Dark Wings, Dark Words
Wind roared, gushing strong against the dull fabrics of Jon's command tent, with thunderous claps echoing from across The North's mountain ranges. A brazier burned bright in the centre of the sanctuary against the storm. Jon had letters cluttered out atop his table, just as messy as the library back at Castle Black. Four moons had come and gone since Stannis's host had left The Wall. And still, nothing from The Watch. Not a word.
Each night had passed bringing nothing but hard sleeping, for Jon. As they neared Last Hearth, the columns had come to a stand still and set up their first decent camp in days. Storms had swept across from The Shivering Sea, making the nights wet and droll, but tonight, they were sheltered from the bleak and dismal weather.
And Alliser Thorne's memory kept him from drifting off. It hadn't left his mind. The man made barely a struggle, but he came to Jon armed, and only the gods knew of what his plans were. Jon even left the dagger, buried deep into the dead knight's heart. He'd made a sharp exit after, at the expense of lingering long enough for the body to be discovered.
But four days had passed since then, the host was leagues away and his old brothers must have surely found him by now. Not a single message had been sent, however, and so Jon Stark's anguish grew by the day. Stannis would not forget the killing of a Lord Commander, and if smuggling lost Ser Davos his fingers, what would he lose for murder?
The letters that had come flew in for Stannis and Jon both. Words of fealty, mostly. So far, the North had taken Jon's legitimisation well, many swearing to rally up their banners under the Stark Direwolf once again. Since Jon followed Stannis, they swore to him as well, though much less passionately.
The remaining Glovers of Deepwood Motte sent word claiming to join them when they finally march on Winterfell, attacking the Boltons, blindly through the Wolfswood. The young Mormont girl had said 'Winter is coming, and the Bears come with it,' which was a poetic way to bend the knee, Jon had thought. Between them, they only could muster a modest seven hundred and eight three men, but it was a positive start to his campaign.
Another hundred or so came down from the mountain clans, in full support of destroying House Bolton, claiming them the false lords of the north. Jon's heart was warmed by his countrymen, and he hoped to do well by them in command. Jon had almost a thousand men under his fealty already, but only in promises. And words are wind to some lords, he reflected, struggling to think of a noble man who hadn't forsaken one oath or another.
The Umbers of Last Hearth still had almost double that in total, despite half their forces being held captive at The Twins, or fighting for Roose Bolton. Mors Crowfood, a castellan of Last Hearth, sent a Raven urging Stannis to grace the house farthest North with an audience, so they can bend the knee to Jon. The greater version of his namesake, (greater only by name) rotted in a dungeon with his men at the orders of Walder Frey, current Lord of the Riverlands. In the message, the Greatjon's people pleaded for help releasing him from the clutches of that old snake, as a term of fealty. Stannis would accept, accordingly, if the remaining Umber's joined him liberating The North from the Boltons and Ironborn alike first.
Wildlings had sent word as well, claiming to be on route to attack Karhold. Jon had done much work in swaying Tormand to assist him in The North's wars, but after several promises regarding the land they were to be given to live on, Stannis announced them to be independent rulers of the Karstark lands, so long as they can win it from them. Jon had hoped to make peace with the members of his bloodline, but they outright refused to follow another Stark after Robb took Lord Rickard's head. The King declared them enemies of The Crown shortly after; they were Roose Bolton's firmest allies. Tormand could help this much, at least, as repayment for Stannis's help at Hardhome. He struggled to argue with that, so yeilded to the notion, all the while stating how he 'will still never bend the knee to that slave of a fire god,' out of respect to Mance Rayder. However, a Wildling woman accompanied Jon's party to act as a diplomat for The Freefolk, a demand Tormand insisted, with much surprise to Jon. He hides it well, but Mance has taught him how to play the games of the southern Lords. He's just too stubborn to yield it to anyone.
With The Umbers, Mormonts, Glovers, and the houses in the hills, Jon and Stannis had set to amount almost fifteen thousand men to their cause, including the Wildlings and The Golden Company. Almost ten thousand of those sailed down the Bay of Seals to prepare for an assault by sea against The Dreadfort. The remaining men, with them, had plans to march around the North and gather more houses and subsequently, more armies. The collective of Bolton and Greyjoy armies that infested the country would be surely overwhelmed; the conquest prospects looked to be in good order. But was it enough to take Kings Landing against the Lannisters and Tyrells both?
Jon stripped out his crow black leathers, and climbed down into his straw bed. Warmth from the brazier aired around his enclosed tent, shielding him from the bitter colds of the storm. He would leave his matters till the morning, and tried to get some sleep from this night at least. Perhaps his dreams would be softer, too. Maybe even Bran or Robb or father would visit him in his slumber, though he wanted to see or hear Ygriite more than anything. For the first time in days, Jon drifted off into a near dreamless sleep…
...When he woke, he could remember little. As dawn cracked through the gaps of his tent, Jon sat up, rubbed the tired from his eyes and tried to think hard…but nothing. Maybe the gods are done with me. Maybe they sent Ser Alliser to test me and I failed, he contemplated to himself, assuming his dreams of nostalgic messages were done. Gods likely frowned upon far less sinister crimes; the frown they wore for his would be another issue entirely.
The brazier wafted dull smoke into the air and through his nostrils. Sounds of men waking, and cooking, and practicing their swordplay emanated through the camp. Jon got up, dressed into the same leathers he'd worn since leaving Castle Black, and made haste for his dear friend Samwell Tarley. The rains had stopped, the storm had calmed, and the snow was slushed into a muddy swamp of brown. Jon had to pass several hundreds of men, multiple herds of horses, and countless soaked tents till he reached the rear of the column, where Sam had made camp to keep Gilly away from any lust filled soldiers, eyeing up what could be their last lay with a woman. He thought Sam was worried for nought, but Sam worried all the same.
When he arrived at Sam's slack tent, almost half the size of his own, Gilly shoved her way out, with an empty woven basket. When she bumped into Jon, she fell back into the mud, immediately apologetic. 'Sorry, milord. I didn't see you there.' The girl was a shy one, that much was clear, but he guessed perhaps she feared him based on the first brief encounter where Jon had denied a plea for help escaping Kraster's Keep, a while back.
He gave her a kind smile, and offered her a hand, respectively. 'The apologies are mine.' Jon noticed she was as light a feather, when he hauled her up, with surprising ease. 'Are you well, my lady?' She was no lady of Westeros, but a harmless gesture in his eyes.
'Y-yes, Sam is taking good care of us. Th-thank you, milord. I've got to fetch breakfast for Sam and little Sam.' She bowed, terribly and stormed away, into a sea of prying eyes and filth for thoughts. She's caught Sam's stutter, Jon mused, with a brazen smile.
When entering the tent, he was met by a half naked, soon to be Maester of the Citadel, making childish faces to a laughing bastard baby. Looking at that man, in the flesh, Jon could not conjure, from the deepest reaches within his head, how on this earth he was the first to kill a White Walker in eight thousand years.
'Sam, for gods sake, put some bloody clothes on.' He startled Sam into a fall into his breaches, with him ending up on the floor, like a pig in the sludge.
'J-J-Jon!' Sam awkwardly bumbled to his feet, and tugged up his breaches, whilst Jon pinched himself until it was all he could do not to burst into laughter. 'Will you join Gilly and I for breakfast, she's going to hunt rabbits with Ghost.' Sam had a sly grin painted across his smug face, that accompanied his invitation.
'Minus The Black you're still sworn to, The Citadel make you swear off girls too, you know,' Jon bantered.
'They can bloody try,' Sam guffawed back. 'At this very point in time, I, Samwell Tarley, am participating in a war. Men at war die. So I plan to make the very most of my life while I am still at risk.' He'd preached it as if it were a planned speech. But Jon had not come here for that. His mood fell grim again.
'Sam, did you send the Raven?' Prior to receiving words from the Umbers, and the murder of Ser Alliser by his own hand, Jon ordered Sam to demand Rickon be escorted to Last Hearth, before East-Watch received word of the killing. His baby brothers blood on his conscience was the last thing he needed; Rickon's safety was paramount.
'Ah yes, first thing yesterday morning,' he announced, proudly, oblivious to the grave, foolish mistake he'd made.
'What do you mean yesterday? I asked you days ago?' Jon was stern and impatient, and could feel his temper creeping into his tone.
Sam could sense it, and tried to tread on egg shells, but the shells shattered anyway. 'Well, yes. Little Sam was ill and Gilly was worried so I stayed with her. Don't worry, they were sent just before breakfast…yesterday,' he echoed.
Jon lashed out, like an angry snake, spitting venom. 'Yesterday! Sam, I told you to send the fucking Raven the night we left. What, were you too busy fucking your stolen bastard wife?!' He didn't know what had come over him. No, Jon, no. Do not forget what you are, a bastard. You hold his name, but you'll always be a Snow. You'll wear it like armour, he told himself, slightly ashamed he'd used the word he'd always cringed at for cruelty.
'I-I-I'm sorry, what was so important?' Sam pleaded remorse but he'd completely failed to contemplate the significance of that letter.
Rage within him threw over a table, along with anything he could lash out at within reach, taunting the baby into a wailing cry, but it was all a blur to Jon. He'd seen red, at Sam, at Kraster's daughter, but mostly himself. How could I be such a rash fool! You knew he was playing his games, yet you played them anyway. Now he is dead and its nobodies fault but yours. Fool, bastard, fool, he cursed himself.
Sam soothed the baby, Jon suspected to avoid him. 'Hush now, child. Your safe with me, hush now,' he whispered softly. Jon looked and Sam cradled the babe in his arms. He felt guilty now, bringing a mere baby to tears. And his foolish, foolish actions had potentially ruined his position with Stannis. He cooled himself, instantly, like water over hot coals.
He brought himself speak, nearly distraughtly. 'I'm sorry, Sam. I just needed that Raven sent, quick as you could. It was important…more than you could ever realise.' Sam didn't say a word more than the songs he lulled to little Sam. When the babe shushed, Sam laid him in his makeshift cot; a basket, stuffed with straw and Sam's crow feather cloak stuffed within it. He spoke, finally.
'Don't do that again,' he tried to command, with his sternest sounding voice. Jon looked around at the trashed interior. Silly boy! Kill the boy!
'I have to tell you something.' If he knows he'll understand, Jon compromised.
'What is it?' Sam queried, with an uninterested tone, tending to the messed things that scattered the floor.
He turned to pick up the table. Underneath, an empty flagon, two dry cups, and a pool of spilled wine decorated the ground. He picked up a cup and the spilled flagon, tossing it back down dismissing the lack of wine. Wine would of made things easier for sure, even this early in the day.
Sam was intrigued, now. 'Jon, just tell me.'
The truth erupted, like a man desperate for a piss. 'I killed him!' He shouted, unwittingly. He dimmed his voice to a whisper. 'Ser Alliser. I stabbed him, just before we left. He's dead, and when they find him, Rickon will be captured to spite me.'
Before Sam could even think of a response, an uninvited Ser Davos Seaworth came bursting through the tent flaps. 'Lord Stark. We've received urgent news, his grace demands your presence. I'm afraid off salted meat and burnt rocks the cooks call bread will have to wait.'
Sam didn't utter a sound. Jon broke the silence. 'At once, Lord Hand,' he said, trying to sound casual. Jon gave Sam his sincerest look before leaving with The Onion Knight.
As they paced through the camp, alive to the sound of men dining in the morning sun, Ser Davos halted Jon in a quiet spot. 'I don't know what you did at Castle Black, and frankly I don't want to know…but they've sent a Raven.' Jon could feel butterflies flutter around inside his belly. 'Eddison Tollet has been assigned as the new Lord Commander.' Edd? He was certain Bowen Marsh would be elected, or Ser Denys Mallister, but it was a relief to hear his friend rise above those fossils.
'And what of Ser Alliser?' Jon's query was a poor way to mask his crime, but he couldn't bare the thought of Rickon in danger. He had to know what fates would be waiting for his little brother.
'Lord Commander Tollet has sent him to The Nightfort to restore it. I've met the man, he has a cynical sense of humour, that much I can be sure of, but he is a friend of yours I believe, so The Nights Watch will be more supportive with him in charge.' Edd has covered up my murder…no doubt he knows it was me who killed Thorne. Thank the gods for Edd.
Jon's woes drifted off into the morning breeze. 'He'll make a fine Lord Commander,' Jon confessed.
'There's one more thing.' Just as he did at Castle Black, Davos checked over his shoulder, to make sure no prying ears were listening. 'I've heard whispers that Lady Mellisandre has a plan if Stannis is to fail at all in his war efforts.' Ser Davos wore distraught look, as he eyed around the camp once more. He dropped his voice into a rushed whisper. 'She claims there is power in Kings blood, and so far many have burned at her demands because of that. As I see it, there is only one person around here with Stannis's blood…The princess.'
Jon knew who Davos spoke of. He'd briefly glimpsed the young girl at Castle Black, half her face frozen into a stone-like scales. The other half of her face seemed pretty enough, however.
Davos went on, desperately. 'I fucking love that girl, and somewhere within me, I don't believe Stannis has the heart to burn his own daughter…but the things she says to him…that's what I don't trust.' Ser Davos had no love for the priestess, Jon detected, and he felt the same. She wasn't to be trusted, even if Stannis did.
'What do you want me to do about it?' Stannis was the King, his orders are the law. But Jon had shred Mance Rayder some mercy with that arrow he put through his heart, and he was a Wildling; he meant nothing to Stannis. Yet Stannis had said he'd stripped The King Beyond The Wall of justice, his justice. Jon wasn't convinced Stannis would let that slide twice.
'I am going to strongly implore the idea to wed the both of you, uniting Stark and Baratheon once more, properly.' Ser Davos looked completely serious, despite the girl being Jon's junior by at least ten years, by the looks of her.
'She's just a girl. And I'm a bastard,' Ser Davos cut him off, stern in tone.
'You are Lord Jon Stark, of Winterfell, Warden of the North and she is the daughter of the one true king of Westeros. This is a perfect match. I'm not asking you to love her, I'm asking you to save her.'
He contemplated the notion. I will never love another, not until I die and return to her.
'Will Stannis agree to it?' Jon was intrigued. Stannis wouldn't be able to trust him more if he were a son by law.
'He will if I make a point to him about uniting houses. He could hardly argue, he legitimised you himself. I know you loved another, a Wildling. But I know you will never harm her, or mistreat her. And mostly, you can keep her out of The Red Woman's clutches. Come now, quickly, we've kept his grace waiting long enough.' Ser Davos urged him onwards.
Jon would need an heir, but she was just a child. He couldn't even think about consummating the marriage; it all felt wrong…but at least it was for the right reasons.
As he entered Stannis Baratheon's tent, he quickly dropped to a knee. 'Your Grace,' he uttered.
The King was stood, intently staring, as he did, into the dancing flames of his brazier. The priestess was beside him, her arms wrapped around him, wearing a satisfied face. 'Stand, Lord Stark.' Stern as ever, he pointed out an opened scroll on his desk. 'Read.'
Jon rose from one knee and did as his King commanded. The letter was from Tommen Baratheon.
As the King of the Andals, and the Rhoyner, Lord of the Six Kingdoms, and protector of the realm, I, Tommen of the House Baratheon, proclaim all lands north of the neck, shall henceforth be known as Stark lands, as retribution for my families crimes against his house. I announce, Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, is freed from his vowels of the Nights Watch, I declare him a true Stark, and decree him King in The North, like his brother before him. I exchange this gift as plea for peace in the realm, and an end to the war. King Tommen Baratheon.
He could hardly believe it. Lord of the six kingdoms…King in The North…
Stannis cut off his thoughts. 'Do remember you swore to me, Lord Stark. The Lannisters can play their games, I have no means to partake in their follies. What do you make of it?' Stannis asked him with a curious smile, and curiosity infected his eyes too, Jon could see, as the King stared into his fire, like a tempted moth. He's scared…he's afraid I'll betray him.
It was a bold question, one Jon didn't know the answer to. Yes, he was being called Stark in the south now, but he was in The North, and simply being named The King of it all wouldn't defeat the Boltons. This is a farce, to drive discontent into our alliance. But Stannis will not trust me after this. I must make him.
Stannis turned away from the flames, prompting a response from Jon. The red woman glared at him as well. He didn't know what to say, so words came spilling out without his leave.
'I am loyal to you, your grace. I swore fealty to,' Stannis shouted before he could finish.
'You've sworn a great many things, Lord Stark. You've broken most of them so far, what's to stop you stabbing me in the back for a crown?' Stannis pulled a knife from his belt, and stabbed it hard through Tommen's decree.
Jon pulled the knife up, ushering Ser Davos's hand to his sword. But he remained calm and still, dropping the knife to ground. He picked up the letter and walked over to the fire. As he threw the decree that gave him Robb's crown into the flames, they exploded into life, showing him a tower emerging from beneath the coals. He felt his neck get warm, and his head and heart burn inside him. The tower had men fighting at its foot; two knights, outnumbered by the look of it. From a puff of smoke, a woman's face emerged, almost whispering. She was oddly beautiful, despite the glowing red from the embers. He tried to make out the words. 'My son,' he thought it hissed. It's the strangers face of my mother. The flames suddenly popped and cracked, like breaking bones, then she was gone and all he could see was a trail of fire, and burnt corpses, in his unknown mothers wake, stretching all the way down the Kingsroad, all beneath the banner of a flaming heart, enclosing a stag.
He jolted his head away, resisting his urge to look. The stone embedded into the red woman's necklace glowed a deep red, beneath her smug smile. The he looked at Stannis, who eyed his every move, wondering what he would do next. Then he knew what he would do.
'I am loyal to you, my King. As my father was…I will marry your daughter,' Jon insisted, under the impression he was making the right choice. 'Stark and Baratheon will unite once more, and I will join you in killing every Bolton, every Lannister, every Tyrell we can get our hands on.'
Stannis only smiled, but the priestess did not.