a war of words. Ser Alliser seemed to have sunk his heels deep, Castle Black was truly in his clutches now, no doubt. Many of the men had likely sided with the veteran in Jon's absence, and he was sure the words he'd had with the remaining forces of The Nights Watch were no better than poison. Mayhaps Samwell was his only ally here, now.

As the Wildlings poured through the home of their enemy, not a word was uttered from a man in black. Good lands below The Gift would be occupied by the Freefolk, at Jon's order. Stannis was still strongly against allowing them through without some sort of fealty sworn to him, but Jon had insisted, as Warden of The North, that they would be kept under his rule, with bent knees or nay. All that was important now was convincing Tormand to Lord himself over his people, to keep them in order, despite his reluctance. A difficult task it will be.

After a time, the half a thousand Wildlings had set foot south, and for some, it was for the first time. They'd soon settle somewhere safe, for a time, before Jon found a place more permanent for them. The rest wouldn't arrive for days, giving Jon some time to prepare himself for a southern war he'd sworn to stay out of, many nights passed, in front of one the scarce faces of his old gods. Was he spitting on those vows, once more? He'd broken many; laying with one of the enemy, putting his sword through The Half-hand, a brother, and now he was essentially deserting. No…you mustn't think that. You're coming back, one day, with the north at your back. These are your brothers still, and they will be until your watch has ended.

Jon jumped down from his saddle, tied up his horse and made haste for the kennels. Nothing angered him more than seeing Ghost confined like a common hound. He was a dire wolf, his kind fronted the sigils of his house, his place was on a field of white, not in a cramped pen. He unbarred the door and freed his loyalist companion. The great white wolf scuttled towards him, head dipped, looking almost sad in Jon's eyes. Gods, it's good to see you, old friend, he thought.

Jon took of his glove, exposing his vile blistered hand to the cold, and scratched behind his wolfs ear. His fur was soft and warm, something Jon had grown to appreciate during his time freezing at The Wall. Almost nearing the size of a horse, his weight knocked Jon into the grit as he pounced to lick his face. Jon let out what was nearly a giggle to return the embrace, as he lay in the snow, being smothered by his wet, rough tongue. You're free now, boy. No one will lock you up again, I'll be sure to put a stop to that. Come now, Sam must hear what has happened. He understood, he always understood. Ghost was like that, even Bran had said, in his dreams, that him and Ghost were entwined somehow. He padded alongside him, silently, ever guarding him, as he went to see Sam.

The stairwell down was dim, with only a torch lit at the doorway. Odd, the place seemed deserted. Jon opened the door, breaking the quiet with a rusty creek from the old hinges. Just as he saw it last, books flooded the tables, only they had gathered dust over the open pages, which was curious.

Conquests of the First Men, Jon read has he peered over some of the titles. It seemed no one had attended the library since he were here last. Jon was worried now. Sam hardly had friends here, and the Kraster's girl would likely have brought trouble, but the room was like a crypt. No fires, barely any torches lit, not even Mormont's crow made a peep. That he could enjoy, however.

He snooped a while, eyeing many writings on dragonglass, that looked to of been read already. Ah, Sam. You likely have the answers to my questions already, Jon thought.

He dropped his torch into the hearth to soothe the chill in the air, whilst Ghost surveyed around with his nose. In the midst of silence, Jon heard a woman whimper through the door to the bed chamber. His instinct insisted the Red Woman was playing one of her mysterious tricks. It's nothing but riddle after riddle with that one.

To his surprise, when he cautiously opened the door, Samwell Tarly and Kraster's daughter happened to be red faced, heavy of breath and barely clothed. Half the country was at war in the south, death marched from the north and his shy, cowardly friend was busy bedding other men's wives. Gilly lit up to her cheeks, redder than Dornish wine, whilst Sam could only stutter into casual conversation, trying to find his breath. Sam has indeed found his Gillyflower. At The Wall of all places.

'J-Jon. You're back, so soon. Did you and Stannis rescue the Wildlings? Some of the men said you weren't coming back, but I told them it was nonsense.' Sam struggled into his breaches, his weight unbalancing him. Gilly darted passed Jon, giving him a shunt on her way out. Jon could only burst into laughter at his brothers endeavours.

'Bloody hell, Sam, the world is on a knife edge and you're cooped away in a library doing…well…that.' Jon's stomach hurt after a while, despite the broken oaths, he was humbly proud of Sam.

Sam could only wear a shy but cheeky grin as he nodded his head eagerly. 'You mustn't tell a soul, the brothers would kill me if they knew.' Above the man's cocky smirk, his eye was blackened, his lipped cracked red with dried blood, and he limped over to his cloak. It looks like they have already tried.

'What happened? Who did that to you?' He knew he should never have left him there. Sam was too loyal to him for his own good, and both were resented by the superior officers, Ser Alliser was paramount to that notion.

Samwell looked up innocently, doing all he could to hide his cowers, barely muttering. 'The brothers…they wanted Gilly. I wouldn't let them,' his eyes scattered, Jon watched, as they looked to the floor, the ceiling, scanning the walls, everything but Jon's eyes. Ghost snuck in, silently as always, tucking his head under Sam's hand, calming his nerves almost. Sam met him by ruffling behind his ear, and spoke on. 'They didn't get her though…or me, thanks to Ghost. Ser Alliser had him penned after that, so I stayed down here.'

'I'll put a stop to this, I promise you, Sam. I won't leave you like this…but come, I have a few things that need tending to, apparently,' he said, pointing at a over dozen scrolls on the table.

Sam led him back through to the library, lighting a few candles on his way. The room lit up slightly, one tiny light at a time. He limped across the room to fetch cups, and gestured Jon towards the wine. Jon filled a flagon from a tap, and pulled out a chair close to the heat. Sam joined him, and unveiled a bundle of scrolls and letters, some had seals still unbroken.

Jon broke the silence, 'we clearly have much to discuss.' He scooped up a few unbroken ones, barely curious to what dark words read within. The first was sealed by the Giant in broken chains, sigil of House Umber. Despite his qualms, upon breaking it, the words read soft on Jon's eyes. 'Lord Umber has invited myself and my men to Last Hearth to swear fealty to me.' A queer gesture. Father had always spoke of his antics to get the farthest on the good side of his liege-lord, and Lord Umber has no love for the Boltons. The Umbers were the first banners to rally to Robb, and the Great-Jon proudly wears the honour of naming Robb a King in the North, before any of the rest. It was no surprise to Jon he was the first to his aid.

Sam didn't utter a mere word, just smiled and nodded shyly, as he often did when he felt nervous. Jon didn't like it. How can we not banter over his first woman. The damned vowels don't forbid this. Jon placed down his letters, and poured cheap red, dark as blood, into their cups. He took a deep swallow before he spoke, letting the sweet flavours wash down his throat.

'Sam, how did you…you were beaten half to death and back, by the looks of you.' When the Lordling let out a cheap smirk, Jon couldn't resist a chuckle, laughing into his cup. He felt like a boy again, when he, Robb and Theon used to sneak wine away, and drink in the broken tower, talking about girls. Father had caught them once, but he was warm when he spoke with them. Back when they had live in The Eyrie, father and Robert Baratheon used to drink on the sly many a times, under the nose of Jon Arryn, he'd told them. But when Lady Catelyn found out, she had Jon and Theon punished, rather harshly, under the charge of poorly influencing Robb. His spirits dimmed all of a sudden, thinking of her, forcing him into another swig.

Sam gulped deep, then readied himself against his excitement. 'V-very gently, I might say. At first.' He still couldn't muster any eye contact with Jon, but he was amused. Ah, this place has made him happy, at least once. After everything, he can still thank this terrible fate for Gilly.

It made him sad to think of leaving his friend here, alone, in a place he quietly hated so much. The Wildling girl couldn't last much longer, with all the brothers so riled, she would surely have to go soon. It wasn't a safe place for him, his Wildling runaway and her babe. But what could he do? Stannis would pardon a potential Warden of The North of his Night's Watch vowels, but not a cowardly discarded son of a traitor in the south, who was acting a Maester. A Maester…if he could do one last thing to save his brother, a brother as true as Robb or Bran or Rickon, it could be this.

The Watch was in dire need of a Maester, and Jon could sell that song to Stannis, and even Ser Alliser, with ease. He couldn't argue with any terms to get a new Maester. Gilly could travel with them, by ship from White Harbour, and her child. Oldtown was as safe a place as any, for sure safer than anywhere near here. He'd always nattered on about the thousands of books, packing their library's. He would have a comfortable life their, for a while. The least he deserves. And maybe he could join me at Winterfell, now Maester Luwin is gone, Jon thought to hisself. After the war, where, battles had been won or lost, perhaps it would be easier to sway Stannis into pardoning Sam from the black. We'll see, in time, old friend.

Jon drunk deep and wished that this would not be his last drink with Samwell Tarly.