Mid July, 300 AC
AAhoooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
The horn's call rose over the clamor of the yard, the blast going on and on. Rangers returning. Theon's back from Craster's. Grenn dropped his guard as he turned to look at the men running to open the gate, and Jon pulled his blow just in time to not smash Grenn upside his shaggy head.
"Careful," Grenn complained, wincing as the blunted sword whizzed past his ear.
"Take your own advice— never drop your guard like that," Jon replied. Grenn shrugged stubbornly, glancing up at the Wall at the solitary figure in the golden cloak.
King Stannis stood atop the Wall as he had for weeks, aloof in his silent contemplation. Jon wondered what he thought of, all those long cold hours with the wind freezing his crown to his balding head. Pyp claimed that Stannis was brooding a clutch of invisible eggs, and soon Castle Black would be overrun with chickens to eat for winter. Perhaps then Ghost wouldn't spend so much time hunting; the direwolf had been gone all morning.
"Where do you think she is?"
There was no need for Grenn to explain who "she" was. Melisandre practically lived at her king's side, always at his left hand while Ser Davos Seaworth stood at his right. The Onion Knight was away at Eastwatch, but the priestess should be with Stannis...
A flash of red caught his eye. The king's red shadow was speaking to Sam at one of the entrances to the wormwalks, the one that led to the library. Sam clutched a scroll in his fist, his face ashen, his lips quivering. As soon as Melisandre turned her back on the fat boy, he hurried off, released from her spell. The lady smiled to herself, a sight both beautiful and terrible. When her red eyes flicked to Jon, he ignored her.
"Come on, Grenn," Jon urged. The thick-necked boy sighed, his eyes fixed on the open gate.
"I want to talk to Dywen," Grenn insisted. He was fond of the old poacher, and Jon couldn't blame him. Dywen had been a ranger for many long years, a born tracker and clever hunter.
"The turncloak will want Dywen with him when he reports to Bowen Marsh, like as not," Jon pointed out. "We might as well spar until then. Look at how hard Pyp is working."
Grenn looked. Across the yard Iron Emmett was battering poor Pyp, shouting for him to keep his shield up as Emmett drove him back. Iron Emmett was the pride of Eastwatch, a long, lanky young ranger whose endurance was the stuff of legends. Weak as he was, Jon could only win one in four bouts against the older ranger. Begrudgingly Grenn raised his sword, and the spar resumed.
The pain in Jon's back had dimmed to a mere whisper, but his feet still felt slow and clumsy, his burned hand stiff. When his arms grew tired he imagined beating the tar out of Theon for the nameless boys he'd killed. He was breathing hard when they finally paused to rest, his muscles burning. Jon did not notice the red woman until she laid a warm hand on his shoulder.
"Lady Melisandre." He pulled away as courteously as he could, uncomfortable with her closeness. Her eyes and lips were red as sin, red as blood, her cloak open above a scarlet silk gown that bared the tops of her full breasts.
"Lord Snow," the woman purred. "A word?" She did not wait for him to answer but turned, striding toward the King's Tower. Grimly, Jon followed.
For the first time in a hundred years a king resided in the tower that bore a king's name. Lady Melisandre's chambers were the closest to those occupied by Stannis. A fire roared in the hearth; tallow candles burned throughout the room.
"I have refused your king twice, my lady," Jon said as Melisandre moved to close the door behind them. "I had not thought I would need to do so again."
You are the weapon the Lord has given me, and I mean to make use of you, Stannis had said. Bastard he might be, half wildling and half warg, but Jon was no man's weapon. He was a man of the Night's Watch, a steward with no commander to serve. Dolorous Edd said that Jon should be grateful for the pause in their duties.
"After all," Dolorous Edd remarked, "whoever the poor bastard is, he'd soon rather he was a steward."
"What?"
"While we build fires and pour wine, the new Lord Commander will be wishing he'd been eaten by them cannibal clans. It'd be a quicker death than trying to please two kings, and at least he'd get to enjoy the smell of roast meat while he was dying."
That had been two days ago, after word had finally come of Robb. Jon had been surprised when Bowen Marsh called him to Maester Aemon's chambers and handed him an letter addressed to the castellan of Castle Black. The parchment had already been read so many times that it was rolled flat, the ink slightly smudged as Jon read. The King in the North was alive and marching north. He promised additional supplies to the Night's Watch, as well as men to help hold the Wall. As he read the last sentence Jon's vision blurred.
Finally, we send our fondest regards to our brother Jon Snow, may his sword be ever sharp as a needle.
"Valyrian steel is much sharper than a needle," Bowen Marsh said, bemused. Jon laughed, scrubbing the wetness from his eyes.
"A family jape, lord castellan," Jon replied, wishing he could whoop with joy. Arya was with Robb, and he'd even let her keep Needle, if Jon understood rightly. It would hardly be dignified for a king to include family business in a letter to the lord castellan, but Robb had managed it all the same.
You have no brothers nor sisters, only the Night's Watch , he told himself sternly as Melisandre touched the ruby at her throat.
"I did not come to you on my king's behalf. You have made yourself quite clear, and my king is too proud to ask again. It is I that wished to speak with you, for I have seen matters that concern you in my flames."
Jon shifted uneasily as the fire crackled in the hearth.
"Matters that concern me?" He asked. Did he find her so abhorrent despite her beauty, or because of it? Or perhaps it was something else about her. She smells like the fire, he realized. Like ash and smoke and death.
"Last night I saw your sister surrounded by enemies. I saw her beside a weirwood tree dripping blood from seven sharp cuts; I saw her undressing before a man shrouded in shadow; I saw her in the woods surrounded by slavering wolves."
"Arya is safe with Robb," Jon replied, angry.
"You have two sisters, do you not?" The priestess's eyes glowed red. "The girl was garbed in grey and white, gold at her throat and fire in her hair."
"Sansa."
The red woman smiled, triumphant.
"The Lord of Light is merciful, Jon Snow. The choosing shall be tonight, and your choice lies before you. Choose to serve Azor Azai, to serve R'hllor and fight for the dawn. As Lord Commander you might send what ravens you will, ravens to your brother's bannermen warning them of her danger."
Jon scowled.
"I am a man of the Night's Watch. The Night's Watch takes no sides."
The priestess drew closer, flames dancing in her eyes. "You do not believe me. I have seen much and more in my flames, Jon Snow. Three visions shall I tell you, that you may see the truth of R'hllor."
"First I saw a ranger lost in snow, his eyes and hair as black as his cloak. A demon tree with a bloody mouth devoured him whole. Next I saw dead men walking in the woods, their eyes blue, their hands and feet black. Ten crows they slew, and were slain in turn, and crows pecked at their flesh. Last I saw mothers searching through the darkness, crying for their babes."
"Did they find them?"
"They did, and wished they had not," Melisandre answered. "Their tears froze from terror and then they wept no more."
"As you say, the rangers have returned," Jon said carefully. "I must return to the yard if I am to hear any news before the choosing."
The red woman smiled, and the ruby she wore at her throat blazed with light.
Jon stalked from the King's Tower, his thoughts troubled. The red woman was wrong, she must be. With Robb alive the Lannisters would not dare harm Sansa. No one thought they would dare kill Lord Eddard, a voice whispered.
I saw her undressing before a man shrouded in shadow. Sansa was thirteen now; if she had flowered they could force her to wed. What sort of man consummated a marriage with a maid of thirteen? The sort of man the Lannisters would give her to. Jon shuddered.
When Jon reached the yard he found Dywen surrounded by sworn brothers, Grenn and Pyp among them. The old forester was worn and lean; dried blood lined the wrinkles on his forehead. The rangers about him shared his haggard look. Ghost lay on the ground a few yards away, head on his paws. When he saw Jon he got to his feet.
"Lord Snow," Dywen called as Jon approached, Ghost at his heels.
"Just in time, Jon," Pyp said. "Dywen was just telling us, Theon's gone."
"Gone?" Jon echoed. I saw a ranger lost in snow, his eyes and hair as black as his cloak.
"Aye," the old forester clacked his teeth. "We was at Whitetree, taking shelter from a storm. He took first watch, I relieved him, and that were the last we saw of him."
"Probably wandered off to take a piss and fell into a ditch," Pyp said. "I'm surprised we haven't lost Grenn that way."
"I wouldn't fall in a ditch," Grenn replied.
"So you'd piss your breeches instead?" Pyp fired back.
Vaguely Jon remembered the tree for which Whitetree was named, an enormous weirwood with a gaping maw. "Was aught amiss with the weirwood?"
Dywen stiffened, looking at Jon with sharp eyes. Even Grenn and Pyp stopped quarreling.
"There was. When the storm died down its mouth was shut."
Jon shivered as Dywen resumed his tale. The storm had trapped them at Whitetree so long that they had almost run out of food, forcing them to eat the rest of their garrons. When they finally staggered to Craster's Keep on foot they had found the longhouse abandoned, the cellar picked clean.
"Even the women's things were gone," Dywen said. "And the place smelt cold."
The cold smell had been their only warning before the wights attacked. I saw dead men walking in the woods, their eyes blue, their hands and feet black. The mutineers had not left Craster's Keep after all. Jon's blood ran cold as he counted the men standing closest to Dywen.
"They slew half of us before we could get a fire lit," Dywen said, clacking his wooden teeth. "We drove them into the hall and set it alight. The flames did for them, every last one."
"What did they eat, if there was no food at Craster's?"
Pyp's voice was so low Jon could barely hear it. Dywen seemed not to hear Pyp at all, continuing with his tale. They had encountered a group of wildlings, Hornfoots, and driven them off.
"They didn't give much of a fight," Dywen admitted. "They'd lost most o' their weapons at the Wall, I'd wager; not a one had steel or iron, and only one had bronze."
The rest of the return journey to Castle Black had been uneventful, though slow. Several times the rangers had come upon bands of wildling women, not spearwives but mothers with young ones.
"Queer tales they told," Dywen said, wooden teeth clacking. "Old women stealing infant boys in the night, and the white cold following soon after."
I saw mothers searching through the darkness, crying for their babes. Jon stared at the old forester unseeing. If the red woman was telling the truth…
"What news from the south?"
To Jon's relief there were plenty of other men willing to share the recent flood of strange news. Lord Tywin Lannister was dead, slain by some assassin, and Janos Slynt had immediately lost support without his benefactor looming in the distance. Moat Cailin had fallen, the ironmen driven back into the sea, and the Vale had declared for Robb.
The Wall had seen nearly as much change in the time the ranging was gone. Half of Stannis's men had begun rebuilding the Nightfort, despite Bowen Marsh's vociferous protests. The other half ranged beyond the Wall in search of Mance Rayder. The king himself refused to leave Castle Black until a new Lord Commander was chosen. Pyp swore he could hear the king grinding his teeth even when he slept.
"Bowen Marsh is near hysterics," Pyp said to Dywen. "The king says we'll choose a Lord Commander tonight come hell or high water."
"No, he didn't," said Grenn. "He said he'd post guards around the vault until we chose."
Before Pyp could making a scathing retort Dywen spoke first. "Who do you think will win, Lord Snow?"
"Bowen Marsh favors Ser Denys Mallister." Dywen clacked his wooden teeth.
"But will he win?"
Jon sighed, muscles complaining as he squatted down to scratch Ghost by the ear. "He has the most support, at present. Some of those who favored Slynt switched to Mallister, but not enough. Cotter Pyke is after Ser Denys, with Janos Slynt a distant third."
"Who are you supporting, Jon?"
He blinked at Grenn, taken aback. Over the past few days Jon had spoken to both men, taking their measure while they took his, doubtless wondering if he was truly a wildling turncloak. Unfortunately, speaking with the two men had not made it any easier for him to decide.
"Ser Denys is learned and both Stannis and Robb know the worth of House Mallister," Jon said carefully. "But his fighting days are long past, he's never seen a wight, and he'd sooner feast two kings than haggle with them. Cotter Pyke is bold as brass, stouthearted and tough, but he'd need someone to do all his reading and writing for him, and he's like to offend both Stannis and Robb within an hour of meeting them."
"And Slynt's right out since he tried to get Jon killed," Pyp added, indignant. Grenn grunted agreement, as did most of the other men. Dywen's face was unreadable, but he thanked Jon for his thoughts before excusing himself and going off to find Bowen Marsh.
Unsettled, Jon went off in search of Sam. There was no sign of him in the library, nor the kitchens. When Jon climbed the stairs to Maester Aemon's rooms he found Gilly alone, nursing her babe by the fire.
"The maester is resting," Gilly whispered. Of late Aemon's strength seemed to be growing fickle. Some days he was as vigorous and sharp as he had been when Jon arrived two years past; other days he was too weak to rise from his bed.
"I was looking for Sam," Jon told her, watching the babe suckle. He would never hold his own son in his arms; what a fool he was to choose this life.
"They'll be choosing the Lord Crow tonight?"
Jon nodded, and Gilly's eyes lit up. She wanted to go south, and hoped the new Lord Commander would send her away with Sam. A sweet dream, but one that will never come to pass. The Citadel had begrudgingly agreed to send a new maester, but until he arrived Sam was the only one besides Aemon and Clydas who could handle the ravens, and Clydas's eyes were going bad. Even if the new commander sent Gilly away, he would likely send her down the kingsroad with nothing but an old garron and a few days of food. Jon wished he could help her.
Jon finally found Sam in the vault, whispering furtively to Dolorous Edd. The vault was packed almost to bursting with sworn brothers in black, arguing and grumbling and eyeing the guards Stannis had posted at the doors. When Jon sat down beside him Sam gave a squeak of dismay.
"What did the red woman want with you?" Jon asked, concerned by Sam's shaking. Ghost laid at Jon's feet, tongue lolling.
"N-n-nothing," Sam stammered, a bead of sweat trickling down his brow. "Have you seen Ser Denys? I've been over half of Castle Black looking for him."
"You were looking too hard, he's right there."
Dolorous Edd pointed to the entrance to the hall where Ser Denys stood, surrounded by men of the Shadow Tower. Sam took one look, groaned, and buried his face in his hands.
His face was still buried in his hands as the men of the Shadow Tower parted to let Bowen Marsh through, Dywen and Iron Emmett at his side. When he reached the front of the vault Bowen Marsh raised his hands for quiet, the crowded benches and tables slowly falling silent.
"Again we meet to choose the nine hundred and ninety eighth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," the Old Pomegranate announced solemnly. "King Stannis has posted men at all the doors to see that we do not eat nor leave till we have made a choice. We will choose, and choose again, all night if need be, until we have our Lord Commander, but first, Dywen wishes to put forward a name for our consideration."
The bottom fell out of Jon's stomach even before the old forester opened his mouth. How did she get to Dywen? When Jon came back to himself the hall was in an uproar and Grenn was dragging him to his feet. Pyp whistled sharply, the shrill noise cutting through the clamor.
"As I said," Dywen continued, as if he'd never been interrupted. "He's one of the first of us to see the dead men walk, and he saved the Old Bear's life. Lord Snow survived the wildlings, warned Donal Noye, then held the Wall until help came. When he was ordered to go beyond the Wall alone—" Dywen gave Janos Slynt the dirtiest look he'd ever seen "—he never faltered, and even Harma Dogshead couldn't manage to kill him."
"Hear hear," Bowen Marsh added. Jon blinked, dumbfounded. "Lord Snow showed remarkable strength and courage, as befits the brother of a king."
Now Jon understood. He could almost see Bowen Marsh counting up all the men and supplies that the King of the North, the Trident, and the Vale could provide.
"He is a traitor," Ser Alliser Thorne snapped. "He bedded a spearwife and donned a sheepskin cloak."
"Best get your eyes checked; his cloak looks black to me!" Pyp hollered across the hall while those around him stomped their feet.
"Aye, or he wouldn't have let a lickspittle whoreson like you send him out to be butchered, Slynt," Cotter Pyke said angrily.
"The Stark blood is ancient and honorable," Ser Denys added, dignified as ever despite the glare he cast at Cotter Pyke.
"And he's a better fighter than you are," Iron Emmett shouted at Ser Alliser.
Janos Slynt was turning redder than a kettle on the boil; Ser Alliser looked apoplectic. The next hour passed in a blur. Men argued and cursed. At one point Iron Emmett drew his sword and leaped a top a table to emphasize his words. Three-Finger Hobb's objection that Jon was half a boy and wounded besides was barely audible over Janos Slynt's blustering and bellowing about wargs and beastlings, which Ghost did not help by silently baring his teeth.
When they finally called for the kettle Jon was still frozen where he stood. Dazed and full of dread, he watched the men line up by the token barrels. Most ignored the barrel filled with Janos Slynt's copper pennies, just as they ignored Ser Deny's pretty shells and Cotter Pyke's plain stones. No matter that Jon Snow had not spoken a single word; almost all reached for his arrowheads, dropping them in the kettle.
While they counted up tokens Jon strode to the door. The wind was cold against his cheeks, the stars shining overhead. Almost absentmindedly he felt Mormont's old raven land on his shoulder, dirty and bedraggled.
"Corn?" The huge bird asked hopefully. "Snow?"
A roar went up from the vault behind him.
I saw your sister surrounded by enemies. The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch could not send dozens of ravens to Robb's bannermen, but he might risk one raven, perhaps…
"Sansa," Jon told the raven.
NOTES
1) Well, we're past 200k words now. Phew!
2) Three-Finger Hobb is just worried about poor Jon's health, dammit.
3) I tried to get Pyp and Dolorous Edd just right; please let me know if I succeeded
4) Morag and the True Believers: the world's worst girl gang
5) Melisandre is both amazing and awful, and writing visions and prophecies is tricky I look forward to wild speculation.