This chapter takes place concurrently with Arya XV and Catelyn X. It is early April, 300 AC.
Events here are moving more slowly than in canon for various reasons.
Jon flexed his fingers, his hand tingling from the effort. Over a year had passed since he'd flung the burning drapes at the wight, yet the hand that had reached into the fire still pained him. He gripped Longclaw's hilt, the steel's dark ripples shining as he raised the bastard sword.
He wondered how long it would be before his other wounds stopped hurting. The scars made by Orell's eagle troubled him no more. The memory of Ygritte's arrow hurt more than the wound it had left in his thigh. Jon's limp was a thing of the past, his skin well mended.
He wished he could say the same for his back. Harma Dogshead had nearly killed him. The scars from her whip were shiny and new, stretched tight over his ribs and spine. Jon twisted as if to slash at a foe. His back throbbed, his legs shook, but he kept his feet.
It was more than he could say for his first attempt in the yard after rising from his sickbed. The long stay in the maester's care had sapped all the strength from him, leaving him weak and helpless as a kitten. Pyp had trounced him in under a minute, a simple lunge bringing Jon to his knees. From across the yard Stannis Baratheon watched, his eyes shadowed by his heavy brow.
The humiliation had been more than Jon could bear. He was the son of Eddard Stark, the brother of the King in the North. To have Robb's rival see Jon fall so easily... would he think that Robb was weak too?
Jeor Mormont had written to four kings. Ravens had flown to Joffrey Baratheon in King's Landing; to Renly Baratheon in Highgarden and Stannis Baratheon at Dragonstone; to Robb Stark at Winterfell and Riverrun. If they would claim the realm, let them defend it, the Old Bear said. Muscles burning, Jon slashed and parried.
No sooner had the ravens flown than Joffrey was dead, slain by some kingsguard, and his crown had passed to plump little Tommen. The Hand of the King, however, remained the same: Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock. The Night's Watch could expect no help from the Iron Throne. Ser Arnell Flowers had ridden south to treat with Renly and never returned. Jon wondered if Ser Arnell had even reached Renly before his death. No word came from Stannis, only silence. They could not even be sure that the raven had reached him.
Only Robb had sent a raven to Castle Black, promising provisions and declaring his intent to march north. He was not expected for months, so when Jon heard Clydas muttering about a king on the Wall he thought he was delirious again.
"Robb's here?" He asked Maester Aemon, hope swelling in his chest.
"No," the maester answered. "King Stannis."
Stannis's ships had landed at Eastwatch under the second moon of the year. From there his host swept west along the ranger's roads, Cotter Pyke leading the way. There were only a few thousand of them, but Stannis's men were knights and freeriders, squires and men-at-arms, men with steel and armor and horses. They smashed the wildlings tunneling at the Wall like kindling before falling on what remained of Mance Rayder's host. The wildlings died as they lived, bravely, but they'd died all the same.
Once Jon had seen thousands of cookfires beneath the Wall, hundreds of clans, thousands of families, warriors and maids, old crones and young boys. Now only their trash remained, shattered chariots and trampled tents and bits of bronze. There were no corpses. The king's men had gathered the dead wildlings and stacked them in a great pile. A separate, much smaller pile was made for those men Stannis had lost.
Then the red woman had stepped forward and raised her hands to the sky. Pyp said the flames roared up instantly, twin infernos that consumed fur and flesh and bone. Jon could not see the fire from his sickbed, but he could smell the ashes. He fell asleep to the thick foul stench scent of death. When he awoke, it was to the rasp of a wet tongue on his burned hand, and the stare of Ghost's red eyes.
That was the day Jon finally rose from his sickbed.
Jon slashed and parried, his muscles screaming from the effort, trying not to imagine running his blade through Theon's heart. He could not count on a wight attack to save him if he saw Theon and went berserk, as he had when he attempted to kill Ser Alliser Thorne.
Jon wondered if that was why Bowen Marsh had sent Theon out beyond the Wall. The rangers had only been back from Woodswatch-by-the-Pool for a few days before Bowen Marsh sent them after the mutineers. With the wildlings busy fleeing Stannis, what better time to make for Craster's Keep?
Theon had left smirking, his head swollen almost as big as his ridiculous horse. Dywen had seen Jon watching, and rolled his eyes while jerking a thumb at Theon. Everyone knew Dywen was better suited to lead a ranging, but Bowen Marsh favored highborn men, and Theon was one of only a few that remained.
At last Jon sheathed Longclaw, sweat dripping down his face. When Jon left the yard Ghost followed at his heels, as faithful as any dog and far larger. Months had passed since Jon climbed the wall with Ygritte and the rest, and somehow in those months Ghost had grown. He was twice the size of a common wolf, lean and lithe and his.
The scent of roasting meat drew Jon to his dinner. The Thenns might have burned the common hall, but thankfully the kitchens had been spared. Brothers lined up, waiting to receive their portions of venison stew and black bread. When it was Jon's turn Three-Finger Hobb ladled stew into his bowl, paused, then heaped an extra portion over the top.
"Eat it all," the cook said, wagging a thick finger. "No waste, not with the castellan beginning winter rations."
Jon opened his mouth to protest, only to receive a sharp elbow in the ribs.
"He will," Pyp said cheerfully, "even if I have to spoonfeed him myself with Grenn to hold him down."
Jon had been so preoccupied that he'd failed to notice the mummer's boy stood only a few places behind him in the line. He had little other choice than to wait for Pyp to receive his own portion before following him to one of the tables where Grenn, Halder, and Matthar sat waiting.
"Be ready to tackle Jon," Pyp said, grinning.
"Why?" Grenn asked through a mouthful of bread.
"Nothing," Jon muttered. He had little appetite for food, but he had even less appetite for being set upon by his brothers. Jon might be able to slip away from Grenn, but Halder was nearly as strong, and Matthar was fast.
The stew was hot and thick as Jon spooned it into his mouth. When his spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl he set it aside, tearing black bread with stiff fingers as Pyp made japes. The choosing was still in progress despite two weeks of voting, and Pyp had an insolent nickname for every contender.
"How shall we decide?" He asked Halder in a girlish voice. "They're all so handsome! We might wed Lord Chopper—" that was Janos Slynt "—a butcher's son should make quick work of all these wildlings!"
"Or get us butchered like he did Jon," Matt grumbled. Pyp placed a hand to his heart, dainty as a lady.
"Why then, Lord Counter is so dreamy. His cheeks rosy as pomegranates, his-"
Halder bounced his hunk of black bread off Pyp's face. Grenn laughed so hard he snorted mulled wine up his nose, but Matt caught the bread in the air, ripping off a chunk before returning it to Halder. Jon swallowed his own mouthful of bread, wishing he could share their laughter as he once had.
Bastard, oathbreaker, turncloak. Harma Dogshead had quieted most of those who suspected Jon of betrayal, but still the whispers followed after him. Thorne and Slynt wanted him dead, he knew that for a certainty. How many shared their hate? There was no Lord Commander to shield Jon, no Old Bear for him to tend. Jeor Mormont's body lay abandoned at Craster's Keep, killed by his own men. Bowen Marsh would not let him hunt or fish or cook like the other stewards; did he think even now Jon might flee to the wildlings or poison the broth?
Without assigned duties Jon's hours dragged, each thought more dark and doubtful than the last. He walked with Ghost, he trained in the yard until he could barely stand, but nothing he did could exhaust his mind. Jon was a man of the Night's Watch, he'd sworn vows, and for what? To slaughter men fleeing wights and Others? Stannis favored letting the wildlings through the Wall, those that would kneel to him and his Red God, but Bowen Marsh was not of the same mind.
Still, the castellan treaded lightly. The Night's Watch was not strong enough to survive should Stannis decide the time had come to show why the Baratheon words were Ours is the Fury. If the Old Pomegranate should yield, would the wildlings even be willing? The southron king was as unforgiving and hard as the Wall. To kneel, to offer weirwood branches to the red woman's flames... how many free folk would take such a cruel bargain?
I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. But guards the realms of men from what? The vows of the Night's Watch said nothing about wildlings. The Long Night has come before, Lord Commander Mormont growled, the memory so vivid he could almost smell the cloves on the old man's breath. If the Night's Watch does not remember, who will?
Jon rose from his seat, ignoring Pyp as he mocked Ser Denys Mallister in the creaky voice of an old man, bowing after every other word.
He found Sam deep in the vaults. Scrolls and books covered his table, their scent musty in the air. The lamps that hung overhead cast a dim yellow light, turning the parchments translucent. Sam's mouth hung slightly open as he read, his thumb stroking his lip.
"How goes it?" Jon asked. He had to ask twice more before Sam set the scroll down, covering a yawn with his other hand.
"Poorly," Sam admitted, picking up another scroll. "I've finally found all the records from last winter, and they're no help at all. It lasted just two years."
That had been Jon's first and only winter. He did not remember its start, only its end. Jon had been four, wide eyed and eager to play in the snow with Robb. The Wintertown had been packed to the brim with smallfolk. There were children to play with, building snow knights and snow forts in drifts twice Jon's height…
"When was the last bad winter?" Jon asked. "Doesn't Maester Aemon remember?"
Sam shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
"The worst winter he remembers was only five years; he joined the Night's Watch during the middle of it. That winter began in 231 and ended in 236. But knowing the dates doesn't help me find the steward's records in all this mess."
"Does Bowen Marsh expect you to look through every record in this place?"
Books packed the shelves of the vault from the floor to well above Jon's head; the top shelves could not even be reached without a ladder.
"No, he's happy with what I've found so far. But the maester thinks I should keep looking."
Since Jon awoke Sam spent nearly all his time here. His skin was beginning to hang loosely on his face and neck, the result of countless meals he'd missed.
"You should have someone to help you," Jon observed.
"Who? Clydas is too busy with the ravens and the maester. The rest of the stewards are busy with other duties."
Except me, Jon thought bitterly. He glanced at Sam, already lost in another scroll. With a sigh, Jon set off to find the castellan.
Bowen Marsh proved more difficult to find than Sam. With the choosing still in progress the castellan's many duties took him all over Castle Black. At last Jon caught up with him in the kitchens, where Marsh was discussing the supply of flour with Three-Finger Hobb. When the men saw Jon they paused. Marsh frowned; Three-Finger Hobb walked away.
"You should be abed, Jon," the castellan said. His head was still wrapped in linen, a reminder of the bitter fight he had led against the Weeper.
"I'm sorry to interrupt you, lord castellan, but I had a question. If you could spare a moment of your time?" Jon asked stiffly. Bowen Marsh sighed as Ghost sat on his haunches, red tongue lolling.
"Go on, then."
"How does the Citadel decide when to send a new maester?"
Bowen Marsh stared at him.
"A new maester?"
"Maester Aemon's health is remarkable, but no man lives forever." The admission made Jon's eyes sting. He could not imagine the Wall without the old man, without his strength and wisdom. "Samwell is helping as best he can, but he's no maester."
Bowen Marsh stroked his chin absentmindedly.
"Maesters must be requested from the Citadel. That was how Maester Harmune came to join Eastwatch-by-the-Sea after Maester Deziel died of a fever. Lord Commander Mormont informed the Citadel of our need, and they sent Harmune."
"Would it not be useful to have a second maester here before winter arrives?"
"Perhaps. I shall think on what you have said."
Jon knew a dismissal when he heard it. He was leaving the kitchens when Three Finger Hobb pressed a roll into his hand, still warm from the ovens.
"What—"
"Hush, Lord Snow," the cook said briskly. "You're not fit to chop onions, not until you look less like a walking corpse."
The roll proved to be stuffed full of nuts and raisins, doubtless intended for Stannis and his knights. Jon ate it grudgingly, the warmth curling through his body as he made his way to the maester's chambers.
It was Gilly who answered Jon's knock. Her babe slept in one arm; the other was grey with ash up to the elbow. Maester Aemon had offered the wildling girl refuge. During the day she shared all she knew of the Others with the maester while Clydas took notes. At night Gilly and her babe slept on a pallet before the hearth. Aemon was beginning to teach Gilly her letters. Dozens of them covered the floor by the hearth, traced in the ashes by a clumsy finger.
"The maester is abed, m'lord," Gilly whispered. A small bubble of spit formed on the babe's lip, then popped as the babe sighed, nuzzling against his mother's chest.
Jon turned and fled without a word, barely reaching his cell before the hot tears began to fall. He usually tried to ignore Gilly's babe, but the ridiculous bubble of spit… Rickon had often done the same when he slept. Was Rickon happy, now that he and Shaggydog were back at Winterfell?
He missed his brothers and sisters, the ache a dull pain deep in his chest. Rickon was safe, but no one knew what had become of Bran since his flight from Winterfell. Jon remembered his little brother on his sickbed, thin as a skeleton, his legs twisted and broken… he woke up. Jon reminded himself. Ser Rodrik said Bran could ride, and he has Summer, and Lord Reed's children to guard him. Jon could have sworn he'd seen Bran's direwolf, that awful night at Queenscrown, but why would Bran be so far north?
So little word reached them at the Wall. He'd heard almost nothing of Arya. The gods only knew how she'd escaped King's Landing, and now Arya was at Riverrun with Robb and Lady Catelyn. Was Nymeria keeping close to her? Was Grey Wind staying near Robb? Did Arya still have Needle, or had Lady Catelyn taken it away? Robb was married now, and marching north; Bowen Marsh had said something about it when praising the King in the North for sending supplies.
It was Sansa that Jon worried for the most. They had never been particularly close, but she was still his sister, a gentle girl who lived for songs, who giggled when telling him how to properly speak to ladies. The Lannisters had killed her wolf, even though Lady was the sweetest of all the pups. Were they holding Sansa captive so they could kill her too?
Ghost leapt up onto Jon's bed. Jon buried his face in the soft white fur, and when he slept he dreamt of blood.