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Chapter Fifteen: Greywater Watch

"I've seen what he does with the boys." Chett's voice was low in Sam's ear as he spoke. Craster was not six feet away, only the burning fire between them. Without meaning to, Sam's gaze lifted and met that of the garrulous Wildling. "Don't look, you fool!"

Sam sharply averted his gaze, blushing furiously at being caught looking. "I'm not looking."

"Yes, you were." It was Craster who replied, making Sam's blood turn to ice. "I saw you."

At least he was only looking at Craster, and not one of his multitude of daughter-wives. But still Sam was near sick with terror as he looked up to see Craster fixing him in a hard, uncompromising glare. Next to him, Lord Commander Mormont had his face discreetly buried in his hands in a gesture of weary exasperation. For some reason, Sam's terror produced nothing more than a choked laugh. Some desperate attempt to diffuse the tension that suddenly burst in the small keep. Even before that, the atmosphere had been thick with hostility.

"Gods, is that the time?" he said, scrambling to his feet. "I promised Ed I'd help with the veg."

"That's a very good idea, Tarly," Mormont concurred.

It was horse shit. But Sam needed to get out of that cramped Keep before he inadvertently started another war. Ignoring his aching knees, he threaded his way out of the Keep, stepping between the surviving, injured Night's Watch brothers as he went. Once outside, he felt a burden lift from his shoulders. He knew it was a false sense of security, that he hadn't escaped the ill-feeling welling among his brothers. But it still felt better than he could say to be out from under Craster's malignant gaze, away from the pent up anger and frustration of his colleagues.

Outside, it was bitterly cold. But he was able to breathe freely and not second guess the whims and tempers of a man whose social standing was as fragile as the beauty of a debutant. But Chett's words came back to him, what they were talking of before Craster interrupted. Several of the women in the Keep were pregnant, yet there wasn't a single boy about the place. There was no separate, second keep where the boys or sons could be housed. The only other structures around were the outhouses and storage sheds. Beyond that, there was just a wilderness. A wilderness full of dangers beyond mortal imaginings, at that.

He tried to tell himself that it was none of his business. But all the same, Sam found himself straying away from the Keep. Emboldened by recent scrapes, having killed a wight with his own hands, he could feel his confidence grow. Almost too much, he tried to tell himself. As he walked away, he could hear the men inside the Keep. Their chatter a distant hum, but one that seemed to growing louder.

"Where d'you think you're going, Tarly?"

Startled out of his wits, Sam whirled round to where Pyp was fastening up his breeches. "I just had to go for a piss," he explained, almost apologetically.

The noise from inside the Keep grew suddenly louder, drowning out Sam's explanation. The two of them whipped round, towards the Keep, and moved to each other's side. There was one other person outside, Dolorous Edd who was still in one of the out houses. Before long, the noise drew him out as well.

"Craster's kicking off again," he said, looking between Sam and Pyp.

It was more than that. Without saying anything, Sam started pacing back towards the entrance of the Keep. His senses were on full alert, straining his ears to pick out what was being said. But as he reached the porch work, sounds of a fight erupted from inside. He had left his own sword inside, a realisation that made his stomach turn, but the other two had theirs drawn already. Without saying anything, they moved inside to be greeted by the mutiny Mormont had warned Sam about weeks before.

It was impossible to pick out what was being said amongst all the shouts and the sounds of blows from steel swords. Even the fire had been kicked over and the flames were licking against the dry rushes that littered the packed earth ground. The whole place would be going up in smoke before long, Sam realised as he lunged through the fighting crowds. But the confusion and chaos inside was dizzyingly all consuming. Adding to it was not knowing whose side everyone was on. It was the Night's Watch fighting against the Night's Watch.

By the time he found Lord Commander Mormont, Sam thought he was already dead. But the Old Bear's chest was rising and falling, despite the blood that now soaked his front. Without a second's though, Sam began dragging him outside away from all the fighting. More than once he had to duck for safety behind some fallen furniture, even stooping low enough to seek shelter behind some of Craster's fleeing women.

But it was too late for the Lord Commander. By the time Sam dragged him outside to begin tending his wounds, the blood loss was too great. There was a livid trail of it left in the snow, following the track marks where Sam had dragged his failing body. But he was at least conscious.

"Lord Commander!" he called in his ear, shaking the man violently. "Can you hear me?"

The fact that the Lord Commander hadn't even had time to draw Longclaw before he was cut down saddened Sam immensely. Meanwhile, the Lord Commander came too, spitting blood he fought to breathe.

"Remember your promise, Tarly," he gasped, spraying flecks of blood into Sam's face. "You remember?"

Mormont's fist grabbed at the front of Sam's cloak, gripping and twisted it tight. Breathless and full of fear, Sam nodded. But he couldn't yet bring himself to take the sword. It was left to Mormont himself to try and pull the weapon free.

"Take it!" he hissed. His breath was failing now.

The fight in the Keep was ongoing, the noise growing louder and louder. Meanwhile, the snow beneath the Lord Commander was turning red. Sam took the sword, still sheathed in its scabbard.

"I'll bring it to your son, Jorah Mormont," Sam said, recalling the promise he had made. "I'll bring to him personally, I promise."

"Then go," the dying Lord Commander urged. "Go now."

Sam's breaths came in panicked rasps as he gripped Longclaw. Stunned, he froze kneeling in the snow. But as the light in the Lord Commander's eyes died, he pulled himself together and got up. He cast just one backward glance at the mutiny still ongoing in the Keep, drew a deep breath and started to run.

Completely unaccustomed to the marshy terrain, Jon lagged behind his hostess as Meera lithely crossed the land. He watched, almost inadequately, as she leaped from stone to stone to ford a rushing river. Or the way she could dart through the heavy undergrowth to make a shortcut. Then she would have to wait for him as he extricated himself form some ditch, or picked himself up after being tripped up by some overhanging root. The others fared not much better, but it didn't ease his mild shame at being outrun by a girl half his size and weight.

Eventually, they were joined by others. A host that built in strength as they passed through the Neck, slowly gathering momentum. It was as night fell that he and Meera caught each other up and set up camp. She caught fish with her net, swift and precise as a dagger blade. He couldn't be anything but awestruck. While she hunted, he helped build a fire in a hastily constructed stone hearth.

"Be careful you're not lighting that fire too close to people's homes," Meera cautioned him.

Jon whipped around, left and right. There were no homes that he could see. Only densely packed trees, interwoven with creeper vines that formed a web between the trunks. The river still flowed, wending through the marshes. There was an island in the middle of the river, in fact that were several, but they just looked like the same marshy wilderness to him.

"You can't see them, can you?" she asked, mildly amused at the bewilderment in his expression.

"I came here to ask for your help, not torch your houses to the ground," he pointed out. "I'd be grateful if you could help me from time to time."

Meera relented, returning to his side at the riverbank. Positioning herself at his side, she pointed off into the distance. He followed the direction she indicated, his gaze coming to rest between the tree trunks.

"Look at the negative space between the trees," she said. "Look at the formations of the vines and the ivy. It's all a natural façade for dwellings. You can sometimes see lights, but we're careful not to reveal ourselves."

He studied the formations, seeing how some of the vines twisted into arches. It could have been natural, it could have just how nature intended it. But it could also have formed a doorway, leading deep into burrows. It was small wonder the Crannogmen could spring up out of the ground, taking all invaders at unawares. They made nature their home, using every overhanging branch to their advantage.

"I think I see them," he replied, eventually.

"We'll hold the North for you, Lord Stark, we always have," she said, striking a flint for the fire. "But our people are not physically strong for pitched battle. That's not what we do."

Jon sat himself beside the fire, feeding some kindling to the early flames. "We're not asking that of you. We're asking for a way to join our troops in the North to troops in the Riverlands, by-passing the Twins."

Meera pulled a face. "You do realise it would be so much easier to just pay the Freys to use their bridge? And going this way will take you much closer to the Westerlands?"

"Yes, but my step-mother says that the Freys are to be avoided if possible," he replied. "I've never met the man. I can't say either way. I just need to find out whether we can cross the Neck, head west and enter the Riverlands that way."

"It's going to be that much harder for you, but my father will see to it that you pass," she assured him. "Anyway, he wants to meet you regardless. You're to come with me to Greywater Watch."

"There's a certain … shared history there," he explained, gaze averted to the fire. "Maybe there's something Lord Reed can help me with, or the other way around."

Meera was prepared the catch for the fire, wrapping freshly caught fish in large green leaves. Binding them with twine, she placed them in the heart of the fire. The other Crannogmen who came out to follow seemed to have vaporised back into their surroundings. It was a phenomena that Jon was slowly growing accustomed to. Meanwhile, Meera was stoking the fire.

"We were very sorry to hear of your father's killing," she said, softly. "My brother is on his way to Winterfell to pledge to your brothers, but I'm guessing Jojen's missed you all."

Jon smiled. "I'm afraid he has. But Bran and Rickon are still there. They will receive him and see to it he's looked after."

She looked relieved. "You should probably reinforce Moat Cailin, too."

"We are reinforcing Moat Cailin. We do have some common sense, you know." He laughed, watching as the green leaves blackened in the fire. Their meal was almost done, and not before time.

Their journey picked up again on the following morning. A journey that saw them reach a wide river with no visible means of crossing. But it was a part of the Neck that was at least exposed to open sky, shedding some natural sunlight over the surface of the water. Jon could see, clearly, gnarled and dead trees stooped in formation and half-submerged in the swamp waters. A fine silver mist hovering low over the surface, shrouding the walkways that led across the dangerous ground.

As always, Meera knew exactly where she was going. She walked out confidently, looking as though she were walking on the water itself. Stopping after a few paces, she stopped and looked back at him, extending her hand.

"Come on, Jon," she coaxed him. "Take my hand."

He drew a deep breath and joined his hand with hers. "All right. But I can't see where I'm putting my feet."

His first footfall landing, connecting with a wooden jetty that was shrouded in mist. An encouraging smile lit up the girl's face. "There, it's perfectly safe. There are boats at the end of the wharf and they will take us home."

So there were. But even the boats blended perfectly with the water. They were coated in green, an almost translucent reedy colour. Long and narrow, their prows were brought to a point. But wide enough to sit at least six people. It would take forever and a day to get an entire army round this way. Something that was always at the back of Jon's mind. When they reached the boats, Meera took the helm and rowed. Jon took it upon himself to help and do the same, following her lead.

Their chatter broke the silence, but otherwise it was eerily calm as they sailed into the silence. All too soon, they passed through the patch of natural daylight and were once more swallowed by the semi-darkness of the woods. The course took them into the heart of a formation of large oak trees, shrouded from outside view. He didn't realise they were headed that way until they got there. He somehow didn't see the fortress until they were bumping against the jetty leading to its Keep. The walls were all lichen and moss, tall and towering like its surrounding woodland. Only the windows, and the small beams of light leaking through the mullions gave its game away.

Jon looked up in wonder at the carefully disguised Keep. Noticing how its curtain walls stretched off into the darkness of the woodlands all around it.

Meera smiled as the boat was moored. "Welcome to Greywater Watch," she said.

Robb moved to the windows of the south tower, looking out over the King's Road. Already the curtain walls were largely rebuilt, but it was a work in progress. Every squire had been set to concocting mortar and clay, while every man grown was set to relaying the bricks from the foundations upwards. A week in and already Moat Cailin was looking more promising. They had also cleared the wreckage of the old towers and re-dug the trenches where they would be replaced. Only the tower he was in could be left as was.

Currently, the south tower was his private chamber and war council room rolled into one. He turned from the window once more, to where Greatjon Umber was leaning back in a chair. Just behind him, warming his hands by the fire, Rickard Karstark had his back to the rest of the room. Dacey Mormont was standing by the door, protectively clutching the hilt of her sword. Her mother was sat opposite Greatjon, swathed in furs that made her shoulders even broader.

"Gentlemen," he said, addressing the room at large. The Mormont women cleared their throats, drawing his attention. "And Ladies," he added, abashed.

"There has been word from Lady Stark," he informed them, after another brief pause. "Renly is willing to ally with us, so long as we relinquish control of the Neck-"

He was cut off abruptly as Greatjon choked. What little of his face could be seen behind the full beard was turning red. Mercifully, his mother hadn't agreed to anything.

"The Neck is what's been keeping us safe since the Conquest," Umber pointed out. Something Robb was already acutely aware of. "We can't lose that land."

The Reeds would never forgive them, but this went beyond loyalty. It was a necessity. He knew, also, that it would be useless treating with Stannis Baratheon. A situation that left him with a headache. But before he could dwell on that for too long, there was a knock at his door. His gaze met Dacey's across the room, nodding to her to see who it was. While that was being dealt with, the chatter inside the room died away as muffled voices sounded outside. No more than a minute later, Dacey returned, closing the door behind her.

"Lord Ramsey Bolton," she explained. "Seeking an audience with the King of the North, no less."

Robb had almost forgotten he was there.

Greatjon grimaced. "That servant he carries around stinks," he pointed out. "Have you met it?"

"That would be Reek," Dacey pointed out. "Strange fellow; likes to drink perfume, or so I've been told."

'Strange fellow' was putting it mildly. But all that speculation did resolve the issue of Ramsey. Personally, Robb had nothing against the man. He wasn't his father – something they all needed to bear in mind when dealing with him. Besides that, Bolton brought enough strength to the northern host to almost make him forget the accusations surrounding him and the suspicious death of his trueborn brother, Domeric.

"I will meet with the Lord of the Dreadfort presently," he informed Dacey. "I just need a minute here first."

While Dacey was gone again, he turned back to the others in the room. "What if we leave the Bolton forces in control of this fortress?"

In that moment, it felt like the perfect solution. He couldn't just rebuild a vast fortress then defeat the purpose by leaving it unmanned. But it was a question of trust. He needed men he could trust to hold Moat Cailin while he and his commanders took their campaign south. But if the looks on their faces now were anything to go by, they didn't share his confidence.

Thank you again for reading this. Reviews/comments would be welcome, if you have a minute.

Because I'm a human being, and not one that happens to be George RR Martin, it's inevitable that mistakes will happen. Whether it's geographical, in terms of weaponry or whatever. Feel free to point them out – I don't bite and I'm happy to fix errors. I don't even mind if you're one of those people I never, ever, hear from unless I make a mistake. But please don't be rude and don't belittle me about them. There's just no need for it. This story came within an inch of being deleted after a ridiculously angry comment or two about Theon's sailing from the wrong side of the country. I like to think there's more to my writing than one or two silly mistakes. Thanks for reading.