Jon VII
Jon's ride north had been uneventful so far, compared to Brienne's trip to bring Bran home. They'd met no one, living or dead, despite the inevitable noise of a small army marching through packed snow. He'd shared everything he knew of the Others and the wights with his lords, hoping they'd share likewise with their soldiers, in case of an attack on the road. So far, all of his precautions had been for naught.
There were many skeptics, but in general, the soldiers appeared more mindful of the old tales than their lords and the maesters sworn to them. Learned men dismissed the tales of wights, White Walkers, and magic as savage nonsense. The common folk of the North, armed with bows and spears and axes of plain steel, listened raptly and looked at Jon in his crown like the Last Hero come again.
He'd found out why after a few hours' march; word had spread across the North like wildfire, first of the old gods breaking their silence at the Winterfell heart tree, and then of the gruesome scars the King in the North bore on his chest and back. Messengers had spread the tales along with Lyanna Mormont's drawings of Littlefinger, and now the smallfolk whispered of their king, Jon the Undying, saved from death to avenge House Stark and save the North in its hour of need.
Jon despised being a legend. He felt more like a mummer in a copy of his brother's crown, and the boy who had once hidden in dark corners to avoid his uncle's wife now cringed at the constant staring. Every word he said was taken as a command and obeyed without question, and the deference was jarring after years of being the motherless bastard, Lord Snow. He and Sansa had thought it a good idea at the time, allowing certain important people to see his stab wounds, but what had once saved him from the executioner's block was now driving him mad.
The return of his nightmares didn't help the king's already grumpy mood, either. He'd known from the start that they would come back, now that he had neither Sansa nor his father's harp to keep them at bay, but there was little he could do about it. Jon had expected dreams of the Dead, or of Ygritte, but as the top of the Wall came into view, some five-and-thirty miles away, he realized he was tracing one of his stab wounds with a gloved finger. His breath was coming out in harsh pants, but he could not get enough air. He hadn't seen his former brothers since he'd left with Sansa, Ser Davos, Brienne, and the Red Woman to gather support, and he was not eager to do so again.
"Easy, Snow," Tormund murmured from his place on Jon's left. He'd been the second of Jon's Wintersguard to volunteer to come, and Jon was glad for it. No one understood the king's fears as well as Tormund, who had seen the former Lord Commander's dead body and fought the true enemy beyond the Wall. "Breathe. In and out, go on. They won't stab you again."
"They'd better not!" Brienne spoke up. "Or Princess Sansa will have our heads. And she'll deserve them."
"Aye," Lord Wull agreed seriously.
Joren said nothing. He'd asked them to tie him to his horse so he could scout ahead. Like Jon and his cousins, the man was a skinchanger, though his chosen companion was a peregrine falcon. The wildling Wintersguard sat on his saddle, leaning forward against the neck of his horse, and bound there with ropes, while his mind flew far above them with his bird.
"The murderers are dead, anyhow," Tormund added cheerfully. "The rest are the cravens who let them plot and said nothing."
"I doubt they planned my assassination in the middle of the common hall," Jon objected, forcing himself to breathe slow and deep.
"A crow is a tricksy bird," offered the wildling with a shrug, and Jon suddenly remembered Mance Rayder saying the same thing. Briefly distracted from his murder, he wondered what Mance would say of the new King in the North. Would he thank Jon for taking his people south? Laugh at him for breaking the same sacred oath he'd sworn himself? Or curse him for sending his babe to Oldtown?
The lack of news from Sam was one of the many things worrying Jon. He didn't know if his friend and Maester Aemon had even reached Oldtown, and the North needed the wisdom only the maesters' giant library could provide!
The blue-white band on the horizon grew steadily taller the next day, but it looked no different than when Jon had seen it last. The visible Wall seemed intact; surely, fissures going halfway up should have been visible from afar? Jon didn't know where the damage was, exactly, but he'd be surprised if none of the affected portions were close enough to see from the Kingsroad.
Then, when they'd marched another thirteen miles, there was an audible gasp from several soldiers, which grew into a din of alarmed voices as more and more men pointed and shouted. They were still two-and-twenty miles away from the Wall at Castle Black, but the top of the nearest crack was visible through the trees to the northeast, hundreds of feet from the base. It was wide enough for a thin sliver of sky to shine through.
Jon's heart sank.
Joren, scouting once more, returned to his body amidst the panic, and struggled to pull himself upright. Larence Snow reached over and untied the knots, freeing his fellow guard so he could sit up and report. Jon shook himself out of his panicked stupor and signaled to his lords, who were calming down their men. They joined the king and his Wintersguards at the head of the column, wide-eyed and pale.
"The nearest breach in the Wall is between Oakenshield and Woodswatch, some four miles east of Oakenshield," Joren told them. "One of the crows is riding south to tell us. Most of the men at Castle Black are there already, or marching now. There's another one near Long Barrow, and the other two are to the west, next to the Nightfort and Greyguard. The Eastwatch men will go to Long Barrow."
Tormund swore. "None of the men on the western side have any dragonglass, or dragonsteel. And if we wanted to help, we'd arrive too late."
He was right, curse him. Unless Edd had sent the Brotherhood without Banners west to join Jon's men, all of the properly-armed fighting men (and woman) would be on the eastern half of the Wall.
"I could ride to one of the western castles, your grace," Brienne offered, her gloved hand on the hilt of Longclaw.
"I appreciate the offer, Lady Commander," Jon replied, somber, "but it's at least a hundred and fifty miles from here to Greyguard, and the terrain becomes rocky and difficult west of Castle Black. I'd rather they seal the fissure and retreat eastward, if no help can reach them in time."
"Will normal ice hold back the Others?" Tormund asked dubiously. "We all know the Wall is more than just ice, and it seems strange to fight them with their own weapon."
"I don't know, Tormund," Jon answered honestly, peering up at the Wall and its new gap with weary eyes. "I know nothing of the magic that holds it together. But the Watch has sealed entrances that way before, when we didn't have enough men to garrison a castle."
If Edd didn't give the order, he would, and deliver it quickly with Joren's falcon. Jon had not sent hundreds of loyal Northmen to the Wall so they could see the Others pass and then die, helpless to stop them. Yet again, he silently cursed Barbrey Dustin for her grudge.
"Lord Royce," Jon ordered, and the Vale knight nudged his horse closer to Jon's. "Take your knights to join the Eastwatch men at Long Barrow. You'll need Ser Harry's Valyrian steel if any White Walkers appear. Alyn, hand me a map, please."
The burly mountain clansman reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a simplified map of the Wall and its castles, neatly labeled with castle names, and the roads and paths connecting them. They'd asked Lady Mormont to create half a dozen of them, so Jon could direct his troops. The king unrolled the map, and with a piece of charcoal, drew jagged lines where Joren had reported the damage to the Wall. Then he went over the thin line marking the best trail for the Valemen to use, rolled the map back up, and gave it to Bronze Yohn.
"Where will you be, your grace?" the older man asked, stowing the map.
"I'll go to Oakenshield for now," Jon answered, nodding at the only visible gap in the Wall. "The eastern half of the Wall has more Valyrian steel, but fewer men. If I need to move, it's just over sixty miles from the Oakenshield breach to the Long Barrow breach. I won't be too far away, should you need me."
Bronze Yohn departed at once. The Vale knights had been some of the most skeptical, but seeing the damage to the Wall with their own eyes had shaken them. Jon could see a well-concealed fear in their eyes, especially in the older men. Ser Harrold Hardying bid Jon a short farewell and good luck despite the gloom, then followed Lord Royce and his subdued knights.
A man can only be brave when he is afraid. Someone had taught him that, once. Jon hoped it was true.
An hour after the Vale knights had departed, abandoning the Kingsroad for a winding, little-used track that led to the eastern castles, the rider from Castle Black met the scouts at the front of Jon's column, and was revealed to be Satin.
"Jon! Lord Commander!" he cried as he dismounted, moving as though he meant to embrace Jon, then thinking better of it and bowing instead. Jon was surprisingly glad to see him. He'd made the tragic mistake of sending Satin—along with all of his other friends—away before the mutiny, and it was good to see a friendly face in Night's Watch blacks again.
"I'm not Lord Commander anymore, Satin," Jon corrected him wryly.
"You address His Grace, King Jon of Houses Stark and Targaryen," Lady Commander Brienne said sternly. "You will address him with respect, boy."
Boy? Jon thought, fighting a smile despite the knot of nerves in his belly. He's at least two years older than I am, and you can't be that much older than we are, Brienne.
The former Oldtown whore's eyebrows rose, and rose, and rose while Brienne corrected him. He seemed more amused than chastened. "Yes, we've heard rumors, your grace. That certainly explains a few things! But I didn't just come to say hello," he recalled, turning serious. He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a map, then unrolled it to show Jon the Wall and the new fissures on it.
"Edd is still not the official Lord Commander, because he doesn't have the votes," Satin confessed, "but we're all treating him like he is anyway. Ser Denys and Cotter Pyke are so used to fighting living wildlings that they don't know what to do with dead ones, and Edd has the experience, if not the weapons. The Brotherhood Without Banners came to Castle Black some time ago, though, and they brought some dragonglass. Edd split them up along the Wall so every breach has some obsidian."
"Good!" Jon exclaimed in relief. "I hadn't thought of that; for some reason I supposed they'd all stay together at one of the castles."
"Oh, I'm sure they meant to," Satin replied with a shrug, "but Edd got them to see reason. I think he might have traded away a moon's supply of chicken and ale as part of the bargain. And the Kingslayer took his men and his Valyrian steel to the Long Barrow breach. It's a jolt seeing so many Westerlanders here, especially men who believe us about the Others and the wights!"
"Yes, that particular group met some wights on their way to Castle Black," Jon told his former squire. "Has Edd had any news from Sam?"
"Oh!" Satin cried, reaching into his bag again. "He did, though the raven was addressed to you. Sam is a bit behind the times, and apparently, so is the Citadel. They thought Jeor Mormont was still in command here, if you can believe that!"
After digging through his things for a bit, Satin handed Jon a rolled-up raven scroll addressed to Lord Commander Jon Snow. It was Sam's handwriting, sure enough. Jon pulled it open, nearly tearing it in his haste, and read:
To Lord Snow,
It is my solemn duty to inform you that Maester Aemon passed away of old age on our journey to Oldtown. In his final days he was very concerned about his niece, Daenerys Targaryen, but there was nothing he could do to help her. We burned him in the style of the Targaryens and continued the voyage with Gilly and little Aemon. The maesters thought Lord Mormont was still in command at Castle Black, but I've updated their records. They mean to send a new maester north while I earn my links. On that note, please excuse the long delay in writing. Novices and acolytes are not permitted to use the ravens here until we have forged our ravenry link, as I have now done.
I have not found a solution to our northern problem yet, but rest assured that I will scour every inch of this library until I have learned something of use. Please send my greetings to our brothers, take care of them (and yourself), and pass on any news you may have of Gilly's babe.
Samwell Tarly
Jon couldn't help a pang of sadness at the news. His poor great-uncle, stuck at the Wall and blind for so many years, had not made it to Oldtown alive. He dearly wished the wise maester were around to counsel him, and Jon also wondered what the former prince would have said, had the King in the North revealed his ancestry to him.
Would you have been proud of your namesake, Aemon Targaryen? Jon thought, struggling to remember his uncle's face. He had seen Maester Aemon nearly every day for years, but now he could not recall the face of his adviser. That was happening more and more often these days.
Shaking his head to clear it, Jon rolled up the parchment and put it away.
"We don't need to go to Castle Black at all," Jon told his Wintersguards and his lords (and Satin, who had mounted his horse anew next to Alyn Flint). "We ride straight for the nearest breach. Lead the way, Satin."
Jon had never seen Oakenshield before, even though he'd served as Lord Commander. That was true for most of the other forts, but it seemed preposterous to say so for the one directly east of Castle Black! Not, he thought honestly, that there was much to see here. Oakenshield was only a quarter of the size of Jon's former command, if that. All of the buildings needed repairs, and his men would need to sleep in the tunnels connecting the buildings, at least until the barracks were habitable.
Edd's men had covered the holes in the roof of the common hall with oiled cloth for the nonce. Replacing the rotten wood would take time—and builders—the Acting Lord Commander simply didn't have. The Night's Watchmen had been sitting at supper when Jon and his Northmen had arrived, in the aforementioned common hall where they ate and huddled for warmth at night. It was hard to call it sleep with an army of the Dead headed their way. The noise of their horses and the creak of their wagon wheels had roused them from their meal.
"Seven preserve us," breathed a few of the men on watch duty. Their bloodshot eyes were wide as they took in the long, long line of men marching into the tiny castle. The gray and white direwolf banners flapped in the wind, revealing to all that the King in the North and House Stark had come to the aid of the Watch once more.
Lady Brienne rode forward. In a booming voice, she said "Please inform Acting Lord Commander Tollett that Jon of Houses Stark and Targaryen, the King in the North, is here to see him."
"I see him, I see him!" called out a familiar, glum voice. Dolorous Edd had not gotten any more cheerful with command. He looked more doleful than ever as he stepped in front of Jon, who had just handed his horse's reins to Pod. For a moment, the former brothers looked at each other.
"You bastard," Edd said finally, and Jon embraced him with a hearty clap on the back. "You had to go and quit before the great battle of our time, didn't you?"
"I'm here, aren't I?" Jon protested. "And I brought you more men in six moons than the past three kings did in years, with food to keep them alive."
"I can't argue with that," Edd agreed in his rueful tones. He dropped to one knee in the frozen mud of the courtyard, surprising Jon. Though Jon had done the same for Stannis Baratheon, it felt so utterly wrong to have a former brother—and friend—kneeling to him that the king was stunned speechless. "Welcome to Oakenshield, your grace, and on behalf of the Night's Watch, thank you for your aid."
The other men in black followed suit, some kneeling more quickly and others, reluctant but outnumbered. Jon pulled Edd to his feet as soon as he'd recovered the power of speech.
"Thank you, Acting Lord Commander. Would one of your men direct mine to their quarters while we talk?"
Edd pointed at a squire Jon didn't know, probably a new recruit, and ordered him to lead Jon's men to the tunnels. Then he invited Jon into his quarters; cramped and musty as they were, they were better than huddling miserably under the common hall's rotting roof, like the rest of the Night's Watch were doing. Edd, having sent away his squire, heated some wine for himself and Jon, and offered the King in the North a cup.
"How far are they?" Jon asked, after taking a sip and letting the warmth flow down his throat.
"They'll be here by noon tomorrow," Edd answered soberly. "A few of us still have these, from the Fist," he added, showing Jon an obsidian arrowhead he wore on a leather thong around his neck. "We haven't forgotten the tale of Sam the Slayer. But it's not enough, not nearly enough."
"What of the Brotherhood? Satin said you'd spread them out along the Wall," the king inquired.
"I did. Lord Beric and his Dornish squire are here with their dragonglass daggers, and now that we have you and your lady guard, we won't be completely helpless." Seeing that Jon was opening his mouth to speak, Edd went on. "The western garrisons have the order to seal the entrances as best they can, if they can't hold back the invaders. It's going to be difficult, Jon," he confessed. "We need new scaffolding to reach the top, and we've barely started with that. The gaps are too tall, too wide, and too thick. They'd take an entire river's worth of water to seal completely."
"I know," Jon replied grimly. "I saw one as we were marching here. But as far as we know, wights don't scale the Wall."
"Yet," the Acting Lord Commander answered, glum as ever. "The Wall had never fallen to pieces before, either, but as soon as I'm left in charge, it all comes crashing down."
"Well," Jon answered, trying to lift his spirits, "if any of us survive to tell the tale, future generations won't blame you for all of this. You're not the Lord Commander yet."
"Gods willing, I'll never be that," the older man mumbled into his wine. "The men are terrified, Jon. The ones who didn't believe us before believe now, but they also think we're all dead. Even Pyke and Mallister are panicking, and they're right to do so. The Night's Watch forgot why we're here, and now we're caught with our breeches down."
Jon fought his rising irritation. He liked Edd, and his gloomy commentary was usually funny, but at the moment he felt like punching him. You have more help than I ever got as Lord Commander, he wanted to shout. Stannis just made demands, threatened to interfere, took our castles for his own, and tried to lure men away with promises of legitimization and castles. Do you have any idea how difficult that was to refuse?
"Edd, the Wall is better manned now than it's been for ages. We have some dragonglass. It's not all over yet," he said at last. "Even if they come by the thousands, they have to squeeze through four small gaps in three hundred miles of wall. It's not an attack any sane commander would attempt."
"Well, it's a good thing we're all sane up here," Edd sighed, draining the last of his cup. "Our families, if they're still alive, would be relieved to hear it."
Jon had a sudden thought. "What happened to those corpses I put in the ice cells at Castle Black?"
The Acting Lord Commander shuddered. "They woke up when the Wall cracked, though at the time we didn't know why. They've been pounding against the cell doors ever since, but we froze them shut before we marched out."
"Good!" Jon said, surprising Edd with his vehemence. "Look, Edd, no one believes these things exist until they see them, and sending just a hand to King's Landing didn't work. I think I'll send those two down south until we find someone who will listen, and more if we can capture them."
"Be my guest," Dolorous Edd agreed. "But Cersei Lannister won't do you any favors, Snow."
"No, not her," Jon replied, knowing Cersei would probably turn into a wight herself, rather than help Sansa in any way. "But if I sent envoys down to the Reach, to the Stormlands, to Dorne...if people knew what was coming, wouldn't they come to fight?"
"I'd sail to the Summer Isles and never come back," his companion answered, "but that's just me. I'm sure Westeros is full of unsung heroes willing to fight a war they don't even know is happening."
Edd's tone and his words said opposing things, but Jon let that slide. His plan was worth a try, at least so people would see that the army of the Dead was real. While the rest of his men marched the remaining four miles to the fissure in the Wall, he'd ask a few of them to make cages that could hold wights. For now, he meant to have some supper, and sleep.
Sleep didn't come. Jon gave up halfway through the night, abandoning his cot and wincing as he stretched. Sleeping in the Lord's Chamber at home had spoiled him for all other beds, it seemed, especially the uncomfortable cots the Night's Watch slept on. Rickard and Larence, his guards on duty, saw him rise and followed in sympathetic silence.
Ghost met him outside the tunnel, quiet as always. Jon paced across the courtyard, then decided to climb to the top of the Wall. The winch had been oiled recently, and made little noise as the three men and the direwolf rose to the top. The view looked much the same as the view from Castle Black, and Jon was relieved to see pristine snow and trees, not White Walkers, when he looked down.
"Your grace!" called a youthful voice, and a young man in several layers of fur peeked out of the warming shed.
"Lord Dayne," Jon replied, smiling at his milk brother. "It's good to see you."
"And you!" the squire replied, grinning as he came closer. Jon's guards moved toward the warming shed, leaving him with Ned and Ghost. "We've heard some interesting tales about you, brother!"
"Yes, I'm curious to know how the news of my parentage spread across the North," Jon answered sternly.
"A few of us overheard the Kingslayer talking to Lord Tollett, and no one thought to keep it secret until it was too late," Ned replied, shivering. "That explains so much! Now I understand why Wylla and your fa—uncle had to guard the mystery so well," he said, satisfied. "Even better, that makes us cousins!"
"Oh?" Jon said, amused by the other's enthusiasm.
"Yes," the Dornishman explained. "Aegon the Fifth, your great-great-grandfather, was the son of Lady Dyanna Dayne! So was his brother, the maester that used to live here."
"So we're milk brothers and cousins," the king realized. Then, feeling the urge to tease Edric as he'd once teased his brothers, he added, "So if I'm part of House Dayne, doesn't that mean I could claim Dawn?"
His blond cousin's face fell. Jon chuckled, then raised his hands in a picture of surrender. "Relax, Ned. I'm not a knight, and I have a legendary sword of my own. I don't need any more," he added, showing Ned the blade of Aegon the Conqueror.
The squire took it reverently, admiring the hand-and-a-half longsword with careful hands. "I wish I had Dawn with me," he confided. "I don't know if it would kill a White Walker like your Valyrian steel, but I'd certainly try!"
"Kill a wight or two, and perhaps Lord Beric will knight you tomorrow," Jon told him sincerely. "You have the skill to be Sword of the Morning, Ned. Mayhaps all you need is a brave deed worthy of songs, and you'll have the title as well."
"Then killing a few wights won't be enough," Edric complained ruefully, returning the sword. "We'll all be doing that soon enough. I need to save Lord Beric's life, though even that loses its impact when the man dies and comes back to life every few moons."
Jon tried to laugh, but the subject hit too close to home.
"Lord Beric told me once, that every time he died and he came back, he lost a bit of his soul," Jon said, lowering his voice so his Wintersguards wouldn't hear. "Does he lose his memory, as well?"
"Yes, of course," Ned answered. "He doesn't even remember his parents or his home, or my aunt Allyria anymore, and they're betrothed! She's just a name to him now. After his third or fourth death, he didn't recognize me, and I've been his squire for six years."
Jon's heart sank, and his cousin saw it in his face.
"You've forgotten something important?" he asked, lowering his voice as well.
"More than something," Jon confessed. "I've lost some childhood memories. Sometimes Sansa will bring up a story or a person we haven't seen since we left Winterfell, and I have no idea what she's talking about. I'm forgetting things that I know I used to know, even after my death!"
Jon gathered steam and continued. "I can't remember Maester Aemon's face, and I saw him every day for years. I can't picture Sam in my mind's eye, and he was my best friend! Even worse, I can't remember Arya's face anymore," he added in a painful near-whisper. "I love her more than my own life; I always have, and I can't remember her face! I know that she looked like me, with the long face, dark hair, and gray eyes of the Starks, but I can't see her in my mind's eye, and I'm afraid I wouldn't recognize her if she came home!"
Jon could barely squeeze out the words. His throat was tight with the misery and shame he'd bottled up for months.
Ned clapped a reassuring hand over Jon's fur-clad shoulder. His blue eyes looked at the King in the North with pity, and a certain weariness that could only come from watching one's master die and come back, over and over. "Does Princess Sansa know?"
"No!" Jon cried, then lowering his voice again as he remembered his guards. "I don't want to worry her. It's bad enough that I'm the son of Rhaegar Targaryen ruling the North. If word of this gets out, people might think I inherited more than blood from my grandfather, the Mad King."
"Listen to me, cousin," Edric said firmly. "You are not mad. You died, and the Red God that brought you back took a piece of you for his payment. It's not your fault. And I don't know the prince and princess very well, but I'm sure Prince Brandon and Princess Sansa would want to help you, if you'll let them."
He cracked a smile. "And I only knew Princess Arya for a short time, but I know she'd kick you in the Targaryen family jewels, and call you stupid, for even suggesting that you're mad like Aerys."
A gust of icy wind turned their way, and Jon wiped hastily at his face before his tears froze. He had not even realized he was crying, but he felt lighter after confessing to his friend.
"You should go back down, and try to sleep," Ned suggested kindly. "I have watch duty until the hour of the nightingale, but no one will be looking at me when the Dead arrive; they'll be looking to you, your grace."
"I thought I'd told you to call me Jon," the King in the North replied, composing himself.
"I apologize," Edric answered with a cheeky little bow. "I wasn't sure, now that you're Aemon Targaryen and all."
Jon snorted. "I'm only Aemon Targaryen to people like Jaime Lannister, who worshiped my father. I'm happy to claim you as a cousin, but I'll always be a Stark at heart—what's left of it, anyway."
"What if your aunt Daenerys comes with her dragons?" Ned asked shrewdly.
"If she wants to treat me like family, I have no objection," Jon answered honestly. "If my claim, such as it is, threatens her, then we'll have a real problem on our hands. But let's take one war at a time, Ned."
The king and the squire parted amicably, and Jon, his guards, and his direwolf returned to the castle, though not before a shameless Ghost had begged Edric silently for the jerky in his pocket. They'd left the shivering Dornishman alone on top of the Wall, laughing and breakfast-less.
There was no point in going back to bed; Jon knew he'd never be able to sleep, and the men were due to march before dawn. Instead, he went to the dilapidated kitchen, where a few stewards and Jon's army cooks were up early, making a thick porridge and baking black bread, along with bacon for the officers. He took a loaf and some half-burnt bacon strips, and sent Rickard to Ned with the plate, thinking dryly that his milk brother must be sick of the Night's Watch and their poor rations by now.
Soon enough, the men were marching to the Oakenshield fissure, wearing thick woolen hats under their helms and scarves and cloaks over their leather and ringmail. The gap had been hidden from view, since they were so close to the Wall at the castle, but as the four miles dwindled to nothing, the enormity of it became apparent. This one formed a triangular hole some three hundred feet tall, and about twenty feet wide at the base, though it narrowed slightly on the southern side, perhaps to fifteen feet. The ice that had collapsed lay in uneven chunks on both sides of the hole as well as inside it, making it a difficult terrain on which to fight. Some of these ice boulders were twenty and thirty feet high, obscuring the view and impossible to move by men alone. Unlike the tunnels the Watch had built, there were no gates or murder holes. The crack in the Wall was simply a gap, wide enough for a dozen men, and they'd have to hold it or seal it.
Immediately, Jon set twenty of his men to building fires and spreading gravel, so his soldiers would be able to fight without slipping on the ice. Edd ordered some of his own men to form the smaller chunks of ice into barricades inside the tunnel, which they could then freeze solid. They'd make it as difficult as possible for the White Walkers to get from one side to the other. They worked on this for hours, and the weak sun crept higher and higher, until dark clouds covered it.
Was it Jon's imagination, or was the temperature dropping?
A sentry somewhere blew a horn: three long blasts, meaning it was neither returning rangers nor wildlings coming their way.
"Here they come!" shouted Edd, pulling down the scarf he'd had over his nose and mouth. "Drop your shovels and get your weapons, now!"
The Northmen present looked to Jon for orders. He unsheathed Blackfyre.
"Remember," he told his nearest lords, "any man can kill a wight with fire, courage, and a bit of luck. The Others are different; if you find yourself facing one of them, pin it, trap it, do what you must, and call for help. Lord Beric and Lord Dayne have dragonglass, and I have dragonsteel. I know some men of the Watch carry obsidian as well. Don't try to be heroic; try to survive, because we need you all."
Lord Glover looked as terrified as the others, but he raised his sword into the air. "For House Stark, and the North!" he shouted, and his soldiers cheered, soon joined by the rest of the Northmen. A few Night's Watchmen joined in as well, while the others looked on awkwardly and held their weapons in trembling hands.
"Light your torches," Jon ordered, "and follow me."
The tunnel had turned misty, and Jon's eyes stung from the bitter cold passing through. Still, he walked toward the northern entrance, flanked by his Wintersguards and followed by the men of the North.
I took a crown and won some glory, he thought, but I am still the sword in the darkness.
Beric Dondarrion and Ned Dayne joined them, both carrying small daggers made of dragonglass.
I am the watcher on the walls.
Behind Jon's guards, Edd and the few remaining rangers of the Watch lined up, swords and torches at the ready.
I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers...
Jon's archers climbed the shorter ice boulders, while Edd's archers hid behind the new barricades.
...the shield that guards the realms of men.
Through the freezing mist, Jon saw blue eyes.
BOOM. We're ready for some action at the Wall and in the Riverlands, but first, we're heading south to visit Dany.
Thanks to iamqueenkk for beta reading, and thanks to everyone for your reviews.
(Has anyone heard the S8 leaks? Yikes. If those are true, people who didn't like S7 won't like S8 any better, methinks. It has all of the same problems.)