Jon VIII

Jon had never realized how much he'd taken clean air for granted. His men and the pathetic remainder of the Night's Watch lived in a world of icy, sooty fog, mixed with the dark smoke of the fires they needed to stay alive. The stench of smoke and cooked meat clung to man and beast, and every soldier on the front lines had reddened, teary eyes, a persistent cough, frostbite, or all of them at once. Their commanders called out orders with hoarse voices, and the men struggled to breathe the increasingly foul air.

There was nothing that could be done. Though the ice around them was turning dark from the soot, the waves of enemies always followed blasts of icy wind that threatened to douse all fires. They had to keep the fires blazing at all costs, not only to kill the wights, but also to burn their own dead before they could rise as enemies. The seasoned firewood had run out two days into the battle, leaving the army dependent on whatever green wood they could find.

The breach in the wall, as tall as it was, had been a great help. It was narrow enough that only a fraction of the men could hold it at a time, allowing Jon's army to take turns to fight and rest, and breathe cleaner air for a few hours. When they weren't fighting, some chopped down more green wood for the fires; others burned the dead or tended to the wounded, and yet others worked with Edd's builders on a permanent solution. A small group of graybeards cooked, or mended armor and weapons in need of repair. The youngest boys ran from corpse to corpse, collecting spent arrows for the next attack. They could not afford to waste a single one.

They'd lost count of the army of the dead after one thousand, four hundred and seventy. A large swarm of wights had attacked then, killing the man in charge of keeping track, and countless more had come in the days since. The dead did not march as one unit; they came in bursts, some fifty, and some five hundred strong. It felt like they were toying with the living defenders, or testing their strength before the final, devastating attack.

Only three White Walkers had appeared thus far, making Jon wonder how many there were, truly, controlling all of these wights. He had killed one with Blackfyre. The other two had come while Jon was elsewhere; once with his lords, and once while he tossed and turned on his cot, awake despite his best efforts to sleep.

Jon had two hours before he was due to return to the breach, but once again, sleep eluded him. His stomach rumbled, confused by Ghost's ravenous hunger and his own revulsion at the smell of cooked wight. The faithful direwolf walked beside the King in the North, his snowy fur streaked with soot and filth. He'd killed more dead men than any human, and saved the lives of Lord Glover and Big Bucket Wull, as well as Satin and a handful of men Jon didn't know.

Jon approached the cooking tents with his wolf, Tormund, and Alyn, and was immediately greeted by the cooks. He recognized the peg-legged, one-eyed graybeard cooking meat as Jorin, a man from Liddle lands. He had lit his grandson's pyre only yesterday, but the man stood tall, with all the determination of a mountain clansman. He would not despair, and he would not leave until the battle was won, even if his feeble hands were only fit for kitchen duty.

It was humbling to see, and it shamed Jon to compare himself to these men. To his horror, Jon still flinched when men in Night's Watch blacks got too close to his person, and all of his guards had noticed. While Tormund diffused the tension with a loud jape, the other five usually waited for Jon to compose himself in respectful silence. He didn't dare imagine what they thought of their craven king.

"Hungry, your grace?" asked Jorin.

"Not particularly," Jon replied, "but my friend is," he said, patting Ghost's head. "The smell of meat is getting to him."

"Aye," Jorin said, nodding sagely. "I can't blame the poor beast for that."

He plated some of the dried meat Jon's men had brought, and a few strips of hot bacon shining with grease, then passed the plate to Jon, who set it down on the ground for his wolf. Ghost wasted no time on niceties, and for a moment, Jon could taste the greasy bacon as though he'd eaten it himself. His stomach rolled, then settled as he focused on his own, human, body and belly with all his might.

"Are you sure you'll have naught for yourself, your grace?" the cook insisted.

"Perhaps some bread and cider, and an egg if you have any," Jon relented. He wasn't sure if he'd ever smell meat again without remembering this battle. "And some breakfast for Tormund and Alyn as well. They can't guard me if they're faint from hunger."

"You shut your lying crow mouth," Tormund protested hoarsely, though there was no real anger in it. "I can guard your snow-white arse with an empty belly better than any kneeler—though I'll not say no to food, mind," he finished with a grin.

"You're all talk and no steel," rasped Alyn Flint, rolling his reddened eyes. He'd gotten used to Tormund since they'd joined the Wintersguard.

Jon fought a smile as he accepted his breakfast, and his guards took their own plates. Most of the men were cold, tired, frightened, and ill-tempered, but the Free Folk fared better than most. The majority of them had lived through worse; they'd seen entire villages wiped out, without a Wall to protect them. They'd watched their own wives and children turn into wights. No living Northman could say the same, thank the gods.

Now that they'd seen the real enemy, the leftover enmity between the Free Folk and the Northmen had vanished, at least enough to fight together. The same could be said of the latecomers who had refused to rise against Ramsay Bolton. Before the battle, there had been frequent brawls and lingering resentment between them, and those who had bled for House Stark. Jon could understand that anger, and shared it to a degree, but the battle for Winterfell seemed insignificant now, compared to the true war.

The White Walkers had united the North better than anything Jon could have done.

There's nothing like the threat of complete annihilation to end petty squabbles, Jon thought wryly. And the North had finally remembered it.

The king and his guards sat at one of the tables in the shabby Oakenshield common hall, where other men were eating before returning to the battle. Lord Beric rested nearby, drinking mulled wine and listening to the chatter of his neighbors—Ryswell men-at-arms, going by their colors. At the end of their table sat some Mormont men, and neither group was shouting or punching at the other. It was a welcome change.

"Lord Beric, how fares your squire?" Jon asked the Lightning Lord. He jumped, not expecting conversation, and turned to face the king and his companions. His remaining eye was red and irritated from the smoke, and he looked as filthy as Jon felt.

"He was as well as one might expect, when I last saw him," the knight replied. "He killed one of the White Walkers, you know. It did wonders for his confidence."

"Is that worthy of a knighthood?" Jon wondered, remembering his conversations with Ned.

The Lightning Lord flashed a quick grin. "If it were, every man at the Wall ought to be knighted as soon as the battle is over, starting with yourself. But yes, Ned has earned the honor several times over. I just haven't had the opportunity; we don't usually fight together, or rest at the same time."

The man sighed, looking wearier than ever.

"Do you know, your grace, that after seeing the horrors of war inflicted on the smallfolk of the Riverlands, I thought all wars would seem equally unjust and disgraceful. That all men who fought did so for greed, not for justice, and even the best of us would eventually succumb to our darker instincts."

He looked around the hall, taking in the weary faces of those around him. His voice had recovered enough to carry, and it was obvious that half the room was listening.

"This is the only true war; life and death; warmth and light, opposing cold and darkness. I'm glad I was spared to take part in it, if only to take some of the bastards with me when I go."

He stood, and clapped Jon on the shoulder as he passed. "I'm returning to the breach. Fight well, your grace. May R'hllor keep your fire burning bright, for the night is dark and full of terrors."

Jon bit his tongue. The man knew Jon despised all mention of the Red God and his devouring flames, but he persisted in calling Jon Azor Ahai and the Prince That Was Promised. Anger achieved little; shouting achieved less. All he could do was ignore the ramblings of a zealot, and focus on the battle.

Jon returned to the fissure a short while later. He still felt as bone-tired as he'd been before, but at least his stomach had settled. Ghost was stuffed full of meat and ready to fight, and so were Jon's two Wintersguards. They left the horses in the hastily-built corral, well away from the smoke and death. The first man they passed was Lord Cerwyn, who was leaning heavily on his master-at-arms, and sporting bloodied bandages around his leg and side. He gave Jon a deep nod in lieu of a proper bow, and returned Blackfyre to Jon's gloved hands. His men followed, dragging their feet.

While only the lords had their own mounts, the sturdiest horses had been put to work pulling sleds, so the walking wounded could travel the four miles back to Oakenshield with ease. The Cerwyn men certainly looked like they needed the ride. At least they weren't as badly off as the seriously wounded, who might never leave this cursed place. Those poor wretches languished in tents near the corral, crying out for mothers and lovers and for an end to their pain. There wasn't enough of anything—milk of the poppy, sweetsleep, clean linen, men with healing skill, even time—to save them all.

Jon walked past the infirmary tents quickly. He had grown immune to the screams, blood, and the crunch of saws slicing through flesh and bone, but the smell was unbearable. He had visited Satin there only yesterday, and nearly lost his dignity by retching in front of his men. Brienne had dragged him out, white-faced and tight-lipped, so he could lose his breakfast in private, behind a tree.

Not long after the Cerwyn group came a band of Woolfield and Manderly men-at-arms, led by the former's young lord. Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse, as Stannis Baratheon had once named Wyman Manderly, had remained in Winterfell as part of Sansa's much-reduced council, but he had sent as many fighting men north as he could find. This lot looked better than Cerwyn's men; they were better fed, better armed, and Jon saw few wounds. He supposed they'd been placed further back, sparing them the worst of the fighting.

"Your grace!" cried the young Lord Robard, wide-eyed. "We saw a White Walker!"

"Did you?" Jon replied, humoring him. "Who killed it?"

"Norvin Condon, milord—your grace," said one of the common soldiers, tripping over Jon's title. "T'was when Lord Cerwyn was injured. His man picked up the Valyrian sword and stabbed the creature right in the eye."

"Never seen nothin' like it," another man spoke, shivering. "Two men ran at it with torches, and when its sword touched the flames, we heard the most awful screech. I wanted to claw my ears off."

A few of the others nodded in agreement.

"And then," Robard continued, with the eagerness of a green boy who had fought his first battle, "Ser Norvin stabbed the thing and it shrieked, and sort of melted away," he finished breathlessly.

"Well done," Jon answered, clapping the nearest man on the shoulder. "Go and rest, and come back tomorrow."

"Aye, your grace," the men answered, then continued on their way.

The battleground looked quite different after days of constant fighting. This part of the Wall, and the large ice boulders that had fallen from it, now looked like gray rock from the accumulated soot. The men had added more packed snow to each barricade, forcing the wights to pass through a narrow, winding path that allowed the defenders to riddle them with fire arrows. And outside the half-circle of fires, the Night's Watch builders and Jon's siege engineers had been building.

They'd created long, thin cages, tall enough for a man to walk across, and long enough for a man to lie down. Both of the thin sides opened, creating a narrow tunnel. A man could run through from one side to the other, and with any luck, trap any wight that followed inside. Jon meant to fill these with wights and send them to every town and major keep in the Seven Kingdoms.

"My old dad would have whipped my arse raw, if he'd seen such shoddy work," one of the carpenters had told Jon, shamefaced. "The wood is still green; it will warp something fierce."

"But will it hold the wights?" Jon had asked.

"Aye, unless the dead have the strength of giants," the man had answered. "The cages will hold, your grace."

In addition, the engineers were building a long, triangular ladder with pulley arms, and nearly a dozen catapults. Jon had never imagined battering the Wall with siege weapons, but it was the only way they might seal the breach in between attacks. The plan was to launch ice boulders at the breach in the Wall until they had filled it, at least the wider bottom half. Jon would have preferred trebuchets, but they did not have enough wood to spare on such massive weapons. At any rate, they didn't need much range or power; all they had to do was fill a hole more quickly than men could do unaided.

They were up to ten catapults now, and Edd's men had spent days cutting ice boulders small enough to launch with them. Jon hoped it would be enough. Legend said that Bran the Builder had used giants to build the Wall, but with Wun-Wun gone, he had no such luxuries. The siege weapons would have to do the heavy lifting, and then his men could use the ladder-and-pulley system to fill the narrower top of the breach. As a final step, they would pour water down from the top of the Wall, and let it freeze over the patch job.

Joren ran to the king before he could take his place at the breach.

"Your grace!" the Wintersguard shouted. "Acting Lord Commander! I have news!"

"What is it, Joren?" asked Jon. Edd approached as well, looking as woebegone as ever. There was a new cut across his cheek, long and jagged but shallow. He'd not had enough time to get it cleaned and bandaged.

"My falcon just returned from Greyguard. The men there have sealed the breach up to a hundred and seventy feet. It was the smallest of the four, and the remaining gap is too narrow for wights to pass through."

He held out a tightly-rolled raven scroll. Joren was illiterate, like most of the Free Folk, but he'd been using his falcon as a messenger bird between the camps, since no raven had been trained to fly to Oakenshield or the other abandoned forts in centuries.

"Excellent," Jon replied, feeling genuinely happy as he took the message. The plan could work! "Were there any enemies on the other side? Do they know if they will climb?"

"I don't think so," Joren answered. "They waited until the all-clear, and it seemed to be the end of the dead. The Nightfort breach looks much worse," he admitted. "They've been kept so busy fighting that they can't stop long enough to close the gap. I saw Greyguard men marching over there to help."

"What of Long Barrow?" asked Dolorous Edd.

Joren shook his head. "I didn't fly east. Vikan is too tired to send him today."

"Damn the bastards," Edd said, scowling under his heavy woolen cap and helm. "What do they want from us? They pretend they don't exist for thousands of years, and now they choose to bring it all crashing down. Why?"

"I don't know," Joren replied. "But there's another big swarm coming this way. Best get ready, aye?"

Just as he'd finished speaking, the sentry on duty blew the dreaded three horn blasts. Quickly, Jon unrolled the message and read it aloud.

To His Grace, King Jon, and Acting Commander Eddison Tollett,

Ser Denys Mallister was killed in battle yesterday. The remaining eight-and-seventy Shadow Tower men now follow Maester Mullin, and Thoros of Myr.

We have been unable to seal the breach thus far; there has been no break in the fighting long enough to allow it, though we have the catapults ready.

Gods preserve you,

Harwin Wull

"Fuck me," Edd mumbled. "Now who will we elect Lord Commander? I sure as the seven hells don't want it, assuming we live that long."

He jogged back to the engineers, swearing.

Jon turned left, to the breach. The men on the front lines today were mostly Glover men, led by their lord. Behind them, holding spears, stood the mountain clansmen of Houses Burley and Harclay. Lord Beric and Ned Dayne had joined them; the lord looked as fresh as a man could look in these circumstances, while the squire had been fighting longer—and he looked it. Knott men stood on the taller ice boulders with torches and bows, ready to rain fire down onto the wights. As Jon joined the infantry, the murmur of "The Jon!" or "The Stark!" spread through the ranks, and men cheered to see Jon and Ghost.

Then the blast of icy cold hit, and all mirth disappeared.

Wights in wildling furs ran into the breach, half-hidden by the mist and smoke. They came dodging left and right, around the barricades and to their (second) deaths. Then the wights reached the front line of defenders, and the slaughter began.

It was a war unlike any other the Northmen had fought in living memory. Their opponents did not tire, and did not die, not until the bowmen or the men with torches set them aflame. The men with swords and axes, Jon included, tried to cut the wights into small, harmless pieces. The men with pole arms pinned them to the ice and shouted for the archers with hoarse voices.

Jon faced wight after wight, swinging Blackfyre until the blade was dark with half-frozen blood. Ghost ran around the battlefield, saving the soldiers who were trapped or in need of help. He was smart enough to understand what the men were doing, and had begun doing the same; any wight who got in the direwolf's way ended up with all four limbs torn from its body.

The worst were the child-wights. The smallest children were short enough to escape detection until they'd passed all of the barricades. Four of them appeared now, glaring through inhuman blue eyes. They couldn't have been more than five at the time of their death. Behind them came more adult wights.

Jon beheaded the nearest little girl, feeling sick. The girl-wight's head rolled away, her long, brown plait swinging and her mouth moving uselessly. Then he cut off the arm that was reaching for his boots. Nearby, the Harclay had pinned a little boy-wight, pale-faced and grim.

There was no time to mourn, or even think about these children. The wights kept coming, old and young, hale and starving. Snow was falling once more, dark with soot, and the ground was becoming slippery. The gravel Edd's men had brought had not been enough, and the burning wights meant there were puddles of melted snow and blood everywhere.

The hours passed, with the sun completely obscured by the snow and smoke and soot. It could have been midnight or midday, for all the defenders knew. For every wight they killed, another took its place.

"Jon!" shouted a voice, and Jon recognized it as Edd's. "We're ready! Bring them to the cages!"

Jon raised his sword to signal that he understood.

"Create a path!" he ordered his men. It took him a few attempts to say it loudly enough.

The men moved, leaving a narrow path from the breach to the cages. Edd had placed two men on top of each cage, ready to slam the cage shut as soon as the wights were inside. Jon waved his sword a bit, trying to catch the attention of as many wights as possible. His guards and Ghost did the same. Then they ran for their lives, while the men behind them closed the gap.

Jon chose a cage in the middle. Two wights were following him; he climbed up the ramp and into the cage, then ran through it, stopping only when he heard four thuds of wood striking wood. Turning, he saw that each wight had been trapped in a different cage, and was shaking the bars in a futile attempt to escape. The men on top had locked both ends.

Tormund had trapped two in the same cage, while Alyn had a single wight, a strong spearwife by the looks of her. Ghost had trapped his as well, a dark-haired Night's Watch ranger Jon didn't recognize.

"Well done!" Jon said, fighting the smoke in his lungs to get the words out. He clapped a hand on Alyn's meaty shoulder. "Six wights in one go, that's not bad. Now let's get the rest."

They repeated the process twice more, with some help from the Glover men. It didn't take long to fill all of the cages, leaving the fighting men free to return to the breach. There was a slight pause in the attack, enough for the men to drink from flasks, nibble on bread or dried meat, and catch their breath. Then the cold returned, and three White Walkers appeared, leading another large group of wights.

Jon had never noticed how similar they all were. These three were brothers, if such a thing was possible for White Walkers. They were the same height and build, and their faces were near identical.

Craster's sons? he wondered, raising his sword with tired arms. They're nowhere near as ugly. It mattered little; Craster's spawn or not, they would die today.

"This one's mine!" Jon heard Ned calling. There was no hesitation, even knowing that the creature was immune to all but the small obsidian dagger the squire carried. Jon imagined that Arthur Dayne would have been proud to pass his famous sword on to his nephew.

The nearest White Walker raised his sword, and Jon forgot about Edric Dayne.

Fighting the White Walkers was entirely different to the wights, Jon thought as he parried an attack. Wights fought like animals, biting and clawing and swarming. They threw themselves against barriers mindlessly, following the orders of their masters. White Walkers fought like men; coldly calculating, calm, and eagerly searching for fallen men to raise as wights.

The Other met Jon blow for blow, dodging and parrying almost as well as a castle-trained soldier. It seemed surprised and frustrated to meet an opponent with a real weapon, like the other White Walkers Jon had met. They were used to getting their way. Even now, knowing better, desperate men kept trying to distract the Others with ordinary steel, and were forced to retreat and exchange their shattered weapons for new ones.

Jon struck hit after hit, his sword screeching against the thing's icy armor with each strike. The sound made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Even worse was the crash of steel against the White Walkers' crystal swords; it sounded like a trapped animal shrieking in pain. Now and then the creatures spoke, a language of cracking ice and mountain avalanches, though no human could make sense of their speech. Unfortunately for Jon, the creature was not struggling to breathe like a mortal man. The wind had turned, and his lungs were full of smoke again; it was becoming harder to fight.

Alyn suddenly ran around the Other, spear in hand, and stuck the pole arm between the enemy's legs, tripping it with a brutal twist. As it fell onto its knees, Jon took advantage and cut down with Blackfyre, severing head from body in a single blow. The creature melted away, leaving no trace of its existence other than Jon's sword, which was freezing to the touch.

"My thanks," Jon rasped to his guard. "This one was a better fighter than the first."

"My lord!" screamed Edric Dayne, and Jon turned in alarm.

The young Dornishman had gotten separated from his master. He was holding his own against the White Walker he faced, and keeping it away from the men with plain steel. Beric Dondarrion had not fared so well against his opponent. The Lightning Lord had slipped on a puddle and was on his knees, with a pale sword sticking out of his chest, and blood spilling from his mouth. Beric's obsidian dagger lay on the ground, far beyond his reach.

Tormund swore. He'd been fighting wights on Jon's right, but there were too many between him and Beric to help. Ghost was closer. Though Jon had not warged into his direwolf, the great beast was clever enough to understand what was needed. He ran towards the Lightning Lord, but not before he'd stopped to pick up the dragonglass weapon. Ghost dropped it onto the dying man's lap, and Beric picked it up with a trembling hand.

"See you in Hell," wheezed Beric Dondarrion, then stabbed his killer in the foot. The monster disappeared, leaving only the Lightning Lord in his last moments. He was the only man not moving on this massive, icy cyvasse board painted with blood. All around him, the Glovers and mountain clansmen fought wights, while his grief-stricken squire battled the last of the three White Walkers.

Jon kept fighting, with Ghost, Tormund, and Alyn at his sides. The enemy attack was finally slowing; he was sure they would have a break soon, and then they must tend to the dead. Wights straggled through the barricades; old and young, ranger and Free Folk; some half-rotted, and some intact. It made little difference to their fighting; they had no wits left, only pure rage. As they died, the terrible cold that accompanied the White Walkers dissipated. It was still dangerously cold, but it was a normal, Northern winter cold, rather than anything unnatural.

High above them, on the undamaged top of the Wall, a sentry blew two blasts, and the men sighed in relief. The signal that had once meant "Wildlings approaching" now meant "all clear." When the battle-fever had worn off, Jon felt a hundred years old. All of his bones ached, and his eyes were stinging fiercely.

"Your grace!" shouted a new voice, and Jon turned to face his Lady Commander and Larence Snow, surrounded by Hornwood and Mormont men. Behind them came the Forrester men, ready for battle. "We've come to relieve you."

"Perfect timing, my lady," Jon replied as well as he could. After hours of fighting in these conditions, his voice had gone hoarse again, and he was coughing every three words. He held out his bloodied sword to Larence, forgetting that his guard preferred a spear tipped with an obsidian arrowhead.

"I'll take it if you don't mind, your grace," Asher Forrester spoke up. Jon knew little of this man, who had been exiled for years, but he knew enough to entrust Blackfyre to him. If any more White Walkers appeared, Forrester and Lady Brienne would send them to oblivion.

"Good man," Jon replied, handing over the sword of the Targaryen kings. He'd caused a scandal on the first night, when he'd passed it to Lord Wull instead of taking it with him. But Jon was a pragmatic man; there was an enormous hole in the Wall, and Valyrian steel was too rare to stay locked up in his trunk. Priceless Targaryen sword or not, it would remain with the fighting men until the battle was done. He liked to think his men respected that.

As the exhausted men switched places with the new arrivals, the men on pyre detail came to collect the dead, man and wight. Jon followed a bright red woolen cap, which covered the silver-blond head of Ned Dayne. He stood alone by his master's fallen body, bundled in a ridiculous amount of clothes, and shaking with suppressed sobs.

"I saw him rise from the dead, over and over until it became normal," he spoke, rasping out the words. "I'd almost forgotten he could die like the rest of us."

Jon placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, as he would have done for Bran. "This is how he wanted to go, Ned. We spoke of it just this morning. Now let's strip off the armor and give him a proper burning, as the Red God's followers do."

It would have been crass to add before he comes back as a wight, but Ned understood the message. Together, they prepared the fallen knight, leaving a neat pile of dented armor for the men who collected and repaired it.

The funeral pyres were so high with bodies that it was difficult to find a space for the Lightning Lord, but with some help from two other men, they managed to lay Beric down in a somewhat dignified manner.

"There," Jon told the squire. "You've fulfilled your last duty to your master, preventing him from rising as undead. Now kneel, Squire Edric."

Purple eyes turned to the King in the North, confused. "What?"

"Kneel, Lord Edric."

He did so, looking puzzled. Then a glint of suspicion dawned. Jon reached for Blackfyre, then cursed when he realized he'd given it away.

"I really shouldn't do these things when I'm too tired to think properly," he muttered sheepishly, and a small grin broke out on Ned's face. "Lord Glover!" Jon called, catching the older man's attention. "May I borrow your sword for a moment, please?"

Robett Glover handed over his greatsword, saying nothing but raising a curious eyebrow. It looked like he had just cleaned it.

"Lord Edric," said Jon, using his best kingly voice. Sansa would have been glad, to see her lessons put into use! "I spoke with your master this morning, and he informed me that you have earned your knighthood many times over. He only lacked the time to make it official."

Joy lit up the squire's face. It was a jarring contrast to their setting, but Jon saw several older men within earshot grin at the sight. It was a short break from the horror of constant fighting and burning corpses, and the Dayne boy had left a good impression on the Northmen.

"It takes a knight to make a knight, or failing that, a king. Will you swear by the old gods, or the new?"

As soon as he said it, Jon remembered that Beric had been a passionate follower of the Red God. He had no idea what sort of knighthood oath a man would make to R'hllor, though, and he didn't care to learn it.

"By the new gods, if it please your grace," Ned replied, saving Jon the bother. Though Jon had never followed the Seven-Who-Are-One, all castle-raised boys knew the oath from the tales and songs. Even Sansa could recite this oath. She'd watched Jon and Robb knight each other often enough as children!

Jon took a long drink from his flask. It was bad enough that he was barely able to speak. To have a coughing fit in the middle of a solemn ceremony would damage his dignity just as much as losing his breakfast in the infirmary tent! But life, as Sansa had told Jon once, was not a song. Battlefield knighthoods were nowhere near as romantic when the participants were too tired to stand properly, and no one had mentioned the infernal, ever-present smoke!

"Very well. Lord Edric Dayne, Squire to Lord Beric Dondarrion, you have been found worthy of the oath of knighthood. You may stand your vigil in a godswood or sept at the time of your choosing, as we have neither here. Are you ready to take the oath?"

Edric removed his woolen cap, and bowed his head. "I am, your grace."

Jon placed the tip of Lord Glover's sword gently on Ned's left shoulder. A small crowd had gathered around them, watching with great interest, but Jon's voice would not carry far in its current state; they'd have to guess what was happening from the kneeling squire and the sword on his shoulder.

"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave."

He raised the sword over Ned's head, and lowered it onto his right shoulder. "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just."

Jon continued, moving the sword with each of the Seven.

"In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent."

"In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women."

"In the name of the Smith, I charge you to be strong and steadfast."

"In the name of the Crone, I charge you to accept wise counsel."

"In the name of the Stranger, I charge you to uphold these oaths until the end of your days, so that you will not fear death when you face Him."

Jon took a breath, and coughed as the filthy air reached his lungs.

"Now arise a knight, Ser Edric of House Dayne, Slayer of White Walkers and Defender of the North!"

The boy stood, his knees wet from the snow, and a loud cheer arose throughout the battlefield.

"I can't believe this is happening," he said, looking around helplessly. "Now what do I do?"

"Now you go home," Jon advised. "You're a brave man and true, but if you come back as the Sword of the Morning, you will be invaluable. Let's hope Dawn is as good as Valyrian steel at dispatching these monsters!"

This chapter was not beta read, so if you spot any errors, feel free to point them out (actually, feel free to do that whenever). I'm a pretty obsessive proof-reader, but I have a bad habit of posting at 2 AM when I can't see straight anymore, so...I will occasionally miss things.

Join me next time, as we head to Oldtown and catch up with Sam at the Citadel, and his book-only masters and friends. Get a taste of normal academic life before I dump Euron, Dany, three dragons and a kraken on the city!