December, 303 AC
In the faint light of dawn, the Wall shone red as blood.
Thank the gods it is not weeping, Jon Snow thought as he looked up. The cliff of ice towered over Castle Black, seven hundred feet high, so tall the rangers atop the Wall looked like ants, the base so thick that neither pick nor axe could ever breach it, not if a hundred men had a year to tunnel. Thousands of years it had stood, as eternal as the changing of the seasons, as unyielding as a mountain, the great bastion that defended the realms of men from the Land of Always Winter.
Even so, it was a hard life, dwelling in its shadow when the days grew short and dark. It was one thing to endure winter in the bright sun of sixth moon, when night lasted a scant third of the hours upon the sundial, even less upon the solstice that marked the middle of the year. The Wall shone deep blue, weeping tears clear as crystal. The snow in the yard went from thigh deep to ankle deep; the stewards had filled endless casks with fresh water from the snowmelt.
Winter in twelth moon, though... the sun rose late, and set early, abandoning the world to the darkness. The snows were knee deep again, now boasting layers of ice hidden beneath the drifts, where the snow had melted only to freeze once more. A howling wind shook the winch chains; men glanced up nervously as their clamor echoed over the yard like the rattle of death.
Ser Axell Florent, Hand of the King, remained unmoved. Jon wondered if the man had frozen solid; his heart was surely cold enough. Fervently devoted to the Lord of Light, Ser Axell had done nothing when the red priestess burned his brother Alester for a northward wind, nor when she burned his niece Queen Selyse in a futile attempt to hatch a dragon's egg. Jon wondered if he had smiled when Davos Seaworth burned; it was his death that made Ser Axell the new King's Hand.
At present Axell Florent stood bandy-legged beside his horse, the hood of his thick fur cloak casting his face into shadow as he spoke to one of his knights. Thus shielded, the wind barely ruffled the tufts of coarse brown hair that bristled not only from Ser Axell's chin but from his nostrils and from his prominent ears.
The men-at-arms who sat atop the wayns meant for the Nightfort were less lucky. Their thin cloaks flapped in the wind, their faces burnt red from the cold. More than one had lost the tip of a nose or part of an ear to frostbite; fearful of losing more, they huddled close for warmth as they awaited their orders. Ser Axell did not seem to notice their discomfort, but went on talking.
Was he mad, or just stupid? Heavy clouds had begun to gather, promising snow. Already the roads between one castle and the next were a hellish slog, kept open only by the efforts of teamsters, whose furry oxen dragged weighted wooden plows atop iron blades. In summer it might take two days to ride the fifteen leagues from Castle Black to the Nightfort; in winter, it was like to take five, and then only if they dared to keep moving after dusk.
Finally Jon could stand the sight of shivering men no longer. He strode toward Ser Axell, Ghost following at his heels, along with the four sworn brothers that served as his honor guard. King's Hand the man might be, but Jon Snow was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and he was ready to see the back of his unwelcome guest.
"It is a long hard road, my lord," Jon said when he drew near. "And night shall fall sooner than you think."
"I am well aware, Lord Snow." Ser Axell waved a dismissive hand, then turned away. Short as he was, he had no trouble putting a foot into the stirrup and swinging up into his saddle. He looked down at Jon with a smile as wide as it was false. "You have the king's thanks for the supplies, such as they are."
"King Stannis shall dine as well as I do," Jon replied mildly.
Ser Axell wrinkled his nose, a frown creasing his brow. No doubt he was recalling last night's dinner, a stew made from pickled fish that tasted heavily of vinegar despite Three-Finger Hobb's best efforts. Perhaps he would have preferred his fish salted, to suit his humor, or smoked, to suit the god he worshipped.
Though Jon would have preferred to dine alone, or with his brothers, courtesy dictated that he must invite Axell Florent to sup with him whenever he visited Castle Black. Ostensibly he came to fetch the latest wayns of meat and grain bound for the Nightfort; in truth, he came to attempt to cajole the lord commander into giving them better fare.
Last night, the second of twelfth moon, marked yet another such visit, one just as tedious as the last.
"The Night's Watch shall not be forgotten when His Grace sits upon the Iron Throne," Ser Axell had said, giving the black bread a dubious look before tearing into it with his fingers. "That day would come sooner, were the provisions more generous."
"They are as generous as those I keep for my own men," Jon replied. And the Long Summer will come again before Stannis ever sits the Iron Throne, he thought, keeping his tongue firmly behind his teeth.
Stannis Baratheon might remain at the Nightfort, brooding over a cracked dragon egg that still refused to hatch, but even the red priestess could not stop the cold from sinking into a man's bones. When last he saw the king, he was a gaunt grey shadow, his eyes as hollow as his cheeks, the line of his jaw sharp as a knife. The king's continued survival was so inexplicable that more than once Jon had to stop Pyp from taking bets on when and how Stannis would finally give up the ghost.
Yet even the sight of their corpse king could not quench the fires that burned in the hearts of his remaining stalwarts. That was Lady Melisandre's work, he knew, fanning the flames with her prophecies and her visions. The egg would hatch, she swore, she had foreseen it, just as the red priestess had foreseen a dragon rising over the Wall before sweeping over the realm, his wings casting shadows over the Hightower, over mighty Harrenhal, even over the Eyrie atop its lofty peak.
It was a fool's hope, but the only hope that remained, and they clung to it fiercely. Ser Godry Farring and his crony Ser Clayton Suggs boasted of the glory and rich lands which would be theirs; Ser Axell waxed at length as to how he would remake the Seven Kingdoms when they knelt to Stannis as they had once knelt to his ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror.
"The less men, the greater glory," Ser Axell was fond of saying. "When Aegon landed upon the shores of Westeros, he had only a thousand men, yet in a few short years he ruled from Dorne to the Wall."
Stannis did not even have a thousand men left, though he had brought near three thousand when he landed at Eastwatch. Some had perished fighting the wildlings beneath the Wall, more had perished hunting through the haunted forest in hopes of finding Mance Rayder, and hunger, sickness, and cold gnawed their numbers lower still. When Stannis went forth to burn wights, a mere thousand rode beneath his golden banners, and only a hundred had returned, starved and frostbitten. Between them and the skeleton garrisons left to hold the Nightfort, Stonedoor, and Sable Hall, the king could perhaps boast five hundred men.
All of the king's men had gathered at the Nightfort in hopes of seeing a dragon wake from stone. After watching what had transpired through Ghost's eyes, Jon had insisted that all of them remain there. To his shock, Stannis had not protested. The loss of his smuggler seemed to have cut much deeper than that of his wife. What became of Selyse's charred bones no one knew, but those of the Onion Knight had been sent to his wife in Braavos, whence she and her sons had fled rather than surrender or be slain when knights sworn to the Lannisters marched toward their little keep on Cape Wrath.
Castle Seaworth had been the last to fall. Not a single keep nor holdfast in the Seven Kingdoms still flew the banners of Stannis Baratheon, a fact which bothered Ser Axell little and less, or so he had said at dinner.
"We are not friendless," Axell bragged, sopping up the last of his stew with a crust of bread. "The usurping bastard and his bitch of a mother make new enemies every day, enemies eager to rise up and seat a rightful king upon the throne. I receive word from across the Seven Kingdoms; why, when I left the Nightfort there were more letters newly arrived. Some nonsense about Volantis, not worth troubling with until my return."
That had made Jon's blood turn to ice. Eastwatch had heard news of Volantis too, of dragons battling above a burning city. Maester Turquin dismissed the rumors entirely, thinking it more likely that some Volantene lord had tried to quash the slave revolts by setting their quarters alight, or that the slaves had burned down the mansions of the masters as vengeance for their suffering. Jon prayed Stannis thought the same.
"The Temple of the Lord of Light in Volantis is the greatest in the world," a soft small voice piped up.
Princess Shireen sat at the foot of the table, painfully straight and solemn. She wore a gown of gold and ebony, with a matching coif and wimple that covered her dark hair and the greyscale scars that marred her neck. The scars upon her cheek could not be so easily covered; the stony skin cracked as she began to speak again.
"Archmaester Gramyon wrote that it is thrice the size of the Great Sept of Baelor," she said, giving Ser Axell a hesitant glance, as though worried her great uncle might chide her for impudence.
"Is it, indeed?" said Ser Axell.
His tone was jovial, but his eyes were cold. They had been even colder on the day Princess Shireen refused his invitation to return to the Nightfort. Good Ser Davos had made her swear to remain at Castle Black, and at Castle Black she meant to stay, unless her lord father commanded otherwise. She and her ladies kept themselves in strict seclusion, guarded by her knights; sometimes he almost forgot they were here.
Ser Axell had not forgotten. When at last he gave orders for his men to move out, the wayns creaking on their runners, he reined up beside the lord commander, close so that no one might overhear.
"Be sure to keep our princess safe," Ser Axell said. He glanced at the knights sparring in the training yard, his mouth twisting in distaste. "You swore she was under your protection."
Jon gave him an icy stare, the sort that was wont to make black brothers go silent. "I keep my oaths."
"See that you do." And with that, Ser Axell put his heels into his horse and trotted off.
Truth be told, it was an easy enough oath to keep. Before last night's dinner, he had not seen Princess Shireen since near the end of ninth moon. That evening she and her ladies had emerged to pray at the nightfires and observe a holy day. She had told him it was the day on which the Lord of Light had bestowed fire upon mortal men, the day he gave his word to the prophets who wrote The Book of the Threefold Path, the holy text of those who followed R'hllor.
How gangly Shireen had looked, too tall for a girl of fourteen, her skinny arms clutching a leatherbound tome etched with golden scrollwork and leaping flames. When her ladies finished singing hymns, she opened her book to read scripture in a sweet strong voice, then led her ladies in prayer. She prayed for her father, for her mother, for Ser Davos the Onion Knight and for his family in their grief. She prayed for the realm, she prayed for summer, she even prayed for Lord Snow and the brave brothers of the Night's Watch.
Jon hoped the prayers had given her some solace. His own never did, not anymore. Though he flew on the wings of Mormont's old raven and perched in the branches of a weirwood every night before he went to sleep, he found neither peace nor wisdom in his silent vigils.
The training yard was anything but silent. Jon turned his steps toward the sound of steel, making his way through the snow toward the sparring knights. Longclaw rode at his side, the sword rattling in its scabbard. It was odd, not having the blade slung over his shoulder. He had carried it there for almost four years; so long he feared that he would never grow tall enough to move it to his hip. As it was, he still stood less than six feet tall; he'd grown more pimples than inches, though thankfully most were on his chest, shoulders, and upper back, hidden from sight.
There was no hiding the knights of the Vale. They stood out like peacocks amongst the white snow and black brothers, their heavy wool surcoats dyed with the bright colors of their houses. There were Waynwoods in green and Belmores in purple, Redforts in white and red and Coldwaters in white and red and blue, Shetts in checkered black and white with golden wings, Hunters in brown with their silver arrows.
"Well fought," Yohn Royce boomed, light glinting off the runes graven into his bronze armor. Though he was sixty, with hair as grey as his eyes, the Lord of Runestone stood tall and proud as he extended a hand to his fallen foe, a beardless youth in the pily grey and black of House Tollett with a fat bump rising on his head. Over his shoulder Jon heard Dolorous Edd snort, doubtless unsurprised by the humiliation of his distant kinsmen.
Edd was less pleased when Jon dispatched him to take the swaying Tollett youth to the sickroom. Roone was still giddy over finally earning a silver link in healing; the novice could use some practice. Granted, Jon did not know if there was much Roone could do about dizziness and a swollen head, but even so.
Like Yohn Royce and his hapless opponent, most of the men from the Vale were greybeards and youths, at least those of noble birth. The men-at-arms were another matter, all in their prime, strong and steady and eager for battle. A captain of middling height and age who wore the bronze badge of House Royce was currently running drills with Iron Emmett and his men, doubtless teaching them some new tricks.
For a while Jon stood to the side, watching the men train and wishing there were more of them. Lord Royce had departed Gulltown with nearly fifteen thousand men, a third of the Vale's strength. When his battered ships made anchor at Eastwatch, less than half remained, and those sick with grief.
First the rough seas of the Bite had taken their share; old Lord Eon Hunter and several of his ships had been wrecked against the rocky shores of the islands called the Sisters. Then the fleet had to fight its way past Widow's Watch and into the Shivering Sea; more ships, including that of Lord Melcolm, had gone down in a storm that lasted for a week. Finally, a tempest had blown the fleet halfway across the Bay of Seals, toward Skagos rather than Eastwatch. A dozen ships had been lost there, along with two nephews of Ser Symond Templeton, the Knight of Ninestars. A cresting wave had washed one overboard; the other had jumped into the sea in hopes of rescuing his brother. Neither were seen again.
Even with only half their strength, Eastwatch was ill equipped to house so many men. Most of their tents and pavilions had been on the sunken ships, forcing the tempest tossed survivors to cram together in the halls and towers which were fit for habitation. Held in such close quarters, the bloody flux had run rampant, along with winter fever and the grippe.
In the end, only five thousand Valemen remained, those either lucky enough to be spared from getting sick, or strong enough to fight it off. Yohn Royce had come down with both the grippe and winter fever, and repelled them with the same vigor with which he hammered opponents in the training yard.
He had plenty of them. Jon had welcomed Yohn Royce and eight hundred of his men to Castle Black. Another seven hundred remained at Eastwatch to annoy Cotter Pyke; five hundred had taken the long road west to the Shadow Tower, to be hosted by an almost giddy Ser Denys Mallister. The remaining men Jon had divided up equally, sending two hundred to each of the fifteen keeps that had once been abandoned, including Sable Hall and Stonedoor, left empty with Stannis's men all at the Nightfort.
The king's men had not been prepared for winter. They came from the sunny fields of the Reach and the warm, rainy woods of the Stormlands, where one might simply throw a fur cloak over thin silks to keep off the chill. But the knights of the Vale came from the mountains, or near enough to know the threat of snow and ice. Beneath their furs they wore quilted coats and layers of wool; fur gloves warmed their hands, and neatly trimmed beards shielded their faces from the cold.
"Edd," said Jon when the squire returned, just in time to watch Bronze Yohn step aside, chest heaving, having now hammered a Redfort into the ground. "When did I last have Lord Royce to dinner?"
Dolorous Edd frowned. Jon could almost see him counting on the fingers hidden beneath his fur gloves.
"A week past, m'lord," the squire finally said. "Hobb sent up a nice sharp cheese, oatbread, roasted turnips, onion pies, and stewed beef. You could barely tell the beef had been salted; he soaked it so long I half thought I'd see it rise up and start swimming."
He supposed the squire must be right; Edd paid far more attention to meals than the lord commander did. Mindful of Maester Turquin's orders, Jon ate every bite of his winter rations, but he did not savor them, not even when Hobb seasoned his meals with some of the few remaining spices.
Jon did savor the next hour he spent in the training yard. Iron Emmett gave him a good bout, and a pair of younger rangers pressed him hard when he faced them both at once. The knights of the Vale were quite another matter. Their skills had been honed with masters-at-arms, and they spent half their days training with each other, not buried in parchments or making the rounds about Castle Black. When the bitter cold finally drove them back into the vaults beneath the Wall, they sparred there too, claiming the dim torchlight was good preparation for battling at night.
In short succession, Jon defeated Ser Uther Shett, a pimply youth who could not have been more than twenty, fought to a draw against Ser Ben Coldwater, a thickly bearded youth of twenty-three, and then lost to Ser Edmund Belmore, a well-muscled man of forty and the heir to Strongsong.
He managed better against Bronze Yohn, much to his surprise. Jon had expected to be pounded into the ground or driven into a snow drift. Instead, the bout ended with a draw, both men breathily heavily, their faces beaded with sweat.
It was a week before Jon's duties allowed him the time to host Bronze Yohn for dinner. They supped in his solar near the top of King's Tower, the dark walls brightened by some surcoats Dolorous Edd had found and turned into banners. A pointless exercise, the lord commander had thought, but he could not be bothered to scold Edd for it.
Yohn Royce's bronze velvet tunic made a mockery of the faded, moth-eaten surcoats, as did the fine velvet doublets of his companions. Their colors were as resplendent as if they had been dyed only yesterday, the cloth embossed or embroidered with the sigils of their houses.
At Dolorous Edd's insistence, Jon was garbed almost as richly. The lord commander wore a black velvet tunic, high leather boots, a silver chain about his neck, and a wide belt with a silver buckle about his waist. The clothes were oddly familiar, though Jon kept forgetting to ask Dolorous Edd where he had found such finery.
The other high officers who dined with them did not dress nearly so well. Bowen Marsh, the red-faced Lord Steward, Othell Yarwyck, the lantern-jawed First Builder, Black Jack Bulwer, the narrow-eyed First Ranger, all wore wool. So did Maester Turquin, though he was garbed in robes rather than a tunic, the many colored metal links of his maester's chain shining in the light.
As a dinner guest, Bronze Yohn was as predictable as he was courteous. Conversations might begin anywhere, but sooner or later they would invariably turn to his three favorite topics: the Vale, the latest news from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, and the King in the North.
Thankfully, there had been no ravens from the Vale since their last supper a fortnight past. Lysa Arryn remained in the Eyrie, along with her son little Lord Robert and a dozen children who served as his playmates, among them one of Yohn Royce's granddaughters, a great-niece of Ser Vardis Waynwood, and the young son of Ser Edmund Belmore's cousin.
"A shame, a damned shame," Ser Edmund groused, shaking his head. "Victor is a good-hearted child; that was why he was chosen to ward with Lady Lysa."
"My Lorra is much the same," said Yohn. He furrowed his bushy eyebrows. "Ten, she was, on her last nameday. She asked her mother if she could come home as a nameday gift."
Half the table winced; Ser Vardis looked stricken as he made the sign of the Seven over his heart. When first they arrived at Castle Black, the lords had been confident that Ser Brynden Tully would force Lady Lysa to see sense. Surely she would trust her former Knight of the Gate to escort herself, her son, and her wards down the mountain.
Much to their dismay, Lady Lysa had not only refused to budge, but Ser Brynden had broken his leg in three places on the descent. Supplies still went up the Giant's Lance, but since the mishap Lady Lysa refused to accept any noble visitors, though ravens still flew back and forth as nobles sought to cozen her into returning their children.
"Small wonder," sighed Ser Ossifer Coldwater, stroking his grey beard. "Lord Jon always said his wife had more heart than sense, poor child. She was a shy, timid little thing, before all those miscarriages and stillbirths set her nerves awry."
Ser Edmund snorted. "Nerves? The woman had a pot boy thrown out the moon door; claimed he was deliberately provoking Robert's shaking fits by clattering when he served at table." Across the table Bowen Marsh shook his head disapprovingly. "And then there was the bastard girl she had caned for knocking Robert over, and the master-at-arms she dismissed for daring to give Robert a wooden sword—"
"Not that he could wield it," Yohn Royce said gruffly. His huge gnarled hands held a loaf of warm bread; he broke it in half, and offered Jon the larger piece. "Nothing like his namesake, poor lad. The gods are cruel to let him suffer so, and to torment Lady Lysa with a child that she will outlive."
"Only if the supplies keep going up," said one of the young squires at the end of the table. Jon Redfort was a homely lad, with a solemn face that did not suit his fifteen years. "Much more snow and the paths will close; even the wildest of mountain clansmen would be hard pressed to make the ascent."
"Must be hard to make the ascent even now," said Othell Yarwyck, spearing an overlarge chunk of sausage on his dagger. "How many men have fallen off the mountain?" He popped the sausage in his mouth, chewing noisily.
Ser Vardis eyed the first builder with a look of vague distaste. "More than a dozen. Lord Nestor has been forced to offer higher pay as an inducement; any man who dies on the mountain will have his pay doubled, the coin given to his next of kin."
Black Jack Bulwer laughed without humor. "Clever, that. What happens if he runs out of men fool enough to take such a generous offer?"
"Let us pray it does not come to that," said Septon Tim.
The short, jowly greybeard was one of several septons who had accompanied the Vale lords, much to Septon Cellador's dismay. It had taken them less than a week to take note of Cellador's fondness for drink, and less than that to decide that such sinfulness was not becoming of a member of their order, even one that ministered to the black sheep of the Night's Watch. Jon had never seen Cellador so sober, or so miserable.
Clydas was also rather miserable of late. The septons were all ardent correspondents; the ravenry had never seen so much use. Poor Clydas, old, half-blind, and hunched, was kept busy not only sending their letters, but delivering those they received from fellow septons and septas across the Seven Kingdoms.
To Jon's surprise, many of the ravens came from Harrenhal. Yohn Royce might despise the Lannister lickspittle who served as the High Septon in King's Landing, but the High Septon of Harrenhal had annulled his daughter Ysilla's marriage without so much as a by-your-leave. Bronze Yohn had been heard to say his daughter did not deserve to be saddled with a husband mad enough to spurn a Royce of Runestone, whose blood was ancient as her name, let alone scorn her for a bastard girl.
While Jon filled his mouth with the soft bread Lord Yohn had given him, Septon Tim filled his mouth with words, regaling them with reports from the most recent batch of ravens.
The Queen Regent, Cersei Lannister, remained busy as ever. Not only had the queen regent taken massive loans from the Iron Bank, but she was now using them to build a new royal fleet. The queen regent had also issued a series of edicts to suppress the unruly peasants of the Westerlands, though the laws applied not only in the west but across all the fiefs that bent the knee to little King Tommen. The High Septon of King's Landing had preached a sermon in support of the edicts; copies had been sent to every castle, keep, and holdfast, though Septon Tim had not yet had time to read the one he had gotten his hands on.
There were a dozen other small matters after that. Jon mostly listened in silence, content to spoon up stew while everyone else argued over each tidbit and its level of import. The conversation flowed smoothly; it do not even pause when a steward came to summon Maester Turquin to the sickroom to deal with a brother who slipped on a patch of ice.
There were more pirates on the Stepstones than usual, and trouble in the crownlands. An attempt to squash common banditry had somehow resulted in a riot at Duskendale that left Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard gravely wounded and half his knights dead. The new King's Hand, Lord Randyll Tarly, had been forced to ride out personally with a small host to put an end to the disorder and hang all those responsible.
"King Robb would have smashed them with half as many men," said Lonnel Redfort, a look of near worship on his pimpled face. "King Robb is as brave as Ser Mychel; braver, even."
Yohn Royce gave the squire a dubious look, his good humor balancing on a knife's edge. On the one hand, Yohn was never pleased to hear praise of the gallant Ser Mychel Redfort, champion of tourneys and annuller of marriages. On the other hand, he liked Robb so much that when the king gently refused the offer to wed a Royce, Yohn had blamed his daughter's sharp tongue rather than the king.
"A bold brave man, is our Young Wolf," the lord finally said, to Lonnel's evident relief. "The Whispering Wood, Oxcross, Sweet Root, victory after victory, every time with the odds against him. He spoke humbly of his triumphs when we visited Winterfell for the tourney, and spoke most courteously of my son Waymar-"
Singers will praise everything he does, while your deeds go unsung, Jon thought with a pang of envy, letting the words wash over him. Lord Mormont had warned him long ago, so why did it still hurt? No one wrote songs about slogging through counts and inventories, of trying to keep the peace between northern lords and wildlings, between black brothers and southron knights.
Worse, Jon did not know this hero king of whom men spoke with awe. In his memory Robb was just his brother, heir to Winterfell, a boy of fourteen with snowflakes melting in his hair. But in the letters from Winterfell, Robb was the King in the North, King of the Trident, King of Mountain and Vale. Jon had put aside his old family when he swore his vows; he could not write of the doubts in his heart or the weariness in his soul.
Instead, Lord Commander Snow wrote to King Robb of grain and glass, of snow and storms, of maintaining garrisons and mustering troops. Though a part of him still longed to have his brother at his side, a proven general to command the Watch against the armies of the dead, when King Robb proposed raising a northern host and marching to the Wall, the lord commander had dissuaded him.
It was hard enough already, keeping thousands of men fed and housed. Their numbers spread across three hundred leagues of Wall, and even with constant plowing the roads were a mess. Besides, there was no host to fight, not yet, anyway. The Night's Watch was besieged by winter, not by wights that could be slain with steel and fire.
That fact had not pleased the knights of the Vale. The greybeards were eager to die in glorious battle, sword in hand, rather than perish of age or illness. The youths were just as restless, but none of them expected to die. No, they dreamed of making their names fighting monsters out of legend, of returning south in triumph to be fawned over by pretty girls and given lands and titles by grateful lords.
Though neither a youth nor a greybeard, Ser Edmund Belmore was no less determined to bring battle to the foe. Soon after his arrival, Ser Edmund had demanded to lead a ranging beyond the Wall. Jon had already forbidden the black brothers from such rangings, but that did not trouble Ser Edmund. Nor did telling him of Stannis Baratheon's shattered host. After all, Stannis was a Stormlander, unused to the cold. Worse, he had abandoned the protection of the Seven to follow a foreign demon. Seeing Ser Edmund would not be dissuaded, Jon had reluctantly let him go.
Ser Edmund had returned a week later, pale and shivering. Not a single Other or wight had he found, but he had lost a tenth of his men. A pair of stragglers who fell behind as dusk descended; a sergeant with a weak bladder who wandered too far from camp when he went to relieve himself; an older man who went to sleep with a sore arm and a light head only to wake an hour later with burning blue eyes.
After that, Jon had extended the ban on rangings to include the knights of the Vale. Though they were not sworn brothers, the Wall still belonged to the lord commander, a fact of which Yohn Royce sternly reminded all and sundry when they came to him to complain. Such complaints were maddeningly frequent; when Jon returned his attention to the dinner table, he found Dolorous Edd pouring wine and Lonnel Redfort pouring out his woes.
"I'm almost a man grown," Lonnel protested, oblivious to the crack in his voice. "Ser Vardis said he thinks a second ranging might be more successful than the first, we just need to take more men. How am I to earn a knighthood unless by doing some great deed?"
Yohn Royce gave Ser Vardis a flinty look.
"Is that so?" He did not wait for an answer. "Perhaps there has been some misunderstanding. Surely there is no cause to doubt the son of Eddard Stark. He is the brother to our king, the lord commander of the Night's Watch."
"Your first battle will come soon enough," Jon said mildly. "Tell me, do you know the vows we take?"
Red-faced, Lonnel shook his head.
"Night gathers, and now my watch begins," Jon recited, softly, slowly. In the silence one might have heard a pin drop. "It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory."
"I shall live and die at my post," said Black Jack Bulwer.
"I am the sword in the darkness."
"I am the watcher on the walls," Bowen Marsh and Othell Yarwyck intoned in unison.
When Jon spoke the last words, every brother in black spoke with him.
"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. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."
Lonnel stared at the sworn brothers, mouth agape. He is only a boy. That made Jon sad; what sort of father let his son leave hearth and home so young?
"We are the shield that guards," Jon told him, ignoring the vise tightening about his heart. "A shield defends against the foe; it is little use if you lower it, let alone if you drop it. Our shield is the Wall, the greatest shield ever built. Mance Rayder's giants could not smash its foundations; his magic horn could not bring it down. But even the mightest wall requires men to guard it."
"Poachers and thieves, debtors and outlaws, rapers and killers." Yohn Royce shook his head. "And too few good men like the officers gathered here, as Lord Mormont learned to his sorrow."
Jon thought of Pyp, always japing as he worked, of Grenn, stolid and faithful, of Hobb, fretful as a mother hen over his Mole's Town boys.
"Too few men," he agreed, rather than let his temper flare. "We owe you a great debt for coming to our aid, my lord."
The rest of the meal passed swiftly. Picking up on Jon's manner, the other officers took pains to praise the knights for their gallantry. Soon Ser Vardis was boasting of how swiftly the knights of the Vale would best the Others when they came. Why, he would not be surprised if they vanquished the foe before King Robb could even reach the Wall.
Jon kept his doubts to himself. Confident as the northern lords were in the strength of the Wall, King Robb meant to leave little to chance. He was prepared to march as soon as ravens flew to herald the beginning of battle.
Mustering levies was hard and slow in summer, when men spread out among the thousands of villages and holdfasts that dotted the open land. In winter, though, many clustered around the largest keeps and holdfasts, and grain and salted meat kept just as well sitting in wayns in the freezing cold as in the cellars and graineries.
Bowen Marsh was the first to depart, pleading weariness at the late hour. Othell Yarwyck and Black Jack Bulwer took their leave soon after, as did the knights of the Vale. Dolorous Edd and two of Hobb's kitchen boys cleared the table, Edd grumbling beneath his breath, Ben and Alyn sneaking bites of the choicest scraps that remained before carrying the last of the dishes off to the kitchens.
They were the last to leave, save for Yohn Royce, who sat alone by the hearth. The flames cast shadows in the lines of his face, and lent a sheen to his grey eyes until they almost looked wet. Jon took a chair beside the old lord, hesitant to break the hush that had fallen over the room.
"In a few hours it will be the eleventh," Yohn Royce said, his voice faint.
"Do you know, I had almost forgotten that Ned was visiting Runestone when Waymar was born. Always fond of children, was Ned. Your father gave Robar a sweet once, not knowing his mother had forbidden it. Robar had just learned to walk; he toddled after Ned every day after that. He was begging for a sweet when I came to fetch him to meet his new baby brother, and Ned came along with us."
He peered at Jon. His eyes lingered over the long face, over the long brown hair, as though searching for his father's ghost.
"Strange, that when I close my eyes I can still see them. Ysilla, her brown hair drenched in sweat, half asleep from her exertions. Waymar, swaddled in her arms, looking just like her; Robar wiggling in mine because I would not let him leap onto the featherbed. Ned, standing to the side, quiet as always, with tears in his eyes and a smile on his lips."
Yohn closed his hand into a fist. "Gone, all of them. Damn that bloody horse for missing his footing, damn the Lannisters for their treachery, and damn Loras Tyrell for his reckless wrath. Nigh on a year after Robar's death, Loras sent me a raven to apologize. As if he thought I would wish to hear condolences and excuses from the man who slew my son, let alone an account of how brave he died."
He gave a bitter laugh. "The Others did not even give me that much. What befell poor Waymar I shall never know; his bones shall never be returned to rest with those of his forefathers. I can only pray that they butchered him so badly that he could not rise again. Should I see his shade in battle..."
Tears dripped down the lord's wrinkled nose. Unsure of what to say, Jon said nothing. Instead he laid a hand upon his arm, and gave a gentle squeeze. For long moments the lord wept in silence, only wiping his eyes once they had run dry.
"Trueborn or not," Yohn said, in a thick voice. "You are truly Ned's son. I would be glad to tell you of his boyhood, if you would like."
Wordless with shock, Jon could only nod.
Later, when he went to sleep, it was with stories of Eddard Stark racing through his head. Though the tales began when Eddard was eight, and ended when he was eighteen, they were all of a kind. His father had been gentle, his father had been thoughtful, his father had been so honorable that the news of Jon's birth had caused weeks of quiet argument and confusion amongst the high lords of the Vale.
"On the Sisters, they say your mother was one of theirs." Yohn Royce had told him. "A fisherman's daughter, they say. A brave girl who helped Ned cross the Bite so he could get home and call his banners; a sweet girl who offered him comfort for the loss of his father and his brother at the hands of the Mad King."
Soon after that Yohn left, not knowing that he had shook the foundations of Jon's world asunder.
Jon turned over, wrapping his arms around Ghost. It was the direwolf's habit to take up half the bed, his warmth almost worth the mornings Jon awoke with fur in his mouth.
He was still thinking of the fisherman's daughter, wondering who she had been, when he realized that she could not be his mother. Jon was of an age with Robb, though younger by a month. Lord Eddard had crossed the Bite more than half a year before wedding Catelyn Tully at Riverrun, and after that he was riding from one battle to the next.
Was my mother a camp follower? Was that why Lord Eddard had never told him? Perhaps he had thought it better to keep silent, rather than sully an honest tongue with a well-meant lie. Was his mother as shameful as his father was honorable? Had she taken up whoring, or thievery, or committed some terrible crime whilst he was in her belly? Even if she had, Jon would have still liked to know her name. All the other bastards knew who their mothers were, from the meanest of black brothers to the proudest of bastard knights who had come from the Vale.
When he woke the next morning, Jon flung himself into his work, desperate to forget the nightmares that had plagued him. King Robb might rule, but Lord Commander Snow was bound to serve. It was his duty, his burden, to keep the Night's Watch alive long enough to fight the Others and their wights.
It was a hard task. Not long after breakfast a sad-faced messenger called him to the sickroom. Jon arrived to find Roone lying upon a bed, pale and clammy, his eyes closed as if in sleep. Only when Maester Turquin turned the corpse's head did Jon see that the back of the skull was caved in. There had been a patch of black ice; one slip had sent him rolling down the stairs to crash into a stone block, briefly left there by builders who needed more men to haul it.
Nor was he the only victim of winter's cruelty. In third moon Jon had thought it awful that he should lose a man almost every month; now he was losing a man almost every week. Some slipped and fell badly on patches of ice. Others slipped away in their sickbeds, taken by grippe or winter fever or one of the many other illnesses that fed upon the cold and hungry.
Many of the oldest sworn brothers were also troubled by weak hearts and frail lungs that struggled to breathe in the bitter cold. A few begged their officer's leave to take to their beds, in hopes of recovering their strength. More doggedly kept at their work until they collapsed, panting, complaining of pain and numbness before clutching at their chests.
"It's not Maester Turquin's fault he cannot save them, my lord," Armen the Acolyte told Jon, after they lost a builder who was only fifty. "We can make a salve for dry cracked skin, we can cut away frostbite and bind up the wounds with vinegar, but we cannot mend a heart that has given out."
Sometimes Jon felt so helpless that he wanted to scream. The days continued to grow darker as the solstice approached, the cold sinking ever deeper into his men. Both the septons and red priests agreed that the last day of the year was an evil day, one when foul magics were most potent, when shades and demons escaped their bonds to walk the earth.
Jon found it hard to disagree; those who followed the old gods believed the same. That was why the new year was always celebrated with bonfires and the like, to drive away the dark. Of late even his dreams were shrouded in darkness; he dreamt of a three-eyed crow pecking at him, snatching at his cloak, trying to drag him toward the cave the Old Bear's raven had refused to explore. When that failed, the three-eyed crow landed on his shoulder and cawed into his ear; Jon had awoken to a stinging slap upside the head, his hand throbbing from the force of the blow.
As if Jon did not have enough troubles already. The winch chains at Castle Black might be fixed, but Othell Yarwyck reported that many of those at the other keeps were cracking from the cold. Chains had snapped at three keeps; another four had taken theirs down for mending, relying on switchback stairs to climb the Wall, a much slower, riskier, and more laborious ascent.
And then there was Bowen Marsh, in a perpetual state of panic over the storeroom. The moment the Great Walrus ceased sending furs, the lord steward had gone into a conniption fit at the very thought of feeding the ungrateful wildlings. There were less supplies from the Vale than he had expected, and storms plagued the regular shipments to Eastwatch. Should supplies cease coming, they would only last six months, perhaps a year if the hunting was good.
The supplies that had arrived from the Vale were also causing problems. The lords and knights had brought all sorts of dried fruit and sweet jams, jars of golden honey and chests of fragrant spices. Though kept locked away in their cells, that did not prevent attempts at theft. Jon had been forced to confine Lync in an ice cell for a day after he was caught with his hands in Ser Ossifer's spice chest, holding three pinches of pepper in his cupped hand.
Lync had wept when brought before Jon for judgment, babbling and pleading. He only wanted a taste, he said, just one meal that did not taste of cold. Jon could not make out the rest. The steward was sobbing too hard, his face covered in snot and tears. Ser Ossifer had wanted Jon to take the thieving hand with Longclaw, and only agreed to the ice cells after much persuasion. Not that Jon's mercy had done any good. The next morning they had found Lync dead, curled up into a ball, tears frozen on his cheeks. And for what? A pinch of pepper he never got to taste, and the heartless savagery of a greybeard's pride.
A quiet dinner with Princess Shireen on the twenty-fourth did nothing to soothe Jon's anger. The invitation had only come about to serve as a pointed reminder that the princess was under his protection, and that the vows of the Night's Watch required him to take no part in the quarrels of the realm. He would not have thought such a reminder necessary, until one of the knights of the Vale idly raised the idea of imprisoning Shireen's guards and seizing her as a hostage to ensure Stannis's good behavior. And to restore her to the Faith, of course; the knights and their septons were appalled at her allegiance to the Lord of Light.
He did not expect a dinner with quiet, gentle Shireen to turn into an impassioned sermon. What began as a quiet defense of the Lord of Light and the principles set out in The Threefold Path somehow escalated into a firm yet polite defense of both the Lady Melisandre and of her father King Stannis. Melisandre had saved her life when no one else could, aided by the Lord of Light. Of course King Stannis would turn to R'hllor's teachings; he had only lost the Battle of the Blackwater because he lost faith in his god.
Queen Selyse's faith had never wavered. Her mother had told Shireen what she meant to do, had hugged her close and told her of Nissa Nissa and the burden of sacrifice. Her mother had gone willingly to the pyre, as brave as any knight. So had good Ser Davos, who told her the whole world depended upon her father's victory against the dark, and made her promise to remain at Castle Black so the king would not lose his heir to the chills of the Nightfort.
"Yet the egg did not hatch, princess," Jon told her gently.
Shireen bit her lip, the way Arya used to. "Maybe the Others interfered with the magic," she said. "Or maybe the day was wrong, or the witnesses didn't keep their faith. Spells aren't like sums, Lady Melisandre says. They're like dancing, or singing, where everything has to fall into place just right."
Jon could have used a bit less singing as he went about his rounds the next day. He had made the mistake of accepting a tail, and compounded his folly by asking Pyp to be one of his guards, along with Grenn, Pate, and Rory. Much to his displeasure, Pyp spent the entire morning humming to himself, when not singing under his breath. The mummer's boy was in a fine mood, thanks to the crates of preserved lemons newly arrived from Dorne.
Jon had not been able to enjoy them. They tasted different than the lemons he had eaten as a boy, but those fruits were for the folk of Winterfell, not the bastards of the Night's Watch. Even so, last night he had dreamt of wandering the glass gardens, all alone among the pale blue blossoms of the winter roses.
Yet despite his dour mood, more than once Jon found himself humming along with Pyp, his breath steaming in the cold as he made his rounds. The lord commander was almost smiling as he crossed by the training yard on his way to the wormwalks beneath the Wall.
Until he heard the shouting, and saw the knights gathered round a fallen lord.
No.
Snow flew beneath Jon's bootheels as he broke into a sprint, toward the armor shining bronze beneath the rays of the pale noonday sun. The knight lay flat on his back, his chest heaving, his right hand clutching at his left arm. A squire removed his helm, revealing a lined face dappled with sweat, the knight's breath rattling as he fought for air.
Jon dropped to his knees, heedless of the clamor all around, men pushing and pointing and yelling, boys gone pale with fear. Yohn Royce's went wide when they saw him, one hand reaching up as if to caress his cheek.
"Way?" He choked out. "Way..." There was another terrible rattle. Jon took the old man's hand, the tips of his fingers brushing against the wrist, feeling the pulse beat rabbit quick, faster faster faster faster—
"Let go of him, my lord."
Jon looked up. Maester Turquin stood over him, light flaring off his chain collar from a sun that was no longer directly overhead. Cold snow had soaked through his breeches where he had knelt, and his ears were numb with cold, his hood having fallen down.
"He's gone, my lord," said Bowen Marsh. He stood behind the maester, his broad face crumpled.
"Gone," cawed the Old Bear's raven, who sat perched atop an archery butt. "Gone."
The lord commander released his grip on the dead man's hand, folding the old knight's arms across his chest. Someone had already closed his eyes, but something still looked wrong. A few moments digging in the snow turned up a tourney mace; Jon placed it atop Yohn Royce's chest, folding his fingers about the handle.
"Leave me," Jon rasped when he was done, drawing up the hood of his cloak so to better withstand the rising wind. There was always a last vigil for a fallen knight; Jon knew little of the Seven, but he knew that much. He would stand vigil here, until someone brought a stretcher, and then follow it back to the old knight's cell.
"Beg pardon, Lord Commander, but my tidings cannot wait."
"Can't they?" Jon snapped. Now that he had risen to his feet, Longclaw hung heavily on his hip. "Perhaps you had not noticed that one of our staunchest allies lies dead right beneath your nose. What tidings matter more than that?"
Bowen Marsh took a step back, his jowls quivering. "The princess is gone."
"Gone," cried the raven.
Jon blinked, blood pounding in his ears. He could not have heard that right.
"Ser Axell Florent came, not two hours after daybreak," Marsh said, trembling. "He left his escort behind on the road, and fetched the princess from her cloister. Sawwood saw them leave; Ser Axell gave him a silver stag to say nothing. When he lost it dicing with Hobb, he came to me. The princess went willingly, he said, though they brought none of her ladies. I was coming to find you when the smuggler's boy burst into King's Tower, ranting and raving and demanding to see the lord commander."
"His name is Devan Seaworth. He's the king's own squire."
That was important, though Jon could not presently remember why. Ghost bared his teeth at his heels, his fangs whiter than the snow, his eyes red as garnets. Red as blood.
"Thank you, Bowen. I'll see him now."
The lord commander's voice was as calm as a pool on a windless day. He could not fathom why Bowen Marsh should look so alarmed. The Old Pomegranate stood frozen in place, glancing at Pyp and Grenn as if he wanted them to seize their lord commander.
When Jon began striding toward King's Tower, Marsh hurried after him, babbling nonsense. The storehouses urgently needed him, no, the builders, no, the knights of the Vale would surely wish to hear of their proud lord's last moments-
Only the effort of climbing the King's Tower stairs finally put an end to Marsh's blather. It resumed at each landing, as if Bowen Marsh thought a few feeble words would make him turn around.
When Jon reached his solar, it was to find Dolorous Edd hovering over a sweat-soaked squire. His sodden furs had been hung by the fire to dry; his doublet was gold and black, with a ring of ragged threads where someone had ripped off the flaming heart of R'hllor once sewn on the breast.
"Thank you, Devan," Jon said, when the lad finished the tale, his words pouring out like poison from a wound. "Now rest. Edd will take you to the maester, and I expect you to stay there."
"But—"
Devan fell silent at the look on the lord commander's face, and went without another word. A few barked orders, and Pyp and Grenn followed, giving each other nervous looks as they fetched Pate and Rory, who'd stood guard at the door.
"You cannot do this," Bowen insisted when they were gone. "The men are already nervous of the coming solstice, and Yohn Royce's death will make matters worse. Let Stannis destroy himself; his madness is none of our affair, and there will be less mouths to worry about feeding. The Nightfort is five days each way, anything could happen whilst you are away—"
"Do not tell me what I can and cannot do, my lord steward." Jon bared his teeth in a terrible mockery of a smile. "You swore a vow, and you owe me your obedience. Until I return, Castle Black is yours, as it was when the Old Bear left upon his last ranging."
"You swore vows too, as I recall. The Night's Watch takes no part."
"I mean to reason with Stannis, not to slay him."
"You cannot reason with a madman."
"Perhaps," Jon said softly. "But I can try, and you will not stop me, my lord."
It was dusk when Jon swung into the saddle, turning his garron west into the setting sun, Ghost trotting at his heels and a hundred black brothers riding at his back. Enough to make Stannis take pause, not so many as to seem a naked threat. Pyp and Grenn had chosen the men; Rory and Pate had secured provisions and packhorses.
There were not a league from Castle Black when they passed a horse lying dead beside the road, his sides lathered with frozen sweat. On their return he would have to have someone see that it was butchered; no sense letting good meat go to waste. Hopefully Turquin would inspect Devan thoroughly; running half a league in the snow and wind could not have been good for him.
In the songs gallant knights galloped through the night, intent on rescuing their lady fair. Jon and his men were not so fortunate. They rode at a walk, letting their mounts pick their footing. They moved even more slowly when they encountered drifts that had blown into the road, the snow rising higher than the garrons' knees. Every time their garrons' sides began to heave, the men dismounted, giving the poor beasts a rest until their breathing cleared. And so six days crept by.
When they finally sighted the broken towers of the Nightfort in the distance, limned against the setting sun, it was the last day of the year. Jon's nostril flared at the scent of smoke and ash hanging in the air; heedless of the danger, he nudged his garron to a trot.
Please, gods, he begged as Mormont's raven abandoned his shoulder to take flight. They had flown together each evening after making camp, marking the distance between Jon's party and that of Ser Axell. We were only a few hours behind, gods, don't let us be too late.
They were approaching the yard when a flash of movement caught Jon's eye, a body plummeting from atop the Wall. For a moment Jon thought the guard must have slipped, until a second man followed, then a third, falling past the empty space where the winch chains should have been. Ser Axell must not have heeded Jon's warning about the brittle iron.
"Pyp," he called. The mummer's boy groaned, and turned his garron toward the base of the switchback stair.
"Where is everyone?" Grenn muttered into his beard. The yard was full of tree stumps, with nary a man to be seen, no sound but that of the wailing wind.
Your Wall is one of the hinges of the world, the red woman breathed. I am stronger in its shadow than I have ever been.
It was Ghost who led them to the scaffold they had built beneath the shadow of the Wall, hidden behind a cluster of shattered towers. It sat within a pit whose depths were piled high with wood, surrounded by hundreds of men who clasped blazing torches in their hands, bearing silent witness as a red shadow bustled about the pyre.
Less silent, when they saw Jon and his men approach. The king's men muttered angrily as they looked up at the black brothers still astride their garrons, ice and snow crunching beneath their hooves as they drew near. Grenn rode before Jon, his peace banner raised high, an extra layer of defense against the king's madness.
"I would have words with the king," Jon shouted. "Where may I find him?"
"Here," a hollow voice rasped. "And you can save your breath, lord commander."
Stannis Baratheon emerged from the crowd like a skeleton from a crypt. It was as if all his flesh had been stripped away, leaving only skin and bone behind. His eyes were sunken in dark sockets, his jaw clenched tight.
"Devan?" The king asked.
Jon nodded, searching the king's eyes for that shade of unnatural blue, for some sign of the madness which had taken him in its grasp. He found none. This was no wight, no thrall, only a shadow of a man with slumped shoulders and sorrow written upon his brow.
"The shadows are strongest, on the last day of the year," the king said. He faced Jon, placing his back to the pyre as the red priestess mounted its steps, her arm wrapped about the shoulders of a slim golden shadow that swayed but did not fight as she bound it to the stake atop the scaffold.
"Lightbringer is not a sword, you see," the king said, his eyes as dull and weary as his voice. "It is a comet streaking across the sky, a beacon to wake fire in men's hearts, a dragon to melt away the cold. A king defends his people, or he is no king at all. Would you turn away from them, and say the sacrifice is too great? Would you weigh your heart against the world, and deny which tipped the scales more heavily? I did not ask for this burden, and you will not turn me from my course, peace banner or no. Stand aside, or I swear your men shall perish before the sun has set, and you last of all."
Jon looked at the king, at the crowd of men-at-arms and knights who surrounded him. We are ahorse, but they have better arms and better armor, and four times our numbers. More than that, he realized, when he glimpsed the ant slowly climbing the switchback stair.
"It is not your heart against the world," Jon finally said. "It is your daughter."
"There is no difference." And with that, the king turned away.
Helpless to interfere, helpless to leave, Jon watched, Ghost panting at his side, as the red priestess leaped down from the scaffold, having placed the dragon egg beside the stake. A dread hush fell over the world as she returned to the king's side at the edge of the pit. All eyes fixed upon Melisandre as she raised her white arms above her head, chanting and singing in a tongue that rose and fell like the flickering of flames. Only the king looked away, his eyes fixed upon the top of the Wall, staring into nothingness, the icy wind snapping at his cloak.
Melisandre cried out; the wood in the pit burst into flames. They shone white-hot, with nary a trace of red nor gold to be seen. Soon they were lapping and licking at the edges of the scaffold, their edges shining blue as smoke rose over the pit.
As if roused from slumber by the fire's warmth, Shireen suddenly began to struggle. Her first cry was hoarse, her second silent, as though she had already wept and screamed her voice away. Gangly as she was, there was no strength in her limbs; she fought against the ropes to no avail, coughing and choking as the smoke grew thicker, the flames hotter, heedless of the howling winds that fanned them.
The Night's Watch takes no part, Jon reminded himself as the scaffold began to burn.
The Night's Watch takes no part, Jon reminded himself as Shireen's coughs grew louder.
The Night's Watch— Shireen slumped against the ropes, and suddenly Jon was galloping toward the pyre, Longclaw rising and falling as he slashed and parried at the men foolish enough to stand in his way, his brothers bellowing war cries as they charged in his wake, Ghost racing ahead, leaping to clamp his jaws around Ser Axell's throat.
For a moment the pyre disappeared, hidden behind the billowing smoke. A gust of wind shrieked across the sky, and suddenly he could see once more. Whilst Jon fought his way through the crowd, Stannis had leapt into the pit, into the narrow path left between the cords of wood. The edges of his cloak were already aflame as he vaulted onto the scaffold, his sword in hand, his eyes fixed on the girl he meant to sacrifice—
The ropes fell to the ground.
"TAKE HER!" Stannis roared.
His shriveled frame struggled to bear his daughter's meager weight; he half carried, half dragged her toward the edge of the scaffold. The garron shrieked as Jon drove him into the pit, the smell of burning hair stinging at his nose, the garron almost crumpling as the king shoved his daughter's limp form over the saddle, Jon gripping her tight as he turned the garron away from the flames.
A breath and a prayer, and the garron leapt free of the pit as though he had wings. Through the battle they charged and out the other side, Grenn and Long Hal somehow finding him in the crush and following after, Ghost rising out of the snow with jaws that dripped red with blood.
"Get her inside, and keep her safe," Jon bellowed. Grenn lifted the princess down from the horse, the sound of her coughs the sweetest music Jon had ever heard.
It was not the only music rising in the darkness. He turned back to the pyre for the first time since leaving it behind, his ears pierced by the despair of Melisandre's song.
Stannis had not left the scaffold. He stood tall beside the stake, ringed in by the flames, watching them unblinking as they drew ever closer. The song rose, and winds wailed, and the fires blossomed, wrapping their arms about the king, pulling him close, swallowing up his screams in a blaze of ecstasy.
And the noise of a great crack rent the world asunder, and in that instant all the fires went out, and there was nothing in the darkness, nothing but the shriek of the priestess as two eyes opened with a glow like moonlit ice, blue as the last flames which had devoured the king.
The shadow uncoiled, its maw opening. Embers blazed ice blue within its gullet; its dark wings beat at the air. Wings too small to bear its weight, though it was a slender beast, no taller than his knee.
"Come," he heard Melisandre cry in the darkness. "Hail, Lightbringer!"
The dragon turned toward the sound of the voice. He reared up on his legs, ash flying as he beat his wings again, screeching to the skies in a voice that cracked like ice, calling the priestess to him.
Longclaw in hand, Jon advanced, his gaze fixed on the burning blue eyes and glowing maw, the only light in the world. Around him he could hear men fumbling in the dark, some praying, some cursing, some fleeing. Jon ignored them all.
Melisandre reached the dragon before he did, her form dimly lit by the embers in his maw. The priestess scooped him up carefully, a look of wonder in her eyes as he nuzzled her, blue steam rising from his snout—
The priestess screamed. Each puff of the dragon's breath was as cold as the deepest frost. Her skin turned red, then blue, then black, the ice dragon growing larger as it wrapped her in its coils, drowning her in its shadows.
Jon could not fight the winter, but he could fight a dragon. Intent on consuming its mother, it was blind to all else. He gripped Longclaw in both hands, raised it high, and swung.
Whatever magic had woken the horror, it was no match for Valyrian steel. The dragon's breath guttered out as its head went flying, spurting black blood as it landed with a dull thump that sent up a cloud of ash.
There was no light, he could not see. Jon raised his scarf to keep the ash out of his mouth, and let his spirit fly with Mormont's raven, which soared above Pyp as he reached the top of the Wall and looked out.
Both men and raven screamed as one. There was light beyond the Wall.
It was the light of thousands upon thousands of eyes burning blue.
Uh... at least Other attempt #1 to break the Wall failed? Yay?
Jon: exists
Adult man: that's my son now
Adult man: *promptly dies*
Next Up:
139: Olyvar V
140: Dany VI (last in Part IV)
141: Edythe III (last in Part IV)
142: Cersei V (last in Part IV)
NOTES
1) Winter affects everything, in ways that are less obvious than just "oh travel is hard." First of all, whether you remain indoors or outdoors, winter can substantially affect both physical and mental health. Dry skin, Seasonal Affective Disorder, poor blood flow, asthma, disease spreading among those confined indoors... not great!
While lotions and moisturizers were not ubiquitous, there were ointments used for dry skin, made from animal fat, oil, or beeswax.
Then there's the difficulty of travel; here's my source on how horses cope with snow/ice.
2) The Vale host which sailed north is composed of the strongest Robb partisans. I chose them from the same houses Yohn Royce rallied to form the Lords Declarant in canon. We also see members of houses sworn to Runestone. Vicious winter storms smashing fleets is not exactly shocking; whether the Others are helping worsen those storms is deliberately ambiguous.
3) Disease was a huge deal for most of human history, an omnipresent killer except from roughly 1930-2019, when improved sanitation, knowledge of disease, and vaccines combined to substantially reduce epidemics and lower mortality rates. The grippe is an old name for influenza; winter fever is pneumonia; the bloody flux is dysentery.
4) Embossing velvet means using hot metal to stamp it with shapes; the technique dates to the 16th century.
The fancy clothes Edd brought for Jon is the outfit Benjen wore at the feast at Winterfell in AGOT. It was left in his cell when he went out on his last ranging
5) So, the population beyond the Wall. Hoo boy. In ASOS, we're told Mance has rallied almost the entire wildling population, supposedly 100,000, to march on the Wall. These are the survivors of years of pressure by the Others, the refugees driven further and further south.
Now, because I'm a masochistic maniac, I decided to try and calculate a plausible population for the lands beyond the Wall,taking the (dubious) 100,000 estimate as accurate. The show went full arctic for the lands beyond the Wall; though it isn't a perfect comparison, I based my estimates off of Norway, which had a population that grew from 150,000 in 1000 CE to around 400,000 in 1300 CE. The lands beyond the Wall are way bigger than Norway, but also far less hospitable, so close enough. In the best possible circumstances, let's place the usual population beyond the Wall at around 300,000 wildlings as of 1,000 years ago, then slowly declining to the 100,000 number as of 299 AC.
In canon, we know of at least ~4,000 wildlings coming south under Tormund in 300 AC. Here, due to various ripple effects, the surviving wildlings do not come south until mid 301 AC, but when Tormund came, he brought basically everyone he could find who was still alive, around 17,000 who scattered across the Gift.
As for the rest of the 100,000, plus those who perished for a few years earlier… uhm. Uhm. Well. At least they make good night lights??