Early September, 300 AC

The trees stood silent witness, their branches and needles draped in gowns of snow and ice. Beneath their moonlit glow crept the direwolf, invisible but for the gleam of his red eyes. His muscles tensed as he waited, still as the trees, fur ruffling in the wind.

The scent of his prey filled his nostrils; he sprang, jaws snapping shut about the hare's neck. A spray of dark blood soaked the snow as the direwolf feasted on fresh, warm meat. He was tearing into the hare's stomach when his ears pricked at the sound of two-leggers.

AAhoooooooooooooooooooooooooooo .

Jon Snow started awake, the call of the horn still echoing in his ears. Parchments rustled; he had fallen asleep at his table again. One parchment was stuck to his face, thanks to a bit of drool at the corner of his mouth. Jon removed the parchment, wincing as he noticed where the ink had smudged. He had nearly finished the letter before drowsing off; now he must write it yet again.

The wolf dreams came more often, thanks to the Old Bear's raven. Once Jon had recoiled at the suggestion that he might be a warg, a creature out of Old Nan's tales. But need outweighed fear; Sansa had to be warned of the visions the red priestess saw in her flames. A raven sent to King's Landing would never reach her, not with the ravenry in Lannister hands.

And so his first fortnight as Lord Commander, Jon had spent every evening staring at the scruffy old bird, grey eyes fixed on black. If a wildling like Varamyr could claim six skins, Jon Snow of Winterfell could at least claim two. Again and again he tried, until at last he could slip into the bird's skin. Memories flickered between them, of wrinkled hands scattering nuts and seeds, of Sansa singing to herself while brushing Lady's fur.

The raven was more clever than Jon had known. The bird remembered dozens of faces, from old-old-man (Maester Aemon) who fed him and talked to him, to round-shy-boy (Samwell Tarly) who made funny noises when pecked, to always-red-cheeks-man (Bowen Marsh) who would ignore the raven no matter how much he flapped and squawked. It was almost easy for Jon to flood the raven's mind with images of Sansa. He remembered her fussing over baby Bran, reading him her favorite stories of knights and ladies. He remembered her and Robb learning to dance together, Arya watching with a pout of annoyance at how graceful Sansa was. By the time the raven flew south, a scrap of parchment clutched in his talons, he knew Sansa's face as well as Jon's own.

The door creaked open, scattering Jon's thoughts.

"Beg pardon," said Dolorous Edd. "Dywen's back, m'lord, Seven save us." The steward shuddered, his face as grey as his hair. "Shall I bring him now, or after m'lord breaks his fast?"

Jon sent Edd off, washed his face, and changed into a fresh set of blacks. Though it was still autumn at the Wall, the nights grew ever colder. He pulled on two sets of hose and breeches rather than one, and layered a linen tunic beneath his usual wool tunic, and a leather jerkin atop the rest. The fire in his hearth had nearly gone out; by the time he stirred up the coals and added fresh logs he was sweating.

His stomach was growling by the time Edd returned, bringing both the grizzled old ranger and a tray of food. Though Jon was not particularly hungry, he forced himself to take a hunk of hard cheese, several slices of warm barley bread, and near two dozen pickled anchovies.

" Corn ," the bedraggled raven cackled, fluffing his wings from his perch on the bed post.

It had been queer, to see himself through the raven's eyes. Jon had not known how tired he looked, how dour. He knew his sickness had left him lean, but from the raven's eyes he seemed gaunt. His men would not respect their Lord Commander if he turned as skeletal as Stannis; Three-Finger Hobb was delighted by the renewal of Jon's appetite, begrudging though it was.

Dywen's wooden teeth clacked as he gnawed on the crusty heel of the bread, his eyes staring at nothing. Jon Snow's first act as Lord Commander had been to send out several groups of rangers beyond the wall. A harder task he could not have set them, but Dywen, Kedge White-eye, and Black Jack Bulwer did not attempt to shirk their duty, little as they liked it. With each man went ten rangers, the most he dared send. Thirty three good men, as many garrons, and nine ravens, three for each ranging party. His stomach had clenched like a fist as he watched them ride away, leaving trails in the snow that were covered within days.

That had been near two moons past. The Old Bear's raven had flown to King's Landing and back again, but no ravens had returned from beyond the wall, and no rangers until Dywen's arrival this morning.

"How many men returned?" Jon asked. How many died because of my command?

"Six, including meself," Dywen replied, reaching for his mug of ale and taking a good swallow. "Marq Rivers fell through a patch of rotten ice and froze to death. Tom the Talker were gutted; Jack Stone took a dagger to the eye and the wound festered halfway back."

"What of Uthor and Wyland?" The Dornishmen had been on the Wall for over twenty years, ever since old Gulian Qorgyle came north to join the Night's Watch. Time had not made them any fonder of the cold and snow, so different from the hot sands of Dorne, but they were steady and sharp.

"They had charge of the chains," Dywen said bluntly.

Oh. Wherever the souls of the dead went, Jon hoped Uthor and Wyland would find warmth and sunshine. They deserved no less, whatever their crimes had been. To take charge of the chains was to accept death with open eyes, to walk willingly into oblivion. Had their blood pounded in their ears as Jon's had when he challenged Mance Rayder to single combat? Or had they gone numb, resigned to their fate?

By the time Dywen left his solar Jon was weary and heartsick. Five men dead, and how many more? Ignoring the unfinished letter on his table, he abandoned the solar for the yard below. His back twinged only a little as he descended the many steps of the King's Tower. At first Jon had slept in Donal Noye's old quarters behind the armory. Someday there would be a new smith, but for now the forge's fires were quenched, the bellows lying untouched, the steel cold grey rather than blazing cherry-red.

Bowen Marsh did not approve of the Lord Commander sleeping in the quarters of a mere smith. "A king's brother deserves better, my lord," the Old Pomegranate had said courteously, eyeing the simple chairs and crude table. "Nor is it befitting that the commander of the Night's Watch reside in such abstentious conditions. My lord is not a begging brother or a humble crofter."

As the Lord Steward was still vexed over Jon's decision to send out the rangers, he had calmly agreed to keep such advice in mind, and unwillingly permitted Marsh to assign a steward to remaking the finest pieces of Mormont's garb to fit Jon. When Stannis finally quit Castle Black, Jon Snow had taken up residence in the King's Tower in the rooms which Jeor Mormont had occupied after fire gutted the Lord Commander's Tower.

Jon flexed his burned hand, stretching out the stiff fingers. Three kings in the land, four if one counted Victarion Greyjoy, and of course the one who rode north to defend the Wall was the only one known for burning men alive. Jon could not imagine Robb giving such a command; Ned Stark had taught them that the man who passes the sentence must swing the sword. Nor could he see soft, gentle Tommen enduring such a spectacle, though his mother Queen Cersei might enjoy burning her enemies. Even the ironborn typically killed men with steel, though he vaguely remembered Theon mentioning something about drowning.

But Stannis was not a Stark, nor a little boy, nor ironborn. Before sailing north he had burned his queen's own uncle for fair winds, so Maester Aemon said, and he meant to burn Mance Rayder as soon as the wildling king could be caught. Bands of Baratheon men galloped after every rumor of the wildling king, shivering in their too few layers of silk and wool.

The rest of Stannis's men were divided between the three castles Jon had yielded him after much argument. The Nightfort served as the king's seat, the fifteen leagues too short a distance for comfort. In no way did Jon miss the king's constant glowering and grinding of teeth. The further north Robb marched, the shorter Stannis's temper grew. Though he had been furious at Jon's refusal to put himself forward for the choosing, he was not pleased with the result of Dywen's interference. Stannis had wanted more than three ruined keeps, and he was not a man to be balked easily. Again and again he summoned Jon to berate him for his foolishness and disloyalty.

"I am the rightful king of Westeros," Stannis said, his cloak flapping in a wind as cold as his eyes.

"Your brother must bend the knee. You know the true enemy we face; this is no time for a boy clinging to an ill gotten crown," Stannis said, his crown glinting in the afternoon sun.

"There can be only one penalty for treason. I have no wish to burn Robb Stark, but if he forces my hand…" Stannis said, staring into the flames roaring in his hearth.

At last the day came for Stannis and his men to depart for the Nightfort. Before seeing the king on his way Jon ducked into the backhouse beside the practice yard, relieved to see all ten seats were empty. He was sitting on the cold wooden seat, breeches pushed to his knees, when to his dismay the door swung open and Stannis stalked inside.

"Lord Snow," he said curtly, seating himself at the seat furthest from Jon's. "I tire of seeking that which is owed me. Have you come to see reason?"

"Your Grace knows my reply; it has not changed. The Night's Watch takes no sides. What business you have with the King in the North is yours alone; I will not interfere."

"Not even to save your brother's life?"

His men might claim Stannis could turn men's bowels to water with such a look, but Jon felt no change as he continued the task he had been engaged with before being so rudely interrupted. For a moment Jon considered his words, weighing them carefully.

"I have given you my answer, Your Grace."

With that Jon finished his business and pulled up his breeches, glad that he would soon be spared such unpleasant encounters. When Stannis finally rode out of sight later that morning he found himself almost smiling.

Still, he wished that Stannis had chosen Stonedoor, rather than the Nightfort. That abandoned keep lay further west, twice as far from Castle Black. Unfortunately, Stannis had commanded Ser Richard Horpe to take command of the dilapidated tower. Jon had not liked the ominous death's head moths on his shield, and time proved his foreboding justified. Horpe talked of battle with a cold glint in his eye, his pockmarked face flush with anticipation. Ser Godry Farring, whom Stannis had placed in command of Sable Hall, was no better. The broad knight was brash, condescending, and fervently devoted to R'hllor.

Jon had finally reached the yard, and paused to observe the sparring. Iron Emmett was in fine form, drilling the youngest recruits in the basics of slash and parry and keeping one's shield in the right place. Some of them turned to look as Jon passed by, their breath clouds of steam in the frigid air. "Hop-Robin! Watch your partner, not the Lord Commander!" Iron Emmett bellowed at a hapless boy with a clubfoot. "Jace!" He shouted at a taller boy who was raining blows down on his foe. "Stop hitting so hard; we don't have enough shields for you to be breaking 'em!"

As Jon crossed the yard the ringing of steel gave way to the twang of bowstrings and the thud of arrows striking their targets. Ulmer of the Kingswood was stalking up and down the row of stewards, fierce despite his stooped shoulders and grey beard. Here and there he paused, correcting stances and draws.

"Lay your body in the bow, don't just use your arm!" Ulmer barked. Jeren, a septon's bastard from the Riverlands, flinched as he struggled to draw his bow, his thin arms trembling from the cloak clasped around his shoulders to the leather gloves on his hands. Jeren was one of only a few who still wore gloves; most had given up on trying to grip the bowstrings with their fingers covered. Down the line Satin, a former whore born in Oldtown, had ripped off a fingernail. Blood oozed down Satin's fingers as he drew, loosed, and hit the target squarely. "Well aimed," Jon called. The wind blew the Oldtown boy's dark curls into his face, but he could still see Satin turn red and nearly poke himself in the eye trying to nock his next arrow.

Samwell Tarly was at the last archery butt. Ulmer reached him slightly before Jon did. Blisters covered Sam's plump fingers; one popped as he drew the bowstring back to his neck. He stared at the target, face screwed up in concentration, one eye clamped tightly shut. "Your anchor point should be the corner of your mouth, every time," Ulmer growled. "The arrow is your lady wife; you've got to give her a kiss if you want to get anywhere." Sam obeyed, panting.

"Watch the tip of the arrow." Ulmer pointed. His left arm was larger than his right, thick with muscle from decades of archery. "With BOTH eyes, boy!" The arrow went wide, missing the target by a good five feet. Ulmer spat on the ground, and Jon found himself praying the Others would not assail the Wall anytime soon.

If only we had more crossbows in the armory. His lord father said that the crossbow was no match for the longbow. Lord Eddard was right; longbows had twice the range, and a good longbowman could put up six arrows a minute to a crossbowman's two.

Unfortunately, training a longbowman took time. In the lands sworn directly to House Stark, common boys began training with the longbow at fourteen. Once a week they would be summoned to the closest village or holdfast, and placed in the care of an experienced archer. Building the strength to draw a longbow required years of constant practice; perhaps by the age of twenty a boy would be fit to serve in war.

Some northern lords were keener on training longbowmen than others. The Boltons of the Dreadfort did not permit longbow training at all, and only trained new crossbowmen when they raised levies. Lord Eddard suspected Roose Bolton and his predecessors misliked the idea of arming their smallfolk. A few other northern lords shared the Bolton skepticism of armed peasantry, but the rest followed Winterfell's lead. The lords south of the Neck were similarly varied in their enthusiasm for longbowmen; the best archers at the Wall came from the fiefs surrounding the Dornish Marches. Reacherman, Stormlander, or Dornishman, their lords had demanded vigilence, remembering centuries of raiding parties and battles before Aegon's Conquest.

Meanwhile, almost anyone, man or woman, clever or simple, could learn to use a crossbow within a fortnight. No particular strength was required to wind back a crossbow, nor to load a quarrel and loose it at the foe. Gods be good, even children could use them. A pair of orphan boys, only nine and eight, had helped defend the Wall against Mance Rayder, supervised by Zei, a whore with distressingly good aim. Zei had disappeared when he sent her to beg aid from the rest of Mole's Town; the boys and their five year old brother had fallen to Three-Finger Hobb, who kept them busy in the kitchen.

Sam was drawing again, his lips pursed in a frown.

"How long has he been at it?" Jon asked Ulmer, soft so as not to attract attention. Ulmer groaned, dragging one hand down the side of his face.

"Since breakfast, by the Father's scales. Not that he's improved any."

"That's enough, Sam," Jon commanded when the next arrow went wide. "Back to the vaults."

Crossbow or longbow, it made no difference unless the Watch had dragonglass for the arrowheads. Despite weeks of trawling through mounds of dusty scrolls and worm eaten books, Sam could find no other weapon that might slay the Others. Well, there was dragonsteel, but the notion was patently absurd. Even if every lord in Westeros yielded up their precious ancestral blades, there was no smith to forge them into arrowheads.

Fire arrows had worked against the wights, so said the survivors of the calamitous battle at the Fist of the First Men. But where ordinary men might retreat before a volley of flaming arrows, the wights kept coming, and coming, and coming, inexorable as the tide.

It did not help that many of the crumbling scrolls were writ in tongues Sam could not understand. At Winterfell Maester Luwin had showed Jon and his brothers books from before Aegon's Conquest, smiling gently when they protested that they could not read a foreign language.

"Speech changes over time," Luwin said. "This scroll is writ in northron. The wildlings speak the Old Tongue, and their raiders learn the Common Tongue, but that is not what the North spoke. When the Andals came, the Citadel required all maesters to learn Andahli, no matter whether they grew up speaking one of the thousand green tongues of the Reach or the hundred stone tongues of the Vale. The Faith came with the Andals, and high septons sent begging brothers and holy women forth across the land for hundreds of years, into even the most remote hamlets where only First Men dwelt. Only in the North did Andahli struggle to take hold beyond maesters and their lords. Before Aegon's Conquest, the Kings of Winter might speak Andahli to their maesters and their lords, but all their edicts were writ in Northron, and they spoke Northron to their people. After the conquest, the use of northron died out."

"Why?" Arya asked, forgetting that she was supposed to be at her sewing lesson with Sansa, not listening to Jon and Robb's lesson from behind the door of Maester Luwin's chambers. The maester sighed, rubbing at his nose.

"Torrhen Stark bent the knee. The dragons sought to forge seven realms into one; Andahli, what we call the Common Tongue, was part of that. The mountain clans still speak northron among themselves; so do the Umbers and Mormonts. Old Maester Walys, my predecessor, learned the tongue at the Citadel as a way to amuse himself; your grandfather, Lord Rickard, was fluent, as were your uncle Brandon and aunt Lyanna. Your lord father..." Luwin hesitated, his face sad. "He speaks northron only when visiting those who speak no other tongue. You will have to learn northron too, Robb, for when you are one day Lord of Winterfell."

"What about me?" Arya asked, indignant. "I want to learn too!" He could almost see the wheels turning in his little sister's head, imagining herself making rude comments in a tongue neither Sansa, her mother, nor her septa could understand.

"Someday, perhaps," the Maester replied, but that day had never come. It was only a year later that King Robert brought the court to Winterfell, his shadow falling upon House Stark like a specter of doom.

A few men of the Night's Watch spoke northron, those from isolated villages in the mountains and near the Gift. But none of them could read, and so the piles of scrolls written in northron were of no use. Sam was trying to teach himself, but his progress was as slow as that with the longbow.

Ghost nudged at Jon's leg, his muzzle streaked with dried blood.

"Come, Ghost," Jon said. "I've lingered here long enough."

Together, man and wolf approached the base of the wall. Guards stood at the entrance to the storehouse, ensuring hungry men did not disturb the precious victuals that lay within. Winter rations were enough to keep a man going from dawn to dusk, and no further. As of yet there had been no fighting or thievery, but such luck would only hold for so long.

Jon's breath misted in the air as he walked down the long passageways, Ghost's claws clicking softly on the stone floor. He passed by the granaries with their barrels of precious flour, past root cellars full of bags of carrots and turnips, past lard houses packed with wheels of cheese, past pantries and meat vaults and the lone spice locker whose contents were largely blocks of salt.

At last he came to the ice cells. By now Jon was shivering, the cold seeping deeper into his bones with every step. Once Janos Slynt had flung him in these very cells, naming him a turncloak. "You will die in here," Ser Alliser Thorne had promised, eyes glinting as he closed the heavy wooden door.

Speaking to Ser Alliser was still a galling exercise in frustration. The knight had not enjoyed retelling the events that transpired after Lord Commander Mormont sent him south with a wight's rotten hand.

"The Imp would not see me," Ser Alliser fumed, glaring as if it were Jon's fault. "The hand rotted away in the heat, and he mocked me before the court, saying the dead would not walk if we buried them properly. The dead rise to kill us all, and he gave me naught but scorn and a hundred spades."

"And a dozen or so men," Jon said mildly. Truth be told Jon had hoped for better, but he would never learn why Tyrion Lannister had treated the Night's Watch so ill. The little man who could both jape about Ghost juggling and imagine burning his father in dragonfire was a year dead, consumed by his own wildfire during the Battle of the Blackwater. Stannis's men could barely stand to speak of the hellish inferno, and cursed the Imp to the deepest of the seven hells.

"Nine. Churls and weaklings and knaves," Ser Alliser scoffed. He had been no more impressed with the task Jon set him.

"Sail for King's Landing again? I am a knight, not an errand boy." Ser Alliser's mouth curled bitterly.

"A knight, indeed. Who better to seek aid from the Iron Throne? Ser Kevan Lannister is Hand now, not the Imp. Not will you be bringing a mere hand in a jar."

Something stirred within the ice cell; Ghost bared his teeth at the sound of rattling chains. The air smelled cold, cold and wrong. The Iron Throne must be first. Robb will believe me without such proof, but the Lannisters never will, damn them. If another ranging returns, Sunspear will be second. Gilly deserves a warm refuge for her babe; Sansa will take her in. For a moment he almost laughed, imagining his courtly sister attempting to teach a wildling girl how to curtsy. Then he remembered why Sansa would be in Dorne, and his amusement died more quickly than it had been born. I have no sisters, only sworn brothers. Oldtown will be third; gods help us if the Citadel proves as blind as Aemon fears.

Jon thrust the heavy iron key into the lock, turning it before he lost his nerve. The door was stuck fast; he yanked with both hands, wrenching it open with a shriek of rusted hinges.

And in the cell the dead man lunged, straining against his iron shackles, ice chip eyes burning in the dark.


Notes

1) I was looking up what medieval people would eat for breakfast, and made a neat discovery. GRRM quite frequently has characters break their fast on eggs and bacon etc. However, breakfast was not a common meal until the end of the Medieval Period, and even then, not everyone ate it.

The classic combo of bacon and eggs is even more recent, barely a century old! If a medieval person did eat breakfast, it might consist of any of the following: ale, anchovies, beef, beer, bread, cheese, salmon, salt fish, sop (bread soaked in wine), trout, or wine.

2) Bowen Marsh being semi helpful is a ripple effect caused by the change in how Jon was elected. Here Jon isn't the surprise candidate displacing Lord Tywin's preferred choice, he's the brother of the king in the north who's been sending much needed supplies. Marsh wants to keep the gravy train going, so prissily urging Jon to be more formal tracks with his preference for highborn men and Proper Levels of Distinction between a commander and his underlings. Also, seeing Jon nearly die from the flogging removed any suspicion of Jon being pro wildling.

3) Yep, medieval public toilets existed, and they were gross. And communal! "In medieval public lavatories, people sat next to each other to do their business. One London latrine had two rows of 64 seats each." They were many euphemisms for these unpleasant places, including "backhouse" or "necessary house." Thanks to ohnoitsmyra for this horrifying discovery.

ohnoitsmyra I think stannis being up Jon's ass would be funny

...

redwolf17 Jon: do you MIND? I am in the privy!

ohnoitsmyra pls give me stannis messing with Jon on the shitter

...

redwolf17 Stannis is too formal to barge in on Jon... dangit this is a Conundrum

ohnoitsmyra hmm

ohnoitsmyra maybe on accident but he pretends to be cool

redwolf17 Okay but how

redwolf17 It's not like public bathrooms

ohnoitsmyra hmm lemme do some digging

ohnoitsmyra my research is already frutiful

MORE THAN JUST A HOLE

No longer using just a hole, castle designers came up with was called a Garderobe. In many famous castles, these garderobes were built as small rooms, sometimes a single-seater, sometimes a double.

But they were built strategically into these castles. There were other designs too. The need for privacy was not high during those times, so many garderobes were built with numbers in mind.

It was common to see a toilet with perhaps 10 or more holes lined up next to each other. Conversations with toilet buddies were common and much gossip found its origin in the toilet.

...

redwolf17 Lolololol oh my GOD

4) Jon's attempt to have everyone switch to longbow is simultaneously pragmatic and hilariously impractical. The tradition of the English longbow actually originated in Wales, where bow hunting was very common, as was use of the bow for war. For about 200 hundred years, English law required boys 14 and older to practice longbow for at least 2 hours a week. To get really good with the longbow, not to mention build the muscles to draw the damn thing (longbows had a draw weight from around 80-180lb) could take around ten years. Better hope those wights are moving like Romero zombies, not Zombieland zombies.

That said, archery flat out shouldn't work at the Wall. It's 700 feet high! Most medieval castle walls were around 40-80ft (imagine two school buses stacked end to end). A few had towers over 100ft (three school buses). This is one of the rare cases where I just give up. Apparently wildlings can shoot up at men standing 700ft above them, even though they have no experience with shooting at men standing on much, MUCH shorter castle walls… -_- Rangers firing down at wildlings or wights is more plausible, but still has zero historical comparison point. GRRM admits he made the Wall much bigger than he meant to; apparently when he wrote 700ft, he was picturing more like 300ft. Sigh. I get his desire for romantic excess, I do, but the man goes wayyyyyyyyyyy overboard.

5) The three orphan boys show up in ASoS, Jon VIII, and never appear again. Sigh.

6) I almost said the cheese was in the buttery. Turns out, the buttery was where wine (bottle=butt) was stored, not dairy products! GRRM gets the term wrong in ACoK, sending Arya to the buttery for cheese and butter.