Reviews make me write faster! - I use the quatermaester interactive game of thrones map when writing.
Eddard Stark
Ned strode irritably into the chamber of the small council. He had barely ridden through the gates of the Red Keep when the summons to the meeting had arrived.
He'd wanted to put it off; but refusing to meet the small council the first time they asked seemed like a bad way to start. Unfortunately, his mood was not improved by the first person to notice his entrance being Lord Varys.
"My Lord Stark," the eunuch simpered, bustling over to him, "we were grievously sorry to hear of your trouble on the Kingsroad, we are all praying for Prince Joffrey's full recovery."
"Shame you didn't say a prayer for the butcher's son." Ned stated coldly before stepping past the Master of Whispers.
His eyes landed on Renly Baratheon, and for a moment it was as if the Robert Baratheon of the Trident was standing before him. Shaking his head slightly to clear the mirage he strode over and offered his hand.
"Lord Renly, you're looking well."
"You sound surprised." The Master of Laws replied, surprisingly reserved compared to the man-child Robert had told him to expect. Or the overly familiar flatterer he himself had expected given the man's raven.
"News of your battle with the fitting fever reached us at the Twins. When it became known you'd left for Storm's End even after recovering, many feared the worst." In all honesty Ned hadn't found it in himself to care, he was still wondering if Bran would ever awaken. But when he had learned of what the fitting fever could do, even to those who survived it, he'd said a quick prayer to the Old Gods for Renly alongside his ones for Bran.
No one deserved that.
"The fever left its scars, but not too many thank the gods. I've managed to fight through the worst of it and I'm improving every day." Renly replied, still studying him. "I'm sorry you have to attend while so weary from travel, I told them this meeting could wait another day, or at least until you'd had the chance to have a meal, but..."
"But we have a kingdom to look after." An oily voice broke in from the other end of the table. "I've wanted to meet you for some time Lord Stark, no doubt Lady Catelyn has mentioned me to you."
"She has, Lord Baelish." Ned replied shortly. "I understand you knew my brother Brandon as well."
"All too well," the Master of Coin smirked, "I still carry a token of his esteem from navel to collarbone."
"Perhaps you chose the wrong man to duel." Ned replied coldly.
"It wasn't the man I chose my lord, but Catelyn Tully. A woman worth fighting for I'm sure you'll agree." The smarmy arrogance of the man set Ned's teeth on edge, but thankfully Renly Baratheon broke in before the odious toad could say anything else.
"If Petyr is quite done regaling us with his poor life choices; perhaps we could actually do some work? Apparently it was urgent enough to drag the Hand here the moment he stepped through the gates after all."
Ned took his seat, grateful for Renly's cutting remarks against Littlefinger as he had little patience with these southron word games himself. Nodding briefly in greeting to the Grand Maester, he looked again at the Master of Laws.
He was definitely not what he'd been expecting, but that didn't tell him what the young lord was.
"Shall we begin?" Grand Maester Pycelle spoke up as he passed Ned the golden emblem of the Hand of the King.
"Without the King?" Ned exclaimed, looking around incredulously. The chairs for Robert and Ser Barristan were both empty, along with the one for Lord Stannis.
"Winter may be coming, but the King is not." Lord Renly spoke bitterly from Ned's side. "The business of coin, crops, justice, or indeed any matter that isn't feasting, drinking, whoring, or killing, bores him. So, he leaves it to us to rule the realm and then complains if we're actually good at it."
The sheer bitterness in the young lord's voice shocked Ned. Judging by the awkward looks on the faces of the other councillors it was considerably harsher, or more truthful, a traitorous internal voice whispered, than the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands usually was.
To break the awkward silence the Grand Maester brought out a scroll, kept closed with the King's seal. "The King instructs us to hold a tournament in honour of Lord Stark's appointment as Hand of the King."
"Ah, how much?" Lord Baelish asked as Ned broke the seal.
"40,000 gold dragons to the champion, 20,000 to the runner up, 20,000 to the winner of the melee, and 10,000 to the winning archer." Ned read the numbers in sheer disbelief.
"90,000 gold dragons." Lord Baelish noted. "And we must not neglect the other costs, the King will want a prodigious feast and all that entails, so we might as well call it an even 100,000 gold dragons."
"Can the treasury bear such expense?" Grand Maester Pycelle spoke up timidly.
"Don't treat us like idiots to make yourself look good in front of Lord Stark, Grand Maester. You know very well that the treasury has been empty for longer than I've served on this council."
Ned's eyes flickered towards Lord Renly even as he gestured for the Grand Maester to stop whatever rebuttal he was preparing.
Ned wasn't so naive as to miss that Lord Renly had effectively pointed out that the problem of the treasury was one that had started before he joined the council. Exactly what he had nominally taken the Grand Maester to task for doing. Though in Renly's case it was likely true, given that he had only been on the council for a handful of years, whereas Pycelle had served on the small council since Aerys Targaryen. Who had left a treasury overflowing with gold.
This was a bad omen.
"We'll have to borrow it." Lord Baelish responded calmly. "I'm sure the Lannister's will accommodate us, we already owe Tywin Lannister over 3 million gold dragons, what's another hundred thousand?"
"Are you telling me the crown is 3 million in debt?!" Ned exclaimed. No wonder Renly hadn't wanted his name anywhere near this revelation.
"I'm telling you the crown is 6 million in debt." Lord Baelish countered.
"How could you let this happen?!" Ned bellowed, slamming his fist onto the table.
"The King and the Hand spend the money; the Master of Coin simply finds it when ordered." Lord Baelish replied, unconcerned.
"I will not believe Jon Arryn allowed Robert to bankrupt the realm." Ned spat.
"It doesn't matter what you believe, it's what's happened." Renly interjected speaking down to Ned in a way that made his blood boil. "Lord Arryn did his best to restrain my brother's spending. But Robert despises 'counting coppers' as he calls it and simply refused to listen. I truly believe that the fact Lord Arryn was a second father to him was the only reason he still had a head by the end. Robert wants what he wants, and he'll have it whether he has the money or not. No matter what counsel he's given."
Ned glared at Renly, wanting to argue, but the figure of 6 million kept reverberating around his head, giving truth to the Lord of Storm's End's words. "Forgive me Lord Renly, my lords, I am simply tired and shocked. I shall speak to the King; this tournament is an extravagance we simply cannot afford."
"As you will, but we had still best make our plans..."
"There will be no plans, Lord Baelish." Ned growled out. "If that is all we shall meet again tomorrow after I have spoken with the King."
Ned watched as the other members of the small council filtered out. Lord Renly last of all. The man intrigued Ned. Far from the flatterer Ned had expected, he had been willing to voice harsh but justified criticism, in clear and uncertain terms, of both the King and Ned himself.
The man-child Robert had led him to believe was his younger brother was nowhere to be found either. Instead, he saw a man who, at least on the surface, seemed to value duty, wanted the realm to be ruled well, and was simply bitter and frustrated at how Robert both refused to do it, and then mocked any who did.
Ned decided to invite Lord Renly to dine with him once his household had settled in. He was an enigma that Ned needed to unravel and the best way to do that was always to let the man in question talk himself into exhaustion and see what that revealed about his principles and priorities. Ned often found that people tended to hang themselves if you gave them enough rope.
When Lord Renly joined his household for supper a few days later, Ned was still fuming over the meeting with Robert and the small council. Even the news that Bran had awoken reaching Kings Landing had not been enough to lift his mood, as Maester Luwin confirmed his warnings that his son was crippled.
Robert had not even considered cancelling the tournament altogether. While he hadn't truly expected to succeed at that, Ned was still in shock that he hadn't even been able to get Robert to lower the prize money either. A plain set of castle steel plate armour cost around 800 silver stags, and a mid to high quality horse went for about the same. The 40,000 gold dragons for the tournament winner could armour and horse over 5,000 men, more heavy cavalry than House Stark or House Baratheon could field alone, so Ned had been certain that he'd be able to talk Robert down to something more reasonable. But the king had simply refused to listen and ordered that the tournament go ahead exactly as planned.
Lord Renly clearly hadn't been exaggerating when he'd spoken of Robert's willingness to ignore Jon Arryn's counsel. If anything, he'd undersold it.
Speaking of the young lord paramount, he was proving charming and popular with his Northmen, even stepping down from the high table to talk with several of the more prominent members of his household on the floor of the small hall between courses. Ned had watched him carefully, but either he was a fantastic mummer or he genuinely didn't consider talking to household guards beneath him. A point in his favour.
It was perhaps that string of positive signs that made the young lord's first serious misstep come as such a surprise, when his attempt to make a joke of accidentally bringing four times the guards that Ned had to Kings Landing went sour.
"Well, when Lord Rickard came to Kings Landing he brought 200 household guards with him, so I thought Lord Eddard would do the same and sought to match you. I had no idea that Lord Eddard only brought 50 guards until you arrived! The King was indeed most wroth with me, but he couldn't do more than rant as the Lannister's have twice my numbers, and they're not the Royal Family, no matter what the Queen likes to think."
Jory and the others quietened, turning stonefaced even as Ned felt the ice cold fury in him rise at the reminder of the fate that awaited his father and brother in this very keep. Though none of them had any fond feelings for the Queen following the incident at the Crossroads Inn. Indeed, it seemed the only member of his household to do so was Sansa, which was concerning, the of forgotten fact of the burning that started Robert's Rebellion was that the entire Stark Household guard had died along with their 'traitorous' liege lord. Many men here had also lost family to Targaryen madness in the journey south that Lord Renly had mentioned so casually to scorn the Lannister queen. To reference their last journey so lightly was an insult.
To his credit, the young lord seemed to realise his misstep and didn't try to hide from it. "Ah, my apologies. Of course all of you would have had family amongst those men. I should not have made light of their fate."
Raising his hands in surrender Renly re-took his place at the high table and remained silent until the next course was served. Slowly the hum of conversation grew until it seemed the moment had been forgiven and the memory put to one side.
Taking his lead from that, the young lord clearly decided it was safe for him to make conversation once again.
"So, where's your infamous bastard? Did you bring him south with you?"
Ned's eyes snapped towards Renly, but he detected no mockery or contempt in the younger man's voice. Perhaps he really was used to bastards from how many Robert had.
"My half-brother is training. He can't expect to share the practice yard with the trueborn princes and heirs during the day." Sansa answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and Ned winced at her casual dismissal of Jon. It was the only way in which he wished she would be less like Catelyn.
The Lord of Storm's End winced in turn. "My apologies Lord Stark, I've been remiss in my promise to you. I'll be sure to include him in my guardsmen's training until you make a decision about him squiring with Ser Loras."
Renly then turned to address Sansa, seated on his other side. "If all the stories I've heard are true my lady, I'd trade my full brother for your half-brother any day of the week and consider it a bargain." He winked in a roguish manner that no doubt had the ladies of the court swooning. "Have no fear for him, you have enough to worry about being betrothed to that little shit Joffrey."
While he frowned at the coarse language, Ned let it slide as he bitterly regretted not taking the warning in Lord Renly's raven more seriously. Robert had been set on getting his son the wolf queen he had been denied by Rhaegar Targaryen, and Joffrey had a mummer's skill for hiding his true nature when he wished to, but still, Ned wished he had seen the truth when he could still have done something about it. He didn't know if he would have been able to convince Robert to match Myrcella with Robb or Bran, or Tommen with Arya. But it was a source of shame to him that even with the warning, he'd still not seen Joffrey's true nature in time to even try.
But even though he'd committed the warning to a raven, Ned had still not expected Lord Renly to repeat it aloud in Kings Landing. Especially not in public. Another point in his favour given what Cat had told him about the Lannisters.
A silence fell across the hall as well as jaws as everyone finally registered what the king's brother had actually said. Arya especially suddenly came alive, looking over at him in wonder.
"Prince Joffrey is not a little shit!" Sansa squealed; all decorum forgotten.
A cold dread spread through Ned as he watched Renly's confused expression. After the Crossroads Inn he knew as well as the Stormlands lord that Prince Joffrey was rotten, but Sansa could see only the prince from her songs. He had truly meant to speak with her about that, but with Arya and the small council both to deal with and Lady's death still so raw for her he had not yet thought it time.
"Don't worry, I won't tell that awful good sister I'm stuck with." Renly winked again as he made things worse, though thankfully he had toned down the language. Ned focused closely on exactly what he was saying, these southron games could all turn on a single word.
"Joffrey loves inflicting pain, but he's a total craven when anyone stands up to him. Just look at how your little sister disarmed him, a girl with no training with a sword at all! Oh, how I laughed for weeks on hearing that! But of course, then our 'dear' Queen had to go and spoil it by killing your direwolf. Spiteful bit…tter woman. She loves inflicting pain as much as Joffrey does, she just hides it better. One thing I will give her though is that she isn't craven. No, she has a spine of Valyrian steel that one."
Sansa's mouth moved, trying in vain to form words as Ned gave into the unlordly urge to put his face in his palm, realising the situation was now beyond saving as far as his eldest girl was concerned.
"You..You…You horrible beast!" Sansa finally shrieked into the silent hall. "Joffrey is as brave as the wolf and as proud as the lion and I love him! I love him as much as Jonquil loved Ser Florian! And we will marry! And he will be the greatest king there ever was! And I will be his queen and give him beautiful golden-haired babies!"
Lord Renly was staring at Sansa as if she had two heads. "You cannot possibly be that stupid."
Sansa screamed, throwing her plate of ribs at the Stormlands lord before fleeing in the direction of her bedchamber.
Ned closed his eyes, horrified, but ruefully he noted that Sansa and Arya were far more alike than they liked to admit. Given that Sansa had just replicated her sister's usual actions perfectly. Though Arya was usually throwing her food at Sansa before fleeing, rather than at one of the seven lord paramounts of the realm.
"You. Are. Amazing." Arya whispered; her eyes full of hero worship.
"Well, little wolf." Lord Renly replied to her, cleaning sauce and grease from his face with a black handkerchief. "It's far from the first time I've made a woman throw things over me, though usually it has a very different cause." This time he aimed his roguish wink at the household guard, breaking the tension and making them roar with laughter.
"What cause?" Arya asked, confused.
"Ask your father when you're older." Renly replied grinning in Ned's direction.
Arya huffed, but was unwilling to let anything dent her new hero worship of the Stormlands Lord.
The meal continued for some time afterwards, and Ned was honestly stunned by how effectively the Lord of Storm's End charmed his household. Men of the North had very low opinions of southerners as a rule, but Renly had them eating out of the palm of his hand.
After the meal had concluded, Ned invited the King's brother to the Hand's solar. What he had seen so far was promising, but he needed to get a better read of the Stormlands Lord to see if he actually was the honourable, truth telling, defender of the realm he clearly tried to portray.
If his words in private matched his words in public, Ned may have found his only true ally in this viper's nest.
Jeor Mormont
Jeor sank into the chair in his chambers, once again looking over the papers sent from Maester Aemon, First Ranger Stark, First Builder Yarwyck, Lord Steward Marsh, and Master-at-Arms Thorne.
They said what they always said.
We need more men.
We need more wood and steel.
We need more food.
The useless bastards we've got will melt like snow in Dorne if the wildlings attack in force.
It was just as he told Tyrion Lannister, they needed more of everything. They needed more of anything to tell the harsh truth, though Jeor doubted that his words to the Imp would have any effect. Even if he was the richest man in the Seven Kingdoms, Tywin Lannister would never spend a single copper star on the Wall. It was only because it was cheaper to send condemned men here than leave them rotting in his dungeons that they got anything from him at all.
Jeor feared more than anything that it would be on his watch that the Night's Watch finally ended. The Wildlings pressed south in ever greater numbers and unifying under Mance Rayder couldn't explain why there were so many of them marching on the Wall. Not when all the clan leaders knew that House Stark would call the banners if they crossed the Wall in force. Not when captives repeatedly said they were being chased.
Jeor had sent out Benjen Stark to investigate the Wildling claims, and search for their own rangers which were going missing with noticeably more regularity. In his heart he knew what they would find.
It was as he had said to that fat new recruit, Sam Tarly, when he caught him gaping at the wall. The Night's Watch has forgotten its true purpose Tarly. You don't build a wall seven hundred feet high to keep savages in skins from stealing women. The Wall was meant to guard the realms of men…and not against men, which is all Wildlings are when you come right down to it. Too many years, Tarly, too many hundreds and thousands of years.
Jeor had fear in his heart for the first time in decades. There were only whispers and legends of the Others and the Wights they raised. But that was who the Wildlings said were chasing them, turning ferocious raiders into refugees.
That was who good, solid, rangers claimed had caused them to desert, even as the headsman's sword came down.
Jeor believed them.
Would his brothers remove him if he gave voice to his suspicions? Of all the other leaders of the Watch only Maester Aemon might believe. The old man knew the truth of magic better than most. Growing up surrounded by dragon skulls did that to a person. Jeor had no doubt the maester had the same thoughts as he did about the height of the Wall, about what it was built to keep out. But what of the others?
In the end he wasn't even sure it mattered if the others believed. What did they have to defend the realms of men with?
The Gift and The New Gift were almost empty, their holdfasts abandoned shells. Barely any villages remained to pay taxes and send supplies to the Night's Watch. What use was control over the largest lands in the North after House Stark if there was no one there to put them under plough?
At its height the Night's Watch had numbered ten thousand fighting men, with seventeen of the nineteen castles on the wall fully garrisoned and standing guard with regular patrols between them. Castle Black itself had once had a garrison of five thousand rangers ready to ride out to reinforce any castle that came under attack, turning back anything that fell upon the Wall.
Now what did it have?
Six hundred men total, builders and stewards included.
Only two other castles out of the nineteen were manned, with Eastwatch-by-the-Sea having less than two hundred men to patrol the Wall and only three galleys to patrol the Bay of Seals. The Shadow Tower only had two hundred men themselves, and though the Bridge of Skulls over the Gorge was treacherous – and its gates were sealed on the Seven Kingdoms side – it didn't change the fact that Westwatch-by-the-Bridge had had to be abandoned long ago. If the Wildings were coming in force and managed to avoid The Shadow Tower's rangers, if they managed to cross the bridge without losing too many of their numbers into the Gorge in the high winds, they could be passed the Wall in numbers the men of The Shadow Tower couldn't hope to hold back.
Less than a thousand men, builders and stewards included. Four hundred if you counted only the fighting men of any ability, no matter what service they were in officially. That was what the Night's Watch had become. And now it seemed Winter was coming for them.
A hornblast echoed through Castle Black.
Jeor frowned. Benjen shouldn't be back so soon.
"Banners, Lord Commander! Banners approach from the Kingsroad!"
Jeor strode out the door to berate whoever had put the lookout up to that. No banners ever came down the Kingsroad. Whenever members of the great houses visited, they did so as single people with a few retainers, like Tyrion Lannister had done. Even the houses of the North never came in force, not even the Stark's anymore. Lord Stark simply summoned his brother when he wanted news.
His voice disappeared as he entered the courtyard and saw it himself. There it was, as clear as day, the rampant black stag on gold banner unaffected by the light snowfall.
House Baratheon.
Ser Alliser Thorne stomped over to him and spat at the sight of the banner.
"Fucking usurpers."
Jeor very nearly backhanded him. "None of that while they're here. We need more of anything and you know it. I won't see us starve because you couldn't keep yeh mouth shut."
Ser Alliser looked mutinous but gave an almost imperceptible nod of consent. Jeor allowed him a lot of leeway when others were watching, the man had to be hard to turn the smallfolk and criminals who had never held a sword in their lives into people who could be relied on to at least look after themselves. But privately he knew how to keep the Targaryen loyalist under control.
The bannerman rode through the gate at the head of a column of mounted men. Jeor made it about twoscore strong as the first three riders dismounted and walked towards him and Ser Alliser.
"Beg pardon Sers, but could you tell us where we might find the Lord Commander?"
"I'm the Lord Commander. What I would like to know is who the three of you are and what you're doing here under that banner." Jeor replied gruffly as he took a look at the young pup in front of him. If any of the three men facing him had seen their twentieth namedays he'd be surprised. If any of them claimed to have seen their thirtieth he'd call them dammed liars.
"My lord." The same one addressed him, but Jeor couldn't place the white owl on grey that was the sigil sewn into his grey cloak, nor the green turtle on green, or the black lion on yellow of his companions. "I am Ser Jacelyn Mertyns of Mistwood, my companions are Ser Andrew Estermont of Greenstone, and Ser Mattos Grandison of Grandview. I have his for you, from Lord Renly Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands."
"We know who Lord Renly is boy!" Ser Alliser growled out.
Jeor placed a hand on his arm, taking the sealed scroll sealed with gold wax.
"And what does the Lord of Storm's End want with us?" He asked calmly, hoping he could get some concessions from the Kings brother. He had sent these three knights north with forty mounted men-at-arms. Tyrion Lannister by contrast, had come with naught but two guardsmen and some warm words. Despite what seemed to be genuine interest.
"My lord has seen the value in the Night's Watch, Lord Commander, and he wishes to offer you his support." Ser Jacelyn answered with a shallow bow.
"Has he indeed," Ser Alliser scoffed, "and where was this revelation in the last, what must it be, ten years, since he came of age?"
"Seven years."
"What was that boy?"
"Lord Renly has been of age for seven years."
"I don't care how long Lord Renly has been of age for!" Ser Alliser roared in anger.
"Then why did you ask?" Ser Jacelyn asked, unintimidated and with his face the very picture of innocent confusion.
Jeor snorted. He almost believed the boy's expression. Almost.
Fighting down a smile at Ser Alliser's inarticulate growl of anger. Jeor kept his attention on the young knight. He wanted to get a feel for what this man thought of his liege lord before whatever was in the message coloured his thinking.
"Ser Alliser does have a point, we haven't heard anything from Lord Renly before, and what support does he offer?"
"Lord Renly suffered from the fitting fever a few months ago. By the grace of the Seven he survived unscathed, but he is a much-changed man. He reads far more than he did before, perhaps it was this that gave him an appreciation of the Night's Watch and your mission? In truth I know not what changed his mind. I know only what he has said since waking and that is that he admires and supports the Night's Watch. As for what he offers, he sends recruits. He sends us."
Ser Alliser's face went from barely concealed anger to completely blank.
Jeor himself felt the need to sit down and cursed that they were standing in the centre of the courtyard.
Three knights and forty trained, equipped, and mounted men-at-arms.
Three knights hadn't joined the Night's Watch in one month in more than a decade. The last knight to join had been Ser Waymar Royce, who had gone missing at the start of the year barely two months after joining. As for forty men-at-arms, Jeor could count on only two hundred and fifty fighting men of any true ability here at Castle Black. If this boon were what it appeared to be, he had just increased his fighting men by nearly twenty percent.
"All of you are willing to take the black, are you?" Ser Alliser said sceptically.
"We answered when Lord Renly sent out the call." Ser Jacelyn answered coldly. "But it is not just us."
"What." Ser Alliser was stunned into one-word questions again.
"Perhaps you'd better explain exactly what Lord Renly did, Ser Jacelyn. Forgive my brothers scepticism, but we have had problems recruiting. I am not exaggerating when I say that yours would be the largest group joining in since Bloodraven, outside of a lord emptying their dungeon or the aftermath of King Roberts Rebellion."
"Of course, Lord Commander." The young Stormlands knight replied. "The second week after returning to Storm's End following the fitting fever, Lord Renly sent out ravens and messengers announcing his support for the Night's Watch and saying that the family of any man-at-arms that volunteered to take the black would receive a payment of 10 gold dragons from Storm's End's treasury. All lords were additionally ordered to allow such volunteers to keep their weapons, armour, and horses, if they had been issued with them while in the lord's service. The families of any knights that volunteered were told that they would be held in high regard by Storm's End, would receive a payment of 50 gold dragons from the treasury, and would get an introduction to a ball at the royal court in King's Landing for any daughter they cared to send. Additionally, all holdfasts, villages, and towns, were ordered to send all of their beggars and destitute inhabitants, and all of the men of fighting age from their dungeons to Storm's End at once. We left for the Wall six weeks later."
Jeor wordlessly gestured to the hall and strode off quickly, in need of a mug of beer. When he had gulped it down, without the lemon he was so fond of adding for once, he asked the burning question that he had wanted to be seated for.
"How many?"
"Five knights in total, the three of us and Ser Richard Lonnmouth of Adamant and Ser Ormond Wylde of Rain House."
"The knight of skulls and kisses volunteered? It'll be good to see that old bastard again." Ser Alliser muttered, lost in memories.
"Both are with the second group Lord Commander. A hundred and ten men-at-arms volunteered, the forty mounted rode with us while the seventy foot escort the second group. We Stormlanders are a fierce and stormy people because the land is harsh, perhaps harsher than any except the North or Dorne. Ten gold dragons is more than any man-at-arms will see in his lifetime and many took it to provide for their brothers or sisters families. For a Stormlander, to spend the rest of his days fighting is no hardship. Indeed, for many it's why they joined their lord's household guard, to fight and to send coin to their families. These men just decided to take the better offer.
Ser Alliser looked like he wanted to spit something about sellswords but Jeor already had a fierce grip on his shoulder, stopping him. The Stormlanders were a proud, martial people as a rule. They would keep the oath they swore here as much as any man who took the black, and if they'd been paid to do so? Well, the gold hadn't been given to them, and men did far worse things for love of coin.
Jeor closed his eyes to send away the vision of his son, and the utter shame that Jorah had brought on House Mormont.
"Who else is in this second group, apart from the two knights and seventy foot?"
"Two hundred or so men from the dungeons that all volunteered when Lord Renly threatened to impose the harshest punishments the law allowed for their crimes if they did not. As the Master of Laws, he knew several, harsh, precedents to encourage them with. The final section of the second group is five hundred destitute or begging men, women and children. They're slowed by their condition and their carts. Lord Renly did not intend them as Night's Watch recruits, but rather to join the few remaining villages in the Gift or New Gift and start a new life for themselves. He has entrusted a purse of three hundred gold dragons for me to place into your hands for that and any other purchases you deem fit to make."
Jeor sat stunned. Five knights, forty cavalry, seventy foot, two hundred odd men who would undoubtedly have good fighters among their number as well as builders and stewards, and five hundred villagers to farm food for Castle Black's granaries. Oh, and three hundred gold dragons to cap it off.
The Night's Watch had just seen its number of good fighters jump from four hundred to over five, and its total numbers had increased by nearly a third.
"And what does Lord Renly want for this generosity?" Ser Alliser questioned darkly.
Jeor braced himself as he looked at the still sealed letter. He would not compromise the Night's Watch's neutrality. But as much as it galled him to admit it, he would do almost anything else to receive this level of help. Nothing any lord had sent had even come close to this in his entire time with the Night's Watch. Even Eddard Stark's plans to resettle the Gift and New Gift with smallfolk enticed from the other kingdoms had been abandoned when he was called south by the King.
Resolute, he broke the seal and read the words with.
Lord Commander Mormont
Greetings from the Stormlands. No doubt you are surprised by my sudden interest in the Night's Watch. I am sure Ser Jacelyn has explained the changes I have undergone recently. Changes that have meant I have a new appreciation for the Watchers on the Wall. My spies in the North speak of the Wildings becoming ever bolder, but perhaps fearful is a better word as they strike south claiming they are being chased. My spies also claim that men of the Night's Watch are going missing north of the Wall in unheard of numbers, and that deserters go to the headsman claiming to have seen White Walkers.
In truth I do not believe that the dead can rise, but I do believe something is making the Wildlings flee. My effort to sends spies into their ranks have not yet born fruit, but all of the reports I have from my own network, and those of other lords I have questioned discreetly, agree. The Wildings say they are fleeing. It matters not in the end what they are truly fleeing from. Whatever it is, it cannot be good for the Seven Kingdoms.
As such I have sent you the help that I am able and will do so each year from now on.
In return I ask only three favours of you. My help is not contingent on them, but I ask them as a recognition that I have done more for you than any southron lord has for decades.
The first is that the four scribes I have sent along with the volunteers be allowed to copy books from the Night's Watch's library. They have their own stores of parchment and ink and had been informed which sort of books to prioritise. They also have coin to pay for their stay so as not to rely on your charity.
The second is that one of your recruits, Samwell Tarly, is treated as well as can be despite his craven nature. His brother Dickon cares and wishes him well, as a close friend of my brother in all but blood, Loras Tyrell, he asked it of Ser Loras, and Ser Loras asked it of me. I now ask it of you. The boy apparently has the mind of a maester and a fierce intelligence. Perhaps you could see to it that he becomes apprentice or steward to you current maester?
The third is that the knight I have appointed leader, Ser Jacelyn Mertyns, be given the honour of being your personal steward and be permitted to take a squire of his own. There is an accident in his past that he feels the need to atone for, and I suspect he would allow himself to fade into the background so as to punish himself if left to his own devices, a fate his skills do not deserve. He should certainly pass on his skills with a blade to a new squire and if you decide to take him as your steward you will discover the rest in time.
I wish you well Lord Commander.
I truly hope that your remaining watch on the Wall is quiet, but I fear it will not be. I fear Winter is coming for us all.
Renly Baratheon
Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Lord of Storm's End
Jeor grunted. Irritating as it was to have to take commands from a southerner, from anyone, Lord Renly had the right of it. He had done more than any southron lord for decades. Keeping Tarly's nose in a book, taking his candidate as steward, and letting some scribes loose in the library barely rated as requests given that he had sent so many fighting men.
What Lord Renly expected to find in the library Jeor had no idea, but as to the rest he wasn't blind. He knew that with Tarly was being set up for Maester Aemon's replacement while feeling he owed Baratheon both for his appointment, and for his safety from the other recruits. With the respect and gratitude that taking the maesters healing duties would give to Tarly over time, and with Baratheon's man as his own steward to build his reputation and be seen to have the Mormont seal of approval, Baratheon was manoeuvring his chosen man into position to replace him as Lord Commander perfectly.
If Jeor planned on dying any time soon, he'd be concerned.
This Jacelyn boy had spared with words against Ser Alliser, had not backed down, and had the look of a fighter too. He might even actually be a good replacement as Lord Commander when the time came if such things were indicative of his nature and skill, even if he was unlikely to succeed in the next election if the Half-hand was still around. But for the moment the boy still bled gold.
The Wall would put an end to that though, without any help from him. Beating the gold out of the boy and leaving only black, and it would not the black of House Baratheon. The Wall did that to all of them in the end.
Jeor would have promised a lot more than those two positions to any lord that had sent the amount of men Baratheon had. Galling as it was to have someone else chose his personal steward, he still recognised an excellent bargain when it was presented to him.
"Welcome to the Night's Watch. Let's get you kitted out and then Ser Alliser will want to see what you can do."
Fanfic Recommendation: A Song of a Northern Sorcerer by FFDrake – A truly epic in scope and length exploration about a single, dark grey, Sith of the Old Republic era being stuck in the North with no way home. The plots, schemes, and adventures created out of near whole cloth are so amazing it's unbelievable. If you want a depiction of Valyria that will stay with you whenever you hear it mentioned anywhere again, check this out!