After the battle. The rise and fall of kings
Samwell
He was shivering. Shivering constantly as the stranger pulled him through the snow. Sam named the black cloaked ranger as Coldhands, but the man hadn't introduced himself. No, he's not a man. No man would ever be able to walk so far and so long without tiring or stopping for breath. Sam was exhausted, but Coldhands never seemed to tire.
Sam had walked for as long as he could, until his legs seized up and Coldhands had to drag him through the snow. The man's grip was like iron. Sometimes Sam managed to shamble to his feet, but every time he fell the stranger would start dragging him with barely a break in his gait.
Coldhands was a hard, black shape marching through the waist-deep snow, clad in old, mottled black furs, his body thin and gaunt but so strong. The black sword - old, rusted and caked in rotten blood, with a blade like a sharpened chunk of iron - was always in his tight grip. A flock of ravens cawed around them, fluttering overhead through the trees.
"Hurry now," said Coldhands, his voice rattling. "They are still behind us."
"Where are we going?" Sam whined. It was very early dawn, but still gloomy as the light hovered barely visible through the trees. They had left the shadow of the Wall behind them and kept walking through the forest.
"Not much further now."
It took another six hours to reach their destination. Sam was left panting, shivering and exhausted, barely able to focus. He saw a knotted weirwood tree clinging to a twisted rocky outcrop. The weeping red face was distorted and hidden by moss. He saw dead bodies littering the ground, dark shapes mostly buried by snow.
"Oh no…" Sam gasped at the sight of the corpses. They wore hide and sheepskin. It looked like they had died trying to huddle together, unable to even put up a fight. There was no blood.
"These ones are truly dead," Coldhands said. "The power of the weirwood keeps their bodies from being easily possessed."
"Who are… were they?" Sam said, as he struggled to breath. Even hours later after the night, it felt like the panic was the only thing keeping him conscious.
"Free folk," Coldhands replied, shuffling quickly. "They came to take refuge at the heart tree, and the Others killed them. Quickly now, there is a passage beneath the weirwood that they did not know about. A safe spot."
He called them free folk, Sam noted. Coldhands dressed like a ranger, but most men of the Night's Watch would refer to them as wildlings.
Sam hesitated, but he had no choice but to follow. He was hungry and cold and all alone. If Coldhands had wanted to do him harm he would have done, and Sam never stood a chance all alone in any case.
Sam trekked forward, trying to see any tunnel in the dirt. Coldhands had to dig out the snow and hack at the roots to uncover it. The passage was a tunnel so tight that Sam couldn't even see it for a long while. How old is this safe spot, if the tree has grown over it?
Eventually, he made out the tunnel. Sam hesitated, but Coldhands was very clear that he had to go through. He scrambled on his stomach in the snow, earth and roots, crawling forward. The gap was so very dark and tight, and at one point Coldhands had to give him a shove.
"What is this place?" Sam cried.
"A safe haven, a waypoint. Once used by the children of the forest to hide from men. There is no barrier around it, but there are old wards that will prevent detection. We must hide here until the Others move on."
It was so dark Sam couldn't see at all. He clambered by feel through the small, cramped cave. It was a tunnel dug for figures much smaller than him. The roots were everywhere, dangling across the passageway. The dusty stench of old roots and earth made him wheeze.
"What happens when they're gone?" Sam squealed. He reached a clearing; a cramped cave nestled in the roots. The blackness made him shiver.
"Then I take you back to the Wall once it's safe," Coldhands promised, as he climbed into the tunnel after him. He crawled quickly. Sam could only hear the roots rustling. "But for now, you must go to sleep."
"What?"
"Weirwoods like this one link up to the whole. The children used them for meditation. Sleep here and you will be under the blanket of the Old Gods."
It was dark and quiet. Coldhands never breathed, nor made any sound except when he spoke. "It's too dark. Can we light a fire?"
"No. No fire, not here. Take shelter in the darkness."
Sam gulped. He didn't understand what was happening, he was scared, hungry, and so tired.
After that Coldhands didn't say a word. The stranger sat still like a sentry by the tunnel, his sword in hand. It felt like Sam sat in the darkness for hours, until eventually the panic and fear bled away and the weariness caught up. He didn't even realise he was falling asleep until he felt himself drifting…
He heard water. Sam gasped as the blackness blurred, until he was staring upwards at a huge cavern of white roots cutting through the black. He didn't know where the light came from, but he could still make out the details. I'm dreaming, Sam thought, but it didn't feel like a dream.
He was standing on a bridge of woven roots, above an abyss of darkness. He heard a river gushing deep, deep below him.
"Welcome, brother," a slow, hoarse voice said. "You are not the one I sent the ranger to bring."
Sam stared. His eyes had passed over the figure because of how it seemed to blend into the substance of the roots. Then Sam realized it was no seeming.
It was either a corpse embedded into weirwood, or weirwood growing out of a corpse. The figure looked nearly made out of as much white wood as he was white flesh, with skin into which the weirwood's roots visibly pierced and coiled beneath. Like he was being… incorporated by the white roots.
No, Sam thought in quiet horror, as he met those keen eyes. Not a corpse.
A man. A lord. A pale weirlord dressed in tattered finery, buried in the roots for so long that they had consumed him. A skeletal lord with skin as white as a weirwood's bark.
The man could have been dead, if not for the single red eye that focused on Sam.
Sam's mouth hung open. "This is a dream."
"Of course it is," the pale lord said, dust shaking from long hair like straw. He sat in a throne of weirwood roots that had overgrown to consume him. "The children would talk to each other through their dreams. They would link their dreams together, and use the heart trees as waypoints so that they wouldn't lose themselves in the dreamscape. It is not the easiest, nor the safest, means of communicating to one such as yourself, yet it will be suitable."
Sam stammered. He stepped forward, trying to make sense of the cavern. The dark heights made him woozy. "One such as myself?" He parroted, feeling like a fool.
"Indeed. I had tasked the ranger with bringing me a child of great promise, a child who could reshape the world with his will." There was a soft smile on dry, shrunken lips. "Instead, he has brought me you. And yet we must make do with what we are given, it seems."
Sam shook his head. His limbs froze. He couldn't move, only stare. "Who are you?" What are you?
"I am a greenseer. The last greenseer according to some, but I have hope."
"I don't understand," Sam said with a stutter. "What is happening?"
"You have been pulled into the middle of a war that is beyond you. I will explain, but I must hope that you are a fast learner."
"The Others."
"Yes." A quiet, solemn nod.
Sam quivered. He took a deep breath. "The Other… it… it crossed the Wall." I let it cross.
"It did indeed. Very unfortunately as well, which makes my task all the more urgent." That red eye focused on him critically. "We are lucky in that the Other was injured in the crossing. It was injured enough that it could not quite slaughter every man in the castle. The Others are also not strong enough to survive under the light of the sun - not yet - and so come morning it was forced to flee and hide. If we are very lucky, the men of the Night's Watch will find it and manage to kill it while it is vulnerable. But I think not - white walkers are not so easily hounded and defeated."
Sam blinked. "The men of the Night's Watch? They survived?"
"Some. Enough to retake the tunnel after the Other fled. The Wall quivers, but it holds."
How does he know that? Sam thought. How could this man know something had happened leagues away? Still, there was no question that the greenseer just knew. Is this even real? Or am I going mad?
No, if I am going mad then I am already gone . Sam's heart pounded. "So… so then only a single Other managed to make it through?" He asked with a twinge of hope.
"The barrier shivered, but it was not broken." The pale lord nodded again. Another sprinkling of dust. "And yet even a single Other might still raise an army of thousands. So long as it is on that side of the Wall, the destruction it could cause is immense."
Sam gulped. I did that. My fault. "And the Night's Watch? Castle Black?"
"There were great casualties during the night, but the order is not dead. Not yet. That may in fact be our only hope."
"I don't understand."
"You saw the barrier for yourself," the greenseer said, looking at him curiously. "Where do you think it comes from?"
Sam floundered. "It was a spell."
Magic, actual magic. The thought made him shiver. Magic is real. And monsters. Monsters are real too.
"Indeed; a spell wrought by the children of the forest thousands of years ago. Over eight thousand years, I believe. But just like any structure will decay and crack, any spell will invariably wither with age. The children are required to keep singing their songs to maintain the magic." His voice was solemn, deep. "This is posed a problem during the first construction of the Wall, as it was required for them to weave a barrier that must last for all time. Even then the children knew their age was falling, and so they were tasked to create a spell that would have to survive without them. Do you know the solution that the original architects agreed to?"
"I don't…"
"The children of the forest assigned the task of upkeep to an order of men, who were weaved into the song. It fell to humans to keep order in the world, not children."
Sam stared, struggling to understand. "The Night's Watch."
"Yes. The vows that you say are a part of a larger ritual. Every man who takes the black contributes to it, and so the barrier is slightly stronger for each man standing on the Wall. So long as there are loyal men manning the Wall and upholding their duty, the barrier will burn any Other that tries to cross."
Loyal men? Loyal men are few enough even without anything murdering them. "But… but the Night's Watch is in decline." It had been for hundreds of years.
There was a slight grimace on the greenseer's face. "And so the barrier withers too. The shield has cracks in it, and thus the Others returned."
"They returned because of us," Sam said breathlessly. A scared look passed over his face. The last Long Night happened eight thousand years ago, and it is only now that the Night's Watch has decayed that it is happening again . "Because the Night's Watch is falling. But what would happen if all the sworn brothers were to die?"
"Then the barrier would disappear in its entirety."
"Oh gods."
The greenseer's face could have been carved out of wood, for all the emotion it showed. "And that is why the white walker in the south is very much a problem. I expect the first thing that the creature is going to do is raise a force to exterminate every sworn brother on the Wall."
"We have to… we have to stop it."
"I will do what I can. You must do the rest."
"Me?"
"I have a plan to raise an army to fight them back, but it will take time to reach fruition. Until then, the Wall must hold."
"I can't… I…" The very thought of that thing made his knees quiver. The Other had been something else entirely - strong enough to snap a man's neck with a single hand.
It must have fought its way through a hundred men in Castle Black, Sam realised. It had been wounded, burned, yet even a hundred men couldn't stop it. A hundred against one, and they weren't enough. "How many of those things are there?"
"Presently? A few dozen or so."
"A few dozen?" Sam said with a flicker of hope. A few dozen was surely manageable. "That few?"
"For now."
"What does that mean?"
"The Others that are currently hounding the forest are, hmm, I suppose one word would be outriders. A vanguard," the greenseer explained, his voice so low that Sam had to strain to hear it. "Savages, is a better term - those Others that have lingered in southern lands for thousands of years. They are only the brutes that have lost their culture, instead preying and relying on humans. White walkers that have been exiled from the main host."
Sam gulped. "The main host," he repeated.
"Yes. Those are the warriors that retreated to their ancestral home, to hibernate for thousands of years until their next cycle. They are a different breed altogether. The construction of the Wall interrupted their cycle - it blocked them arising again for millennia - and so their armies are retired in the City of Ice, led by their king."
Sam felt lost. The world felt woozy. His voice stammered. The greenseer's head cocked. "Ask your questions now, brother," the pale lord said, his voice still a croak, but something about the tone turned gentle. "You must learn quickly. You must be prepared."
He had to take a deep breath to calm himself. "They have a king. The White Walker King?"
The greenseer nodded. "That is correct. Though their king is half-human," he said gravelly. "The child of a man best forgotten. That might well make him the most dangerous creature in the world."
"What do you mean, half-human ? How… Why… would…?"
"The Others stand apart from mortal men. They despise the living, but hatred and anger is not in their nature. They are too cold for such passions, any passion. They don't even have a fear of death. But the one that calls himself their king is something different entirely," the pale lord explained. "He has both an Other's powers and a man's anger, fear and pride. The strength of a white walker and the viciousness of a human. He is king because he has been teaching the white walkers how to hate."
He remembered the Other who gripped his throat. Those blues eyes had burned with such cold intensity. The very memory made Sam shudder. It had referred to warmth with disdain.
Sam's hand went to his throat. There were no injuries on his throat now, but he knew that there were on his real body. The cold of its grip had burned. "They want to exterminate all life."
"They do." The old man's voice was grim. "When the king comes south you shall know that the Long Night has truly begun."
Sam shook his head. "We must stop them."
"We must," he agreed.
"How? How can we? If each of them is that powerful, if they have that many corpses behind them, if there's army of them, then we can't, it's…" It's hopeless. The words jammed.
"It has been done before. Protect the Night's Watch," he said quietly. "Protect your brothers. We need as many sworn brothers as possible. Do however much you can do, and hope that others do the same. Keep the shield intact."
Sam shook his head, unable to speak. How? How could I ever?
"And then, when it is done, I believe that a record of the original spell that the children of the forest used to build the Wall must still exist somewhere. The children keep no archives except in their songs, and those have faded, but men would likely have copied such a thing onto parchment or stone," the greenseer continued. "If we had such a copy, then perhaps we could see about repairing the shield altogether. Perhaps even build a new shield."
He looked at the greenseer incredulously. "You want me to find a spell."
"I do."
Sam gulped. "A spell," he repeated dumbly. "What does this spell even look like? Where would it be?"
"I do not know. But it must be found."
Sam had never felt so lost before. How could he? Where could he even begin? Why did he have to do it?
I can't. I can't do it, I can't do anything. I'm fat and I'm useless, I should have died in that tunnel. Every time he closed his eyes he saw that icy sculpture with bright eyes, or the wight lunging at him. The voice in his head sounded like his father's.
"Now is not the time for doubts. You have a task to do," the greenseer said stiffly. His voice was low but hard. "This is a duty of the utmost importance and I need someone to fulfil it."
"Why me?" Sam's voice quivered. "Why choose me?"
There was a long pause. The pale lord's brow raised slightly. "Do you see anyone else around here?"
They stood talking for what felt like hours. Then, very slowly, Sam felt the light fade and his body being pulled away. The scene blurred into darkness. The last thing he saw was that red eye blazing in the black.
Sam gasped as he felt himself jolt awake, and he saw nothing but black. He felt the roots and cold dirt around him again.
A cold hand touched his wrist. Sam almost screamed.
"At ease, brother," Coldhands muttered in the dark. Sam trembled and gasped, his stomach rumbling. Coldhands handed him a meal of roots and bugs for him to break his fast. "Prepare your strength. I will take you back to the Wall."
Jon
He dreamt of a woman crying, begging for them to stop fighting. She screamed from atop a tower, watching the earth churn beneath her and great beasts rise out of the ground…
"Wake up, King Snow," a voice called. "You are needed."
Jon's eyes shot open with a groan. He saw Mother Mole standing over him. "You are needed," the old women repeated. "They are calling for you."
He shuddered. He could see the weak noon sun outside, but he had managed to sleep after dawn. He had finally fallen over of pure exhaustion with the sunrise. Maybe a few hours' sleep, but he felt so raw it seemed longer. "They are waiting outside," she said. "I will prepare your meal."
His body felt so weary. He could feel the bruises. He had fallen asleep by a fire pit near the coast, but his furs still felt wet and cold. "Of course," Jon blinked, as violent memories of last night returned to him.
Jon panted and staggered, his leg feeling so stiff he could barely even walk. The exhaustion was so thick in the air that morning itself felt heavy with low clouds and heavy smog.
The worst part about a battle, Jon thought, isn't the battle itself. During the fight, he had been so high of adrenaline and emotion he could barely feel a thing. At the time, he had danced over jagged ice and slashing blades without a hint of fear, hesitation, or weakness.
No, the worst part was afterwards, during the fallout. When the fighting was mostly over, but the exhaustion caught up with you and the tiredness kicked you like a horse. It was a time when the pain started to come back, and Jon had just wanted to collapse - but he couldn't collapse. Not when there was so, so much still do.
He met Furs and several others waiting outside the tent. The mist from all the ice in the bay lingered thick in the air.
From the beach, Jon felt Sonagon slumbering on the rocks, closer to the camp than he had ever slept before. Ice bobbed around him, washing onto the sand with the wreckage. The dragon had been roaring fury last night - destroying ships and crushing men by the dozen, if not hundreds. The dragon chewed on so many men that his gums bled from the wrecks of armour and weapon caught between his teeth.
Jon knew that the dragon could eat just about anything - metal, wood, flesh or stone. He needed meat to survive, but occasionally the dragon would chew on stone and rocks as well. Swallowing swords and metal armour was just a delicacy for a beast Sonagon's size.
"How is it?" Jon asked, pulling his cloak tighter. Last night it had been far too hectic to take stock. "How many died?"
"A couple hundred of ours fell on the beach," Furs replied. "As for them? Thousands. Easily."
In this distance, through the mist, he could see the skeletal wrecks of the ships still littering the frozen bay. A frozen expanse of icebergs and bodies. It was a unnerving sight in the light of day.
"Prisoners?"
"We got a few. I don't, fifty maybe? There were probably a few hundred that tried to surrender, but the raiders killed most of them."
"I ordered them not to."
Furs shrugged. "They mustn't have heard you."
Jon looked around their eyes. They were all battle worn and still on-edge.
That had been the hardest trial of the night - trying to take prisoners. It was hard, thankless work, and the wildlings hadn't made it easy. Jon had heard that three dozen men had been captured by one of the ice river clans - but in the two hours it took him to find them he realised that half of those prisoners had already been captured and butchered for meat. It had taken two brawls and a very heated discussion before he got the clans to release the living men, but Jon had no choice but to leave the cannibals their meal.
All in all, out of the thousands they'd been fighting on the coast, less than fifty had been taken captive - and most of those wounded. The Weeper took two dozen crows too, but Jon had yet to see them. Even now, the wounded were tied up on the middle of the camp. Jon hadn't the time to question them, and there were those who wanted to skin the men alive.
Bodies would litter the bay for a long time. He could see swollen corpses trapped in the ice, or floating on the waves.
"Alvin Whaletooth didn't make it back, by the way," Furs said.
Jon's hands tightened. "Alvin is dead?"
"Yep. Him and his sons got caught by the ships. Dead at sea."
Or did they die because of my ice? "What about Lord of Seals?"
"Oh, he survived." Furs nodded. "He was further ahead. A lot of people behind him weren't so fine."
The anger made his jaw clench. Alvin had been a good man, who went out to save the shipbuilders' lives. Lots of people died so the Lord of Seals could rescue a few boats, he thought foully. And I ordered Alvin to his death. Uselessly.
Jon looked around the camp. The smoke from the fires on the coast still hissed and the camp was in disarray, but it was still heaving with more people than ever. Crowds shambled trying to squeeze into shelter. More people than ever. "How many do we have? How many survived the forest?"
"Buggered if I know. I pity the poor sod who tries to count them all too."
"Try and count them, Furs," said Jon, walking past. The man grumbled.
He looked around the group. "Rolf," Jon called. "How is the Weeper? Casualties in his warband?"
"The Weeper is too stubborn to die," the man replied. "The rest? A few hundred lost. A few thousand died in the forest."
Even now - nearly noon on the morning after - they were getting refugees spilling into the camp by the hundreds. Hardhome had never been more crowded, or more dire. The camp was overflowing past the cliffs, and everywhere Jon looked he saw more hungry faces.
How many? Jon could only guess. At first he thought twenty thousand, but slowly that estimate was rising to nearly thirty. Thirty thousand free folk that all need food, warmth and safety.
Everywhere he looked, he could see new problems. Finding food, finding shelter. More boats to carry them. Arguments between rival clans. Organising patrols, sharing food. They had barely been surviving before, and now their camp had nearly doubled in size.
One problem at a time. "The Others in the forest," said Jon. "They retreated, but we can't let them rally. We need to march against them, stop them hitting us again."
"You can't march against wights, Snow," Rolf warned. "They're dead. They don't have camps, they don't have fires. You can barely track the corpses and you can't ambush them."
"Then we clear the forest of many we can find. We won't catch the Others themselves, but we can cut down their wights." Jon bit his lip, thinking of all the corpses hiding in the snow. "We need to press the advantage and scour the forest clear of corpses. Erik, Rolf, Haldur, Hatch - I want as many free folk raiders to me as we can get. We get them organised today, now - before the dust settles."
He saw flickers in their eyes. Press the advantage. "Now. Spread the word. Have as many as you can get meet me by the heart tree in an hour."
The men scattered. "… You know that they're not going to be so eager to listen to you?" Furs muttered to him. "They won't appreciate you bossing them around."
"I'm aware."
One problem at a time, he repeated to himself. One by one.
It was chaotic how much was happening. The refugees needed food, there were injured to take care of, and any fishing boats were blocked by the ice. Jon still had to arrange for teams to traverse the wreckage of the ships to salvage weapons, supplies or prisoners. The floating wreckage of a dozen ships littering all across the coast. Out of the twenty-four ships that had attacked, sixteen were destroyed, two were crippled and wrecked on the coast, three of them had actually been captured whole, while only three escaped the bay.
The three recovered vessels - two galleons and a cog - were now docked hazardously on the bay. The ships had been trapped in shallow ice and then abandoned by their crew as Sonagon crushed the ships around them.
It was little comfort, considering the boats that had been lost in the battle. They lost four dozen boats and barges as the fleet approached, and the soldiers on the front ships assaulted the beach while Jon was fighting on the ice. The soldiers set flame to remaining free folk barges along the beach, fighting stubbornly until they were routed by the wildlings. In a single night, Jon reckoned they had lost at least three quarters of boats that the free folk had spent so long constructing.
Still, by far, the worst casualties had occurred in the Haunted Forest. Thousands must have been lost, only miles outside of Hardhome's boundaries. If the Weeper hadn't led the rescue force, then it could have easily been much worse. The free folk might not have made it back at all if Jon hadn't been able to eventually convince Sonagon to intervene.
And everywhere Jon looked, he saw more and more people wearing white stones as brooches and staring at him in awe and shock. He heard the whispers as he passed. There had been thousands who had seen Sonagon tearing through the fleet on the coast, or heard about Jon fighting off Stannis on the ice. The thought of all those eyes and whispers made Jon's skin squirm.
He had seen Mother Mole in the morning. Her early sermon had been… fanatical. In a single night, her congregation must have at least doubled.
Jon saw a white shape bound towards him. He grinned as he saw Ghost, nuzzling up to Jon's coat affectionately. The direwolf's mouth was covered in dried blood. Ghost seemed weary too - they had both had their share of battle.
"Long night, wasn't it, boy?" Jon whispered, stroking the direwolf's ear like he was a pup again.
"Snow," a voice called. Jon turned to see a woman, her posture guarded, as she stared from under a white bearskin hood. "We need to talk."
Val, Jon recognised. She looked different from the last time he saw her in Mance's tent - skinnier, gaunter, more worn. Still fair, but with darker circles under her eyes. He nodded. "How is your sister?"
"Weak," Val said. "But alive. Dalla is holding her babe."
He nodded. "I'm glad," he replied, but he was too tired to put much enthusiasm into it. He stepped towards her, wincing slightly with his leg and bruised chest. "You wanted to talk?"
Her gaze flickered at his bad leg, but she didn't say anything. "I hear you been calling us, Snow," said Val. "You want a gathering?"
"Aye."
"Careful now. If I didn't know better I'd say you were trying to summon us. You expect the free folk to jump when you shout?"
"I saved a lot of lives last night. There's a war to be discussed. They'll gather. I hope you'll be there too."
She didn't reply. She stood back, very cautious of him. Inspecting him critically. Jon met her eyes, and then kept walking.
"Snow," Val said after a pause. "I hear you been taking prisoners too."
"You hear a lot. What of it?"
Jon caught Val gaze, wondering what she wanted. "Unless you're going to feed them to your beast tonight," she said. "I'd be careful. Lots of men lost wives, lots of women lost husbands. They'll want someone to blame - and those bastards attacked us. Don't do anything stupid like trying to protect them."
"I want to interrogate them."
"And then?" Val demanded.
Jon met her gaze. "I don't kill prisoners."
She grunted, a single non-committal grunt. "They would have killed us."
"And you would kill them," Jon said with a shrug. "But I've had enough of death."
Along the beach, Jon heard Sonagon growl sleepily, shuffling along the water's edge sniffing at the ice. There was a crowd gathered around the dragon constantly. Val's gaze flickered. "I heard stories about that monster of yours," Val said darkly. "I didn't believe them."
"I barely believe it myself, sometimes," Jon replied, limping again. Val walked slowly to keep pace. "That monster saved your life last night."
"Yes, it did. That doesn't mean I have to trust it for it," Val retorted. "… I certainly don't have to kneel."
She cast a foul look at a nervous boy scattering around them, and the white stone brooch on his furs. "If you told me a month ago that the free folk would ever kneel to some young crow boy I'd have spat in your face."
"They kneel to Sonagon, not to me."
"Kneeling is for you southrons. We're free folk, we ought not to be kneeling at all."
Jon's tent came to view, along the craggy, cold rocks. There was already a group crowded around his tent, waiting. The crowd parted. "Then maybe there's just not as much difference as you'd like to believe."
Her eyes were hard. "You expect me to kneel to you, Snow? You expect me to follow?"
"I expect nothing," he said with a shrug. "I'm going south of the Wall. If you want to go as well then you should come along too. You're welcome to stay behind if you'd prefer."
"I remember when you were nothing but a boy kneeling in front of Mance," Val called after him. "You were a scared little boy with not a clue of how things worked."
Jon laughed hollowly. "I still am," he shouted back. But I'm learning.
He brushed into his tent to change his cloak and leathers, swapping to the giant fur cloak the children gave him, and bronze disk armour mail over boiled leather. He kept Dark Sister on his hip, but he placed another two daggers in his belt. There was dried salted meat - seal, Jon guessed - with bread and a deep flash of rich goat's milk and honey waiting for him. A tribute from Mother Mole. He wolfed it down to break his fast as he dressed.
He saw the crowd gathering. It was early, but the free folk gathered fast. Jon clad himself with all the grace he could muster, and set out to walk towards the crowd of stony-eyed men and women waiting for him.
Ghost stuck by his side. Furs, Hatch, Ulf, Rolf, Haldur, Erik and a dozen more walked behind him. The crowd parted for him as he headed to the heart tree.
It looked like the whole camp had gathered for him. The raider leaders and chieftains stood at the front - maybe eighty of them. All wildlings leaders, some of him that he recognised, many he did not. The Weeper stood more forward than any of them, standing with his arms forward and a new scythe on his back. After the battle, the Weeper's throat was red and scarred and his breathing was haggard, but the raider still stood stiff and fearsome as ever. He's a strong man.
The leaders were surrounded by their men - the raiders, warriors and spearwives, all clutching weapons. Circling around them all, there were crowds of refugees and free folk, all trying to see like this was some sort of ceremony. Jon glimpsed many - thousands - with white stones standing as far to the front as they could push their way through. The sight of so many people sent his breath away.
Thirty thousand. There were large towns with far fewer numbers than that.
There was a deep rumble, and heavy footsteps. Jon heard the shadows large creatures, rumbling forward. In the crowd, the giants stood hip and torso over the top of every other men. Giants, at least dozen of them. Jon knew the giant clans had been lingering around the cape - they tended to be antisocial towards humans - but he guessed that the Other's assault had finally forced them into the camp itself.
One lumbered ahead towards the weirwood. Thirteen foot tall and with a grey shaggy pelt, staring downwards at the Jon. The giant's broad, hairy face was indecipherable. The giant wore nothing but a necklace of bones.
Ghost pressed as close to Jon's leg as he could. Jon was the centre of attention.
"Well, looky here," the Lord of Bones shouted mockingly from the back, but even his voice was cautious. "The King Snow himself."
"Rattleshirt," Jon said with a nod, causing the man to glare. He looked around the group. "Garth. Harle. Morna. Gerrick. Varamyr." Jon felt Ghost's hackles raise at the sight of the other skinchanger. Varamyr Sixskins had lost his familiars except for his eagle and a single wolf, looking dishevelled, worn and bitter. That eagle glared at Jon with pure hatred. Some of the wildlings were so distinct he recognised them from their reputations alone. He gave them all passing glances. "Gurn. Ygon. Agnes. Soren."
Jon turned to stare at a young man - broadly built, arms folded, with blue warpaint over his face. He had a strong jaw, and bronze piercings in his ears and brow. It took a couple of seconds for Jon to place him.
"… Sigorn, Magnar of Thenn," Jon said finally. "I knew your father only briefly."
"The crows ambushed my father and took him for dead." Sigorn's voice was rough. Unused to the Common. "Cowards ambushing a retreating foe. I will see all crows dead for that."
Jon didn't reply. He kept his gaze steady as he stared around the group, glancing around. They all clutched weapons, all with hard, disheveled appearances. The lords and ladies of the north.
"The crows are fools," Jon said after a long pause. Now wasn't the time for sentimentality. "They've been fighting free folk and you've been fighting them. I don't care."
Some rippled. "The real enemy isn't the Night's Watch," Jon continued, meeting Sigorn's eyes. "The real enemy is the same one that forced you from your lands. The Others that bring the cold. That's only enemy that matters now. The crows will realise that soon enough."
Rattleshirt spat. "I think you are a crow," he said angrily. "I think you haven't turned your back on them at all. I think in your heart of hearts you're still black."
"I won't deny it," Jon replied. "But I'm not fighting for them now. I'm fighting for the living."
"Why should we trust the word of a crow?" A voice demanded. Jon noted how the Weeper stayed quiet. "We should kill you right now for what your lot done."
"Go ahead and try." Jon kept his hand close to Dark Sister. "But do you really think you're more likely to survive without me?"
No one replied. All eyes gazed suspiciously.
"You lead a monster," a large man bellowed, in a voice so gruff Jon could barely understand him. "A demon. I name you demon too."
A man stomped forward, clutching a bone spear. He wasn't that tall, but he was the broadest man Jon had ever seen. So broad-shouldered and stocky that he looked like a pillar of leather of flesh. The wildling wore layers of seal skin and furs, with a shaggy beard spilling over his mouth and tusks sewn into his hood. A Walrus man from the Frozen Shore.
"We haven't been introduced."
"I am Great Walrus." Ah. "Chief of my people. You are demon. Vengeance must have blood."
"It would not be wise to try."
"You think our history is joke? Our ancestors?"
He stepped forward, but kept his voice low. "I think most here would be dead in the forest if it weren't for Sonagon."
He put enough of a barb into the words to cut through the air. I've played this game before. They'll try to put you on the defensive. Don't lose control.
"And why should let you lord over us?" Another man cut in for Great Walrus indignantly. A man with a bushy red beard. Gerrick Kingsblood. "You want us to kneel? To beg?"
"No. You should follow me because I control Sonagon."
"Yes," a voice muttered. "Now isn't that a trick?
Jon turned towards Varamyr. The small scrawny man was sitting cross-legged. His wolf, a large grey shaggy animal, bared its teeth. His gaze was dark. "You have something to say?"
There were other people glancing at Varamyr too, looking between skinchangers. "You ain't the only warg, boy. I've been a skinchanger for for years longer than you," Varamyr said, his voice low. "You're still learning. I reckon I could steal that dragon off you."
Jon's eyes narrowed. Ghost's hackles were raised, staring at Varamyr. "Try it," Jon challenged, keeping his voice stiff. Show no weakness. Not here. How confident are you feeling, Varamyr?
There was a moment of quiet. For a minute, Jon was scared. Varamyr was supposed by the greatest skinchanger, after all. Jon couldn't imagine Sonagon ever surrendering easily, but what if Varamyr really was that powerful? Varamyr could wear six skins at once, while Jon struggled with only two.
Still, then Jon saw the flicker in Varamyr's eyes. That doubt, uncertainty. Varamyr might be powerful, but he was also a craven. He wasn't going to risk it. Not now.
The moment stretched on. Varamyr averted his gaze slightly, a slight gesture of submission. Jon turned to face the free folk, his gaze solid - challenging. One problem at a time.
"You want to go south," Jon said. "I can take you south. The Wall will stop your armies, but it can't stop my dragon."
"And in return?" The Lord of Bones demanded. "You want us to kneel?"
Jon tensed. This was the moment he had been dreaded, but there was no choice.
"No," Jon replied. "In return, I want vows of fealty from each of you. They can be given standing up."
The free folk rippled, muttering dangerously. Kneeling or not, Jon knew what he was asking them. He was asking the free folk to take him as their lord. Their king. No, Jon corrected, I'm demanding it.
"You what?" An older man demanded, among the chorus of angry voices. Soren Shieldbreaker. "You expect fealty?"
"You are no king of mine, Snow," Val muttered, her arms crossed. There were mutters of agreement. In front of him, Sigorn spat curses in the Old Tongue.
Jon forced himself to say firm. He remembered how Ned Stark's voice would cut through the air each time he addressed his vassals. "Who here was in the forest when the crows attacked?" Jon demanded, causing the voices to turn silent. "Who here was at the Frostfangs? Three hundred crows attacked us - three hundred against thousands. And they still slaughtered us."
He heard the angry mutters. The Weeper stared strangely quiet, Jon noted. "The free folk are warriors," Jon continued. "But no warrior can win a battle by himself. Not when every warrior is fighting by himself. If we want to survive - not just in the south, but against the Long Night - then we must fight together."
"And you think you can lead us?" Rattleshirt growled. "You're a boy."
There were other murmurs. For the first time, the Weeper spoke up. "I never swore fealty to Mance," he said gruffly. "I followed Mance, I fought for Mance, but I swore no fealty. And Mance never asked either. Mance knew how it worked; the free folk don't kneel."
There was warning in his voice. I have to push on, Jon thought, my position will not be stronger. They all owe their victory to me. Sonagon won the battle and they all know it. The camp is calling my name, I have influence that Mance never had. Press the advantage.
The free folk lived by their word. Every man lived and died by their honour. If enough swore fealty - publically - then that was a bound of honour as good as anything Jon could hope for.
Jon shook his head. "I will not take a haggle of clans south to be slaughtered," he said. I will not lead an army of raiders and murderers to attack the north, he thought to himself. The free folk were dangerous; they would try to raid and pillage and Jon could not let that happen. "We will not last unless we can stand together and trust each other. To do that, I need your fealty." His eyes narrowed. "If you can't give me that, then you can stay behind."
"Bah!" Soren Shieldbreaker snapped. "And what would you like us to swear? Promise to wipe your bloody ass? I have breeches older than you, boy."
"You will swear to fight together - to follow my commands, to fight those I say are our enemies, and to make peace with those I say are our allies," Jon said. "On your honour, to follow the truce I set out - and to seek retribution against any who break the peace we make today."
"That sounds like a kneeler's prayer to me," Rattleshirt snarled, clutching his spear tightly.
The air was so tense that Jon could barely breathe. They are desperate, though, more desperate now than they had ever been with Mance. "And in return," Jon continued, with barely a gulp. "I will swear fealty to all of you. I swear to protect those that follow me, to work for the best interest of us all. You fight for me and I'll fight for you - I swear it. I swear it on my honour."
Swearing myself to wildlings , Jon thought. He couldn't help feel a tremble down his spine. Still, he met the Weeper's gaze and looked him straight in the eyes. Jon prayed silently that there was no hesitation there. This is what I must do.
Rattleshirt and a few others looked defiant, but there were more whose gazes were flickering. Nobody wanted to be the first to accept, Jon thought with a curse. Sigorn stepped forward threateningly. The man was a whole foot taller than Jon.
"I am Magnar of Thenn," Sigorn growled roughly. "Leader of my people. My blood is of the old lords. I swear to no man - my people follow no Magnar but me."
Sigorn's eyes were furious. His father had been cold and intimidating, his son was more headstrong. "You would destroy the Thenns? Erase our culture? Our history?"
"No. Let every man follow their gods, their culture, their clans," Jon said. "I will take none of that away from you. But you will follow me as well."
Sigorn muttered a curse word that Jon didn't understand, but he could easily translate. "Like hells I will."
The Thenns are one of the strongest of the free folk tribes, Jon thought. The most advanced, most disciplined. I need them.
"Then leave," said Jon, his voice dangerously low. "Leave my camp."
Sigorn's eyes flashed. The air felt so dangerous it might snap. Jon glanced around, before pulling out Dark Sister from his belt. The black blade glittered in the grey sunlight.
"It's either that, or we settle this the Old Way," said Jon. "If you want to rule, then prove you deserve it. Fight, and if I win you swear fealty to me."
The Magnar of Thenn growled, before drawing two broad bronze blades from his waist, swinging them in strong strikes. Of course this would be the only way to settle the matter. The free folk will only ever follow strength. Give them a reason to follow me, not Sonagon.
But I don't have to beat them all - just the first two or three.
Sigorn was about ten years older than Jon, and a warrior proven. Taller, broader, more muscled; he had probably killed his first man before twelve. The Magnar's son and heir would have to be strong.
He remembered that Mance had to defeat the Styr three times before he agreed to follow Mance. Jon wondered how many defeats it would take Sigorn before he agreed to swear to Jon.
The raiders parted wordlessly. Jon saw Val watching intently. He was exhausted and worn from fighting all night, but the others would be too and there was no choice. There wouldn't be a better time than now; when the memories of the Others and the dragon were still fresh and raw in everyone's minds.
Sigorn held his two short bronze blades, broad like the scimitars of the Free Cities. Jon clutched Dark Sister in one hand, staying light and keeping his leg bent. His left leg was stiff, but Jon had learnt how to compensate for it.
Sigorn is bigger and stronger than I am, but I'm probably faster with better form. End this quickly.
A raspy war cry burst from Sigorn's throat as he charged. The Magnar was powerful like a bull, both blades swinging in brutal slashes. Jon stepped forward to meet him, bringing down Dark Sister so fast the air whooshed.
He saw Sigorn flinch and prepare to lock blades, yet then, at the very last moment, Jon twisted to one side to avoid the clash. He dodged, spinning around. Sigorn overreached himself trying to turn, while his blade swept downwards at Sigorn's heel.
The flat of Dark Sister collided with his ankle sharply. Sigorn crashed downwards. Too aggressive and too wild, he thought. Ser Rodrik would have smacked me if I had ever tried to charge like that. Skill and speed beats size and strength every single time.
"Yield," Jon said, stepping back. Sigorn growled and spat on the floor, recovering quickly. The young warrior jumped up, swinging both blades as he charged again.
This time, Sigorn was more cautious, he didn't extend himself as much. Still, Sigorn was too used to fighting with strength; he would always go for the quick and brutal kill. Jon feigned an opening and Sigorn took it, and then Sigorn was crashing to the ground again, this time with a bloody cut along his hip.
He cursed violently in the Old Tongue. Jon kept himself calm, composed. "Yield," Jon repeated more forcefully, drawing Dark Sister again. Sigorn recovered, but he was limping too.
Ghost growled and yelped as Sigorn charged again, but Jon held him back. Dark Sister danced between both of Sigorn's blades for half a dozen strokes, before it slashed against Sigorn's shoulder.
The man screamed in pain, thrashing powerfully with his sword in anger, but Jon ducked under the blade, and came up into Sigorn's chest. Jon's knuckles rang as his fist collided firmly with Sigorn's jaw.
His knuckles stung. It felt like he cut himself on Sigorn's tooth, but his leather gloves were thick. The blow knocked the Thenn backwards in shock, spitting blood.
Sigorn roared and tried to recover, but Dark Sister was already pointing at his chest. The blade poked lightly into his furs.
"I will not kill you, Magnar," Jon said. "But I have no problem maiming you. If you fight me again, you will lose a body part."
He glared, but Jon caught the flicker in his eyes too. Why is it that so many young men are willing to fight to the death, yet the thought of being crippled scares them?
Jon lowered his blade. Sigorn hesitated for a good few seconds, meeting Jon's eyes. He knew if there had been any doubt in him then Sigorn wouldn't have backed down.
Still, the man's face twisted, but he took a step backwards. Young, Jon decided, but not stupid.
Jon turned to the other free folk. The air felt tense. "Anybody else?" He demanded. "Step forward now or hold your peace."
Jon's gaze searched around the raiders and warriors. He saw them rippling, glancing around to see who would go forward first. His gazed lingered on Rattleshirt, who stiffened as if he was about to step forward. He cradled Dark Sister, staring as the Lord of the Bones glared and moved-
"Aye," a hoarse voice said suddenly, before Rattleshirt had a chance. "Snow, I'll take that challenge."
Jon blinked as the Weeper stepped forward, rolling his shoulders slowly. The crowd muttered. The Weeper's watery eyes narrowed.
"Weeper," Jon muttered, cursing himself. The Weeper lifted his scythe slowly. He had been standing so quiet.
"I warned you that we were going to have words," the Weeper growled. "If you want my fealty, Snow, then I want you to bleed for it."
Damn. Jon had come to rely on the Weeper - even trust the man - but Jon had let himself forget. The Weeper was a brutal raider, exceptionally cruel even by wildling standards. Maybe I finally pushed him too far.
Still, Jon couldn't back down. He refused to show any hesitation here. He just nodded curtly, his body tensing. "Then draw your–"
His voice was cut off as the Weeper's scythe blurred. He barely raised Dark Sister in time. He didn't roar as he attacked, there was no warning. Jon grunted as the scythe blade hacked against Valyrian steel.
"You are a boy, Snow," the Weeper snarled, not pausing for a second. "You presume too much. I've been killing and raiding since before your father ever got horny - you want me to swear to you?"
His scythe swirled. It was a wicked blade. Jon couldn't dodge in time, he had to parry, but the scythe was so large and powerful he could barely stop it. Each time Dark Sister collided it took notches out of the bronze scythe head, but the Weeper didn't seem to care.
Jon gasped as the blows forced him backwards. His hands could barely keep up.
"If you want to be king," the Weeper roared, "then fight for it."
Dark Sister slashed. The Weeper sidestepped the blow and then swung his scythe around from the side. Jon barely darted backwards in time, stumbling over his bad leg. The Weeper was still swinging - every blow he made swept wide and viciously fast.
A scythe was a cumbersome weapon - it looked fearsome but usually it was more useful for cutting corn than battle. The wooden shaft was too vulnerable and it needed too much space to swing. Still, the Weeper wielded it expertly, swinging faster and faster and using its length to force Jon backwards.
My sword is lighter, I should be able to strike three times for every one of his, Jon thought. Yet he struggled to even keep up. The Weeper matched him blow for blow.
The air was deathly quiet except for the ringing of blades. The whole camp watched.
Jon grunted as he charged forward, swinging between swipes. The Weeper darted to one side, bringing his scythe up at Jon's leg. It came so close that Jon felt the edge brush past his knee.
Another inch and Jon would have lost a leg. The Weeper isn't holding back . Jon felt his hands shaking as the fear hit him. That fear of death you felt when you realised your opponent was stronger.
The Weeper is better than Sigorn. Much, much better. Sigorn had been young, strong but untrained - so full of openings that Jon could run circles around him. The Weeper was different; his stance was fluid and perfect, a seamless confidence from a life of fighting. He had an obscure weapon, but he swung it as if the hooked scythe was an extension of his arm. If there was any weakness in his style, Jon couldn't see it. Not when the Weeper was trying to hack him to shreds.
"Fight, Snow!" The Weeper growled. Can't dodge him forever, need to get in close, Jon cursed. Every step forward risked losing a limb. "Fight!"
He barely deflected the scythe with his blade, the hooked end coming so close it could have cut his fur open. Jon grunted. His arms struggled to even stop the hold the scythe back, and then–
He gasped with a dull 'oomph', feeling the butt of the scythe collide into his chest. He nearly doubled over. The Weeper struck out again, but by pure instinct he managed to dodge. He narrowly avoided the first blow, and then the Weeper's fist slammed into Jon's jaw.
He could feel his teeth rattle. Blood in his mouth. His head spun so badly he couldn't even feel the pain.
Still, Jon didn't hold back. A wordless cry burst from his lips as he slammed forward. As the scythe deflected, he charged up close swinging Dark Sister. The Weeper caught his sword hand with one arm, leaving Jon open to slam his other fist into the man's nose.
There was a solid thud. Jon had instinctively been expecting the man to flinch or roll backwards.
Instead, the Weeper headbutted Jon's knuckles.
His knuckles cracked, he screamed in pain through clenched teeth. Blood spurted from the Weeper's nose, but the man didn't even seem to feel it.
The Weeper slammed his knee into his chest. Jon slammed his shoulder into the Weeper's chest. The older man staggered, before headbutting him straight in the forehead.
Jon stumbled. His sword slashed upwards, catching Weeper by surprise. He drew blood along the Weeper's arm, but the raider didn't even flinched. Does the man even feel pain?
Then the Weeper's scythe slashed, clipping Jon across the thigh. He couldn't help it - it hurt, and Jon screamed.
All eyes were on him. He could feel the pain, but he still staggered upwards.
"You call that a fight, Snow?" The Weeper grunted, despite his nose pouring with blood. "I've wrestled giants. I've seen more wars than you have years. I've murdered more people than you've ever met. You got to do more than that if you want to beat me."
Jon's teeth clenched, feeling his head pound. There was blood from his forehead, dripping over his brow. His hands clenched his sword so tightly it hurt.
He heard snapping split the air. Ghost was there - fangs bared as the direwolf approached the Weeper dangerously.
"No!" Jon shouted, throwing up his hand. His sword was raised even as his leg trembled weakly. "Ghost! Stay back!"
The Weeper only grunted. Nobody said a word.
All skill was gone. Jon held nothing back - he didn't dare. He wouldn't win in a fight, and the battle dissolved into a brawl.
Jon growled as he limped forward, Dark Sister slashing. The scythe cut against his shoulder, but Jon took the cut to get closer to the Weeper and didn't stop.
They clashed, trying to overpower each over. Jon met fury with fury.
"Weak!" The Weeper howled, kneeing him in the chest, even as Jon's elbow smashed against his jaw. "Useless! Weak!"
Jon gasped breathlessly. He was bloody, but the Weeper was bloody too. The wildlings watching weren't staring at him as if he were weak though.
Jon felt the butt of the scythe crack against his head. He staggered, but didn't pause as he swung Dark Sister upwards.
The Weeper was winning, but that didn't mean Jon had to let him win easily. Don't back down, not for a second, he thought. Never back down.
Across from him, he glimpsed Rattleshirt's eyes flicker.
"You're a green summer boy!" The Weeper spat. "You know nothing of our ways, and you expect to lead us!"
"… Yes," Jon gasped, spinning out with Dark Sister. The Weeper was driven backwards for a second, before Jon's strength failed and the Weeper scythe nearly cut his chest open.
Jon fell backwards, but he still groaned as the Weeper's scythe grazed across his chest. His bronze plate armour blocked the edge, but the strike still hit bruised ribs. "Then you're a fool," the Weeper snarled.
Jon staggered. A young free folk with a white stone on his furs and an axe in hand rushed to Jon's aid, but Jon glared at the boy.
"Keep back!" Jon snapped through gritted teeth, gasping as he straightened up to face the Weeper again. The boy looked confused. Ghost paced restlessly. Jon glimpsed Val folding her arms. Jon forced himself to straighten up, wielding Dark Sister with both hands.
The scythe clashed. Jon took a few blows, before the scythe took his sword straight out of his trembling hands. Jon nearly stumbled over his feet as he fell, gasping weakly.
Dark Sister landed on the snow ten feet away. Jon panted, casting a glance at his sword, before taking a deep breath, straightening up, and raising his fists.
There was a pause. The Weeper grunted, dropped his scythe and stepped forward, swinging a heavy blow. Jon took the punch and replied with a blow of his own. The Weeper's punches were more powerful, devastating like hammer strikes, yet Jon still met each one with a dull consistency.
They wrestled. Jon didn't give an inch, even as the Weeper tried to grab him by the collar and pummel him in the chest. "… You… Fucking… " The Weeper panted through grunts of exertion. "… Bloody… Boy! "
The final blow hit him. A rough punch collided with Jon's jaw, sending him backwards into the snow. His face was bruised, bloody and gashed.
The Weeper stood over him. There was a moment of pause, then the Weeper finally winced and rubbed his knuckles in pain.
Jon gasped, spitting out a bloody gulp between the pants of breath. I've lost a tooth, Jon realised dumbly. He felt one of his bottom molars crack. Still, he sighed and staggered up to his feet again.
The moment paused. All eyes stared at him unblinkingly as Jon raised trembling fists.
"You're a soft summer boy, Jon Snow," The Weeper declared. The blood dripped off his whiskers. "You're as pretty as a girl, you've got no heart for war, you're as naïve as a fool, and there are days when I think you've got nothing but snow between your ears."
Jon didn't object to any of that, mostly because his jaw was still trembling. He didn't dare open his mouth.
"… Still," the Weeper continued with an resigned grunt. "You say what you believe and you fight for what you say. You're not a liar and you're not a craven."
Jon stared incredulously, or tried to, at least. One of his eyes was bruised shut, and there was blood stinging against the other. His hands were still shaking. The Weeper's head cocked as he looked at him.
"I asked you to bleed for me, and you did." The Weeper nodded. His face was bruised and bloody too. He cracked his knuckles with a quiet wince, admitting, "… You're a hell of a fighter, Jon Snow."
Slowly, the Weeper pulled a dagger from his belt. They all watched as the Weeper lifted the dagger upwards, and cut the blade across the palm of his other hand deeply. The blood dripped against the snow.
"You want my fealty? My vow, and my scythe - it's yours," the Weeper promised, still cutting the blade into his palm. "I'll fight for you."
The statement was loud enough that everyone heard it. It wasn't a long vow, but enough to cause the free folk to ripple. The Weeper nodded at Jon, still staggering for breath, before picking up his scythe and turning away.
"Next person who challenges King Snow… !" The Weeper shouted, glaring at the other raiders. "Fights me in his stead."
The Weeper cast wary eyes at Rattleshirt. The Lord of Bones glared but didn't stand forward.
"Aye," A voice called. Jon saw Old Man Harwick walk forward, hands open. "I watched Jon Snow fighting on the ice last night. Never saw a man fight so hard. He fought for us then, and he fights for us now. I'll give him fealty. I don't care if he used to be a crow." Following the Weeper's lead, Harwick took a bone dagger and cut it roughly against his palm. "… He looks like a king to me."
There was a pause. Slowly, Sigorn stood up again, still clutching his wounded arm. The warrior looked at Jon, who was barely standing up, with a bit less anger in his eyes. Sigorn shouted something in the Old Tongue, before reluctantly cutting the palm of his hand and letting the blood drip in front of Jon.
Jon didn't understand the words, but he caught the meaning. There was a strange mixture of anger and begrudging respect in the Magnar's eyes.
After that, more and more men started to stand forward. Starting with the free folk Jon knew from Hardhome, but even the newer arrivals were coming forward, one after another. Some came hesitantly, some came proudly, but they came. The Great Walrus spat and screamed at the men, but Jon could feel the tide shifting.
Even as Furs helped carry Jon to his tent, around him the whole camp was rippling.
Mother Mole was waiting for him, a pot of warm water already pre-boiled. Jon collapsed onto a stool, while the old, wizened wood witch prepared a bowl of herbs.
"You fight too hard," Mother Mole warned. Jon winced as the poultice touched the gash on his face. "This will scar."
"Yes," Jon agreed, thinking about the Weeper. "I expect it will."
Mother Mole didn't say another word as she tended to his wounds. She was a skilled healer; she tended to his wounds and bruises with salts and poultices. Jon cast a glance at the chain of white stones around the wood witch's neck.
There were still men crowding around his tent. Jon's body was sore and bloody, but he forced himself to stay upright. He could feel the words spreading through the camp. The free folk were a proud people. They would give their fealties in person, and Jon needed to be upright for them.
Old Man Harwick swore fealty and gifted Jon a large horn, eight foot long banded in gold and graven in runes of the First Men. It was a fine gift, and he also offered Jon one of his daughters, to which Jon had to politely smile and refuse. Big Agnes tributed a shadowskin fur coat, Gurn offered a steel engraved longsword, Ygon Oldfather presented a massive mammoth's tusk, and Harle the Huntsman gave a huge oak longbow. He got seven more offers of daughters and sisters from the free folk clan leaders, as well as many more tributes. The weirdest was Morna White Mask, a warrior witch, who swore loyalty and offered to bear him exactly six sons.
Some gave gifts, others brought terms. Gavin the Trader haggled like a fishwife - demanding new swords and horses for his sons, positions in the warbands before offering an iron cuirass and mail in tribute. Bullden Horn demanded a new ship for his raiders. Soren Shieldbreaker forced a promise to match his son with a daughter from a rival clan. Gerrick Kingsblood had to be bribed with engraved silver bands before he swore fealty.
"I'm not sure about you, Snow," the Lord of Seals said grudgingly, his fat chin wobbling. He hesitated squeamishly before bringing the knife to his hand. "But you're the only one who seems to have a chance to save us, so aye - I'll kneel. In return for my fealty, I want you to give me command of the ships. Any boat that my men built belongs to me - promise that."
The terms tasted bitter, but Jon had no choice there. The Lord of Seals was the closest thing they had to an admiral in any case, unfortunately. Jon agreed, wincing as Mother Mole applied ointment to his wounds. He gave the Lord of Seals the one of captured galleons under the promise to get it manned. He gave the other two ships to other bay raiders, Devyn Sealskinner and Bloodtooth.
Outside, Jon heard the sound of fighting and arguing. There was screaming and brawls in the camp between free folk who refused to give fealty against Jon's supporters. By late evening the word had spread; either give fealty or leave. Jon forced himself to stay in his tent, taking deep breaths as he listened to the camp rippling. Judging from the shouting, Jon had more supporters than he had opponents.
Eventually, Val came before him. She came between an aging raider called Garth and Harma's brother Halleck. The wildling woman's arms were folded, her eyes dark. "You put a good fight," she said.
"Thank you, my lady," Jon said with a nod, his body wincing.
Her lips twisted. "I'm no southron lady, Snow."
"Yes, my lady."
She rolled her eyes softly. "Tell me something," Val said, "was that a mummer's act? You knew they were threatened by you, so you arranged with the Weeper to fight to prove yourself."
"No. There was no act."
"So then…?"
"The Weeper legitimately tried to kill me."
"Huh. And what do you intend to do about that?"
"I suspect he's going to act very smug." One problem at a time.
Jon suspected that it could have easily gone either way for the Weeper. Somewhere during the fight the Weeper must made the decision. If Jon hadn't have fought back well enough, the Weeper would have killed him - and he would have gambled on Varamyr maybe controlling the dragon. I was wrong, the Weeper had the right of it. Dragon or not, the free folk only follow the man.
Val scratched her chin. "I think you got lucky, Snow," she said. "If the Lord of Bones had been the one to step forward, then you would have lost."
"I could have beat Rattleshirt."
"Doubtful. You ain't ever seen him fight." She cocked her head. "But if you had, you would have had to kill him and that wouldn't made you no friends either."
"Perhaps." Jon looked at her, wincing again as Mother Mole applied a wet, soft stone to an ugly bruise on his back. "What do you want, my lady?"
"I care for my sister," Val said. "If you want my fealty - then that's my price. You protect my sister and her babe. Promise that."
"Aye," Jon said solemnly. "I promise."
"Good. Then take my vow as well." She took a knife and cut her palm without a second's pause. There was already a dark stain of blood on the ground. The drips of blood dripped slowly. "For you, Snow."
With that, Val turned to leave, sweeping out of the tent. She paused at the door. "Now what is your southron term again…?" She mused, sarcastically. "… 'Your Grace'?"
Jon sighed, leaning back after she left. "… I promise," he repeated to himself. He could barely protect himself some days.
He heard the brawls escalate outside. Jon's presence would only inflame things so he left it for his supporters to handle. There were a few free folk that protested, but they were in the minority. Furs and Hatch went to negotiate with the giants, and then Haldur reported that the Great Walrus was dead - he died in a mob and stomped to death by Jon's followers. Apparently the Walrus Men would elect a new chieftain. The next Great Walrus would probably be much more diplomatic.
Only two clans were actually defiant enough to let themselves be chased out of Hardhome rather than give fealty. Through Ghost's eyes, in the camp Jon saw mobs form of his supporters.
Towards the very back of the crowd, the Lord of Bones stomped in. The scrawny man looked in a foul mood, his shirt crackling. "I don't trust you Snow," Rattleshirt spat, a thick glob splattering on the ground. "I think you're a fucking boy that couldn't give a damn about anything north of your precious Wall. But you've forced the others to bend, so I'll do the same. I give you my fealty, and I'll honour it. I'm a man of my word."
His eyes were dark as he drew a knife. "But just know this - the moment you break your vow, I'll do the same. The moment you stop acting for the free folk, I swear it, at that moment my spear is going to be the first through your back."
Jon watched as the blood dripped onto the ground. Rattleshirt didn't even winced. "Thank you for your fealty, Lord of Bones, I will honour it," said Jon, lowering his head.
Rattleshirt just scoffed, already bandaging up his hand as he stormed out of the tent.
Vaguely, Jon wondered where the gesture of cutting your hand and bleeding as sign of fealty came from. He was in no position to complain, but there would be a lot of people with bandaged hands and trouble clutching their swords come tomorrow.
It was dusk before Mother Mole left, Jon's wounds safely patched up and body stinking of foul ointment. The camp was still in an uproar, but Jon was so woozy he could barely sit upright. Ghost nuzzled up to him protectively, and finally it became late enough that Jon figured it was safe to go to sleep.
At unspoken command, Ghost stood guard over him - just in case any of the unhappy wildlings tried to take out their new king.
King. No more avoiding that title. This is my responsibility.
Some coronation, Jon thought with a sigh. I became king by fighting a battle, then being beaten bloody in a duel, and the bleeding out in a tent while they haggled over fealty. The free folk most definitely made you work for it.
Still, Jon knew that Rattleshirt spoke the truth. Even if they gave him fealty now, as soon as Jon broke his own promises, all wagers were off.
My promises, he thought. Oh, so, so many promises.
He had promised the Night's Watch he would commit himself to the black. He promised Qhorin that he would do whatever it took to infiltrate the wildlings. He had promised Mance that he would fight for him. Jon had even promised himself to Ygritte, and he didn't even knew where she was.
He had promised the three-eyed crow that he would do anything to fight against the Others. He had promised Sonagon that he could keep the dragon safe. Every leader forced their own promises, their demands. And Jon had promised all of the wildlings that he would take them south.
'Promise you'll protect my sister'. 'Promise to protect our sons'. 'Promise us food, promise us victory'. 'Promise you'll save our culture, our families, our traditions'. 'Promise me ships, promise me war, promise me loyalty'…
It was starting to feel like every promise was just another chain around his neck, and there were so, so many promises. He had bought his 'crown', as absent as it was, with promises.
Sooner or later , Jon thought as his vision started to fade, one of my promises is going to finally kill me .
Perhaps that is what they will write on my tomb , he mused sleepily. The king who promised.
Melisandre
The ship creaked dangerously, low in the water and unstable. They had left sight of the coast hours ago, and no sailing on open water. It made navigation treacherous, but there had been no choice. Nobody had wanted to risk the monster that could be chasing them.
There had been another ship to escape the bay with them; the Bountiful Harvest and the Ghiscari Prince. The ice had wrecked the Ghiscari Prince's rudder, however, and she had consistently fell behind ever since they made their escape. Axell Florent had refused to wait or turn to help her, and so they left the cog and all two hundred men on-board behind. Likely those men were already dead.
The Bountiful Harvest was a big ship, but it was still filled to the brim far over capacity. They had rescued five hundred men, yet still had to leave hundreds of soldiers behind to die on the ice. Melisandre had never walked through a ship so cramped.
The decks were as sombre as the ones she had known as a child, but those ships had been filled with weeping and chains.
Five hundred men. Out of the four thousand they had brought, it was a sobering and miserable defeat and a treacherous journey back. Still, they were five hundred of the most devout men Melisandre had ever seen - grasping to a level of faith that could rival any Red Priest.
"We've got a strong northeast wind," the captain reported, a hefty man. Formerly the navigator, but there had been many changes in command recently. "We're not getting back to Eastwatch without a westerly wind."
Lord Axell Florent bristled. His fat ruffled under his fox fur cloak. "And what of the queen? What of our ships? We must return to Eastwatch with all haste."
"I'm sorry, m'lord, but the headwind is wrong and we're overburdened. We would have to tack, but we're in open waters now." The man looked nervous. "Perhaps if we kept heading southeast to Braavos, for supplies and repairs before…"
"Armies of savagery and darkness are about to descend on Westeros!" Lord Florent snapped, eyes bulging. "And the Queen and the Princess are right in their path! Eastwatch will be the first to fall. Do your duty, captain, and take us to Eastwatch."
The man squirmed. "But the wind… !"
"The Lord of Light shall provide in our hour of need," Melisandre said, cutting in smoothly. "Rest assured, captain, you shall have your westerly wind."
She still had some power stored from the battle in her ruby. It was shame to waste it on something as petty as a steady gale, but needs must.
The captain gulped, but nodded and turned. Lord Florent staggered, but then bowed to her. He bowed. She had to keep the amusement off her face. Did I ever imagine as a child that great lords would bow to me?
"My lady," his voice was choked. "… Many of the men… many are disheartened… we were hoping for a sermon, to pray for the Lord…"
"But of course," said Melisandre. "We shall pray together at dawn, in the glory of the rising sun. Yet forgive me, I must see to our king."
"Oh. Oh but of course." The lord gulped. "How is His Grace? His injury…?"
"Not well. But he shall be better."
The king's quarters were the only deserted cabin on the ship. The knights and lords were cramped into corridors, but they had still reserved a cabin for her and the king. My king.
They all heard Stannis scream and gasp as his wound had been boiled and cauterized. The sound was almost as disheartening as their disastrous defeat.
Despite everything, though, Melisandre couldn't help but feel… elevated. Excited, even. It is grim, but we face the darkest hour. I know that dawn is coming .
For so long, she had been questioning, sometimes even doubting, but no more. She had seen the enemy. She knew her purpose, she knew her foe. It had been powerful and immense, but the thought of that cold night still caused her to smile.
It was one thing to believe, but to see it in the flesh… the memory still made her shiver.
Just as it was in my fires, it came true. I have never been more powerful.
The king's cabin was sparse, empty and quiet. Stannis Baratheon looked paler and more gaunt than she had ever seen. The flames had seared his wrist, leaving only a bloody stump bandaged in cotton. He looked like a skeleton of the proud lord she had first lay eyes upon.
"Your Grace," Melisandre said with a deep curtsy.
He didn't reply. "We are three days from Eastwatch. We will have a good wind," she continued. "We cannot stay at Eastwatch, of course, not with the Champion's army so close."
Stannis's eyes stared at the wall. She walked forward. "Many of the men are scared, your grace," she said. "The sight of you, their champion, would do much to–"
"How many?" The question was quiet and sharp.
She stopped. He didn't look at her.
"How many men do we have?"
Melisandre's eyes flickered. "Five hundred on this ship. We left another five hundred behind at Eastwatch, with six ships."
"A thousand," Stannis said, sounding hollow. "Less, even. I have just suffered the greatest defeat of my life."
"Your Grace…"
"Davos…" he said, almost croaking. "Lord Davos. Where…?"
"He did not survive, Your Grace." That was a lie. One of the very few lies she had ever told him, actually. "He died on the ice."
She was sorry about the Onion Lord. Lord Davos had been a good man; she bore him no ill will. But his refusal to accept the True God was his downfall. He had been wounded and delirious when they met on the ice, but Melisandre had felt the intent from him. Davos had been misguided enough to blame her for what happened.
Still, Melisandre did not kill him. She cracked the ice under his feet with the Lord's heat, but she took precautions so that he would survive. During the battle, Melisandre had been so swollen with power at the time it had been easy. She had seen in her fires that Lord Davos would always be loyal to Stannis, and so Melisandre ensured his survival such that the Onion Lord might recover and find his way to his king's side once more.
Stannis' jaw clenched. "His… son… the boy…" he muttered, sounding half-delirious. "My squire. He was brave, very brave. Devan Seaworth deserves a knighthood, and his father's lands."
"I think that is a grand idea, Your Grace." It would please her to see the Lord Davos' family in good stead, the man deserved that much.
His eyes seemed to focus, and darken. "You knew." The words were a growl. "You let it happen."
"I gave you every warning, Your Grace."
"It was a dragon."
"The dragon is just a beast. The true threat is the Champion of Night - the man that controls the beast."
"The champion… I watched him cut down thirty knights. Thirty. What sort of man could do that? It's…" His hand went towards his stump gingerly. There was a quiver in his voice. "The way he moved… I've never seen a sword move that fast…"
Melisandre stayed quiet. "He let me live," Stannis murmured, "to mock me. I could see it in his eyes. He taunted me by watching me run…"
He was sweating despite the cold. A fever. "It was a defeat, Your Grace."
"A defeat." His eyes glared. "You promised me victory. You said the words, you gave me the glowing sword. You said I was promised."
"Your Grace forgets his scripture," Melisandre said, keeping her voice smooth. "Remember that Azor Ahai knew failure twice before he achieved success. Should I retell the tale?"
His body tensed, but he didn't reply. She swept around him, dress brushing against the floor as she kneeled by his chair. "Azor Ahai tried thrice to forge Lightbringer. He slaved and he laboured for each blade, and each failure cut away at him, breaking part of him. But after each defeat, he stood up again, collected up the pieces, to forge something new. A weapon." Her hand softly caressed Stannis' cheekbones. "First, Azor Ahai laboured for thirty days and nights to forge a great blade of fine metal - a sword adorned with discipline and honour - and he stabbed it into the heart of a great lion to test the steel, yet the blade proved too weak and broke."
There was no response. "And, so, Azor Ahai laboured for fifty days and nights, to forge a new weapon. He hammered his blade, his second sword, and went to temper it in icy water. The ice proved too cold, and the blade shattered. His second defeat." Her hand stroked his shoulders gently. "Two defeats, Your Grace; one by lion and the other by ice. Do you remember what was required for the third attempt?"
She saw his eyes flicker. His shoulders were trembling slightly. "… Answer me now," he muttered. "No more riddles, no more prophecies. Tell me everything you know."
"If you are ready to hear it, then of course I will. I have never lied about your destiny, Your Grace." That was true; she had never lied. Occasionally Melisandre kept some details to herself, but there were no lies.
"That… boy… he will lead his army and his dragon onto the realm."
"He will." The visions had been unmistakable - the boy would be Stannis Baratheon's greatest enemy.
"And the realm will fall."
"Yes, Your Grace," she said sadly. "But you must stop him."
"I will face him again?" His voice quivered. She had him.
"You will. The fires told me that you will face him three times." It had been very clear, the number three constantly reoccurring. "The first has just happened. The first battle was always to be a defeat, but in the second battle you will draw to a standstill."
"And in the third?"
"In the final battle, the fate of the world will hang in the balance. You must win."
He took a deep breath, still trembling. Stannis looked so pale. "… I cannot…" he said. "You saw that monster… the size of it… It would take an army of hundreds of thousands to defeat something like that…"
"It will take a sacrifice. Are you willing to do whatever is necessary for the fate of the world?"
He stared at her with wide eyes. "Your stories…" Stannis muttered. "In your stories, Azor Ahai sacrificed his wife."
"No. Azor Ahai sacrificed his heart." Her fingers traced across his chest. "Nissa Nissa… the person who he loved the most in the world."
He caught her gaze. Softly now, she told herself. Gently . "We must return to Eastwatch, Your Grace," she said. "Your men wait for you there. As does your daughter."
Stannis shook his head, breathing heavily. "No, I cannot… you cannot…"
"You must do what you need to do, Your Grace," she said sadly, wrapping her arms around him. He sat tense like a statue, but she felt him crumbling.
He took deep breaths as if to calm himself, but then his shoulders shuddered. The sob broke his lips, and he seemed to collapse all together. Stannis fell weeping into her shoulder. He's crying, Melisandre realised in shock. She hadn't known him to ever cry before, but the pain, the grief, and the fever took its toll.
"… It's alright," she whispered. "… It's alright. The battle does not decide the war, it is not over…"
Stannis wept and sobbed. Breaking down around her. The armour of pride shattered, and it felt like he was left bare in her arms. She cradled and hugged him, softly whispering in his ear. It's alright, she thought, it's alright. Cry and weep and wail. Collapse and break down, my king. It is not the end .
Let yourself shatter for now, but you will be reforged. You will be remade .
Melisandre had seen it in the flames: King Stannis Baratheon would be renewed and reborn from stone and fire.