Early February, 305 AC
Night fell slowly, cold and dark as death.
Jon Snow waited atop the Silent Tower, as he always did, a shadow clad in black. Sable fur lined his heavy cloak, the hood drawn up to shield him from the cold. Beneath the hood was a fleece-lined cap to cover his ears, and a woolen scarf to cover his nose and mouth. Fur mitts covered his leather gloves; a surcoat covered his plate and mail. Beneath the frozen steel he wore a quilted gambeson, and under that a lambswool tunic, linen undertunic, thick wool breeches, and two pairs of hose.
All those layers, yet nothing could save him from the jaws of the biting wind. Dusk would soon be over; the sun gave little light, and less warmth. Already Jon's scars throbbed with pain; little flickers of lightning flashed across his cheek, his back, his right hand and right thigh. It could not be helped; there was no better place to survey the field of battle down below.
It had taken long hours of work in the bitter cold to throw up the first crude barricade of casks and barrels, logs and beams, old wayns turned on their sides and sharpened stakes driven into the ground. It had taken even longer to build the timber palisade which had replaced it. The palisade was a pitiful excuse for a wall, only six feet high, barely taller than Jon. Below it was a sloping earthen dike, built one shovel at a time with the frozen earth the men had dug to make a ditch as deep as a man's chest. Soon it would be deeper still.
If we can hold. If we survive the night.
Jon forced himself to look up. Overhead loomed the Wall, just as it had every day since he arrived at Castle Black. Vast beyond reckoning, it stretched from horizon to horizon, immense and imposing. The full moon gleamed silver amidst the darkness, and everywhere the pale ice glimmered like diamond.
Everywhere, save directly in front of him.
Once, there had been a gate, a tunnel through the ice, defended by iron bars and murder holes and the rangers who stood high atop the Wall. That was where Mance Rayder had thought to force his way through, where he had sacrificed countless wildlings to break the gate. When it broke, they found Donal Noye and his men waiting. Every wildling who entered the tunnel had died there, down in the dark. So had Donal Noye, who had slain Mag the Mighty, king of the giants, and been slain in turn.
Now the tunnel was gone, as was the ice above it. There was nothing, nothing but a black void, the rent where the Wall had torn asunder. Shards of shattered ice jutted out long and sharp as spears, like rows of jagged teeth around a gaping maw. And in the maw...
Foul and familiar, the stench of dead men came wafting through the night. Ghost bared his teeth in a silent snarl, his fur bristling, his ears back. Already knowing what he would see, Jon raised the Myrish eye.
From the depths of the haunted forest the wights emerged, their host beyond counting. Once the lord commander would have posted rangers atop the Wall, keen-eyed men who could ascertain the enemy's numbers. But the winch cage was nowhere close to being repaired, nor the switchback stairs, which had suffered damage when the Wall cracked. Without eyes up above, they could only wait for the sun to rise, so that they might count the wights they had slain each night.
Three thousand, two hundred and thirty. Or so said the Lord Steward, Left Hand Lew, who counted by the number of heads they burned. Black Jack Bulwer, First Ranger, judged the number higher. He insisted it was nonsense to count heads when some of the wights who attacked them were already headless.
But no matter how many wights they had slain, the host shambling toward the Wall never seemed to grow smaller. On the wights came, inexorable, a tide of burning blue eyes. They blew no horns, pounded no drums, screamed no war cries. They made no sound at all, save that of snow and ice crunching beneath thousands of clumsy feet.
"Edd," Jon said, keeping his voice light. "Sound the horn; the fools have come back for more."
"Aye, m'lord," Dolorous Edd Tollett said gloomily. One hand pulled down the scarf that covered the squire's nose and mouth; the other raised a warhorn to his lips.
Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.
The horn's call echoed through the air, sure and strong.
Uuuuuuuuuuuuhooooooooooooooo.
Dolorous Edd gasped, his face red, and drew a deep gulp of air.
Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhooooooooooooooooooooooooo.
On the third blast, a chorus of horns joined in, rising from the black ranks behind the palisade. Every captain and serjeant was blowing while their men banged their shields, making such a noise Jon half expected to see giants wake from slumber.
And still the wights shambled onward, undaunted and unafraid.
Dead men did not feel fear. Dead men did not wail when they stepped on caltrops hidden by the snow, the sharp nails piercing their rotten boots or bare black feet. Dead men did not fall when arrows pierced their frozen flesh. Even fire arrows were little use; the wind too often blew them out before the wight caught fire.
And the wind was already rising as the horn calls faded away. Torches guttered out; watchfires flared in their iron braziers. Behind the palisade, the rangers waited, eager to fight the unseen foe. Large as it was, the crack in the Wall was still a bottleneck. The palisade formed three sides of a square; Iron Emmett had the left, Black Jack Bulwer the center, and Ser Theodan Hood the right. The palisade and the men defending it were the cork, the only thing stopping the wights from pouring freely into the realms of men. If the cork failed...
"Just one more night," Jon reminded himself grimly.
Dolorous Edd muttered something into his scarf.
"What was that?"
"It's been thirty-eight nights you've said that, m'lord," Edd grumbled. "And no end in sight. The Long Summer will come afore we make a dent in their numbers. You think they stink now, imagine them ripening on a hot summer evening."
"Take heart, Edd. We're as like to wed pretty maids and sire a brood of fat children as we are to see the Long Summer."
"Maids." Edd shook his head. "A nice widow would be enough; she'd be less likely to run screaming at the sight o' me."
Jon ignored him. The wights had reached the palisade, and were beginning to climb with witless determination. The lord commander could only watch, the brass rim of the Myrish lens freezing cold against his skin.
When the first wight dropped to the other side of the palisade, it met a shield wall of battle tested rangers in black. Armed with swords, they promptly cut the wight to pieces. The next few wights met the same fate. To Jon's horror, one of them was a child, his naked frame shrunken and starving. A single slash cut the boy near in half, yet still his eyes burned blue, his small black hands scrabbling at the ankles of the man who had cut him down.
That was the problem with fighting wights. It did not matter that they did not carry weapons; they would use yours, if they could. Failing that, they had hands to grab and punch and strangle, feet to kick, heavy bodies to tackle you to the ground. And every man killed by wights soon rose to join their ranks, turning against his own sworn brothers, who had no choice but to slay him.
Would that he could descend upon the wights with fire, and watch them melt away like snow knights yielding to the sun. Alas, they had neither the time nor sufficient oil to defend themselves with ditches filled with fire. Not that they would work; the wights might be slow witted, but they were not stupid enough to hurl themselves into the flames. Perhaps once the switchback stair was repaired, he might post men atop the Wall, armed with pots and barrels of burning pitch. He dared not use them from behind the palisade; it was not worth the risk of it catching fire.
When the wights came over the palisade in force, the black brothers were hard-pressed to keep their feet. The wights thudded against their shields, battering away as swords flashed in the moonlight, ruthlessly lopping off every bit of wight that could be reached. It did not matter if you cut off the head, an arm, a leg; the maimed wight would keep attacking until it was in shreds.
Wights never grew weary, but men did. On the left Grenn raised a horn to his lips and blew, soon followed by Pyp, who shared his sense of caution. One by one, other serjeants began to blow their horns, single short blasts that sent their men toward the back of the ranks, while new serjeants and their squads advanced to take their place. On the right flank, Luke of Longtown was the last to retreat, but not until one of his rangers fell when a headless wight crashed into his knees, and another was choked half to death by a severed arm that tried to throttle him.
On and on the wights came. Most were wildlings, men in scraps of bronze armor, women and children in ragged furs, elders with hair as white as their pallid skin. And, here and there, speckled amongst the host, were brothers in black.
Soon after the solstice, he had seen Kedge White-Eye, his eyes like blue stars. Last week it had been Ser Ottyn Wythers, who had died in the fighting on the Fist of the First Men. In life Ser Ottyn had been as cautious as he was small and shrunken; in death he had been relentless, hellbent on murder. Thoren Smallwood had always hated wildlings; tonight his wight marched among them, though he led a band of dead black brothers, making for the left flank of the palisade, where the fighting was thickest.
It had been hours since the fighting began. By now even the freshest of the black brothers would be sweat-soaked under their plate and ringmail, their arms burning, their legs trembling, their vision a blur. Hard as they fought, they could not kill the wights quickly enough, not with so many swarming over the palisade. His rangers needed time to rest, to retreat inside where it was warm before men started dropping from the cold.
Jon looked down at the timber halls and stone keeps below the Silent Tower. Banners flew over every building, faintly lit by the moonlight. From the Shieldhall flapped the black iron studs of House Royce, the silver bells of Belmore, the broken brown wheel of Waynwood, the blue pall of the Coldwaters, the red castle of the Redfort. The sigils of a dozen other houses of the Vale flew over sundry other halls, the smaller, draftier ones. Only one banner flew over the Grey Keep, the largest banner Jon had ever seen, its scarlet field blazoned with an intricately embroidered giant who roared in his shattered chains.
"Tell Ser Theodan, Black Jack, and Iron Emmett to pull their men back. It's time our guests had a go at them."
"Which guests am I fetching, m'lord?" Dolorous Edd said doubtfully. "The fussy ones or the loud ones?"
"The ones who've fought wights before."
Edd sighed with resignation. "Yes, m'lord. The fussy ones it is."
Trumpets heralded the knights of the Vale when they stepped out into the cold, forming their ranks behind the black brothers. Those who stood closest to the torches and watchfires blazed with color; through the Myrish lens he saw surcoats bronze or purple, green or brown, of white and red or checkered white and black. Ser Edmund Belmore led his men to the left flank, leaving the center to Ser Ossifer Coldwater. Ser Ben Coldwater commanded the right flank, as he had ever since a wight caught hold of Ser Vardis Waynwood and twisted the old knight's head until his neck snapped.
Clad as he was in plate and mail, it had taken half a dozen men to finish off dead Ser Vardis when he turned on them, eyes burning blue. Two men-at-arms had followed him to the grave, two had survived unscathed, and a knight and squire had been badly wounded. Ser Uther Shett had lost an arm whilst frantically ripping at the buckles of the wight's armor; Lonnel Redfort, meanwhile, had suffered bruised ribs and a broken leg when he dove at the wight, who had fallen on top of him. Lonnel refused to be knighted for his valor until he could stand without crutches. Or go more than a few hours without bursting into tears. The boy had been fond of stuffy Ser Vardis, eager to follow him to glory.
There is no glory here, Jon thought as he watched Black Jack Bulwer and his men retreat, yielding their places at the center of the palisade to the knights of the Vale, whilst Ser Theodan Ladybright did the same on the right. Iron Emmett's men remained in place, their shieldwall barely holding back the flood of wights surging over the palisade's left flank.
When his serjeants began a piecemeal retreat, wights poured into the gaps they left behind, led by dead Thoren Smallwood and his band of black crows. Somehow, Thoren had gotten hold of a sword. He waved it over his head, drawing more wights to him. Instinct made Jon clasp Longclaw's hilt, but it was a knight in the bronze of House Royce who knocked the sword from Thoren's clumsy grip.
There were far more Valemen than black brothers. Once satisfied that they had matters well in hand, Jon descended from the Silent Tower. Ghost followed after him, as did his tail, Tom Barleycorn and Sober Pate. Dolorous Edd should have returned by now, but that could not be helped. The lord commander had to see to his men, and now was the best, perhaps the only time he dared pause his vigil.
He found most of them in the Shieldhall, wearily filling their bellies. When someone pressed a bowl of porridge on him, Jon ate, though it was lukewarm and tasteless. The sight of a raisin or a chunk of dried apple had not been seen in months; the last of the lord commander's chest of spices had gone to the maester, for use in poultices and infusions.
Once he finished making a round of the Shieldhall, Jon found the rest of the rangers in the common hall, listening to Pyp sing 'Our Lord Snow' at the top of his lungs. It didn't matter that Pyp's voice was hoarse; half the hall was singing with him, though they leaned heavily against walls and or sat slumped on the benches or on the floor. The crack in the Wall might have ruined all the new year celebrations, but Pyp had insisted on putting on his mummer's show the day after the palisade was finished. The men's spirits were so low that Jon had acquiesced despite his lingering misgivings, and now he must pay the price.
Thankfully, Pyp was so preoccupied that he failed to notice the lord commander by the door. Jon managed to commend Grenn, who had not lost a man for a sennight running, before Pyp espied him. Pyp promptly bowed so deeply he almost fell off the table he was standing on. The sound of laughter rippled over the hall, followed by scattered cheers before the singing grew louder, trying and failing to cover the clamor of steel and screams rising from the palisade.
He had lingered too long. Turning on his heel, Jon made for the Silent Tower. Ghost bounded up the steps, but Jon went more slowly, his legs aching as he climbed, breathing heavily through his scarf. He was halfway up when Satin came to explain Dolorous Edd's absence.
It seemed that the old squire had been wounded whilst delivering Jon's message to Iron Emmett. "Edd's with Maester Turquin now, my lord," Satin said. "I'm to take his place, if it please you."
"Fine." Jon focused on the rough hewn steps; there was nothing he could do for Edd, or for any of the other wounded.
Once he reached the top, Jon stood sentinel for long hours, helpless to do anything but watch, watch and wait and pace. At least he was not the only one. Archers stood atop the Tower of Guards, with unstrung bows in their hands and quivers of obsidian tipped arrows on their backs. Most of them walked back and forth to keep warm, save one, who stood and stared at the battle below.
Samwell Tarly might hate and fear the cold, but he endured it better than most. Though his frame had shrunken over the years, he remained vaguely plump, even on winter rations. Tormund had once told him all the wildlings from the furthest north were moon-faced and apt to go to fat, a trait highly prized by other clans. A plump husband or wife was considered lucky, as they were less likely to freeze to death, and more likely to produce fat babes.
Jon supposed that explained why Sam had stammered something about being stalked by spearwives whilst visiting the wildling villages in the Gift. A few had even slipped into Sam's bed, and taken great offense when he sent them away. He had also stammered when Jon ordered him to join the archers, begging to return to his bed, or better yet, to his books.
"I'm still not very good with the bow, my lord," Sam had pleaded. "I can't- it was the dragonglass that slew it, not me, I mean, I am—"
"You are Sam the Slayer," Jon had told him in a tone that brooked no argument. "The only man of the Night's Watch to kill an Other in living memory. If the gods are good, you'll slay more of them."
Granted, Sam's nerves and inconsistent aim made that unlikely. Still, Jon hoped the sight of Sam would encourage his fellow archers. Some men believed in luck almost as fervently as they believed in the gods, and surviving an Other was exceptional luck.
"No, it isn't," Dolorous Edd had objected when Sam was gone. "It would have been better luck to never see an Other in the first place."
In that case, the entirety of Castle Black was lucky. No matter how many wights attacked each night, they had yet to see hide nor hair of an Other. Their absence made Jon uneasy, his doubts gnawing at him like a wolf might gnaw at a bone. Where were they? In the haunted forest, directing their wights from the shadows? Or were they somewhere else, devising spells to bring down the rest of the Wall?
Wherever they were, they were not here. The night trudged onward on drowsy feet, and the cold sank deep into his bones. Wights crested over the palisade to fall on piles of frozen flesh, the heads, arms, legs, and limbless torsos of their predecessors. When he raised the Myrish lens, Jon caught glimpses of movement in the piles; some of the arms had not yet fallen still, and their black fingers stretched and strained, desperate to break free and resume their attack.
The living were not so tireless. Bravery meant nothing against the constant onslaught of cold and wind and dead men. Shields sagged; swords slowed. Small gaps opened and closed as wights dragged men off their feet and their comrades staggered to take their place.
Though the knights of the Vale were far greater in number than the men of the Night's Watch, they had been out in the cold for far longer. Once their deep ranks had moved forward and back and forward again with the ease of a spinning wheel; now they moved more like the wheels of an old wagon, jerking and shuddering as it bumped over a bad road.
Jon glanced over his shoulder. Satin hugged himself against the cold, standing as close to the brazier as he dared. The wind had knocked his hood askew; the steward tugged it down over his cap, ignoring the ringlets of dark hair which had escaped to frame his pretty face.
For a moment, Jon wished he had Edd. The gruff old squire had already met their new guests when the lord commander dined with them last night, soon after they arrived. Satin, busy elsewhere, had not. Of course, he could hardly fail to find his quarry; there were only so many men that stood near seven feet tall.
The Grey Keep was close by, and Satin was much younger and faster than Dolorous Edd. It was not long before northmen began to step out into the cold, bearpaws already strapped to their feet. A chorus of deep-throated warhorns sent them marching for the palisade, and when the horns fell silent a great howl went up, so loud Jon half-expected Ghost to join in.
Greatjon Umber towered over his men as he led them forward, roaring as fiercely as the giant of his sigil. The Greatjon's sword was the largest Jon had ever seen, but most of his men favored axes. So did his old uncle, Mors Umber, better known as Crowfood, and his distant kinsman, Osric Whitehill, the Master of Last River. Jon did not doubt they knew how to use them, but he could only hope they had listened when he spoke to them and their men before dinner, warning them what to expect during a battle against the dead.
At first, all seemed to be going well. There was some confusion as the knights of the Vale fell back, letting the Umber men take their place, but that could not be helped. Nor did the northmen turn and run when they drew close enough to truly see the wights. Jon was not sure he could blame them if they had. Wights were twisted, grotesque things, but so were most corpses. No, the true terror was in those unnatural eyes. They burned in the dark, unblinking, their icy blue stare filled with cold malevolence as they came on.
Thankfully, a shieldwall was a shieldwall, whether made by black brothers, valemen, or northmen. But the Greatjon and his men were used to fighting living men, not dead ones. Though the skilled axemen sent heads flying through the air, some panicked when the headless bodies kept fighting. Though most had heeded the warning against boot knives, some had not, and screamed when the severed hands scrabbling at their fur-lined boots drew the knives and used them to dire effect. Though the northmen knew those who fell would soon rise again as wights, some of their fellows hesitated too long, and were injured or killed before the wights were cut down.
As the dismal night plodded on, the northmen began to falter. Wights pushed the shieldwall back, and back again. Each time the ranks wheeled to let exhausted men give way to those who were fresher, the wights crowded into every gap, no matter how small. Men fought and died, and all Jon could do was keep pacing, his mind twisting in knots as he tried to recall how long had passed, how long remained until the dawn. Whatever hour the bells had last tolled, he could not remember it, not with the stench of the dead in his nose and the clamor of battle in his ears.
"We can hold them all night," Greatjon Umber had boasted, but he had not known of what he spoke. The northmen needed to be relieved, and soon. But by whom? The black brothers were better rested, but the valemen were far more numerous. And Jon had not liked how the Greatjon spoke of the valemen last night, blustering about their failure to join the War of Five Kings until King Robb had already won, as if such petty grudges mattered when the dead were at the gate.
Jon stood still for a moment, his mind made up. A few brusque words to send Satin running, and then he was pacing again. Every step made his scars twinge with pain, but he had to keep walking, lest his mind become as numb as the rest of him.
By the time he heard the trumpets blare, the sky was turning grey. By the time the valemen had formed their ranks, the attack had ceased, the wights withdrawing back through the Wall and into the haunted forest. They did not stir beneath the sun, whose pale pink fingers reached from the east to caress the top of the Wall.
With the battle over, black brothers, valemen, and northmen alike began staggering off to bed. Those who had slept through the night were now waking; already Othell Yarwyck and his builders swarmed over the palisade like bees, only with hammers and nails instead of stingers. After breakfast, Left Hand Lew and his stewards would join them. They had charge of tending to the dead, dragging them far away from the timber palisade so they could be counted before being burned.
Though a fire was burning in Jon's hearth when he returned to his bedchamber in King's Tower, he felt no warmth as he fell into a restless sleep. Mocking voices haunted his dreams, beckoning him to yield, to submit, to surrender to the inevitable. You cannot hold forever, they taunted. Icy tendrils slithered over his naked skin, binding him fast. Come, come, little dreamer, and you will have all your heart desires.
The world twisted; he looked down upon Winterfell. The whole world was covered in snow; icicles hung from the towers, and the hot pools in the godswood were frozen solid. And there, beneath the heart tree...
My love. Ygritte stood before him, clad in a lady's gown, her belly swollen with child. Her face was paler than he recalled, but her hair was the same bright copper, kissed by fire, her crooked teeth bared in a smile as warm as her brown eyes. In her hands she held a crown, a bronze circlet surmounted by nine spikes of black iron.
Hail, Jon Snow, Ygritte murmured. Hail, King of Winter, and Lord of Winterfell.
Jon stared, speechless. Ygritte's smile dimmed, a strange light flickering in her eyes. Suddenly, a cold wind drove him to his knees; when he looked up, Ygritte's belly was flat, and there were children at her side, all of them dark of hair and grey of eye.
Father, the children whispered. Father, don't you love us?
They need you, Ygritte said, smoothing down a girl's tangled hair. She smiled at him again, almost shy. I need you.
You can't need me, Jon told her. You were slain by an arrow, and we burned your body to ash.
I can come back, Ygritte insisted. You know nothing, Jon Snow, but I know many things. I know that you fight a battle that cannot be won. She drew closer, her skirts swirling in the wind. I know that you are weary of the cruel burdens you bear. She reached out, one hand cupping his cheek. I know that you love me, and that I love you as I always have, as I always will.
Ygritte bent her head to kiss him. Snowflakes danced through the air, light as a lover's touch; for a heartbeat, he was hers. Until—
Ygritte never said she loved me.
And the Other's eyes flared blue, and the wind screamed its fury, and the darkness swallowed him whole.
When Jon awoke, it was past noon, and he was sore all over. Ghost lay on the floor, gnawing at a haunch of venison, whilst Satin poured a kettle of hot water into a copper tub. Another kettle hung over the fire, the frumenty already simmering away.
By the time he finished bathing, Jon felt almost human. He dressed and ate quickly; there was too little daylight to let any of it go to waste. It had been even worse at the beginning of first moon, when the sun set the earliest and rose the latest, leaving the Wall in darkness for nearly sixteen hours. Now, on the ninth day of second moon, the last sunlight was gone when the afternoon bells tolled five, and did not return until near seven the next morning.
To the lord commander's dismay, no messengers had arrived whilst he slept. Messengers were all they had; soon after the Wall cracked, every raven the Night's Watch possessed had been found frozen to their perches. After Dolorous Edd gloomily pointed out there was no use wasting good meat, Three-Finger Hobb had plucked them for raven pies. Jon had not seen fit to share his suspicion that otherwise the ravens might have woken with blue eyes to spy on them, a risk he dared not take.
With Mormont's raven and all the birds in the rookery dead, Jon could not fly beyond the Wall to look for Bran. More importantly, he could not send ravens to the Shadow Tower and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and all the other garrisons. Instead, Jon had been forced to send out messengers with poles in their hands and skith on their feet.
When they finally returned, it was to report that while thin splinters ran up and down the length of the Wall, only the Shadow Tower and Eastwatch had suffered cracks large enough to breach their gates. Both castles were besieged, just like Castle Black, vast hosts of wights attacking each night, and fading away beyond the Wall each day, when the men were too exhausted to pursue.
Almost as soon as they returned, Jon had sent the messengers back out into the snow. Several had raced for Last Hearth, to send word to the King in the North, and to beg his bannermen for aid. Greatjon Umber had brought a thousand men to defend Castle Black; if the gods were good, the men of the mountain clans would soon reach the Shadow Tower, though it would take the Karstarks longer to reach Eastwatch.
Who knew how long it would take the King in the North to reach them. Winterfell was long leagues away. Whatever ravens Robb had sent to Castle Black, none of them had arrived.
Nor had the Night's Watch received any other ravens from the south. No matter what Sansa had told Robb in her letters, he could not rely on this Aegon Targaryen to lend the Night's Watch any aid, not when he had his own war to win. Besides, Jon could not forget that the man was the son of Prince Rhaegar. He had seemed a perfect prince as well, until he carried off Jon's aunt Lyanna, raped her, and left her for dead. Jon doubted Lord Eddard would have trusted a man who had Rhaegar's blood flowing through his veins.
No, Jon must rely on himself and the men he had at hand, few though they might be. Much though he misliked it, he had ordered that the Night's Watch abandon most of their castles. They could not defend every mile of the Wall, and it would be foolish to try. Only three keeps were breached and under attack, and that was where they must concentrate their men.
Jon had sent the garrisons of Sentinel Stand, Greyguard, and Stonedoor to the Shadow Tower, swelling Wallace Massey's command to some six hundred sworn brothers and some fifteen hundred men of the Vale. The garrisons of Woodswatch-by-the-Pool, Sable Hall, Long Barrow, and Greenguard Jon had sent to Eastwatch, giving Cotter Pyke over five hundred sworn brothers and near two thousand men of the Vale. As for Castle Black, with the garrisons of Icemark, Deep Lake, Queensgate, and Oakenshield, Jon had roughly a thousand sworn brothers and almost three thousand men of the Vale.
Each castle should have had another three hundred men, the wildlings who had come at the lord commander's call. But little though the sworn brothers liked the thought of trusting wildlings to guard their back, the knights of the Vale liked the notion even less. And so, for the nonce, wildling garrisons still held Westwatch-by-the-Bridge, Hoarfrost Hill, and Rimegate.
The lord commander was not quite sure what to make of their reports. When word came from the Shadow Tower that the Bridge of Skulls had been shattered by a storm, a wildling from Westwatch soon followed. Jax swore that the Great Walrus had seen giants in the Gorge, as had two of his scouts. And when Leathers arrived from Hoarfrost Hill, bearing a message from Tormund, the messenger swore that when he stopped at the abandoned Nightfort to take shelter from a sudden squall, he'd found a weirwood stump oozing red sap as if it were freshly cut.
Jon shook his head, putting aside all thought of giants and bleeding trees. There were more pressing matters which required his attention, and not nearly as much time as he would like before nightfall. Lord Eddard had taught his sons to always do their duty, and that was what he must do.
First, Jon reviewed the latest counts of their food stores. Not for the first time, he fruitlessly wished that he could increase the men's meager winter rations. They were barely enough for men who spent only a few hours at their labor and the rest of their time idling in the wormwalks, let alone for men who either worked most of the day or fought most of the night.
But with no end to winter in sight, Jon dared not risk the food running out. The Wall must hold, and that meant feeding the thousands of hungry men who defended it. The lord commander could only pray that when the King in the North arrived, he brought plenty of food for his men, and increased the erratic shipments of food arriving at Eastwatch. If not... it would not matter how well they fought, if they defeated the wights only to starve to death.
Next, the lord commander made his rounds. Ghost needed only his white fur to keep him warm as he padded after him, but Jon wore his black cloak and gloves, with a scarf wrapped about his face. Satin wore just as many layers, as did Long Hal and Tom Barleycorn, who served as his tail.
When he entered the yard, he found Iron Emmett and Grenn bellowing at the squads of rangers they were drilling. Jon paused briefly to watch, and to lead an attack on their shieldwall. Wielding a blunted sword was not the same as wielding Longclaw, but it was better than nothing. His arms ached by the time he was done, his boots sodden with snow, his eyes stinging from the smoke in the air.
Most of the smoke came from the pile of ashes which had once been wights. Not all of it, though. Smoke rose from hundreds of chimneys around Castle Black, as it did every day. The stewards were kept busy chopping wood to feed the fires; Jon made sure of it. If he pulled them from their usual duties, they might think something was amiss. Besides, they were going through their stores of seasoned wood, and fresh cut green wood took at least six moons to dry. Wet wood was almost impossible to burn, and while damp wood could be burned at dire need, it gave off more smoke than warmth, and choked the chimneys with foul black soot.
"Poor buggers," Long Hal said as they watched a group of shivering stewards haul a tree trunk toward the wormways, where it could be chopped into smaller logs away from the freezing wind. "D'you think they'd rather be fighting wights? Between m'lord and Iron Emmett, I bet we could train 'em."
"Perhaps," Jon said, his temper flashing. "Would you like to take their place in the forest? Or would you rather freeze to death when we run out of firewood?"
Long Hal gaped at him, his already red face turning redder. "Sorry, m'lord," he mumbled.
Suddenly, Jon felt ashamed. It was he who should apologize, for losing his temper, but the words would not come.
"Never mind," the lord commander said stiffly. And with that, he turned his steps to the long wooden keep which held the sickroom. He had stalled too long; it was time to find out how many men he had lost.
Maester Turquin delivered the butcher's bill whilst dabbing vinegar over what remained of Toad's ear. The tip had turned black from frostbite, and the maester had cut it off before the rot could spread.
Tonight, the Watch would have nine less rangers to send against the foe. Three were dead, and another six too wounded to fight. Luke of Longtown had a hard reproach coming; two of the dead and one of the wounded came from his squad.
Another man might have rejoiced at such low casualties, but Jon knew better. At the solstice, Castle Black could boast over two hundred and fifty rangers. Now, they were down to two hundred, including the rangers who had arrived from other garrisons. And of course there were injuries among the builders and the stewards too, though far less of them. Most notably there was Dolorous Edd Tollett, who had had the singular misfortune to slip on a patch of ice and somehow fall in such a way that he had broken his arm in a dozen places.
"Don't let him cut it off," Edd slurred, delirious from the milk of the poppy Armen the Acolyte had given him. "I'm already too skinny, I can't lose any more weight."
"Will it have to come off?" Jon asked.
Maester Turquin frowned. "The swelling is already severe, the risk of infection high. With the bones so badly splintered, there is a danger—"
"I'm not dangerous," Edd insisted thickly, his eyes fluttering shut. "I'm harmless."
"And like to be armless," Satin quipped under his breath. Armen the Acolyte looked down his long nose disapprovingly, whilst Long Hal and Tom Barleycorn guffawed.
Jon did not join them. Maester Turquin's other reports were just as concerning. His stores of wool wax were gone, forcing him to rely on poorer remedies to treat the men suffering from raw, chapped skin on their hands and faces. The number of frostbite amputations continued to grow steadily, and there were too many wounded for Turquin and Armen to see to.
"I'd like to borrow Ben from the kitchens, if it please m'lord," Turquin said. "The boy has a strong stomach and quick wits, and Hobb says his hands are steady."
"Very well."
Jon's last stop before dinner was the Flint Barracks, where he found Black Jack Bulwer. At his behest the First Ranger summoned all his captains and serjeants, and stood by frowning whilst the lord commander laid into Luke of Longtown. Rickard Ryswell was next; it seemed the man had formed a habit of bullying his subordinates into giving him some of their rations. For that Jon knocked him from captain to serjeant, and raised up Ser Ulrick Sand to take his place.
That done, Jon made his way to the common hall. Black brothers filled the benches and waited in line as the cooks ladled out bowls of thin grey stew and handed out chunks of coarse black bread. As he expected, guests already sat at the lord commander's table upon the dais. Three-Finger Hobb and his boy Alyn brought the high table slightly finer fare, chunks of turnip and mutton in pastry coffyns and roasted carrots with the merest hint of butter, accompanied by soft white bread. Ghost did not eat, but lay down behind Jon's chair, his head on his paws, his eyes gleaming like garnets.
Greatjon Umber and his uncle Crowfood quaffed tankards of black beer, as did Osric Whitehill, Edwyle of Long Lake, and Willam Lightfoot. At the other end of the table, Ser Edmund Belmore, Ser Ossifer Coldwater, and several of their fellow knights sipped goblets of wine. Jon contented himself with a cup of cider vinegar, well watered and as sour as his mood. Not that anyone else appeared happy; the Umbers kept glaring at the knights of the Vale, who returned their scowls with interest. Until Crowfood happened to glance down at the benches and spied Jax and Leathers, their brown furs standing out amongst a sea of black.
"Wildlings." Crowfood hawked and spat.
"Ah, you've noticed our savages." Ser Ossifer wrinkled his nose.
"They should never have been let through the Wall." Crowfood took a deep gulp, draining the tankard of beer and holding it out to be refilled. One of his eyes was gone, replaced by a chunk of dragonglass; the other burned with hate.
"They are rude, noisome brutes," Ser Edmund agreed. "Though I must admit they are damnably fast on their skith."
"And skilled at working dragonglass," Jon said. "Or had you forgotten that all our dragonglass arrowheads, daggers, and spears were made by the Thenns? Surely not; their village in the Gift is but a few days from Last Hearth."
"Aye," rumbled the Greatjon, wiping beer from his mouth and giving Crowfood a stern look. "King Robb and Princess Arya visited them whilst they were with us."
"Speaking of which," Jon said evenly. "We will soon have more wildling guests. They are of no use sitting and watching an empty stretch of Wall; it is time they helped defend it."
"Defend it?" Ser Ossifer's mouth twisted in a bitter grimace. "You cannot mean to ask us to fight alongside these, these—"
"Rapers," Crowfood growled. "Thieves and brigands."
Jon resisted the queer urge to laugh. He had once heard Lady Catelyn call Crowfood and his brother Hother Whoresbane a pair of hoary old brigands, but that was neither here nor there. Though she was likely right; Crowfood's tankard was already half empty, his weathered face ruddy from drink. Old he might be, but he was still powerful, and near as huge as his nephew.
"Thirty-five years," Crowfood muttered, fingering his shaggy white beard.
"Beg pardon?" Ser Edmund asked, confused.
Crowfood drank deep, and gave no answer. It fell to the Greatjon to explain how wildlings had carried off his uncle's daughter Drynelle, never to be seen or heard of again. Ser Edmund and Ser Ossifer were quick to make the proper sympathetic noises; Ossifer even seemed sincere.
Though Jon could have done without the old knight rambling on about the Burned Men who had stolen Jon Arryn's niece Alyssa Waynwood. Then Ser Edmund began to hold forth about why the mountain clans of the Vale were almost as foul as the wildlings, and Jon lost his patience.
"Foul or fair, they are still men," Jon snapped. "This is not a summer dance, where you may set one partner aside and choose another more to your liking. The Others will gladly kill us all, if we do not have the wits to set aside our petty quarrels."
Ser Ossifer stabbed at a carrot with his dagger; Ser Edmund tore off a hunk of bread. Greatjon Umber scowled, taking a massive bite of pastry that split the coffyn in half. Edwyle of Long Lake stared at his plate unseeing, whilst William Lightfoot wrung his wrinkled hands under the table, his rheumy eyes darting from Crowfood to the lord commander.
"Petty?" Crowfood rose to his feet, his face murderous. No one else stood, but Ghost sat up on his haunches. The direwolf was near six feet tall from his paws to the tips of his ears; when he bared his teeth, his fangs gleamed white in the rushlight.
"Petty, my lord," Jon said with icy courtesy. Down on the benches men were muttering and turning to look, their bowls of tasteless stew forgotten. "I am sorry for the loss of your daughter, but the wildlings shall fight beside us. The Wall is mine, not yours, and—"
The heavy wooden doors of the common hall flew open with a thunderous crash.
All eyes turned toward the sound. Dywen stood in the doorway, the old poacher's black cloak frosted with snow. His companions were far more colorful. Seven of them there were, septons and septas whose cloaks and robes were each a different shade of the rainbow. For a moment, Jon was at a loss, until he recalled a message from Cotter Pyke which had made passing mention of a band of faithful arriving at Eastwatch.
Down the center aisle they came. They were led by a septon in his forties, a man of middling height with dark hair, light brown skin, and a snub nose. His robes were a lush green, bright as a meadow in spring, save for the hems, which were soaked with snow and stained with mud.
"Seven blessings to you," the green-robed septon called as the faithful drew near the dais. With quiet dignity, his fellows lined up beside him, though the effect was slightly ruined when they caught sight of Ghost and stared at him wide-eyed. Some recovered more quickly than others, but they all bowed and curtsied to the lord commander in perfect unison.
Then, finally the introductions began. The man in green was Septon Timoth, a septon sworn to the Father. He and his companions were Most Devout, chosen by Paul the Pious to make the long journey north from Harrenhal. The knights of the Vale muttered at that, favoring the newcomers with smiles and curious looks.
The scrawny man in vivid amber robes carrying a covered basket was Septon Harbert, whilst the one in brilliant red was Septon Josua. Septa Joyeuse was the thin-lipped woman in rich blue; the woman in shining gold with a roll of oilcloth under her arm was Septa Cassana. Last were Septa Emberlei, a pockmarked silent sister in grey, and Septa Myriame, an older woman in snowy white, plump and pretty. For some odd reason, Willam Lightfoot blinked at the septa, then elbowed Crowfood, who looked up before draining his tankard in a single swallow.
"By the will of His High Holiness, we have come to succor you in this evil hour," Septon Timoth finished.
"Succor us with what?" the Greatjon asked in his bass rumble. "With prayers to gods we do not keep?"
"With prayer, my lord," Septa Myriame agreed, her voice soft as a whisper. She ignored Willam, who was stroking his grey beard and smiling at her. "And with gifts."
"Even now our lay sisters and brothers draw near, their wayns laden with the Mother's bounty." Septa Joyeuse was still shivering despite the warmth of the hall, but her voice was clear and strong. "Jars of honey from our hives, dried apples from our orchards, wool wax from our flocks, wholesome herbs from our gardens and milk of the poppy from Dorne."
"And we have brought holy art with which to adorn your sept," Septon Harbert continued as Septa Cassana unrolled her oilcloth. "Embroideries, tapestries, and paintings of scenes from The Seven-Pointed Star, their rare beauty wrought to bring glory to the Seven and uplift the hearts of men."
Jon started to open his mouth, to say his courtesies... and then Septa Cassana shook out the cloth she was holding, and held it up with a flourish. The Greatjon dropped his tankard, the knights of the Vale made the sign of the Seven, and the lord commander stared, utterly taken aback.
They looked upon a tapestry, near as tall and wide as the septa. It was covered with thousands upon thousands of stitches in threads of silk and gleaming gold, depicting a scene of battle so lifelike it took his breath away. Beneath a wall of shimmering blue ice, knights in black armor fought pale demons with burning eyes. The Seven watched from above, each rendered in exquisite detail, from their flowing hair to their solemn faces to the arms they held out to bless the black knights.
"A kingly gift indeed," the Greatjon said, breaking the silence. "My lady wife would weep to see such fine work."
Septa Cassana smiled. "You are kind to say so; our septas and sisters spent long months at their needles."
Having finally found his tongue, Jon thanked the Most Devout with all the warmth their generosity deserved. He immediately found himself thanking them again when Septon Harbert uncovered his basket to reveal jars of honey. The most ornate jar he bestowed upon the high table, but as for the rest, he begged the lord commander's leave to anoint and bless the sworn brothers' bread, leave which Jon was pleased to grant.
And so Septon Harbert took up a place by the cooks, waiting patiently as sworn brothers rushed to form a line. Fighting might have broken out, if not for Grenn, whose size discouraged defiance, and Ser Ulrick Sand, whose stern good humor had a similar effect. As for Septa Cassana, she remained by the dais, still holding the tapestry so the men might come and look. To Jon's surprise, some of the men ignored the honey and bolted for the tapestry instead, staring at it with rapt fascination and queerly wet eyes.
The rest of the Most Devout were seated at a table close to the dais, though Three-Finger Hobb was near tears himself at having to offer such holy folk the same thin stew as the sworn brothers enjoyed. To their credit, the Most Devout accepted his apologies. Though they picked at their food, not a bite remained when Satin escorted them to the best chambers the stewards could make ready at such short notice. Jon would have taken them himself, were the sun not sinking toward the horizon.
When Jon reached the top of the Silent Tower, the light was fading fast. The sky glowed pale pink, with a slash of red across the western horizon. A good omen for sailing, the ironborn claimed, but Jon saw only a smear of blood.
The crack in the Wall loomed above him, dark as the swiftly falling night. Would that war were as glorious as it seemed in the songs. The battle was not yet begun, and already Jon yearned for his bed, for a respite from his nightly vigil in the freezing cold. The sweet taste of honey seemed a distant dream, as did the sight of an embroidered black knight slaying an Other with a Valyrian steel blade whilst a white direwolf howled at the sky.
Just one more night, Jon told himself as he watched the wights approach, their numbers as vast as ever.
Just one more night, he thought as Greatjon Umber charged at a bull moose who had leapt over the palisade, stomping and kicking as it broke through the shieldwall.
Just one more night, he prayed as half a dozen men carried the injured Greatjon away, as he sent Satin running to fetch reinforcements, as the shieldwall faltered like a candle in a storm, as he bit his lip until he tasted blood.
But if any gods heard him, they were as silent as the tears freezing on his cheeks.
Our poor boy; sound off in the comments; I'm so excited to finally share this with y'all and see what you think, battles are so hard to write.
Reminder you can get updates on my tumblr at RedWolf17. I hope y'all enjoy ohnoitsmyra's incredible portrait of poor, exhausted Jon. We were aiming for the sweet spot of homely and handsome, young and trying to look older, tough but exhausted. If you zoom in, you'll notice Jon's got zits.
Thank you so much to the incredible Erzherzog, SioKerrigan, and CaekDaemon, whose knowledge of medieval warfare was absolutely invaluable. Military history is not my thing, and warfare isn't my comfort zone AT ALL, but the War for the Dawn kinda requires some battle! Lol. I also mayyy have taken it as a challenge when a reader commented on Sansa I that they were bummed I kept cutting away from the battles. And as usual, my deepest thanks to my main beta, PA2, and my invaluable back up betas brydeswhale and avislone.
NOTES
1) The Umbers have no canonical bannermen. House Whitehill exists in canon, its location unknown, so I put it by Last River and made them a masterly house sworn to Last Hearth. Ditto House Lake, which I stuck by the northern end of Long Lake, and House Lightfoot, who are... somewhere in Umber lands, I dunno, let's say they're in the hearthwood.
2) Wool wax is an old name for lanolin, a substance secreted by sheep. Crude lanolin makes up 5-25% of the weight of fresh shorn wool. Lanolin is a part of many skincare products; pure lanolin is often recommended for breastfeeding mothers suffering from sore, cracked nipples. It would also be an excellent treatment for chronic chapped skin during severe winter conditions; left untreated, that's a nasty infection risk.
3) Medieval people loved honey, and pretty much every region of Europe kept bees. There was also a roaring honey trade, as many distinct varieties were known and appreciated.
4) Jon is wrong to call the embroidered piece a tapestry; tapestries are woven. The Bayeux tapestry is also not a tapestry, lol. The specific details of the embroidered pieces sent to the Night's Watch were inspired not by the Bayeux tapestry, exquisite though it is, but by a set of pieces I happened to come across during my research, and which are so gorgeous I could not resist bringing them into the fic. Just look at them!
The Litany of Loreto embroideries are of unclear provenance. They date to the late 1800s, when they were made in an English convent; it is uncertain whether they were a solo project or completed by a group of nuns. So far as I can tell, the materials and techniques used would have had plausible equivalents in Westeros.
For more jaw dropping close up photos, see this blog post by a needlwork enthusiast who saw them in person.
5) Sometimes, I get an idea from careful consideration and thoughtful pondering. Sometimes, a hilarious shitpost gives me an idea I can't resist. Here's the origin of me deciding the Greatjon should fight a moose; enjoy. And yes, I doubled checked, a moose can in fact jump a 6 ft wall. Don't fuck with the prehistoric megafauna, kids.