Early December, 300 AC

Jon Snow awoke before the dawn, his chambers black as pitch but for the last few embers in the hearth. He dressed by the light of a tallow candle, Ghost's eyes gleaming like garnets in the darkness. Dolorous Edd would not bring his breakfast for a while yet; he might as well make the trek to the kitchens himself.

His legs ached as he descended the steps of the King's Tower, the Wall shimmering like crystal as the sun's first glow rose over the horizon. The scars on his back flared with pain in the morning chill as the cold wind tore at his cloak. The warmth of the kitchens was a welcome reprieve, or would have been, but for the shouting within. Jon drew back to stand unobserved in the doorway, Ghost silent at his heels.

Three-Finger Hobb was berating a sour-faced steward, one thick hand brandishing an even thicker rolling pin. Small clouds of flour hovered in the air, each shake of the rolling pin sending up more puffs of white. Behind him cooks chopped meat and kneaded dough as if deaf to the commotion.

"I don't care how stiff you are," Hobb snapped. "The Lord Commander gave me the boys, not you. I've plenty for 'em to do here."

The steward scowled. Sawwood, that was his name, the man snored so loud one would think an army of carpenters were at work in his cell. The steward had survived the Fist and the mutiny at Craster's Keep, but he was still a foul-tempered blackguard. Once he had been a forester, but since injuring an arm Bowen Marsh had set him to more menial tasks about Castle Black, tasks that required less strength.

"Oh, aye?" Sawwood spit on the floor. "Hard work, is it, sitting warm by the fire while I break my back emptying chamber pots in the freezing cold?"

Hobb crossed his arms. Plump he might be, and losing most of his greasy hair, but he was well muscled from years of punching dough and hauling kettles and chopping haunches of meat. "Hal!"

After a moment a boy of five scurried up to Three-Finger Hobb. His arms were soapy up to the elbow; the wet apron he wore had been folded in half to keep it from trailing on the floor. Even so, it still hung to his scrawny ankles.

"What have you done this morning, Hal?" The cook asked sternly. The boy Hal shifted from one foot to the other, staring at the floor.

"Washed?" A long pause. "An' I fetched eggs." He held out his arms, lower lip trembling. "T' hens pecked me." Scratch marks ran up and down his skinny arms; a few had bled before scabbing over.

"Alyn! Benjen!"

Over by an unused hearth two boys were sweeping away ashes; both looked up. It was hard to tell which was older; one was eight, the other nine, but they were around the same height and shared the same pale copper skin and dark hair as their little brother.

"Been carrying buckets of water," one of the orphan boys said, the one with longer hair. "An' firewood too, an' runnin' messages."

"Thank you, Benjen," Jon said, stepping into the kitchen. The boy turned red and stared at the broom in his hands.

"Lord Snow," said Three-Finger Hobb, bowing his head. Sawwood bowed quickly, his face the color of spoiled milk, then stalked away.

"I can have your breakfast ready in just a moment, m'lord." Hobb set his rolling pin on a table and barked for one of his cooks to put three eggs on to boil. Another he set to frying slices of bread in bacon grease, a third to fetch apples preserved in honey.

"Trying to rot my teeth?" Jon asked dryly. The Night's Watch had orchards, but the last apples had been picked shortly after his arrival two years past; their hives were even fewer than their apple trees, and honey a rare indulgence. In the Gift the trees still bore fruit, but there were too few stewards to send any of them south.

"You'll need the sweetening, with herself to manage," Hobb said. Another cook overheard him and swore under his breath; a third made the sign of the Seven. Technically Jon should reprimand such disrespect, but as hot eggs and fried bread were set before him, he found he lacked the strength to bother.

Queen Selyse had been at Castle Black for nearly a moon, but it felt like much longer. She had descended upon them like a vulture garbed in Baratheon black and gold, surrounded by knights and men-at-arms and serving girls and even a few lady companions. The queen's retinue liked the humble fare no better than Selyse did, and Three-Finger Hobb was constantly seething over the lordlings' many complaints. The only thing stopping Hobb from taking a cleaver to the Queen's men was the King's Hand.

Ser Davos Seaworthy had escorted the queen from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, along with a veritable caravan of wayns packed to the brim with fish and flour and other foodstuffs, like the precious limes that would ward off bleeding gums and loose teeth. No sooner had Bowen Marsh thanked him for the king's generosity, eyes bulging at all the supplies to be counted, than Davos winced and admitted the wayns came from the King in the North, not the one he served. Nor was there any sign of the dragonglass which Stannis had promised from Dragonstone.

Anticipating the offense his queen would cause, Davos had brought Hobb a bribe- a tiny jar of saffron, the same rare spice Hobb had lost two fingers for stealing. It was a kingly gift, and enough to keep Hobb from poisoning the queen's porridge. Once the queen was safely esconced at Castle Black, Davos had proceeded on to the Nightfort.

Stannis Baratheon was nothing if not single-minded. Still his men hunted Mance Rayder, chasing after a rumor here, a whisper there, all to no avail. Worse, Stannis was beginning to lose men. Small groups of riders vanished into the snows; men-at-arms ventured away from the fires to hunt or make water and never returned. Had Mance and his folk perished the same way? For a moment Jon imagined Mance Rayder's eyes shining like blue stars, his face pale, his hands black with frozen blood. He shivered. No, Mance had Dalla and a suckling babe; surely the wildling king had slipped away south past the Wall.

Though if he had, what then? Jon had finally sent his letter to Robb, each word chosen with utmost care. Lord Eddard once spoke of forging a covenant betwixt the Night's Watch and Winterfell. The lands of the Gift are abandoned, but there are orchards and fields aplenty, dotted with villages and towerhouses. A dream for spring, our father said, for land would not lure men north in autumn.

Men could not be lured north, but there were plenty of men desperate to move south. Clan chiefs like Tormund Giantsbane were usually former raiders, but most of their folk farmed in the little valleys between the Frostfangs and the haunted forest, planting rye and whatever else could grow in the rocky soil. Northern lords would not like wildlings living so close to their lands, but if the free folk could be persuaded to keep the king's peace, to pay taxes to the Night's Watch that stood between them and the white shadows...

Stannis wanted to let the wildlings through the Wall, but his terms were worse than any Robb might set. "They must each kneel before the true king," he had said in tones that rang like iron. "They must accept the light of the lord," Melisandre said smiling, her lips red. "Each must renounce the false gods of the shadows and their demon trees."

Queen Selyse and her men followed Melisandre gladly, even in her absence. They lit nightfires every evening, praying and singing for at least an hour as the flames shone against the Wall. Jon had hoped the queen and her people would follow Davos to the Nightfort quickly, but the old keep was still in the midst of repairs, and the queen's concern for her daughter just barely outweighed her desire to rejoin the red priestess she so fervently worshipped.

Princess Shireen was a child of eleven, sad and solemn and always shivering. The queen's maids bundled her in so many black furs that she seemed more a bear cub than a girl, an effect worsened by her tendency to keep her hood raised. Jon could not blame the poor girl for hiding her face. The greyscale which afflicted her in the cradle had spared her life but marked her cruelly. Her nose, a cheek, and much of her neck was a mottled grey, the skin stiff and cracked. Even without the greyscale she was a homely child, with her father's square jaw and her mother's exceptionally large ears.

Beauty she would never have, but Shireen lacked for neither wits nor sweetness. She was a courteous, bright-eyed little thing, always reading by the fire, resigned to being ignored while the queen talked to her knights and ladies.

Jon was finishing his fried bread, grease trickling into his beard, when he heard the sound of jingling bells outside the kitchens. Half the cooks froze in place; Hobb picked up his rolling pin.

"Patches, no," Shireen proclaimed, her small voice firm. "You must go back to my lady mother, the cooks ruin the soup when you scare them."

"Crow eats crow within the snow, I know, I know, oh, oh, oh." Patchface sang, bells ringing with every word. "Trees eat boys without a noise, I know, I know, oh, oh, oh."

"Hush, Patches," the girl said softly. "I'll see you in the afternoon, I promise, and we can do riddles from my book."

Away the fool jingled, and the cooks breathed as one. When the princess entered it was to find the kitchen bustling. A cook set a place for the princess beside the corner table where Jon had broken his fast, laying a cup of watered ale beside the plate with its thick slice of fried bread and a hunk of salted pork. Jon had only picked at his honeyed apples, the sweetness heavy upon his tongue, so he slid them atop the golden bread as the princess made her way past the cooks, careful to keep her skirts away from any mess.

"We can only build your fire up so high," Jon had told Queen Selyse a week after their arrival when the queen complained yet again of the draft in her chambers. "If you wish for Princess Shireen to regain her strength, the kitchens are the warmest place on the Wall."

Little as she liked the notion of her daughter spending time among the "lower orders," a single tense visit to the kitchens convinced the queen that the Lord Commnder spoke truly. Indeed, Shireen's cheeks were already flushed when she sat down beside him with a soft "good morrow, Lord Commander" and a nervous look at the direwolf cracking a bone in his jaws. She removed her outer layer of furs, carefully draping them over an empty chair before spying the honeyed apples, her eyes shining as she picked up the bread and took a careful bite.

Jon forced himself to his feet. He had already lingered for too long; he could not stay to watch Hal gather his courage before handing the princess some rock he'd found, or for Alyn and Benjen to ask her for stories. He was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and he had weighter matters than the happiness of one child, even a princess.

The sun was well risen now, but Jon could not lift the darkness from his thoughts as he strode across the yard. Maester Aemon had not left his bed since the middle of tenth moon. Sores had begun to form on the thin old man's heels and hips and on the back of his bald head, red patches like burst blisters that soon became craters, as if some terrible worm had burrowed into his flesh.

Clydas began moving the old maester twice a day, but while this prevented new sores, the old lingered, each sore putting the maester at risk of deadly infection. The wounds made Sam turn green, but he washed them faithfully with vinegar all the same, and if he vomited afterwards in the chamber pot, that was none of Jon's concern.

There should be a new maester to tend Aemon, but the Citadel's last raven had been infuriatingly vague. Someone would be sent, but no promise was made as to when he might arrive. The Citadel was supposed to be as neutral as the Night's Watch, but everyone knew the Hightowers held great influence, and the Hightowers were sworn to the Iron Throne. Would the Citadel send a drunkard, a wastrel, some fool with only a few links in his chain?

In the meantime, whilst Clydas tended the ravens Sam had taken over most of the maester's other duties. Before his eyes dimmed Maester Aemon had taken copious notes on the poultices and tinctures most commonly of use, and Sam replenished the stores as best he could, requisitioning the necessary ingredients from Bowen Marsh. There was no time for Sam to bury himself in the vaults, sorting through dusty scrolls and books with crumbling pages. He was still trying to learn northron by reading an old set of records which some ancient Lord Steward had written in both northron and the Common Tongue, but it was very slow going.

Jon found Othell Yarwyck at the base of the Wall, grumbling under his breath as his builders sawed at a massive slab of ice. The builders looked no happier than Othell did.

"Right queer it is," the First Builder had complained when Jon first set them the task. The day had been clear and cold, the same day that the three rangings had departed in search of wights. "Ice isn't as reliable as stone, m'lord. Brittle, it is, and prone to shattering if you look at it wrong."

"I'm not asking for gargoyles or ice dragons," Jon explained, trying to hide his annoyance. "Just giant blocks with a hollow large enough to hold a man, and lids to set atop them."

"Like a coffin?" Othell grimaced and rubbed his long lantern jaw.

"Yes, but much thicker. We'll pack them in straw but even so, the dead men cannot be allowed to rot before they're seen." At least some good had come of Thorne's failure with the rotten hand. Now they knew that the wights moldered when they grew warm, the putrified flesh falling away until only bones remained.

With much grumbling the builders had hewn seven blocks of ice, one for each ranging and four to spare. It was possible that with luck one of the ranging might manage to snare two wights. More likely they'd need the extras in case one of the blocks shattered. The coffins took shape slowly beneath their chisels, Stannis having demanded many of the builders to help repair the Nightfort, but three were finished by the time Dywen returned with his ghastly burden.

To Jon's satisfaction, Black Jack Bulwer had appeared a few days after Dywen, a second dead man wrapped in chains. That satisfaction had been as sweet as it was brief; Black Jack had lost six men taking the foul creature, another butcher's bill laid to Jon's account.

At first Jon had thought to send the second wight to Oldtown, but Maester Aemon had counseled against it. That was over two months past, the last day the old man felt well enough to rise from his bed. "The archmaesters question everything. The proof of their own eyes should be enough to convince them, but... the journey is over two months at sea, if the winds are fair, three or more if the ship is caught in autumn storms. Even if your ice coffins last so long, the archmaesters will likely make the messenger wait, as Lord Tyrion bade Ser Alliser."

"Then where?" Jon asked, pacing the maester's library. "The lords of the Vale will take their cue from Robb; the crownlands will follow the Iron Throne, the stormlands..." The gods only knew what the storm lords would do. Some still supported Stannis, but those were either already at the Wall or besieged in their keeps; the rest had knelt to the Iron Throne after the Battle of the Blackwater.

"Sunspear," Aemon declared. "A closer journey than Oldtown by far."

"Doran Martell knelt to the Iron Throne," Jon said dismissively, sinking into a stiff chair and pressing a hand to his brow. A headache was building; by now he was almost used to the regular throbbing at his temples and pounding at the back of his skull.

"Sunspear knelt," the maester agreed. "Yet Dorne has always gone its own way, even after Daeron the Good brought them into the Seven Kingdoms. For two centuries they either ignored the dragon kings or tried to slay them; the hundred years since have not tempered that streak of independence. Prince Doran is a cautious man, but there are ways to send men and supplies without risking the wrath of the Iron Throne. "

"And Sansa will be there." His half sister had insulted Tywin Lannister to his face; surely she would do her best to win her good-uncle's support for the Night's Watch.

"Is Sunspear warm, m'lord?" Gilly asked timidly, her eyes staring at Jon's boots. The wildling girl was so quiet he had forgotten she was sitting silently by the fire. Sam's old black cloak draped over her like a shroud, its folds almost concealing the babe sleeping against her breast.

Jon brooded over autumn storms and ships long since sailed as the stewards pulled their saws back and forth. Showers of ice flew through the air, sharp enough to cut. As he gazed he could not help but wonder if the wights had now reached their destinations.

Ser Alliser Thorne and Luke of Longtown departed Castle Black on the same day near the end of ninth moon, bound for Eastwatch. The ice coffins were sealed, their lids partially melted and then washed with cold water to weld them shut. It had taken a dozen men to heave each coffin into a wayn, packing it tightly with straw and chunks of ice the size of bricks.

Thank the gods all the layers had been enough to dull the dead men's queer cold smell; oxen were the only beasts strong enough to pull the heavy wayns. A third wayn bore their provisions for the journey; the fourth bore Gilly, huddled in the back with her babe held tight under a pile of furs. She had watched Luke of Longtown nervously as he cracked the whip, afraid despite Sam assuring her that the Dornishman had been sent to the Wall for murder, not rape. He hoped Sansa would agree to take on the wildling girl; if not, he could at least be certain that Gilly would be as far from Craster's Keep as one could get without crossing the Narrow Sea.

The safety of a wildling girl and babe were little consolation for the guilt that wracked his nightmares. Two-and-twenty rangers had died at his command; he could only pray that it had not been not in vain. Kedge White-eye's entire ranging was presumed lost; the ravens had returned a month past, their legs bare.

"Lord Snow?"

Clydas stood at the edge of the yard, the snow as high as the tops of his boots. He was a short man made shorter by his stooped shoulders, bald and chinless, his small eyes half-blind. He seemed even more shrunken since it became clear that Aemon was dying by inches, with a dozen wrinkles for each of his sixty years. With one gnarled hand he offered a pair of rolled parchments, one sealed with white wax, one with orange.

Jon frowned as he crossed the yard and accepted the letters. The white wax bore Robb's direwolf seal, but what house used orange wax? He squinted at the seal, a Wall pierced by nineteen towers, one for each castle, and then he knew. Jon had given both Ser Alliser and Luke of Longtown a seal on the offchance that they might be permitted to use a raven, but he had not expected word from either of them. Grand Maester Pycelle had not let Thorne send word on his last visit; surely...

He cracked the seal. The letter was written in an unfamiliar hand; Luke of Longtown could not read. Jon unrolled the parchment and read:

Writ by Gyles of Plankytown, scribe

On this the twenty-second day of the eleventh month, in the three hundredth year since the coming of the dragons, in the Old Palace of Sunspear

What? How was this possible? Luke of Longtown and Ser Alliser Thorne had arrived at Eastwatch almost halfway through tenth moon, the sworn brothers' progress slowed by the wayns. Originally Jon had intended for both groups to sail on the Blackbird, one of the watch's few ships. After setting Ser Alliser Thorne ashore at King's Landing, the ship would proceed south to Sunspear.

Luke of Longtown had interpreted those orders rather loosely. It seemed that a swan ship had been driven aground near Eastwatch. The Cinnamon Wind was returning from the Port of Ibben, her cargo hold filled with furs, whale bones, blubber, and amber, when she was caught in a storm. To Cotter Pyke's fury, while they were pleased to sell the Night's Watch a small chest of dragonglass from the Shivering Sea, the Summer Islanders refused to part with a single pelt. Once repaired the swan ship was bound for Sunspear, where Dornishmen unaccustomed to the already chilly autumn would pay lavishly for Ibbenese furs.

Before Mance Rayder's assault on the Wall, Luke of Longtown had been known for his frequent patronage of the Mole's town brothel; only a few Valemen were more randy. Doubtless delighted by the prospect of a voyage spent among Summer Islanders, who crewed their ships with both men and women, Luke had decided that he and Gilly would join the Cinnamon Wind on her way to Sunspear.

The letter from Eastwatch had boasted of the swan ship's speed as an excuse for disregarding orders, but reaching Dorne in less than two moons was good fortune beyond belief. Swan ship or no, the Blackbird should have reached King's Landing before the Cinnamon Wind reached the Stepstones. Unless Thorne already arrived and Pycelle would not grant him use of a raven. Or perhaps Thorne did not ask because he still resented reporting to a lord commander of sixteen.

Frowning, Jon turned back to the letter from Sunspear. Luke of Longtown had arrived safely, the wight still rattling his chains inside his coffin. Princess Arianne Martell would see him within the week; she had permitted him use of the raven on a whim, as she could not remember Sunspear sending a bird to the Wall since her childhood, when Lord Commander Qorgyle still led the Night's Watch. Another raven would follow after his audience, once the princess and her counselors reached a decision.

Heart in his throat, Jon opened the letter from Robb, a pang in his chest as he read the familiar script. It was much longer than the brief missive from Sunspear; his own letter had been much the same, desperate to convince Robb of the danger posed by the Others and their thralls. To his shock, there were no words of doubt, no japes, no accusations of delirium. After long paragraphs regarding the recruiting of men from the North, Vale, and Riverlands, and even longer paragraphs regarding what aid might be given as to provisions, Robb finally came to the matter of the wildlings. The King in the North gave his asset to the settling of the Gift, so long as certain conditions were observed.

Even as Jon blinked back surprise at receiving Robb's assent, his heart sank. How was he to make such an offer? He had no idea where Tormund Giantsbane or any of the other clan chiefs might be found. Many of the free folk had made their way to Hardhome after Stannis smashed Mance Rayder; some wise woman named Mother Mole had foretold ships coming to the abandoned harbor to carry the people away to safety. Had Tormund and his folk been among them? Nearly nine months had passed since the battle beneath the Wall; they could be anywhere. He could not spare any rangers to go searching for Tormund; the crow might be killed on sight.

AAhoooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

Ghost's ears pricked up at the sound of the horn; Jon turned toward the Wall. The builders looked up from their chisels; the ringing of steel in the practice yard ceased. Could Kedge White-eye have survived after all?

AAhoooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

Despair mingled with confusion as the second blast echoed through the air. Was it another attack? Had some vicious madman like Rattleshirt decided a bloody death was better than a quiet one in the cold and snow? We are so few already, I cannot lose more men, not today. His legs moved without a second thought, Ghost bounding after him as Jon sprinted for the winch cage. The cage was built for ten men; with only one man and a direwolf the winch rose quickly to the top of the Wall.

Ulmer of the Kingswood awaited him. The sharp eyes that gave him skill with a bow also made Ulmer a good sentry, quick to notice movement below. He pointed a finger at the haunted forest, where a ragged band of less than a dozen wildlings approached the Wall and its gate. From above it was impossible to tell the shape of the bodies beneath the furs, but Jon saw only a single garron, and no chariots or steel. Some of the wildlings seemed very small, and another fell as they drew near the Wall; two others struggled to pull him to his feet, only for him to fall again after taking a few steps.

"Not much to fear from this lot," Ulmer said, one hand resting on his bow. "Shall we feather them, m'lord?"

"No," Jon answered. "No need to waste the arrows."

The ride down the winch was even faster than the ride up. By the time he reached the end of the long tunnel the gate was already swung open, iron bars unlocked. Dolorous Edd waited with an iron lantern, grim as ever.

"How many wildlings, m'lord?" The squire asked as they entered the twisting tunnel, followed by Iron Emmett and a few rangers. Their breath misted in the frigid air; even the thickest of furs could not keep out the cold beneath the Wall.

"I counted eleven," Jon replied.

"Easy work," said Toad, a short ugly boy who had joined the Night's Watch at the same time as Jon. "Two for each of us."

"Aye, but with my luck the eleventh would be the one that slit my throat," Dolorous Edd said gloomily, and the rest of the walk passed in silence except for the sound of keys and grating metal as Edd unlocked each set of iron bars spaced throughout the tunnel. The last gate cast dark shadows on the floor, rays of sunlight creeping between the gaps, and when Edd opened the gate they were almost blinded by the glare of the snow.

"Why, it's only a bunch of women," Toad hooted, slapping a knee.

"Spearwives," Edd declared as though he was already on his deathbed with a spear in his gut.

"No," Jon told them, his eyes narrowed as the tallest wildling lowered her hood. "Craster's wives."

The leader was a plain woman in her thirties with dark brown hair. Her nose had been broken more than once, leaving it crooked; her body was shapeless beneath her furs, but he could see that she walked with a slight limp. Her eyes, though... her eyes were dark and steady, and unafraid.

"I am Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Who are you to approach the Wall without my leave?" Jon asked.

The woman smiled, revealing a mouth that was missing two teeth. "Dorsten," the woman answered. "Widow of Craster, mother of Dyah, Dalwen, Dalya, and Disrine." She nodded at the scrawny girl atop the garron, who looked to be Arya's age. The three smallest bundles of furs beside her pulled down their hoods to reveal identical faces; they could not be older than little Rickon.

The rest of the women pulled down their hoods as well. There were two more women near Dorsten's age who shared her dark hair and plain features. Beside the triplets stood a muscled woman in her forties carrying a heavy sack, a sullen, pretty girl in her late teens, and another in her twenties standing guard over the old crone who had fallen in the snow.

"Gilly," the old woman groaned. Eyes stared at the sky, almost lost in the wrinkles that lined her emaciated face. "My girl, my last girl."

"The fat crow promised," Dorsten insisted. "The boy with the kind face. He said he'd bring Gilly here. Where is she?"

Gone, he might have said. Safe, he might have said.

"Somewhere warm," he said. The old woman sighed, content.

After, when Craster's wives and daughters were through the tunnel, they built a pyre.

"There are lands south of here," Jon Snow told Dorsten as they watched the corpse burn. The old mother was peaceful in death, her lips still drawn back in a toothless smile as her fellow wives sang soft prayers in a tongue he did not know. "Empty villages of thickwalled cottages, orchards and cleared fields that have lain fallow for years."

Dorsten met his gaze, fearless. "And what is your price, Lord Crow?"

Jon smiled, guilt roiling in his belly. One that may kill you.

NOTES

1) It makes zero sense for so many wildlings to be raiders; their society would collapse. And how are they hauling loot back? It makes sense for them to raid along the coasts, but over the 700 foot wall??? So here I'm trying to make it explicit that while raiders become popular war chiefs, most wildling folk are either farming or hunting/gathering to survive.

2) Yes, I kept the Mole's town orphan boys mentioned like twice in ASOS and then forever forgotten. The watch has taken them in, but like everyone else in a medieval setting, they have to earn their keep. Hobb is definitely slipping them tiny nibbles of dainties whenever he can get away with it. All three of them were scared of Shireen at first, because every smallfolk child knows nobility can get you hurt, and her face looked creepy, but she gradually won them over. That said, Shireen isn't Arya- she's practicing what was called "condescension" in medieval times; being gracious to your inferiors while maintaining the distinctions of rank. It was a highly important skill that could make or break a noble's reputation among the commons and their peers.

3) Bedsores are gross, and a huge problem in understaffed nursing homes. They can start to form after just 3 hours of sitting without movement, they're painful, and they're a huge infection risk.

4) Calculating travel times is an exercise in confusion and frustration. As per usual, I relied on the irreplaceable ASOIAF Timeline by privatemajor.

Castle Black to Eastwatch is about 150 miles by road; Eastwatch to KL is 3,070 nautical miles, and Eastwatch to Sunspear is 4,930. Eastwatch to Oldtown would be 6,690. Placing Thorne and Gilly on different ships was a little bit of a cheat, but it fixed travel speeds to where I wanted them.

Based on research on medieval merchant ships, 100 miles per day was plausible for Thorne, assuming his captain is competent but not spectacular, and facing mediocre or bad winds. The Summer Islanders are much better sailors with faster ships, and they got better winds leaving a few days earlier, so Gilly's ship averaged 125 miles per day.

I used the Cinnamon Wind partially out of not wanting to bother inventing a new ship/crew, but I think it's plausible that they might have sailed for the Port of Ibben after leaving Oldtown. Quhuru Mo tells Dany of making the "trader's circle" from the Summer Isles to the Jade Sea and around to Westeros; if Braavos is a part of this circle, why not the Port of Ibben? Ibben is known for furs, soon the Shivering Sea will be too dangerous, and with everyone needing furs for winter, there's lots of profit to be made. The Cinnamon Wind arrived in Oldtown on May 21 in canon; reaching the Port of Ibben and then Eastwatch by October was plausible.

5) For those wondering, here's a list of the women of Craster's Keep and their whereabouts.

Beyond the Wall: Morag, the first wife, and dedicated follower of Craster and his cold gods. She is accompanied by six other wives, included Hilsa. Currently kidnapping babies to sacrifice :(

At the Wall: Dorsten, a strong willed survivor. She hates Morag; she lost three sons. Her daughter Dyah is skilled with horses; her triplets are 4 years old. Freltha, a barren carpenter. Nella, a midwife. Birra, sister of Buttercup, skilled with herbs. Nyra, sister of Nella, a woman in her twenties. Buttercup, a pretty girl in her late teens. She was raped during the mutiny and her year-old daughter died shortly after fleeing Craster's Keep.

Deceased: Grindis, the second wife. Mother of Gilly. Died after reaching the Wall. Ferny, the third wife, a baker. Died during the flight from Craster's Keep; she gave her food and furs to the triplets. Briwa, mother of Birra and Buttercup. Slew the crow who raped Buttercup and was killed by another crow.