305AC Eastwatch-by-the-Sea
For those unfamiliar with the Wall's imposing majesty, their eyes widened in astonishment as the colossal structure loomed larger with each passing moment. Jon, however, paid the behemoth of ice little heed, his mind already weary of the impending remnants of Eastwatch.
The twisted, gaping wound, a testament to Viserion's blue inferno, haunted Jon's dreams like a spectre refusing to be laid to rest. The ill-fated mission beyond the Wall lingered in his thoughts like a relentless shadow, a venture that had cost lives and a dragon, and gained naught.
Jon stood at the ship's edge, his gaze fixed on the docking process unfolding before him. Emotions, like shadows, played across his face. Nostalgia tinged with melancholy gripped his heart as he surveyed the familiar yet altered landscape.
The crew moved with practised efficiency, securing the ship to a dilapidated dock. Jon's eyes followed the ropes as they snaked through weathered hands. A gust of frigid wind ruffled Jon's cloak, stirring the strands of his hair. He watched as crates were unloaded, their contents a mix of supplies and memories. The distant cries of seabirds overhead added a haunting melody to the unfolding scene.
A gust of cold North wind cut through Jon's cloak like the bite of a thousand ice needles as he disembarked onto the rickety gangplank. The Storm Crow, a vessel of sturdy wood but battered by the unforgiving seas, groaned in the presence of Eastwatch's dilapidated docks.
As Jon's boots touched the snow-covered ground, the landscape unfolded before him like a tapestry painted in shades of white and grey. The snow-laden trees, their branches bowing low under winter's weight, whispered secrets of a land that had seen untold stories unfold.
The Wall, its massive structure scarred by time and the breath of dragons, wept rivulets of water. A solemn sign that winter, the icy sovereign that had held the North in its grasp, was slowly relinquishing its grip.
Jon pivoted on his heel, awaiting the descent of Tommo and Merrick from the ship's threshold. Merrick gingerly navigated the transition from the wet wooden gateway to the snowy land, his boots squelching in the slush. Once on stable ground, he shuffled toward Jon, a visible shiver racking his frame.
"It's fucking freezing," Merrick grumbled, the cold gnawing at him.
Jon shot him a wry grin. "This is warm compared to the last time I was here. The Wall is weeping, summer is coming."
Merrick's horror was clear. "You said spring was coming."
"This is spring. The Wall never weeps in winter," Jon explained casually, his eyes scanning the gangplank where Tommo was tentatively making his way down.
"Come on, Tommo, it's not that bad," Merrick said, putting on a brave front. "I'm called Clubfoot. If I can do it, you can."
Jon peered at Merrick's feet with a quizzical look. "You've not got a club foot. So why do they call you Merrick Clubfoot?"
A mischievous grin spread across Merrick's face, revealing a row of yellowed teeth. "Because the ship captains used to hire me to find their missing crew members, for extra coin. I'd scour the inns and brothels. Whenever I found the missing shipmate, I'd club 'em in the head with me foot. That got 'em going back to the ship. Although it left a few unconscious." Merrick chuckled, his nickname a testament to his unique method of persuasion.
"Err, can somebody help me?" Tommo's plea echoed through the wintry air as he tentatively stepped onto the snow-covered ground. His initial strides seemed promising, a semblance of stability in the unsteady dance with the terrain. A murmur of relief hovered on the precipice of accomplishment. Then, as if fate itself intervened, Tommo's foot found an icy patch, and his world unravelled with a torrent of expletives.
The spectacle unfolded before Jon and Merrick, both of them overcome with laughter. Tommo, once the nimble pickpocket of King's Landing, now found himself sprawled backward in the snow, his dignity buried beneath the frosty blanket.
"Mind that patch of ice," Jon called out, a chuckle lacing his words, as he observed Tommo's futile attempts to regain composure. Arms flailing, legs slipping, Tommo's struggles became a spectacle of slapstick misfortune.
Eventually, mercy tempered amusement, and Jon, suppressing his lingering laughter, extended a helping hand. With a firm grip, he hoisted Tommo from his wintry bed, rescuing him from the clutches of the snow.
"Thanks," Tommo mumbled, his embarrassment etched in the crimson hue of his face.
Jon grinned, a camaraderie forged in shared laughter. "Come on, let's get you to your horses."
Yet, as Jon prepared to lead them forward, both Tommo and Merrick came to an abrupt halt.
Jon faced his comrades. "What's the matter?"
Tommo, with a pained grimace, spilled the revelation. "I've never ridden a horse before."
"Me neither," Merrick echoed, laying bare their collective unfamiliarity.
Jon's brow furrowed in disbelief. "Really? How come you don't ride?"
Tommo, ever the pragmatist, admitted, "I can't pick pockets if I'm on horseback."
Merrick added his piece of urban wisdom, "At the docks, mules carry goods, not men. Unless you're highborn, like you, there's not much use for a horse in King's Landing."
Jon's initial incredulity gave way to a pang of guilt for not delving into the intricacies of city life. However, with their current predicament, choices were scarce. "You'll just have to learn as you go. Thank the gods, old and new, that the snow will make the landing soft when you fall. Just don't expect me to give you a hand getting up every time you end up flat on your arse." Jon said, infusing a hint of dry humour into the frosty air, hoping to thaw the tension.
The ensuing hour unfolded as Jon laboured to assist Tommo and Merrick in mounting their horses, acquainting them with the rhythmic sway of the saddle. Merrick appeared somewhat attuned to the equestrian art, finding a semblance of balance. In contrast, Tommo struggled, his equilibrium elusive, resulting in two undignified descents to the frozen ground before mastering the art of remaining astride the placid chestnut garron mare.
As the trio embarked on their journey, leading the procession ahead of cargo and comrades, Jon foresaw a gradual pace dictated by the novices in the saddle. The necessity of an early departure became apparent; adapting to the new mode of travel demanded patience and time. Jon harboured the hope that by the next day, Tommo and Merrick might have gained sufficient mastery, ensuring a smoother ride. However, the inevitability of blistered hands and sore backs loomed, an unspoken trial awaiting them on the third day.
Jon's apprehensions came to fruition. Tommo and Merrick, despite acquiring some semblance of equestrian finesse, fell victim to insidious blisters that haunted both their hands and more private regions. Witnessing their discomfort, Jon couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy.
The weather had been unusually favourable, and this leg of the journey was but a gentle prelude to the challenges beyond the Wall. Yet, as the tenth day unfolded, and the riders neared the gates of Castle Black with a single day's ride left, the weather turned.
Initially, the snowflakes danced with an airy grace, eliciting laughter and jests from Tommo and Merrick during their brief halts. But Jon, attuned to the moods of the Northern sky, recognized the subtle shift in the wind and gathering clouds. A blizzard, relentless and unforgiving, approached on the horizon.
They arrived at the ancient remnants of Oakenshield, the nearest eastern fort to Castle Black. In fair weather, the remaining journey to Castle Black could be completed within the day. Yet, amidst the swirling chaos of a blizzard, the scenario altered drastically. The fierce winds left them with only one viable recourse, seeking refuge within the fort. Those seasoned beyond the Wall might persist in their trek to Castle Black, but the new recruits, unacquainted with the Northern hardships, compelled Jon to choose shelter over a relentless march.
As they huddled within the dilapidated fort, the mood reflected the storm's gloom. Oakenshield, despite its decay, offered a respite from the tempest. A hearty fire crackled in defiance of the biting cold, and the promise of a dry floor for slumber provided a semblance of comfort. Merrick, who had metamorphosed into the brooding figure Jon encountered aboard the Storm Crow, appeared lost in his contemplations. Tommo, the perpetual optimist until now, seemed to have surrendered to the melancholy that the blizzard brought.
In a corner, Tommo sat alone, his gaze fixed on some unseen distance. Sensing his need for reassurance, Jon, slipping into the role of Lord Commander, walked over and joined him.
As Jon settled beside him, Tommo's gaze met his, and the reddened rims of his eyes spoke volumes. "This isn't the grand adventure you imagined, is it?" Jon asked softly.
Tommo, with a defeated shake of his head, muttered, "Is it always so damn cold and dreary?"
"Aye, it is," Jon admitted, his eyes catching a glimpse of the Wall as he grinned. "But wait until you get up there. That's when the true beauty reveals itself. On a clear day, the view is endless. Forests, mountains, stretching both north and south." He sighed, a mix of longing and nostalgia woven into his words. "You don't have to swear the oath. No one will fault you if the Watch isn't your calling."
Tommo's curiosity persisted. "Were you being honest about it being spring?"
Jon shook his head. "The white ravens haven't arrived yet. Aye, winter still lingers. But it looks like a mild one. Spring will be here soon."
"What's it really like, then?" Tommo pressed on. "The Watch? Do they truly kill those they dislike?"
Jon levelled a gaze at Tommo, assessing the weight of the question. "You're asking if they've killed Lord Commanders they disagreed with?" Tommo's nod confirmed the inquiry. "Aye, it happens. I won't paint it as anything but what it is, brutal, unforgiving, a bloody cold that seeps into your bones. You'll never feel warmth the same way again. But there's a life to be had there."
"Is that what you're after? Trading a crown for a simpler life?" Tommo probed.
Jon chuckled, the sound mingling with the frozen air. "I've been a king. It's no grand tale. Make one person happy, another gets mad. Everyone wants a piece of you, and they exploit your weaknesses. Someone always wants you dead." He shook his head, the weight of past responsibilities etched on his face. "Would you choose that?"
Tommo pondered, his eyes scanning Jon's features. "I reckon I'd stick to picking pockets. More fun. And fewer scars." he nodded to the scar above Jon's eye, before lapsed into a thoughtful silence before Tommo couldn't resist one more question. "Did you truly ride a white direwolf into battle against Ramsay Bolton?"
Jon's laughter echoed across the snow-laden ruins at Tommo's fanciful suggestion. "Seven hells, trying to mount Ghost would have had me kissing the ground. Direwolves aren't meant to be ridden." His countenance shifted, a veil of solemnity settling over him. Ghost, his loyal companion, hadn't crossed his path since the battle against the dead. A sudden yearning to reunite with his direwolf seized him.
"But you had a direwolf, right?" Tommo asked.
Jon nodded, his throat tightening with unspoken grief, despite knowing the direwolf still lived. "I did. But I don't know where he is. Haven't laid eyes on Ghost since the battle. Maybe he's awaiting me at Castle Black. Get some rest, Tommo. The morning promises better weather. If we leave at dawn, we'll reach Castle Black by nightfall."
Bathed in the morning light, the ice cast an ethereal glow, a shimmering aura that danced upon its frigid surface. Each crevice and cranny, a testament to the slow march of time, sparkled as if adorned with diamonds. The Wall, a relic of forgotten wars and untold tales, whispered secrets of bygone eras to those who cared to listen.
As their journey unfolded, the land around the Wall unfolded in a symphony of contrasts. A quilt of white, glistening under the sun's benevolent gaze, stretched beyond the horizon. The snow-laden plains, like a vast canvas, bore the imprints of countless footsteps. The trees, skeletal sentinels stripped bare by the chill, stood in silent vigil. Their branches, resembling gnarled fingers clawing at the heavens, added an eerie touch to the frozen landscape.
As they closed in on Castle Black, a sudden urgency wrapped its tendrils around Jon. Their pace quickened, hooves beating a rhythm of purpose against the trodden path. An hour later, the blast of a solitary horn cleaved the air. The call was a familiar sound to Jon. One for rangers, two for wildlings, three for the spectral threat of the whitewalkers. In the sacred silence that followed, Jon offered a silent prayer that the haunting resonance of three horns would forever slumber in the annals of history.
The colossal black gates swung open with a groan, revealing the familiar courtyard of Castle Black. stepping through the gates, Jon's gaze was snagged by a burst of fiery red hair and a matching beard. Tormund, his perennial grin etched with the lines of camaraderie, awaited him.
Descending from his horse with an almost eager haste, Jon enveloped Tormund in a bear-like hug, the wildling reciprocating the gesture with a hearty thump on the back.
"Good to have you back, King Crow," Tormund declared. His eyes shifted toward Tommo and Merrick, who were dismounting with a blend of awe and disillusionment playing across their faces. "Who are your friends?"
Jon gestured toward the newcomers. "Merrick and Tommo. They figured joining the watch beats the chaos of King's Landing."
Tormund scratched his beard, a thoughtful glint in his eyes. "She really fucked up, didn't she?" Jon nodded, a weight settling on his shoulders. "Quit with the long face, Jon. I've got something that might put a grin back on it."
A piercing scream erupted from Tommo's lips, and Jon instinctively grasped at the spectacle without needing to witness it. There, behind Tormund, stood Ghost. Battle-hardened, with a missing ear, the white wolf bore the scars of strife, yet he stood, a living testament to resilience.
Kneeling on the ground, Jon extended a gloved hand. "Come here, boy. Ghost, to me," he beckoned, and the majestic wolf padded over, nuzzling his massive head against Jon's hand. "Looks like you've been in the wars," Jon remarked, running his other gloved hand through the thick, white fur.
Merrick's astonished voice cut through the air. "Fuck me!" Jon turned to see the awe-struck expressions on his friends' faces, and he couldn't help but laugh. Rising to his feet, he approached them.
"Ghost, meet Merrick and Tommo. They're my friends."
Ghost, an imposing figure on all fours, his head reaching the shoulders of those unfamiliar with the wolf. Tommo, a nervous tremor in his voice, questioned, "Will he bite me?"
"You'd be dead if he did." Tormund chimed in with characteristic bluntness.
"Once he knows you're my friend, you're safe. Don't pat him near the injured ear or on his head. He likes it under the chin or rub the other ear." Jon advised.
"Like a dog?" Merrick asked.
Jon nodded. "Just like a dog."
"What do they teach these southroners?" Tormund grumbled. "If a man says his direwolf can be trusted, then it can be trusted." Tommo approached Ghost, running his gloved hand over the still-intact white ear. Ghost closed his red eyes, savouring the tender gesture. "He likes you, boy."
Merrick joined in, and soon Ghost became the centre of attention. However, a direwolf is not a dog; he could only endure the fussing for a short while before he returned to Jon's side.
Jon surveyed the yard, taking in the sight of Freefolk outnumbering the men in black. "Why haven't you gone north?" he asked, his tone carrying a subtle tension.
"A little bird told us we had to wait for you." Tormund replied, his grin widening, adding an element of mischief to the atmosphere.
"Was this bird a Three-Eyed-Raven?" Jon asked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered the implications.
"I don't know about three eyes, but it was a raven, alright. Came from your brother, the southron King. Told us you were to escort us to our new home beyond the wall," Tormund explained, a glint of mirth dancing in his blue eyes.
Jon's brows furrowed at the mention of his brother. "Is there a heart tree close to where you are intending to settle?" he asked.
"Aye," Tormund nodded. "A great big fucker. Near a lake. Sits in the haunted forest, just south of the Antler River. You fancy coming?"
Jon hesitated, his gaze shifting from Tormund to his new friends, Tommo and Merrick. "Wait here," he whispered to Tormund, his steps purposeful as he walked over to Tommo and Merrick. Their expressions reflected a mix of curiosity and uncertainty.
"You're leaving?" Tommo asked, voicing the unspoken question lingering in the air.
Jon nodded resolutely. "Instructions from the King. I'm to lead an expedition north, to help with the Freefolk. The sooner we get them settled, the sooner we can start trade deals. I'm the only one with the knowledge of the north to do it." He explained, extending a hand to Tommo. "Good luck. I think you'll do well." Leaning in, he added with a smirk, "I'm sure the Moles Town brothel will be back up and running in no time." Successfully bringing a smile to Tommo's face.
Turning to Merrick, Jon's gaze held a weight of unspoken understanding. "You're not coming back, are you?" he inquired.
Jon shrugged, a sense of uncertainty underlying his words. "Mayhaps, who knows what the future holds. Just look after Eastwatch for me." he requested, clasping Merrick's hand in a firm shake.
Despite having only been in Castle Black less that ten minutes, Jon was eager to continue on the next phase of his journey. Returning to his palfrey, Jon acknowledged Tormund with a nod, signalling for them to leave.
As he tugged at the reins and squeezed his legs, urging the horse forward, Jon and Tormund led the Freefolk through the tunnel. The gates opened, revealing the vast expanse of the north. For the first time since leaving Winterfell to seek Daenerys' help, Jon felt the weight on his chest lift, and the air filled his lungs with newfound freedom.
A sudden clunking sound echoed behind him, causing Jon to halt his horse. Turning, he watched as the gates to the Castle Black tunnel closed with a finality that echoed through his thoughts. With a wry smile, Jon faced forward and spurred his horse on. A new destiny awaited, and, for the moment, he relished the sensation of liberation. Alongside him, a streak of white fur caught his eyes, Ghost was beside him, the direwolf was back where it was always meant to be, north of the wall.
Jon and Tormund led the remnants of the Freefolk through the expansive snowy terrain, where each step echoed with the crunch of fresh snow beneath their boots. The haunted forest, a sprawling expanse of ancient trees adorned with snow-laden branches, stood sentinel against the backdrop of the pristine landscape. The stark contrast of dark green foliage and pure white snow created a breathtaking tableau, reminiscent of a painting crafted by some ethereal hand.
In the soft glow of daylight, the haunted forest revealed a hidden beauty having long been shrouded by the menace of whitewalkers. The gnarled branches of the trees, now devoid of the supernatural threat, reached upward as if in silent celebration. The interplay of light and shadow danced upon the forest floor, casting an intricate tapestry of patterns that shifted with the gentle sway of the branches.
As Jon's gaze wandered beyond the haunting beauty of the trees, he noticed the ground beneath their feet awakening from its winter slumber. Amidst the snowy expanse, delicate green shoots sprouted, their vibrant hue a stark contrast to the prevailing whiteness. Initially appearing sporadically, these signs of new life became more pronounced as they ventured deeper into the haunted forest, as if nature itself were heralding the arrival of a different era. The air carried a crisp freshness, tinged with the scent of pine and the earthy fragrance of awakening flora.
Jon cast a curious glance at the burgeoning greenery that dared to defy the icy grasp of the far North. "Grass this far north?" he remarked to Tormund, scepticism etched into his furrowed brow.
Tormund, ever the pragmatic Freefolk, responded, "Doesn't usually grow this far north. Seems like the warmth is spreading, melting the snows."
A notion tugged at Jon's thoughts like a persistent raven. "Do you think the snow protected the whitewalkers?"
Tormund offered a nonchalant shrug. "Could be. Never seen snow melt like this before." He turned, his gaze lingering on the Wall. "And the Wall. You can't climb it when it weeps like that."
A hearty laugh escaped Jon's lips. "No need to climb. Just a polite knock on Castle Black's door, and they'll welcome you with open arms." he jested.
Tormund, ever the provocateur, grinned mischievously. "Think they'll let us through without assuming we want to steal their women?"
Jon glanced back at the Freefolk, a ragtag group of mostly women and children trudging behind them. "Aren't there enough here?" he mused, a wry smile playing on his lips.
Tormund's head shook solemnly. "Barely a thousand of us left. Doesn't take many men to plant a seed, but it takes a sea of bellies to birth enough babes for the Freefolk to endure. We need as much seed as we can get, so we don't end up with babes like that Dragon Queen. I hear her mother and father were brother and sister." Tormund's expression twisted in disgust. "Sick fuckers."
"So were my grandparents."
He had never unveiled this part of his past to Tormund, recognizing that the Freefolk wouldn't care about his royal lineage. Yet, being kin to incestuous unions was a revelation.
"You southroners have strange customs. Too many brother and sister fuckers." Tormund muttered, shaking his head. "It's not as if you can't choose."
Jon offered an explanation, "My family did it to keep the bloodline pure. They didn't want too many people riding dragons."
Tormund furrowed his brow. "But the silver-haired woman, she could ride a dragon."
Jon nodded solemnly. "Aye. Turns out she was my aunt."
Tormund's jaw nearly hit the snowy ground as he reined his horse to a halt. "You were fucking your aunt?" he blurted out, his eyes wide with astonishment.
Jon nodded, gently guiding his garron with a tug of the reins. "I didn't know at the time. As soon as I found out, I stopped."
Tormund dismounted, chuckling heartily. "So that's why the Dragon Queen went mad. You stopped fucking her." he jeered. "You might have a small pecker, but it must be a magic one." Laughter rumbled through the air as Jon frowned, his boots finding solid ground, untouched by the snowy blanket.
"What do you mean?" Jon asked.
"You stopped bedding Ygritte, she wanted to kill you. You stopped bedding the Dragon Queen, she wanted to kill everyone." Tormund bellowed with infectious mirth. "What's the secret?" He led his horse to a tree to tether it, and Jon followed suit.
"It's nothing to be proud of." Jon admitted. "Too many people died."
Tormund slapped Jon on the back affectionately. "You think your pecker killed all those people?" he scoffed. "You brood too much."
Jon shifted the conversation, diverting his focus. "Why are we stopping here?" he inquired.
"Mance camped near here," Tormund replied, gazing at the landscape. "We should find plenty of wood for the fires. There's enough room for everyone to stay close to what's left of their families." He sighed, the weight of past losses heavy in his tone.
"Do they know where we are going?" Jon pressed.
"Aye, they do." Tormund confirmed with a nod. "We don't have to stay together. There's a village near the tree. About ten miles north, should be good for fishing. I doubt that the Night King took the fish from the river. It'll be the best food we can get until the snows melt."
As Jon settled into the rough embrace of the forest floor, he couldn't help but let his thoughts drift. A quiet introspection enveloped him, and the distant howls of unseen creatures echoed through the night. In the dance of shadows and firelight, for a fleeting moment, the weight of leadership seemed to leave, allowing him to be just another soul beneath the vast expanse of the northern sky.