Content warning: this chapter contains depictions of depression and suicidal ideation. Please be advised.
When the battle ended, Jon Snow was as stiff and quiet as the Silent Tower atop which he stood. The men down below were another matter. As the wights retreated through the crack in the Wall, men waved and shook their fists, and when the last of them vanished back into the haunted forest, a ragged cheer went up, followed by the ringing of trumpets.
Jon could not pretend to share such joy. His heart was too numb, his belly too hollow, his eyes too weary from long hours of staring through a Myrish lens. And oh, he felt so very cold, even before a freezing wind blew down from beyond the Wall. Louder than any trumpet, the wind screamed and howled like a rabid beast, heedless of the creeping dawn, merciless in its fury. Its teeth tore at banners and snapped at cloaks; its claws swiped at rushlights and torches, which guttered out one by one. Even the watchfires cowered, their flames bent beneath vicious gusts.
The Others are angry. They must be, to raise such a wind despite the brightening sky. Already deep blue yielded to rich purple, edged with a band of amber upon the horizon. It was third moon now; each day the sun rose earlier and set later, as it would until the mid-year solstice.
Sixty-six times, the dead had come. Sixty-six times, the living had thrown them back. Yet even as the nights grew shorter, they felt longer, colder, darker. Dolorous Edd Tollett blamed the bitter winds; Maester Turquin blamed the exhaustion that danced attendance on battle-weary men forced to fight so often without adequate food and rest.
And for what? Left Hand Lew reported they had slain over five thousand wights, but the Lord Steward could not even begin to guess how many dead men remained. The Others had been killing wildlings and raising them as thralls for years before Mance Rayder gathered the hundred thousand who fled south beneath his banner. Stannis Baratheon had shattered that host to pieces, killing a few and putting the rest to flight. Less than a fifth of the survivors had eventually passed through the Wall with Tormund Giantsbane, but as for the rest...
They cannot all be here, Jon reminded himself. Castle Black might be sore beset, but so were the Shadow Tower and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, who were besieged by their own hosts of wights. But where are their masters? Would that he still had Mormont's old raven, upon whose wings he might have searched high and low until he found the Others wherever they might be. Even if he failed to find the Others, he should have been able to count how many wights assailed Castle Black. But Jon could not fly upon a raven's wings; he could not even climb the switchback stair to the top of the Wall that loomed above his head.
It had taken two months of backbreaking labor for Othell Yarwyck's builders to repair all the damage the great wooden stair had suffered the night the Wall had cracked. Then, when only a few hours of toil remained before the work was done, a sudden ice storm had come raging out of a clear blue sky. Hailstones fell like rain, some small as dice, some as large as a man's fist.
Largest of all had been the one that slew Othell Yarwyck. The bloodstained stone had been twice the size of the lantern-jawed skull it had smashed to pieces, killing the First Builder with one fell blow and splattering the men around him with blood and brains. Nor had the other builders escaped unscathed. The deluge of ice only lasted brief minutes, but that was long enough to concuss heads, crush shoulders, break arms, and pile the stair knee-deep in hailstones.
As Othell and his men had been working near the top of the switchback stair, it was long hours before any help could reach them. The night's battle had already begun by the time the last of the injured builders finished their descent, and none of them had climbed the switchback stair since. No one had; no one could. When the day after the ice storm dawned clear and sunny and strangely warm, all the men had taken it as a good omen, even Jon.
More fool he. By the time night fell and the cold returned, the piles of hailstones had melted into a thick coat of ice, rendering the switchback stair utterly useless. That news had struck the builders harder than the wounds they had taken. Kegs had not wept a single tear for his ruined shoulder, but he had bawled like a babe for the loss of the stair. "But... m'lord, we were almost done," Albett had pleaded, his voice breaking. "We worked so hard, it can't have been for naught."
Of course it was, Jon thought bitterly as the wind fell and the sun rose.
He almost wished it wouldn't. Darkness and the chaos of battle concealed more than firelight could reveal; even with a Myrish eye, it was hard to see much at night. Surveying the aftermath, though, that was all too easy in the clear light of day.
Beneath the jagged crack in the Wall, the three-sided timber palisade still stood, straight and proud. That was more than could be said for the men who had defended it. The knights of the Vale had been fighting all night; small wonder that their shoulders slumped and their legs trembled as they dispersed, staggering off in search of a hot meal or a soft bed.
That was not their first stop, though. Long lines of weary men-at-arms stretched outside every backhouse, eager to claim one of the ten or twenty seats that each could boast. It was far too frigid to relieve oneself outside, and unlike their nobles and their officers, most of the common men did not enjoy the comfort of a private chamber pot.
Granted, Jon supposed the backhouses were closer at hand. It was no surprise to see a few knights pushing their way to the front of the backhouse lines; suffering the indignity of fouling one's smallclothes was for lesser men. No man enjoyed wagering the fullness of his bladder and bowels against the length of time it would take him to reach a privy. At least the backhouses currently stank less than usual; the stewards had just finished emptying the pits beneath them by his command, though he had not told them why—
"M'lord?" White breath steamed from behind Dolorous Edd Tollett's black scarf, just like it steamed from behind those of the half dozen men who served as the lord commander's tail. "Will you be having a rest now, or do you mean to watch until the yard is empty? Not to be impertinent, but that wolf of yours is looking awful peckish, and there's naught to feed him up here. I 'spose he could finish off what the maester left of my arm, if he likes his meat tough as old boots."
Jon Snow narrowed his eyes. Dolorous Edd looked back at him blandly, and Ghost licked his chops, his garnet eyes gleaming. What were they playing at? The steward knew full well that Ghost wasn't hungry. Edd was the one who had brought Ghost a haunch of mutton before the night began, and the direwolf had devoured every scrap, enough to keep him full for days.
Suddenly, Jon was very aware of his own empty belly, and of the fact that he had not visited the privy in quite some time. Gods, he should have been abed by now; he would need all his strength for the afternoon that lay ahead.
"The wolf doesn't need feeding," Jon said curtly.
And without another word, he left. Ghost trotted down ahead of him as he descended the steps of the Silent Tower, leaving his tail to trail behind. The sworn brothers followed him through the gloom, their cloaks as black as the shadows on the walls. The only break in the darkness was the direwolf, whose pale fur gleamed in the flickering torchlight.
There was no need for torches when Jon Snow stepped into the yard. Beneath the rising sun, the drifts of snow turned bright enough to blind. By the time he passed the Flint Barracks, the white stars had gone away, but his eyes still stung as he blinked away the tears that remained, welling up unwanted.
Jon strode across the yard with brisk determination, focusing on the way the snow crunched beneath his boots rather than the way his men called "Lord Snow" as he passed them without so much as a glance. They could not see him, not like this. A lord commander had no friends; he could not, when every soul in black lived and died by his command.
And so many had died. At the beginning of second moon, there had been two hundred rangers sleeping in the Flint Barracks. Now over fifty of those beds lay empty and cold, their precious pillows and blankets divided up amongst the mere hundred and forty-seven who yet lived to defend Castle Black. Not that they were allowed to. The knights of the Vale would not hear of it.
"The Night's Watch is sworn to guard the realms of men," Ser Ossifer Coldwater had told the lord commander, the reminder as pompous as it was unnecessary. "Would you have us sit by and watch it be extinguished to the last man? That would be most unchivalrous."
Jon Snow was still not sure how chivalry entered into it, and it was too late to ask. Old Ser Ossifer had perished in battle a few nights later, trying to save the even older Ser Alec Hunter from the wight that had knocked him off his feet. Neither man had ever stood again. They were still flat on their backs, their eyes burning blue, when a squad of men-at-arms descended upon them led by Ser Uther Shett. Since surviving the loss of his arm not a month past, the knight seemed to think himself invincible, and flung himself into the fray each night with more gallantry than good sense.
But there was no doubting his courage, nor that of his fellows. Ser Lonnel Redfort had insisted on returning to battle the moment he was knighted, even though he limped so badly he ought to still be on crutches. At least Ser Edmund Belmore was keeping him well in hand. Knighted or not, Lonnel was only sixteen. Jon did not relish the thought of seeing his name on the growing list of casualties which Ser Edmund also kept. Of the nearly three thousand men of the Vale who defended Castle Black at the solstice, less than twenty-one hundred remained, and more fell almost every night—
With a muttered curse, Jon Snow halted in his tracks. Lost in thought, he had forgotten where he was going, and habit had led him to the King's Tower. Biting back a curse, Jon spun on his heel, making for the Lord Commander's Tower instead. That was where he belonged, from now until the end of his days. He ought to have moved there long ago, but the builders always seemed to be needed elsewhere. Then the solstice had come, and the Wall had cracked, and he had known he could delay no longer.
The few comforts of the King's Tower were not meant for him, not anymore. A fortnight past, the work had finished, and the lord commander had moved his abode to the highest chambers of the Lord Commander's Tower. Hard as the builders had worked, one could still tell that the tower had been gutted by fire. Though the wooden floors and ceilings had been replaced, the stone walls remained charred and black with soot. And the scent of smoke lingered, despite all the peculiar remedies Dolorous Edd Tollett kept trying to drive it out, aided and abetted by Satin.
There was neither smoke nor fire in Jon Snow's dreams. There was only the crypts, and the shade who haunted the darkness of its deepest vault. In life Eddard Stark had never looked so pale; it was the Other who wore his skin, who reached out with hands turned black and cold, who cursed him with his father's voice when he fled in terror of that dread embrace.
There was no way out but up, and up he ran. The Other pursued, chasing him through the lowest level and the rubble that buried it, up the twisting stairs, down a long row of statues that marked the tombs of the Kings of Winter. Jon barely noticed them as he sprinted past, intent on his escape. Then came a rumble like thunder, and he could not help glancing over his shoulder. The Other was only a few yards back and gaining, and behind him the stone kings were waking. Cracks raced over the granite, starting with the fingers and creeping up their arms. When the cracks reached their necks, the kings' heads turned one by one, their hard stone eyes fixed on him.
Jon's steps faltered; his eyes stared, unable to look away. A mistake, a foolish mistake, and one he only realized when the ground rose up and slapped him. His head swam dizzily, and for a moment he lay stunned. When he tried to stagger to his feet, it was already too late. His father loomed over him, his long face grim with disappointment.
"Why must you make this so difficult?" Lord Eddard sighed. A push of his hand, and Jon was on the floor again. "If you would only yield, there would be no need for any of this."
Casually, almost absent-mindedly, his father kicked him in the belly. Pain lanced through him like lightning as Jon's vision went white. He doubled over, heaving. When the vomit came, it was thick, so thick he choked and gasped for air, tears streaming down his face as he cried out for his father, for his mother, someone, anyone.
"You are no son of mine," Lord Eddard laughed.
"No son of his," echoed the stone kings.
Lord Eddard glanced at them, frowning. Through his tears Jon saw that the cracks had reached their feet; one by one, the stone kings were breaking free. The crypts shook as they stepped down from their thrones, every stone king gripping an iron sword in his fist. Eager though they might be to join the slaughter, their steps were slow, their tread as heavy as the earth itself.
"It would be so much simpler if I could kill you," Lord Eddard complained. "Our hour has come at last, the world stretches before us for the taking, and where am I?" His face twisted with annoyance, and he delivered another kick. Jon heard his ribs crack; there was a sharp ache in his chest that flared higher with every shuddering breath he took as he coughed up blood. Lord Eddard laughed again, and drew back his leg for another kick—
And suddenly there was another shade standing over him, tall and slim, with a sword in her hand and a crown of blue roses on her brow.
"You leave him be," the girl screamed.
She slashed down hard, but to no avail. Before the savage blow could land, the Other disappeared, vanishing as if it had never been. With a muttered oath the girl sheathed her sword, heedless of the stone kings or the danger they posed. Turning, the girl bent over Jon, her face hidden by a fall of long brown hair. Even with his sight blurred by tears, he knew her, just as he knew the warmth of her hand on his shoulder...
But it was only Satin, shaking him awake.
Gone were the days when he could laze abed until Ghost shoved him out. He could not let Satin suspect anything amiss; it was bad enough that Dolorous Edd had taken note of his melancholy, let alone told Pyp. It would be a relief when Dolorous Edd was restored to health and Jon no longer had need of Satin.
It was several weeks since Maester Turquin had taken Dolorous Edd Tollett's left arm just below the elbow. The next day, Dolorous Edd had insisted on returning to his duties. Or rather, he had insisted on being let out of the sickroom, lest death prove catching. Satin had kept doing most of the actual work, whilst Dolorous Edd puttered and pondered how to manage his tasks with one less hand.
In the meantime, Jon Snow had tasks of his own to do. Groggy as he was, he made haste to bathe, dress, and break his fast. Today of all days, nothing must go wrong. If that meant rising early to make his rounds on only a few hours sleep, so be it.
When Jon stepped out into the bracing cold, the yard was almost empty. That was no surprise; most men preferred to use the wormways that ran beneath Castle Black. The maze of tunnels connected every keep, tower, and tunnel, providing refuge from the bitter wind and treacherous ice. If only the passages were not so dark and cramped, with walls that always seemed to be closing in...
Ghost butted him with his snout, startling him from his reverie just before he slipped on a patch of black ice. Jon went around it, cursing himself for not paying better attention to his surroundings. He could not afford to injure himself, nor to look a fool before his men. After all, the escort that tailed him were not the only black brothers in the yard. A pair of stewards heaved a headless corpse onto the pile of wights waiting to be burned; a squad of builders busied themselves shoring up the battered timber palisade. He would come back to them later, after he visited the vaults beneath the Wall. For now, Jon passed them by, just as he passed by the wooden keep that held the sickroom.
"Lord Snow!"
A plump older woman waved at him from the threshold of the sickroom, her silk robes as white as the snow at her feet. Biting back an oath, Jon doubled back. At least it was like to be good news, judging by the look of satisfaction on the septa's lovely face as she shivered in the cold.
"Lord Umber is much improved, my lord," Septa Myriame told him when he drew close, her voice back to its usual whisper. "Another week, and I daresay his ribs will be mended, by the mercy of the Smith." The septa tsked softly. "Though I cannot vouch for his temper, or his good sense. That moose ought to have killed him; he was fortunate not to puncture a lung."
"And we are fortunate to have you here, my lady."
Septa Myriame smiled, her rosy cheeks dimpling. "And how is your poor steward? Does his stump still trouble him?"
"It aches and itches, but nothing to signify." Jon hesitated. "How do you and your septas fare?"
"Quite well, my lord, quite well."
When the septa went back inside the sickroom, Jon breathed a sigh of relief. Grateful as he was for the Most Devout, their presence made him nervous. Since their arrival, the faithful were always underfoot, sticking out like sore thumbs in their bright robes. Only seven Most Devout had come, but each had brought seven septons or septas sworn to their god, along with twenty-one lay brothers or lay sisters to serve them.
Two hundred and three, all told, and to Jon's vast dismay, over half of them were women. Oh, the knights of the Vale had brought camp followers with them, but those were burly washerwomen and seasoned whores, the sort of women tough enough or desperate enough to follow a host to the Wall. True, at first there had been a few rapes and geldings, but after that the black brothers had grown used to ignoring them, unless they had the coin or charm to tempt a willing whore into their bed.
Fresh meat, though, that was different. Thankfully, the Most Devout sworn to the Mother, Maiden, Crone, and Stranger seemed well aware of their peril. The lay sisters who served them were either old, homely, or both. As for the septas, although some were young and some were comely, all of them were highborn and imperious. And, of course, they had their guards, pious hedge knights who had accompanied them from Harrenhal.
Piety seemed to be in endless supply of late. The Most Devout held prayers seven times a day, and seven times a day, the largest halls to be found at Castle Black were full to bursting with worshippers, those who were off duty or whose officers were as godly as their men. Those stuck at their posts often prayed there; one day, Septon Timoth had gone out into the forest so the stewards could hear him preach as they chopped firewood.
Even the stolid Maester Turquin seemed overcome by religious fervor. Perhaps it was because the Most Devout had brought him a wealth of supplies to replenish his dwindling stores, or perhaps he was merely giddy at having so many helpers. Septa Myriame and her brethren were all skilled at nursing, having been trained in the healing art which was sacred to the Mother. Dolorous Edd claimed Armen the Acolyte had almost wept at how neatly the septas stitched up wounds, and thanks to their lay sisters, the sickroom was so clean one might have eaten off the floor.
The vaults beneath the Wall were another matter.
As the heavy doors swung open, Jon Snow could already smell the rank stench of sweat and piss. Some of the largest vaults had collapsed when the Wall cracked, and those that remained whole were too small and cramped to comfortably hold near nine hundred men. Little though they might like following orders, the free folk had come when he called; he only wished he might have given them better lodgings.
He found Tormund Giantsbane amongst his men, singing a song in the Old Tongue. Though he stood with empty hands, not one of the men seated about him was idle. Each had a piece of wood in one hand and a knife in the other, the bronze glinting in the ruddy glow of the brazier as they whittled away, squinting to see in the dim light.
Another contest, no doubt.
Soren Shieldbreaker had begun the nonsense soon after his arrival from Rimegate, when he promised one of his beloved axes to whomever could best him at throwing them. Since then there had been contests for wrestling, dancing, juggling, and the gods only knew what else. Last week the Great Walrus had gotten the notion of offering a plush fur cloak to the skald or singer who could tell the saddest tale, a contest which had lasted several days. It ended with the Great Walrus blubbering so hard that his weeping could be heard echoing through the many wormways connected to the vaults; sound had a queer way of traveling beneath the earth.
Doubtless they could hear Tormund too, the way his voice boomed and rolled like thunder. Jon wondered what he was saying. The few words he knew in the Old Tongue were those useful for giving brief orders to errant wildlings, not translating what seemed to be a rather lengthy ballad. Tempting as it was to interrupt so he might say his piece, Jon resisted. The Giantsbane would not like what he had to say; it was best to keep him in good humor.
Jon Snow was still waiting for the song to end when a glint of silver caught his eye. It peeped from beneath Tormund's furs, a round silver band graven with runes that dangled from the end of the fraying leather cord that hung about his thick neck. A large ring, perhaps, or a small baby bracelet. Whatever it was, it was soon hidden again, and he thought no more of it. He had more pressing concerns.
"A fair song," Jon said when at last the Giantsbane fell silent. "I would have a word, if you please."
They had many words, in the end. Most of them were as unpleasant as the dank closet where they went to speak privily. The lord commander had not expected the wildling to rejoice at the news he brought, but he had not anticipated such rancor. Grievance after grievance was flung at him, accompanied by a rain of curses and spittle.
"And there'll be no kneeling, I promise you," Tormund Giantsbane declared.
"I had not expected that there would be," Jon replied evenly. "Nor do I care, so long as your men continue to keep the peace."
"Aye, or they'll answer t' me." The wildling gave him a shrewd look. "If there's a fight, it won't be started by me or mine, Lord Crow."
And on that ominous note, the conversation ended.
The lord commander's talks with the other wildling chiefs went much the same. Soren Shieldbreaker and the Great Walrus heard him together and agreed to his terms, though only after raising the doubts which filled their hearts. Devyn Sealskinner wept and pleaded; Sigorn, the Magnar of Thenn, was so tense and so terse he might have passed for a statue.
Septon Timoth, on the other hand, was almost frantic with excitement when Jon stopped by Castle Black's library. When the lord commander offered the Most Devout use of the library, he had meant it as a passing courtesy. Septons liked books, after all, and the tall wooden shelves were packed with thousands of them.
Instead, he had awoken a pack of scholarly monsters. Samwell Tarly said that when the Most Devout first beheld the library, Septon Timoth had fallen to his knees in rapturous prayer to the Father, and Septa Cassana had been so overcome she actually fainted.
Thankfully, at present Septa Cassana was quite calm as she lit candles on a small altar to the Crone. Her gold-robed septas and lay sisters were just as sedate as they worked. Some were taking inventory of the shelves, while others assisted the green-robed septons and lay brothers who toiled with quill and parchment to make copies of the most damaged texts.
Not all of them appeared enthused with their work; one septon was scowling as he sharpened a quill with unwonted venom, and one of the lay brothers was drawing in the margins of his page. Carefully, Jon moved closer, and saw what appeared to be a rather unflattering portrait of Septon Timoth with a gag over his mouth. As for the septon himself...
"—only fragments, let alone a full copy!" Septon Timoth exclaimed, gesturing wildly. "And in Barth's own hand! Granted, much of the Unnatural History is nonsense, or obviously meant to be allegorical, but—"
He was interrupted by a deep, loud knock on the door of the vault. A lay brother scurried to open it, and just as quickly scurried back to his work when he saw who stood without.
Mors Umber was almost as much of a giant as his sigil. A huge, powerful old man, he wore a leather patch over his missing eye and a look of vague uncertainty upon his ruddy face. At his heels, Ghost sniffed; as usual, the scent of ale clung to Mors Crowfood like perfume, and he started with surprise when he saw the lord commander.
"Lord Snow," Crowfood said brusquely. "I had not thought to find you here."
"I am glad that you did."
Once he escaped the rambling septon, Jon had meant to visit the Grey Keep which housed the Umbers and many of their men. Instead, he spoke to Crowfood in an out of the way wall niche which Samwell Tarly yielded to their use. Unlike the free folk, Crowfood was pleased with his news, so pleased that he didn't fly into a rage when Jon informed him that the wildlings would assist the men of Last Hearth in defending the Wall tonight.
"The buggers can fight, I'll give them that," Crowfood grunted. "But we don't need their help."
"Consider it a precaution, then. The valemen are worn to the bone; let the wildlings be your reserve."
Crowfood fingered his beard. "Aye. Since they crossed the bloody Wall..." he spat.
"Let them bleed to defend it."
That was the best Jon could hope for. With a headache pounding at his temples, he left, bound for the wormway which led to the kitchens. He ought to thank the gods daily that Crowfood had given the wildlings a wide berth since they arrived. Tormund Giantsbane was similarly prudent, and kept himself and his wildlings well away from the northmen as much as he could.
The wormways, though, those were a problem. Nearly everyone used them at all hours of the day and night, and the Grey Keep was regrettably close to the vaults beneath the Wall. And when wildlings and northmen met down in the dark, in passages that were often so narrow that only two men could walk abreast...
Angry looks and swearing were the least of the lord commander's worries. Pushing and shoving were far more common. More than once fights had broken out; last week there had been a stabbing. That was why he had gone to the wildling chiefs himself, rather than summon them to his solar. None of them went anywhere alone, and though their tails were usually only two, perhaps four men, that was plenty to start a fight.
I ought to have had the builders widen the wormways long ago, Jon thought angrily as he ducked beneath a low lintel. True, the builders had been busy elsewhere, but still... it would have been bloody carnage if the likes of Alfyn Crowkiller or the Weeper had lived to come south. Fortunately, Qhorin Halfhand had done for Alfyn, and Theon Greyjoy had done for the Weeper. Not long after, he had vanished into the haunted forest, never to be seen again. And thank the gods for that.
The rest of the morning and early afternoon passed with excruciating slowness as Jon continued making his rounds. Three-Finger Hobb gladly agreed to provide as fine a dinner as possible for the lord commander's table. He was less pleased to be told that he could not have Ben help him with the making of it.
"I need him more than Hobb does," Maester Turquin insisted when the lord commander stopped by the sickroom.
More like you've grown fond of the boy, Jon thought as he eyed the many septas and lay sisters who were helping nurse the wounded. Turquin was as loathe to give up his young novice as Jon was to mediate the dispute between his maester and his cook. Ben seemed content to wield either lancet or cleaver, though Satin said he'd made a habit of slipping down to the kitchens without permission to see his brothers Alyn and Hal.
Men of the Night's Watch did not have brothers, but that was an impulse Jon understood all too well. Especially late that afternoon, when at last his rounds were done and he stood waiting in the yard with his heart in his throat. A few hours before sunset, the scout had said when he reached Castle Black last night.
He had better be right. The cold was so sharp that it hurt to breathe, and the scars on Jon's cheek, back, hand, and thigh were already throbbing with pain. Clouds of breath rose from the hosts of shivering men who waited with him. Dolorous Edd clutched at his aching stump; he could see Black Jack Bulwer stamping his feet to keep warm, and hear Iron Emmett's teeth chattering beneath his scarf.
Then the blast of warhorns came echoing up the kingsroad, and around him the crowd roared so loud they must have heard it in Dorne. Again and again the horns blared; again and again the hosts answered. The valemen cheered and sounded their trumpets, the Umbers howled and beat their shields, the black brothers hooted and clapped.
Even the sullen free folk deigned to give a few ragged shouts, though only after Tormund filled his lungs and blew into his prized horn. The horn was taller than Tormund; it stretched high over his head, the long bronze stem graven with runes, the head shaped in the likeness of a boar. The boar's tongue waggled as it sounded, its voice somehow both mournful and triumphant, like the trumpeting of a dying mammoth as it crushed a foe beneath its massive feet.
There were no mammoths in the mighty host riding up the kingsroad, but there was a king. The King in the North's banners went before him, their ice-white fields blazoned with wolves as fierce and grey as the direwolf who loped beneath them. There were other banners too, those of the lords who rode alongside their king. Jon marked the merman of the Manderlys and the crossed keys of the Lockes, the bull moose of the Hornwoods and the horse head of the Ryswells, the mailed fist of the Glovers and the battle-axe of the Cerwyns... and then the king drew closer, and he forgot all about the banners.
Is this my brother? It had to be Robb; no one else would don a crown of bronze and iron upon his head, nor sling the Valyrian steel greatsword Ice across his back. The auburn hair was much the same; there were even snowflakes melting in it, as they had that day at Winterfell when they parted. But as for the rest...
Through the air, a herald's voice rang out. "All hail His Grace, Robb of House Stark, the First of his Name, King in the North, King of the Trident, King of Mountain and Vale!"
Almost in unison, the northmen and valemen bent their knees in homage. In fits and starts, the black brothers followed their lead, though only after glancing at their lord commander first, looking for a signal that never came. Let them kneel. The Night's Watch took no sides, but the King in the North had taken theirs, and the Iron Throne was no friend to the Watch.
Jon Snow's own knees remained unbent. So did those of the free folk, who watched with grave solemnity, their misgivings writ upon every face. The King in the North regarded them coolly as he dismounted, handing his reins to a squire before striding toward the lord commander. As he waited, his brother met his gaze with deep blue eyes. Lady Catelyn's eyes.
Whatever Jon meant to say, he could not recall. His wits had deserted him; his tongue felt thick and clumsy. "Your Grace," he said at last. "I welcome you to Castle Black. Our hospitality is yours, the shelter of our roofs and the warmth of our fires."
"My men and I shall be glad to share them, Lord Snow," said the king who wore his brother's face.
For a moment, Jon searched for the boy of fourteen from whom he had parted. Robb's jaw hid beneath a close-cropped beard; there were strands of grey at his temples, and a scar slashed across his cheek. Grey Wind was different too. The direwolf had grown much larger, though not so large as Ghost. The wolves sniffed at each other warily, both of their tails held high and stiff.
The pleasantries Jon exchanged with King Robb were just as stiff, though mercifully brief. There was no point in lingering in the yard, unless one wanted to court frostbite. The crowd dispersed quickly, the wildlings returning to their vaults, the Umbers and knights of the Vale to their keeps and halls. As for the newcomers, they followed the stewards who led them to their barracks, eager to get out of the cold.
Not that it seemed to trouble their king or the lords who accompanied him. Though the chill of a winter wind woke roses in their cheeks, there was no shivering, no chattering of teeth. Even Jon felt oddly warm as he escorted them to the best bathhouse Castle Black had to offer.
"A proper wash at last," Lord Daryn Hornwood sighed. "I haven't felt clean since Last Hearth."
"Nor I," said Lord Galbart Glover. "Lord Snow, are there sufficient bathhouses for the men?"
"There ought to be, my lord, so long as they are not overfond of bathing."
Othell Yarwyck and his builders had been hard-pressed enough as it was. Making all of Castle Black's abandoned towers, keeps, and halls habitable again had been a mammoth undertaking, one only completed shortly before their guests arrived from the Vale. Then the poor builders had been set to work building new keeps and barracks out of timber. The King in the North had promised to bring them ten thousand men; it would not do to have them camp beneath the Wall in canvas tents.
"What of backhouses?" King Robb asked, frowning. "The ground is too frozen to dig latrines. The risk of bloody flux..."
"There are plenty of backhouses," Jon assured him. "And Maester Turquin has done his best to prevent the spread of grippe and winter fever, though they have taken more men than I would like."
King Robb's mouth grew tight and hard. He brooded in silence, and spoke not another word as they entered the bathhouse. Then Jon attempted to take his leave, only to pause at the touch of a hand upon his shoulder.
"Stay," the king said, in a strange voice that was neither request nor command. "We have much to speak of before dinner."
When Jon nodded, Robb let go. There was something soft in his brother's eyes, something that made Jon want to reach out and hug him. His arms were already moving when he faltered, stricken by the voices echoing off the walls. Then he saw the way Robb's hands twitched, as if ready to shove him away, and the impulse died as quickly as it had been born.
Bathing together in the bathhouse of Castle Black was little like bathing in the hot pools of Winterfell. Then they had talked of their lessons with the maester and master-at-arms, of castle gossip and petty sibling squabbles and whatever else took Robb's fancy. As they grew older, and Theon intruded more often, the talk had often turned to girls and glory and how they might be won.
There was no such talk now. King Robb spoke of council meetings and ledgers, of grain and glass gardens, of marriages and the mustering of hosts. Little was required from Jon as he soaked in hot water, save for the occasional nod or murmur.
King Robb seemed particularly frustrated at the lack of word from Winterfell. Soon after the host marched, a courier had come from Maester Luwin, bearing a letter from the south. Aegon Targaryen had seized Dragonstone and raised his dragon banners, claiming the Iron Throne by right of birth and right of conquest. To Robb's cool displeasure, he had also claimed Sansa as his wife and queen, consummating the marriage rather than annulling it.
"She sent a letter too," Robb said. He lowered his voice. "Damn the Dornishman and his wiles. She's more besotted with this Aegon than she ever was with Joffrey. I should have known Sansa was already lost when she refused to sail with Robett Glover. Gods, she should never have left Winterfell."
"Our father—"
Robb sat up, making the water slosh. "Father ought to have refused King Robert. My mother said he meant to, and would have, if it hadn't meant leaving him to the Lannisters. And then the Lannisters killed both of them anyway."
"And the girls survived," Jon reminded him.
"Barely," Robb scoffed. "And at the cost of Sansa running across the sea and Arya running half wild."
Jon thought of the girl from his dream, of how bravely she raised her sword in his defense. Little sister. "How is Arya?"
"Well enough." Robb shrugged. "Brynden Blackfish and a score of guards should keep her from working any mischief. I daresay Arya would take ship for Yi Ti were she not aware of her duty; Margaery said she's never met anyone who knew so much about Lomas Longstrider's travels. Visiting the south should slake her thirst for wandering for a few years, and give me time to find her a suitable match in Gulltown."
"You would send her to the Vale?"
"The port greets ships from a hundred different lands, which ought to please Arya. The difficulty will be finding the right husband. There are few widowers of high birth who already have children, and I'd prefer not to bestow her hand upon a drunkard or a brute, or a man thrice her age."
"I should think not," Jon said frostily.
Robb gave him a cool glance. "And the honor of such a match will please the lords of the Vale. I would have wed a maiden of the Vale myself, if not for Margaery."
"You are to be congratulated; from aught we have heard the lady is the perfect bride."
"Perfectly beautiful, perfectly courteous, perfectly clever." Robb's tone did not match his words. "And she is with child already, or was when I left Winterfell. Rickon was not pleased."
"By the babe?" Jon asked, ignoring a pang of envy.
"By the babe, or by anything else. Rickon wept for days before I left, when he wasn't picking fights with his companions in the training yard. Then, after the solstice..." Robb's mouth tightened. "He was frantic to come north with us, to go beyond the Wall and search for Bran."
"No one goes beyond the Wall." Grief and guilt made Jon's stomach churn. "After the solstice, I wanted- I couldn't- the wights are too many, and my men are too few. They would not last a sennight, let alone long enough to find a boy lost in the wild. However Bran has managed to survive thus far—"
"Only the gods know," said Robb, cutting him off. "Bran's life is in their hands, not ours. Regardless, I reminded Rickon there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and told him it was his solemn charge to guard Queen Margaery in my absence. That ought to be enough to keep a boy of nine busy."
Jon shifted uneasily, the stone tub hard against his back. "Arya was a girl of nine when she set Nymeria on Prince Joffrey. Sansa was twelve when she slew him. What if Rickon follows their example?"
Robb laughed without mirth. "Wild as he is, I doubt Rickon will manage to surpass our sisters. Winterfell is a peaceful place; there are no princes for him to attack, nor kings for him to cleave to against my will." He furrowed his brow. "Truth be told, I wonder that Sansa had the nerve to do such a foolish thing. Do you know, Arya says she only slew Joffrey by accident?"
"Defying Tywin Lannister was no accident."
Robb smiled grimly. "It was not, I'll grant you. Margaery said the old lion looked so furious she half expected him to have Sansa's head off rather than allow her a trial by combat. But there is more to being a queen than making pretty speeches. Our sister is too gentle a soul to play the game of thrones, and I do not trust this Targaryen who hid so long beneath the sands of Dorne."
"Be that as it may, Sansa is still bound to him," Jon said. He hoped she knew what she was doing, but whether or not Robb was right, there were more important concerns than his sister's nuptial bliss. "Does Aegon Targaryen still intend to come north?"
"Once the Lannisters are overthrown and his realm is secure, or so his letter said, but that was near three months past. For all I know Aegon might still be stuck on Dragonstone, wondering why I never replied to his raven."
A cold sense of foreboding passed over Jon. "We haven't received any ravens since the solstice. From Winterfell, or anywhere else."
"I feared as much." Robb made a fist. "On the day that I marched, I sent three ravens to Castle Black. When I reached Last Hearth, I meant to send you another, and to send a raven south to Dragonstone. But there were no ravens to be had. Frozen to death, all of them, still clinging to their perches."
And when the host left Last Hearth and crossed into the Gift, it was then that the Others came.
There had been no battles, no skirmishes. The Others made a mockery of war, just as they made a mockery of the northmen. Night after night they taunted them, always from a distance. Outriders who did not return to the column before dark were never seen again; sentries glimpsed pale shadows in the woods beyond the camp, their armor shining like crystal; bakers and cooks heard echoes of icy laughter when they rose before the dawn.
The boy Jon knew would have chased after the Others with horse and lance. King Robb knew better. Charging into the woods at night was foolhardy even in summer, let alone in winter when drifts of heavy snow covered the uneven, unfamiliar ground. One might as well gift the Others a ripe crop of mounted wights. Thankfully, Robb had grown too circumspect to take such risks. Jon was pleased to learn that whether mounted or on foot, all those who perished on the march had been promptly burned rather than buried or left to rot.
Even so, now and then men died in the night and rose with eyes like burning blue stars. Some attacked their bedfellows; others made for the king's pavilion, to die a second time upon the torches of his guards. The northern host had seen no wights save their own; however the Others had passed the Wall, the Night's Watch still held their host of thralls at bay.
"The greatest part of their strength is here, at Castle Black," Jon told the king. "Though Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and the Shadow Tower are hard-pressed, the hosts besieging them appear to be far smaller than ours."
Cotter Pyke's reports from Eastwatch were short and to the point, each with a running tally of how many men he had lost and how many wights they had killed. If only Wallace Massey shared Cotter Pyke's restraint. His messages from Shadow Tower were always lengthy, filled with pleas for men Castle Black could not spare and aimless fretting over the presumption of Blane, a ranger of long experience who believed the command ought to have fallen to him. The arrival of reinforcements from the mountain clans had not helped. Massey found them an uncouth rabble, especially their commander, Cayn Knott. Knott's habit of leading from the front with his mace dismayed Massey almost as much as his habit of agreeing with Blane when it came to matters of battle.
It was battle that they talked of as the already tepid bathwater turned cool. The Young Wolf was the victor of every battle he ever fought; it was no surprise that Robb should listen intently as the lord commander apprised him of the state of affairs at Castle Black, never interrupting save to pose direct, thoughtful questions. Amongst other things, he inquired as to the depth of the snow beyond the Wall and as to whether any tunnels through the Wall remained open. Neither answer pleased him.
"I had hoped we might encircle them," Robb said, frowning. "If my horsemen went beyond the Wall before dark, and waited for the wights to attack the crack in the Wall as they always do..."
Jon finished for him. "...they would be caught between your horsemen and our host at Castle Black, and smashed to pieces."
"Between the hammer and the anvil," Robb agreed. For a moment he looked almost wistful; when he rose from the bath, water trickled down his chest like tears. "It makes no matter." And with that, he turned his back on Jon and strode away to dry and dress.
"His Grace will think of another plan, my lord, never you fear. Our Young Wolf is invincible," Daryn Hornwood called cheerfully from where he sat in the nearest tub. He shared it with several other northmen, all of whom were eyeing Jon. Save for Galbart Glover, who was busy gesturing for a steward to bring them more hot water.
"No man is invincible," Galbart Glover said once the steward trotted off. "Nevertheless. Even as a boy of fourteen, tactics and strategy came to His Grace easy as breathing, thanks to Lord Eddard's tutelage." He favored Jon with a small smile. "I am glad the Night's Watch had the wisdom to choose another son of Lord Eddard to serve as their lord commander."
The murmured agreement of the other northmen still echoed bitterly in his ears as Jon Snow dressed and went out. They would not say such things once they knew him for the fraud he was. The Wall had cracked upon his watch; soon or late, some would begin to question whether such a calamity might have been prevented by another, better man. Jon could not even take credit for holding the Wall against the wights; the Night's Watch would have been overrun long ago if not for the knights of the Vale and the northmen that King Robb had sent to their aid before marching north himself.
But Robb is here now, Jon reminded himself that night at dinner.
Not that he truly needed such a reminder. King Robb sat at his elbow, his crown gleaming in the rushlight. Their paltry rations forgotten, the men down on the benches craned their necks for a better look at the king in all his splendor. The King in the North's raiment was simple yet costly; his velvet tunic was pure ice-white, blazoned with a direwolf worked in shining silver thread that matched the damask lining of his slashed sleeves.
Jon prayed the king's garb remained spotless. Alyn was nearly shaking with excitement as he helped Satin pour the wine. Little Hal was so busy staring at the king that he almost tripped as he climbed the dais with a tray heavily laden with loaves of fragrant bread, butter, honey, and rosehip jelly. Thankfully, he did not drop the tray, and the grateful northern lords fell upon the food like ravenous wolves.
The king and the lord commander ate sparingly, preoccupied by talk of stores and supplies. By the mercy of the gods, Sea Dragon Point and White Harbor remained open, but for how long, King Robb could not say. And though ships full of grain still sailed into their ports, finding captains willing to haul such cargo up to the Wall was proving remarkably difficult.
"And the captains willing to make such a journey seem to think my treasury is theirs for the taking," King Robb said heatedly. "Never mind that the seas have been queerly calm of late. Though who knows how long that shall last when the Others can conjure foul winds and storms."
"Perhaps," Jon said. "Or perhaps not. The wildlings say the Others cannot abide the sea."
Samwell Tarly had told him that. When they caught the scent of hot blood, wights would do anything to pursue their prey, whether by stalking them through forest and field or by wading through river, lake, or sea. Their masters, though... all the clans of the Frozen Shore and the Bay of Seals agreed that the Others hated and feared the sea, though they could not agree why.
"The wildlings." The king's face was a mask. "I hear you mean to have them fight tonight."
No, I mean to have them dance a jig, Jon thought. "I do," he said, biting his tongue. "The Umbers have less than nine hundred men, they cannot hold the Wall for an entire night by themselves. The wildlings shall serve as their relief; their numbers are of equal strength."
"The men of the Hornwood would be better suited to such a task," Daryn Hornwood offered, looking up from his meal.
"No doubt, my lord," King Robb replied. "Were they not weary from long weeks of marching. No, the lord commander is right. A night of rest will do them good, and allow us the chance to learn our foes and their dispositions."
And so when dusk fell and Jon climbed the Silent Tower, it was with a king by his side and a pair of direwolves following at their heels. The king waved away the offer of the Myrish lens with an impatient hand; he already had one of his own. The bronze tube was not battered and tarnished like that of the lord commander; it was polished to a bright sheen, and the lens was so finely made that one could almost count the white hairs that escaped from beneath Crowfood Umber's hood as he raised his mighty axe.
Jon felt a prickle of unease as he glanced at the halls where the free folk waited to keep warm whilst they were held in reserve. Over the past few years, the black brothers had grudgingly grown used to the wildlings, but the men of Last Hearth... for generations it was their holdfasts and villages who had born the brunt of wildlings raids, their wives and daughters who had been carried off.
It made no matter that both the wildlings and northmen alike prayed to the same gods. If anything, that made matters worse. There were no weirwoods at Castle Black to pray to, only an old tree stump in the yard which was shared by all those who worshipped the old gods. The valemen looked askance at that, and at the runes of the First Men which the Umbers had begun carving into the timber palisade as soon as they arrived. The Umbers had not been pleased when the wildlings started adding runes of their own, nor when a few valemen began japing that the only way to tell a northman from a wildling was to see whether he carried steel or bronze.
Sam was rambling about that, Jon thought absently as he raised his Myrish lens. Something about the abundance of tin and copper in the Frostfangs, and the clans who had once prospered thanks to their control over the choicest mines. Truthfully, he had not been paying attention. History was all very well, but the wights emerging from the haunted forest would not be slain by songs and stories.
Steel and bronze though, those were made for slaying. For long hours Jon stood vigil as the Umbers defended the palisade, their axes shining in the light of the waxing moon. King Robb kept vigil too, as did Septon Josua. Thankfully, the septon did not stand atop the Silent Tower but atop the Lance, which he had taken as his vantage point. Whilst Septon Josua painted scenes of battle in honor of the Warrior, his red-robed septons and lay brothers made themselves far more useful down below, where they carried wounded men off to the sickroom.
There were plenty of wounded by the time Crowfood Umber finally blew his horn. The wan and weary northmen retreated carefully, yielding the field to the wildlings with ill grace. At least they yielded. Jon had feared Crowfood Umber might try to hold for the entire night rather than accept their aid. Tormund Giantsbane seemed to share the lord commander's wariness; he kept well away from Crowfood as he and the other chiefs led their men forward. King Robb looked on, intent, a line creasing his brow.
The long cold hours that remained until dawn passed slowly. Whilst the lord commander watched and gave orders, the King in the North did naught but ponder and pace, his expression inscrutable. Whatever thoughts troubled him, the king confided none of them to Jon, but retired to the King's Tower at first light without more than a cursory farewell.
When Jon Snow finally fell into his own bed in the Lord Commander's Tower, he felt like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The Wall might be his domain, but battle was his brother's. Any fool could endure a siege; it took a skilled commander to devise the sort of clever stratagem which would break one.
Attending King Robb's war council that afternoon only confirmed his hopes. Robb's words were clear and well-chosen, no detail overlooked or left to chance. He acquainted his lords and captains with all that he had learned from Lord Commander Snow and from observing the night's battle, heard their concerns and questions, and addressed them with the ease of long practice. Nor did his tongue fail him when he spoke to the fifth of his host which he had chosen to get the first taste of battle. The northmen listened with rapt attention, and when the King in the North's speech ended, a deafening chorus of wolf howls went up, beginning with Grey Wind before rising from two thousand throats.
Five nights passed; the moon waxed to full and began to wane again. The shock of battling wights failed to dismay King Robb's men, all of whom fought with equal fervor when they took their turns to defend the Wall. Each morn Left Hand Lew counted up the number of wights slain, and each morn the count was higher than that of the night before. When on the sixth night King Robb bade the northmen rest, they looked almost disappointed at the thought of letting the valemen take their place. Their king might be stern and sober, but his men were drunk on glory.
As dawn crept over the horizon, Jon Snow felt tempted to share their high spirits. Thanks to their reprieve, the valemen had fought with renewed vigor; they had not even needed the Umbers who waited in reserve. Better still, he could have sworn that the host of wights which retreated through the crack in the Wall seemed smaller, unless his eyes deceived him.
The yard was crowded when Jon left the Silent Tower. With Castle Black bursting at the seams with men, the wormways had grown too cramped and crowded for everyone to use. Groggy black brothers stepped out of the Flint Barracks, bound for the common hall to break their fast. Valemen, northmen, and wildlings milled about between the keeps and halls; the usual lines of men shivered and stamped their feet as they waited outside the backhouses.
Crowfood Umber towered over the other men when he emerged from one of the backhouses. He swayed on unsteady feet; beneath his scarf his cheeks were red with more than cold. No doubt Crowfood had warmed himself through the night with plenty of ale, as he always did.
Jon would have disapproved, if not for the fact that ale seemed to mellow the old brigand. Though Crowfood scowled when he saw the Great Walrus leading the other wildling chiefs and some of their men in prayer by the old stump, he otherwise left them alone. Not that the wildlings were foolish enough to linger. Jon was still walking toward them when the Great Walrus rose to his feet, followed by all the other wildlings. Tormund Giantsbane was the first to draw up his hood against the wind, but not the last. It blew briskly as they quit the stump, their cloaks flapping and snapping as they turned their backs on the northern lord.
"Hold!" For a heartbeat Jon was afraid. Then he saw Crowfood bend and dig a massive hand into the snow. "You dropped—"
At the same moment Tormund turned back, Crowfood fell silent, staring at his hand, at the silver baby bracelet he held, still dangling from a broken leather cord.
Crowfood charged with a roar like nothing human, his ham-sized fists upraised. The first wild punch knocked Tormund to the ground; the second missed and sent Crowfood reeling. He fell flat on his face, landing on the same patch of ice which had made him slip. Blood streamed from Crowfood's lip as he struggled to stand, just as it streamed from Tormund's face as he grabbed for the bracelet which had fallen in the snow.
All was chaos. Crowfood slipped again, then rose to his feet, cursing loud enough to wake the dead. Every wildling in the yard made for Tormund; every northman made for Crowfood. By some miracle old William Lightfoot reached him first, grabbing hold of Crowfood's cloak to yank him back.
A futile effort, but one which gave Jon's men time to act on the orders he was bellowing. Grenn and Iron Emmett seized hold of Crowfood; Ser Theodan Hood and Black Jack Bulwer and Pyp put themselves and a score of black brothers between the northmen and the wildlings. The other chiefs had formed a ring about Tormund Giantsbane; their men stood with them, weapons drawn, every blade pointed at Crowfood as he struggled against his captors.
"Stop," Jon screamed with desperate fury, once in the Common Tongue, once in the Old.
The Great Walrus and Devyn Sealskinner lowered their weapons, as did their men. Soren Shieldbreaker and Sigorn and their folk did not. Then Tormund was bellowing at them in the Old Tongue. One fist shook with rage; the other clutched his broken nose as blood seeped through his fingers to stain his white beard. With great reluctance, the rest of the free folk sheathed their blades.
The lord commander had worse luck with the northmen. As he kept shouting, many heeded his commands, but not all. While the other northmen retreated, Osric Whitehill, Daryn Hornwood, and a cluster of armed northmen advanced on the free folk, or rather, on the line of black brothers who stood in their way.
In the blink of an eye Ghost was between them, his fangs bared in a silent snarl. Faced with an angry direwolf the size of a horse, Daryn Hornwood and Osric Whitehill hesitated. That might have been a relief, if not for all the northmen pouring out of keeps and halls, drawn by the commotion. Gods, they outnumber us ten to one. If Jon couldn't put an end to this, it wouldn't be a riot, it would be a slaughter. Robb, he needed Robb—
And then Robb was there, striding across the yard, his crown upon his head and thunder upon his brow.
"PUT UP YOUR STEEL, ALL OF YOU," Robb shouted, "IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!"
Defying a lord commander was one thing; defying the King in the North was quite another. Every northman in the yard bent his knees, even Daryn Hornwood and Osric Whitehill. Their men followed their example, nearly tripping over each other in their haste. The order to disperse was obeyed with similar alacrity. The yard emptied, save for Robb's lordly bannermen, Jon's black brothers, and the wildlings who stood in a circle around Tormund.
The free folk don't even have steel, Jon thought inanely as Robb came to stand beside him.
"Unhand me," Crowfood raged. He was still trying to wrench free of Grenn and Iron Emmett, as heedless of his king as he was of Grey Wind's approach. "Unhand me, and bring me my axe!"
"You forget yourself," Jon snapped. "We are all allies here, sworn to keep the peace."
"Fuck your peace, bastard," Crowfood snarled. "I—"
"You would do well to recall to whom you speak." King Robb's voice was ice. "Jon Snow is the son of Eddard Stark, the brother of your king, and the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Upon the Wall, Lord Snow's word is law. You will treat him with the courtesy he is due, or else you will answer to me."
Grey Wind growled low in his throat. Mors Crowfood eyed the direwolf, then his king, and then the fight went out of him. His apology was grumbled, but he made it. When Grenn and Iron Emmett cautiously let go, Crowfood made no attempt to resume his attack. Instead, he knelt before Robb, his shaggy white head held high.
"Your Grace," he rumbled. "I seek the king's justice, justice for crimes committed against me and mine."
Robb frowned. "What crimes, my lord?"
Suddenly, Jon remembered the silver baby bracelet, and the look upon Crowfood's face when Tormund seized it from the snow. Giantsbane. Despite the cold, his skin felt slick with sweat. Gods, how could he have been so blind?
"Abduction," Crowfood said. "Rape and murder. Blood calls for blood—" he raised a shaking hand, pointing,
"—and my Drynelle's blood is on his hands."
"I never killed her." Tormund pushed forward, past the wildlings who had shielded him. "Drynelle was my wife for near twenty years, afore she died in childbed."
"And how did Drynelle become your wife?" Robb's eyes were hard.
"I stole her," Tormund admitted freely. "Har, I was young and bold, eager to prove meself. And so I did. No man could boast a finer wife than my Drynelle, though the taking of her near killed both of us." He gave a fond, sad smile. "The Ruddy Hall were never the same without her."
"Your Grace, he confesses." Crowfood was so angry he could barely speak. "Give me his head and make an end of it."
"The penalty for rape is gelding," Jon reminded him.
"The usual penalty," Robb said, dismissive. "But the laws of the North allow—"
"We are not in the North, Your Grace." Jon's gut was a hard knot. "We are upon the Wall."
A deathly silence fell. The lord commander met the king's gaze, unblinking. He could feel every man's eyes upon them, waiting to see who would yield.
"Har, bugger that." Tormund spat a gob of blood and phlegm upon the snow. "If he wants my head, let him try to take it himself, if he can."
"A trial by battle?" The King in the North looked at Tormund, then at Mors Crowfood, who overtopped the wildling by more than a foot. "I have no objection, so long as it pleases the lord commander."
It did not please the lord commander. Crowfood might be huge and powerful, but he was also angry, half drunk, and missing an eye to boot. Tormund, meanwhile, was calm, sober, in possession of both eyes, at least a decade younger, and as spry as he was canny. One misstep and Crowfood would be done for, and there would be a riot after all. Unless...
"Let the old gods sit in judgment," the lord commander said, his stomach lurching. "But first I would have words with the accused."
His words were brief, each chosen with care. Tormund listened, though whether he heard, Jon Snow could not say. Gone were his boasts and blusters, replaced by grim resolve. When Jon finished, Tormund said no word, only jerked his head in a motion that might have been a nod.
Or was it? As he watched the men prepare for battle, Jon's mouth felt dry as dust. This was no southron trial by combat where arms and armor might give advantage. Both champions came before the old gods as equals, without plate, mail, or shield.
When all was ready, Jon cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Mors Umber accuses Tormund Giantsbane of the abduction and rape of his daughter, Drynelle Umber. The accused has invoked the right to trial by battle, a right as ancient as it is sacred. Each man has chosen to serve as his own champion. The battle will not end until one of them lies dead, by the will of the gods."
"And no man may interfere," King Robb said, with a pointed look at the wildlings.
Mors Crowfood had choice of weapon. He hefted his long-handled, double-bladed battleaxe as if it was part of his arm, whilst Tormund knelt to pray before the old stump one last time.
"It hardly seems fair," Ser Ben Coldwater mused from amongst the onlookers.
It isn't.
Crowfood fought much as Jon feared he would. Though he wielded his axe with ease, his blows were sloppy. Tormund dodged and circled, keeping just out of reach, letting the big man tire himself with each brutal chop that missed its quarry. Crowfood's feet were already slow and clumsy; all Tormund had to do was wait, wait for him to find a patch of ice or uneven ground—
But it was Tormund who fell. One moment he stood on two sturdy feet, an axe in his hand and a grimace on his lips, the next he went sprawling, and landed hard upon his back. Crowfood roared his triumph; this time when the axe descended, it found its mark. Blood sprayed out across the snow as the crowd shouted, the northmen and valemen cheering, the free folk swearing.
Jon Snow had sworn too, and he meant to keep his vow. He raised his hands for quiet, doing his best to ignore the look of satisfaction upon the King in the North's face. It would not last, but he must speak, now or never.
"The gods have spoken," Jon declared. "Let this be the last blood spilt between us. Northmen and valemen, black brothers and free folk, the Others and their wights make no difference between us. We must fight them together, side by side, a shield to defend the realms of men."
"A cracked shield," Soren Shieldbreaker growled, his arms crossed. "Fight for Lord Crow, Tormund said. Fight for him and his king, and your folk will be safe in the Gift."
"A lie," spat Sigorn, Magnar of Thenn.
"Again and again we have asked, we have begged." The Great Walrus's voice was dangerously soft. "Not for ourselves, but for our women and children, our sick and our elders. We will die for you, we said, but let our people flee further south, out of harm's way."
"And now the Others stalk the Gift." Devyn Sealskinner sounded close to tears. "And still this king will not hear us."
Jon was ready for that. "His Grace has heard you," he said, rather than give the King in the North the chance to reply. "Your folk will be permitted to leave the Gift, so long as they swear to continue to keep the king's peace. A blood oath, before the old gods, the same oath that you must swear."
Quiet changed to tumult in a heartbeat. Devyn Sealskinner rushed forward, weeping and babbling thanks. Mercifully, he went for the lord commander, not the king. Whilst the free folk sagged with palpable relief, the King in the North's bannermen surrounded him, all clamoring to be heard.
"We shall speak of this later," King Robb told them curtly. When he turned toward Jon, his face was a stony mask. "At present the lord commander and I have matters of import to discuss."
The chamber atop the King's Tower was warmer than Jon recalled. Or perhaps he was feverish; he had not felt cold since the king came to stand beside him in the yard. But there was no warmth in Robb's face once the door shut behind them, leaving them alone with their wolves. Ghost sat on his haunches; Grey Wind paced, his tail lashing.
"Have you lost your wits?" Robb demanded. "How many times have I told you that the wildlings must keep to the Gift? My lords already mislike having them south of the Wall; how dare you presume to make such an announcement without my leave?"
"Be grateful," Jon snapped. "My presumption saved Mors Crowfood's head. Or would you have preferred having to explain his death to the Greatjon?"
"You should not have interfered," Robb flared. "The wildling was guilty, the gods would have given the victory to Crowfood."
"Would they? You saw how badly Crowfood fought. Tormund would have killed him, if I had not vowed to see his people safe."
"The Others take his people," Robb swore. "We are well rid of that brigand."
"That brigand?" Jon wanted to hit him. "Tormund Giantsbane was his name. Tall-Talker, Horn-Blower, and Breaker of Ice. Tormund Thunderfist, Husband to Bears, Mead-King of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods and Father of Hosts. When Harma Dogshead near whipped me to death, he saved my life. When the wildlings came south, he persuaded them to treat with the Night's Watch and accept your terms. When a pair of knights from the Vale tried to rape innocent wildling girls, he came to their aid—"
"Why, so he could rape them himself? Or have you forgotten what he did to Drynelle Umber?"
Jon could taste bile in the back of his throat. "He was guilty of that, I do not deny. But—"
"Would you disgrace our father's memory? Have you forgotten everything Lord Eddard taught us of justice?"
"Have you?" Jon threw back. "Tormund may have deserved to die, but his people don't! The women and children, the elderly and the sick, they pose no danger to the North. All their men are here fighting for us; the Gift is defenseless. How can we ask them to leave their people to the Others?"
"You don't understand." Robb ran his fingers through his hair. "Greatjon Umber is one of my staunchest bannermen, but even he took umbrage at letting the wildlings through the Wall. If Arya had wed Hoarfrost, perhaps he might abide wildlings on his lands, but now..."
"Now Crowfood has Tormund's head mounted on a spear," Jon pointed out, wishing he could forget the sight. "That ought to soothe his temper. And the Greatjon has said naught ill of you or Arya since he arrived."
"No." Robb gave a rusty laugh. "Were he angry, every man for a hundred leagues would know. The Greatjon keeps no secrets. But I have other lords to think of, men who keep their own counsel. I will not risk another Roose Bolton or Walder Frey, not for the sake of a few thousand folk not even mine own."
"Don't be absurd. You have ten thousand leal northmen who would die to keep you safe, and the knights of the Vale—"
"Fuck the knights of the Vale." Jon had never seen Robb so angry. His neck was rigid; a vein pulsed at his temple. "Had they bestirred themselves sooner..." his fist shook as he clenched it tight. "Would the Lannisters have dared execute Father? Would the Freys have dared the Red Wedding?" Grey Wind whimpered. "Nearly my entire honor guard were killed taking arrows meant for me, my mother sacrificed herself to get me out, and my- my- my wife—" his voice broke. "Jeyne saved my life at the cost of her own. And when she was cold in my arms, when there was nothing to be done, then the knights of the Vale came to pledge their useless swords."
"Far from useless," Jon said sharply. "The knights of the Vale have done good service here. I could not have held the Wall so long without them."
For a long moment, Robb said nothing. Grey Wind whined as he nuzzled against him, letting Robb bury his fingers in the wolf's thick grey fur.
"I am sorry for your grief," Jon said gently. "But the Red Wedding was long ago. You have a new wife and a child on the way, does that not give you comfort?"
"Comfort?" This time, Robb's laugh was bitter. "I should sooner seek comfort from a snake than from Margaery."
Jon blinked at him, poleaxed. "What's wrong with Margaery?"
"Nothing," Robb fumed. "Nothing at all, except that she ensnared me against my will. Stannis Baratheon would have won upon the Blackwater if not for Mace Tyrell's ambitions and his utter lack of scruples. Tyrell knew of Cersei's adultery, of her children's bastardy, and he did not care, so long as his grandson sat the Iron Throne. I would never wed the daughter of such a man, but she gave me no choice."
"No choice?"
Robb gave him a scathing look. "Margaery came before my court like a mummer, talking of love and chivalry. Her words were as pretty as her tears, and as false. Two years of winter already, and who knows how many more? I needed the bounty of Highgarden, and Margaery wanted a husband who could protect her from the Lannisters." He snorted. "More like she wanted a crown, and thought a plea for succor would win her more favor than naked avarice. She's certainly been quick enough to work her charms on the rest of my court. By the time I left almost all of them were singing her praises."
"What, would you rather they all hated her?"
Robb gave him a stricken look. "I would rather they recall her crown once belonged to another. Jeyne..."
Jon felt a pang of guilt. Truth be told, he had forgotten Jeyne Westerling too. So many years had passed since her death, and Robb's marriage had lasted no more than a sixmonth. Yet still longer than I knew Ygritte.
"At least Margaery does not feign to love me," Robb continued. "That I could not abide, not when I know I shall never love her. She cannot touch my heart, not when it lies buried with my Jeyne."
Jon could not help himself. "At least you have a wife. Not the one you would have chosen, but a wife nonetheless, to give you children, to warm your bed and share your burdens."
"Burdens I never asked for," Robb said. "You became lord commander of your own accord. I never sought a crown, let alone three kingdoms. My subjects look to me to see them through the winter, and I intend to, no matter how my bannerman balk and quarrel. I cannot please them all, but I will give them peace and plenty when all is said and done, just as Lord Eddard would have, if a crown had passed to him."
"Lord Eddard would have let the wildlings flee south." Whether that was another lie Jon could not say, nor did he care. It did not matter, so long as Robb believed him. I swore a vow. "Justice comes before all else. Would you let innocents die because you fear your own bannermen, because you are too craven to bring them to heel?"
Grey Wind growled; Robb was red with fury. Another man might have quailed, but not Jon. He had already plunged the dagger; there was nothing left to do but twist. "If one of us is a disgrace to our father's memory, it's you."
The next thing he knew, Ghost and Grey Wind were wrestling on the floor, a blur of grey and white. Distracted by the wolves, Jon didn't see the fist flying toward him until it was too late. Robb punched him in the belly, so hard he could not breathe, so hard he almost fell to the floor.
Then, all of a sudden, Robb caught him. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he pulled him into a fierce embrace. Angry as he was, Jon couldn't help but hug him back. How long had it been since someone held him? He did not know, but he knew he could not deny his brother.
"I missed you so much," Robb said when they finally broke apart. "I haven't spoken so freely in years."
"What about Arya? Or Rickon?"
Robb gave a watery chuckle. "What, and risk worrying them? Arya is but a maid, and Rickon... gods. I'd sooner bare my throat to an Other than show weakness to Rickon. He's hard enough to manage as it is."
Jon hesitated, considering. If Robb could confide his doubts and troubles, surely Jon might do the same.
"I—"
"You're an ass, Snow," Robb said, cutting him off. "But you're right. Father would have shown mercy to the wildlings, his bannermen be damned." He sighed, then punched Jon lightly on the arm. "Gods, you might have warned me though. Sorting this out is going to be a headache and a half."
"There wasn't time, Stark."
"No, I suppose not. But do you have time to dine with me? I was about to break my fast when I heard the commotion in the yard."
Much as Jon yearned for his bed, he could not refuse. Whilst King Robb called for food, he stroked Ghost's fur, tidying the mess Grey Wind had made of it during their tussle. To his relief, neither wolf was bleeding, though Grey Wind kept a beady eye on Jon, as if he had been the one to punch his brother rather than the one who had gotten punched.
While they waited for their meal, they ought to have talked of free folk and northmen. Instead, somehow, they talked of Jeyne Westerling. Robb's voice was strange and hollow, as if he did not know how to speak of her. Yet he spoke all the same. He talked of her shyness, her sweetness, her love of healing which had led her to offer to nurse the brave young king, enemy though he was.
"Grey Wind frightened her, and I frightened her," Robb admitted. "But she forgot to be timid once she had bandages and poultices and the purpose to use them. Jeyne liked mending things; she had a tender heart. Too tender. When I... when we... the blame was mine. I forgot my honor, and hers. I could not let Jeyne pay the price alone, not when she only meant to comfort me."
After the food came, the talk turned to battle. Jon had to hide his shock when Robb made another unexpected confession, namely, that he had no idea how to break the siege.
"Every stratagem I think of requires cavalry." Robb stabbed a boiled egg with his dagger. "Or if not cavalry, foes who can be tricked or misled. But the wights are not men, nor do they act as men do. And as for the Others... my men have not seen hide nor hair of them since we drew near the Wall. What are they playing at? Dragonglass arrows and spears will not avail us if we can't find the damned Others long enough to use them."
"Maybe we don't need a stratagem," Jon mused. "The host of wights looked smaller this morning, I'm sure of it. The Others are scarce in number; why else rely upon dead men to do their fighting for them? If we can deprive them of their wights, the war is half won."
When Jon at last retired to his bed, it was with a full belly and a full heart. Leathers and Jax were already on their way to the Shadow Tower and Eastwatch; when they returned, he would know whether their hosts of wights were dwindling too. If they were...
Then Robb has saved us. Jon had known he would. How foolish he had been to doubt, to fear that this king would be a stranger. It was no stranger who cried upon his shoulder, who shared his deepest sorrows. His brother had returned to him, had confided in him as he confided in no one else. What did it matter if Jon did not return that trust? His troubles were his own; he need not add to Robb's.
Let Robb have his wife and his babe and his kingdoms. Jon did not need such things, nor could he have them. All he would ever have was the Wall, and the Night's Watch, and the burden of command. And unlike Robb, once the war was done... oh, how sweet it would be when the day came that he could set his cares aside and give himself up to dreamless rest, the rest that never ceased.
Perhaps, if the gods were kind, they might even send him his little sister again. It would be good to see Arya once more, if only as she led him into the dark.
Can't wait to see what you guys think in the comments. Seriously; the comments mean so much to me and really helped me keep going when I was struggling with this chapter.
As y'all may have noticed, this update took... a lot longer than expected :( The Jon II outline came together relatively easily, but starting the prose...first we were out of town traveling to see my bf's family, and then we had to deal with replacing my car, and a bout of depression, and a cake-pocalypse, plus literally everything going on in the news is fucking horrifying, what with the rising tide of fascism in the US and the ongoing slaughter of civilians in Gaza and- well, you get the idea. This is a fanfic site, not a current events forum.
At any rate, Jon chapters are almost always the hardest, along with Bran chapters, and there's been several of them quite close together. That plus dealing with IRL obligations and mental health = a gap of like, 2 weeks between when I finished the outline and when I went back to revise it, and when I finally got to the prose it was like pulling teeth.
Tbh, I was genuinely terrified this might be when I finally hit the wall. I don't think I've ever taken so long between updates; the approaching end of October spurred me into a panic because I've never gone a full month without a chapter. Unfortunately, that panic did not get the chapter out before October ended. My sincere, deep, and eternal thanks to the regular and pinch-hitter betas who helped me on the many occasions that I got stuck. Thank god the upcoming chapters should be easier.
Up Next
164: Arya II
165: Sansa II
166: Cersei II
167: Bran III
A little sneak peek at what's ahead: my outlines divide Part V into three distinct arcs. Cersei II will be the final chapter of Arc 1: the War for the Throne. Bran III will begin Arc 2: the War for the Dawn
Reminder, you can get chapter updates at my tumblr; my ask box is always open :)
Robb Stark, King in the North, 305 AC
By ohnoitsmyra
NOTES
1) I would like everyone to know about the fact that yes, medieval monks drew and wrote in the margins of the texts they were copying by hand. It was a tedious, time-consuming process, and people are people; no wonder they doodled and made snarky comments.
2) I am DELIGHTED to inform you that Tormund's warhorn is based on the carnyx, a Celtic wind instrument which dates to the Iron Age. Carnyx (carnices?) have been found in Scotland and France, and they sound SO FUCKING COOL.
And just for fun, here's the spectacular tumblr post which brought this to my attention.
3) In ACOK Jon VIII, we are told by Jon that "Wildlings did not mine or smelt, and there were few smiths and fewer forges north of the Wall."
Uh... what? I'm choosing to chalk that up to Jon being ignorant, because elsewhere the wildlings are repeatedly said to use bronze, just like the First Men they are descended from, who used bronze until the Andals came and taught them iron smelting. Styr, the Magnar of Thenn, is specifically noted to have a weirwood spear with an ornate bronze head.
As tin and copper ore can be found near each other in nature, it would be plausible for the wildlings to predominantly use bronze if the materials to make it were readily available whereas iron was scarce. IRL, tin is a bit rare, whereas iron is plentiful. Here's a neat article on the shift from bronze to iron in Eurasia.
4) Song rec of the day: Northern Attitude by Noah Kahan with Hozier. Kahan isn't quite my thing, but the song has a great guitar line, and Hozier absolutely kills his all-too-brief feature. I maaay have listened to this for several hours on repeat while finishing the chapter
