March-April 302


Jon awoke shivering, sweat dripping down his chest. A foul dream, that's all, he told himself, winding a hand into the soft fur of Ghost's ruff. Pain burned in his chest, beneath his breastbone, an unwelcome echo of the flames and the red woman who called them.

In his dream Melisandre had shimmered, a flame flickering in a cold wind. One moment she was herself, a woman ten years his elder, full lips and bright eyes and glossy hair red as her robes, red as the ruby shining at her pale throat. The next moment she was a maid of sixteen, clothed in skins like a wildling, like a spearwife, like Ygritte. It was Ygritte's voice he heard as she shed her skins, begging for a kiss, begging him to touch her creamy skin as she wound herself about him, warm and wet and willing.

He shuddered, praying to the old gods that the dream was not a warning of things to come. Jon Snow had not seen Melisandre since shortly after she burned Selyse, when the red priestess visited Castle Black. The curses of the black brothers did not frighten her, no more than their stares of lust and hatred. Her voice was calm as a summer sea when she informed Jon that Selyse had wanted to burn, had begged and pleaded until Stannis finally allowed his queen to offer herself to the Lord of Light.

"To what end? A wind to carry ships south?" He asked. The men still whispered of the burning at Storm's End the day the fleet sailed north.

"Any man might serve to call the wind," Melisandre answered. "A queen's life is more precious, and she gave it for this." She slipped a hand into her robes, and drew forth a heavy black stone. It shone in the torchlight, flecked with tiny scales of grey and gold; cracks ran down one side of the stone like slim red veins. "I found this deep beneath Dragonstone. Hidden, forgotten, bereft of life. A gift from the Lord of Light to his champion, a means to end these petty squabbles and unite men against the foe whose name cannot be spoken."

Jon snorted. "The dross of a dead dynasty, you mean, misplaced by chance. The dragons are gone, as are the dragonlords." There was no need to mention the rumors from the east; they would only encourage this madness.

"Still you refuse to see," she breathed, the scent of anise and cloves upon her breath. "My flames do not lie. I have seen a dragon's wings spread over the Wall, I have heard his roar and felt the warmth of his breath, just as I heard Selyse cry with ecstasy as the egg began to crack."

"Yet it did not hatch, my lady."

"Not yet," Melisandre smiled.

He dressed in the dark, the salt taste of sweat upon his lips. It was almost a relief when Jon stepped out into the cold, the third moon of the year a shining silver crescent against the purple dawn. Ghost trotted at his side, ears pricked, tongue lolling. Together man and direwolf circled the yard, stretching their legs and filling their lungs with fresh air.

The sun was rising when Jon made his way to the vault beneath the armory. Three-Finger Hobb doled out rations of oat bread and bacon, keeping close watch over his Mole's Town boys. Ben and Alyn stood guard over two enormous iron kettles, ladling out hot frumenty, the barley porridge thickened with broth and eggs. Little Hal stood beside them, his small brown fingers sprinkling pinches of cracked black pepper atop each bowl.

Spices were rare on the Wall, so rare that many of the Dornish lordlings had brought spices with them on the ship from Sunspear. Jon had not thought to taste them himself, until an old greybeard knight informed him that Princess Arianne had sent a small chest of spices as a gift to the new lord commander. When he opened the chest he found two letters, one sealed with orange wax, the other with white, resting atop a dozen little boxes. There was ginger and star anise from Yi Ti, cardamom from Moraq, nutmeg, cloves, cinnamon, and pepper from the Summer Isles, sugar from Dorne, and last and most precious of all, a jar of saffron from the straits beyond Asshai.

Three-Finger Hobb claimed spices could last years, if stored in the spice locker deep beneath the Wall. Even so, Jon could not imagine eating so many spices by himself. Better that the occasional dash of seasoning go to soothing the complaints about suffering winter rations during autumn. It was three and a half years since he and his fellow recruits had dined upon rack of lamb from Lord Commander Mormont's own table; Lord Commander Snow could not give his men such feasts, but he could give them this, at least.

"Lync!" Three-Finger Hobb barked, brandishing the bread knife. One of the stewards scurried away, giving up his attempt to cajole more pepper out of little Hal. With a grunt of satisfaction Hobb returned to the task at hand. The cook knew better than to try and give Jon an extra rasher of bacon, but the slice of bread he put on Jon's pewter plate was a little thicker than the others had been, the knob of butter a little larger. Glaring at Hobb did no good; the cook was already busy slicing bread for the next man in line, and the effort somehow made Jon's nausea worse, a dull throb pounding at his temples.

Jon Snow surveyed the common hall, considering where he should break his fast. Bowen Marsh sat with Othell Yarwyck on a bench near the fire, each dipping spoons into bowls of frumenty. The Lord Steward and First Builder dined with him every fortnight or so; he need not sit with them this morning. Glancing over the rest of the tables, his eye fell upon a pair of grey islets in the sea of black. Maester Turquin rarely stirred from his chambers; Jon supposed he might as well take the measure of the acolytes.

"Good morning," Jon said, setting his plate on the table beside Roone, the younger of the acolytes. There was a faint glow on the boy's chunky face; one hand kept touching the newly forged link of black iron he wore about his neck.

"Watch yourselves, men, we've the Woodcutter amongst us now!" A familiar voice announced from Roone's other side. It would be a warm day on the Wall when Pyp learned to hold his tongue, but it was hard to reproach him when Jon's mouth was full of oat bread.

"Please, not at breakfast," Roone begged, his face a queasy shade of green. Only last week the boy had been forced to assist in another gelding, and although he managed not to faint, he swayed alarmingly. Small wonder he struggled to make progress on forging a link in healing.

"Indeed, it is no fit talk for the Lord Commander's ears." Although Armen, the older acolyte, sat well down the table, he still managed to look down his long nose at Pyp, lips pursed in disapproval.

"He's heard worse." A dollop of frumenty trembled on Grenn's chin, trapped in his shaggy beard. "Mostly from Pyp." The dollop fell to the table; Grenn eyed it for a moment, then swiped it up with a thick finger. No one wasted winter rations; the other night he'd heard Pyp jape that plates and bowls didn't need washing, not when they'd been licked clean.

Jon was considering his response, still trying to swallow a mouthful of bread, when a tankard was placed in front of him with a solid thunk.

"Your tea, m'lord," Dolorous Edd announced, dour as ever.

White wisps of steam rose from the tankard, curling over the amber liquid like smoke over a fire. Jon took a long draught, the taste of bitter willow faint beneath the spoon of honey the old grey-haired squire insisted on mixing into his willowbark tea. By the time Jon drained the tankard the tight band about his head was almost loose, though it never disappeared entirely.

"My lord?" Despite his broad shoulders and thick neck, Grenn somehow looked small. "Is there any word of- of the wights? Of the Others?"

Roone swallowed loudly; Armen made the sign against evil; even Pyp looked pale. What was he to tell them? They already knew of the slaughter of the wildlings at Hardhome. Tormund and Adga the All-seeing had confided the news to the lord commander as soon as their folk were past the Wall, but the rest of the wildlings were far less discreet. There had nearly been a riot, what with men swearing and cursing and running to the sept to pray for salvation. Yet as time went on and the vast host of dead men failed to appear, their fears dimmed, the wildlings' tales dismissed as an excuse to justify their passage through the Wall.

The men had not soared with Mormont's old raven beneath the light of the full moon. The men had not seen pale shapes with swollen black hands moving through the haunted wood, searching for any flicker of warm life that remained beyond the Wall. The men did not know why small bands of wildlings no longer sought passage through the Wall, as they had during the first few months after Tormund's host went south.

"Nothing new," the lord commander lied, making himself smile and take a bite of buttered bread. He chewed, swallowed. "They must have heard about all our new recruits."

Several of the men laughed nervously, but Grenn stared, unblinking and unconvinced. Ser Alliser might have called him aurochs and mocked him for a fool, but he was wrong. Grenn had never forgotten the Fight at the Fist; any recruit who laughed at the idea of wights or Others was apt to find himself with a strong hand gripping his neck, Grenn leaning in close as he shared what he had seen.

Jon took a casual bite of crisp bacon, pretending to savor it, as though it didn't taste like ash, as though his stomach wasn't burning. "What's this I hear of a mummer's show?"

Pyp brightened, eager to explain. Some of the new recruits were once mummers like Pyp; there was even a singer or two. Why not put on mummer shows in the evenings, to boost the men's spirits? "Roone had a grand idea for a farce, one about a stiff-necked emperor entranced by a Valyrian sorceress-"

"Absolutely not," Jon said firmly. "Stick to plays already written; no making up your own."

"But—" Pyp paused, a sly grin on his face. "Any play?"

"So long as it will not give offense to the King on the Wall or the King in the North." Jon did not much care if a play offended the Lannisters; he had received no word from King's Landing, no more than he had received food or men. "Or the ironborn, for that matter." The last thing he needed was a riot betwixt the few score ironborn at Castle Black and everyone else.

"Excellent." Pyp waggled his ears, then cupped his mouth as he hollered over to the next table. "Oi, Luke!"

"Has Sam come to breakfast?" Jon asked, ignoring the commotion as Luke of Longtown clambered out of his crowded bench, the Dornishman eyeing Pyp skeptically as the mummer's boy pelted him with questions about something called Strongspear the Squire.

"The Slayer? No, m'lord." Grenn frowned. "He didn't come to dinner last night either."

It was the work of a moment to finish his last bites of bacon and bread. Eager though he was to make his escape, Jon forced himself to maintain his dignity as he rose from the table, announcing his need to discuss matters of import with Sam.

The library in the vaults beneath Castle Black was the work of generations, thousands of scrolls and tomes gathered by hundreds of maesters and stewards and septons. With a maester and two acolytes to take over Maester Aemon's duties, Samwell Tarly had required a new position, and tending the library was perfectly suited to his talents.

Properly the library was supposed to be overseen by Septon Cellador, just as the library at Winterfell had been overseen by Septon Chayle. Cellador, however, was a drunken sot, more like to spill wine on the books than care for them, and he barely seemed to notice when Jon put the library in Sam's capable hands. Too busy arguing with his flock, no doubt; the men who worshipped the Seven were always quarreling, ever since word came that there was not only a new High Septon in King's Landing but a dwarf High Septon at Harrenhal.

Jon found Sam at his usual table, his plump face screwed up in concentration as he pondered a scroll covered in northron runes. Two other books lay open on the table, one written in Common, one in northron. His sleeves dangled on the table, just as his tunic dangled off his shrinking frame. Samwell would never be a small man, but there was muscle beneath the fat now, a briskness to his step and a sureness to his hands.

Much as he might stammer in the common hall or training yard, in the library Sam was as confident as a lord in his keep. His stock of tallow candles were arranged just so on a shelf he'd cleared, resting beside a steel dagger, a dried gillyflower, and a cracked old warhorn banded in bronze. There should have been a dragonglass dagger too, the one with which Sam slew the Other, but it had shattered when he tried to stab a wight.

"Sam," Jon called softly. His voice hung in the silence of the library. Sam did not seem to notice; he grimaced at the scroll, tongue poking out from between his teeth as he frowned at a rune. Nor did he look up when Jon called his name again. Only when Jon shook him by the shoulder did Sam finally look up, his eyes pale above the dark shadows sunken into his moon-shaped face.

"Jon!" Sam smiled for a moment, only a moment. "Lord Snow, I mean."

The lord commander should hold himself above his men, but there was no one to see Jon Snow clap Sam on the shoulder. There could be no harm in such a brief gesture. "You've missed dinner and breakfast. Again." Once he would have laughed and dragged his friend up to the common hall, but that was before they made him lord commander.

"Have I?" Sam gnawed at a ragged fingernail, his eyes drifting back to the northron runes. The characters made Jon's head hurt, their shape a strange blend of the runes of the Old Tongue and the letters of the Common Tongue. Over eighteen months of study and Sam could translate northron, but it was a slow process, hampered by the rough scrawl of the men who'd made the records long ago.

"What have you found since we last spoke?"

Sam licked his lips. "More annals, mostly. There are a few texts from the south, copies of chronicles made by scribes in Oldtown. Those are in old Andahli, the grandfather of the Common Tongue. Some of the titles were translated already; there was one tome from the reign of Garth Gardener, the Seventh of His Name, who was called Goldenhand. My lord, he reigned over a thousand years ago! Armen says at the Citadel his reign is considered the stuff of legend, what with the texts falling to pieces—"

"Cold preserves." Maester Aemon had said that, when he was raving on his death bed. One of the new ironborn recruits had brought word of dragons and a Targaryen princess, wild sailor's talk that Sam had passed along to the old maester without knowing such news might upset him. All thought of duty fled; Aemon was desperate to regain his strength, to seek out the last of his kin. Only Jon's infrequent visits seemed to soothe his distress, though he did not recognize the lord commander, instead calling him Egg, or Jaehaerys, even Rhaegar once.

"Cold preserves," Sam agreed, biting at his lip. "But only if you don't freeze to death. The annals say every great wildling invasion was during autumn, or early winter. Which is odd, because they know how to survive, even in the bitter cold. The Annals of the Black Centaur say that Lord Commander Orbert Caswell visited wildlings on the shores of the Shivering Sea, far beyond the haunted forest, beyond all the other clans— they lived in houses built of snow, Jon! They packed the snow to make bricks and built round huts out of them, snowhouses that could hold up to twenty people at need!"

Jon wanted to smile fondly, but the lord commander pinched his nose, impatient. "What about those invasions? Do they say anything about the Others?"

"Not really. Most of the annals talk about the Night's Watch throwing them back or chasing them across the North, especially in years when the Kings of the North had marched off to raid the Riverlands or Vale."

Jon winced, remembering a long ago lesson with Maester Luwin. Robb had been outraged to learn that some Kings of Winter had been near as bad as wildlings, raping and pillaging below the Neck.

Sam was still talking, his eyes rapt. "—a copy of a very angry letter that a lord commander sent Brandon the Bad, King in the North, telling him he'd find wildlings in Winterfell if he didn't march north. Then during the reign of Jonos Stark there was a lord commander who let the wildlings come south, and made himself King of the Gift, with almost every black brother abandoning their vows to take a spearwife. King Jonos was old and sickly, and his heir was a young grandson; it took years for the northmen to overthrow King—" Sam faltered. "Uh, the lord commander."

"What was his name?"

"King Donnel Snow," Sam said, miserable.

"Ah." There was a faint ringing in Jon's ears. Thank the gods no one else seemed to remember that story, or his work would have been much harder than it was already. As if he would want to be a king, gods forbid. Running the Night's Watch was already more than he could bear. As a boy he'd thought perhaps he might become master-at-arms for Winterfell, or captain of Robb's household guard, or maybe even lord of some ruined keep in need of rebuilding, like Moat Cailin in the Neck or High Horn on Skagos or the Dragon's Lair on Sea Dragon Point. What bastard needed a kingdom? A keep would be enough, a keep and a lady and children to fill the halls with laughter.

The smoke of the tallow candle burned at his eyes. Jon scrubbed them clean, a dull ache throbbing deep in his chest.

A week passed, and still the tale of Donnel Snow filled Jon with pangs of guilt. In need of a distraction, Jon spent his afternoon training with the new recruits, the ones Iron Emmett deemed ready to take their vows. All were common men; the lordlings and knights had sailed through training in a matter of weeks, having learned skill at arms since their boyhoods. Some of them were faster than Jon, some stronger, but none of them could best him, hard though they tried. A few of the ironborn were not trying; they weaved about drunkenly, eyelids drooping, hands trembling, their speech slurred. Ralf the Red somehow managed to trip over his own sword; Ralf the Slow nearly lost an eye when he failed to dodge an oncoming wooden sword, and Dagon of Orkmont kept shouting at a passing crow.

"They're not drunk," Iron Emmett informed the lord commander when Jon asked why the drunkards hadn't been clapped in irons. "I've watched them closely, they drink no more or less than any man. But Ralf the Short says they're not sleeping; they just lie awake all night, staring and muttering about an eye."

"An eye?" said Jon, baffled. Dagon was gibbering now, nonsense about high towers and seas of blood and storms sweeping over the land, while Ralf the Red writhed on the ground, fighting the air, and Ralf the Slow looked concussed.

It took six rangers to drag the three ironborn up to the maester's chambers, all of them deeply unsettled by the madmen's ravings. Jon hid his alarm beneath a lordly mask, giving stern orders for the men to be strapped to their sickbeds so Maester Turquin might more easily examine them.

"Hmm," the maester said, after peeling back eyelids and taking pulses. "Note the puffiness of the eyes, my lord, how bloodshot they are, the sallow, dull complexion. Wine and beer thin the blood, but their blood is stagnating. Lack of sleep, for certain." Turquin made a moue of distaste. "Odd, that. One would think they would sleep like babes, with how busy they are all day."

"They should be busy, but they're useless in this state."

Turquin frowned, tapping his cheek as he thought. "Dreamwine, then, a cup for each of them should be enough. Roone!"

Jon left the maester and the acolyte to their work. A long rows of sickbeds stretched from the door to the small window, with the ironborn were in the sickbeds closest to the door. All the rest were empty, but for a lone sickbed close to the window, whose occupant was asleep.

His boots rang on the flagstones as he strode to the window, opening it wide so he might look across the yard. Arrows thudded into archery butts as Ulmer roared; wooden swords clacked as Iron Emmett called drills; a cold wind ruffled his hair, almost welcome given the damp warmth of the sickroom.

"Close the damn window, Lord Crow, afore I get up and close it for you," a rough voice growled.

"Bold words for a one-legged man who pretends to be asleep," Jon said dryly as he turned toward the sickbed. Tormund Giantsbane glared up at him, fierce as ever despite the plaster cast that encased his left leg.

At first settling wildlings on the Gift had gone well, all things considered. The clans had scattered, seeking out the lands which most resembled those they had left behind. Morna White-Mask and her spearwives settled Mole's Town, sending the black brothers into raptures of delight when she reopened the abandoned brothel. They were less delighted when they realized that the spearwives could and would ban unruly patrons, and enforced their bans at spear point.

Tormund's folk settled near the kingsroad, close to Queenscrown. Once Tormund had told Mance Rayder he'd like to shorten Craster by a head, and the Giantsbane was easily persuaded to offer protection to Craster's widows and daughters. The Great Walrus and the other folk of the Frozen Shore had gone west, settling on the Bay of Ice which lay beyond the Shadow Tower. The Bay of Seals had better fishing and hunting, the Great Walrus said, but he refused to settle his folk on the same coast as Hardhome.

"Do the Others swim?" Jon asked, confused. Nearly a hundred leagues lay between Hardhome and the lands of the Gift south of Eastwatch.

"No," the Great Walrus shuddered. "But dead men do." There was nothing more to be said after that.

Thus far the Great Walrus had proved a good neighbor to the lords of the mountain clans. The clan chiefs who settled the forests and plains further east were less obliging. There were multiple incidents with poaching as the wildlings lured choice game over the boundary lines, a few skirmishes between clans over the choicest abandoned villages, even a few stealings. Sigorn quickly punished the offending Thenns, slaying them before returning the terrified girls to the Umber lands from whence they came, but the damage was done. Mors Umber, castellan of Last Hearth, hated wildlings with a burning passion, having lost his only daughter to a wildling raid thirty years ago, and he was not a man to be easily placated, not even when Sigorn grudgingly agreed to send him the skulls of the slain.

Tormund's injury was also the result of a stealing, albeit in the opposite direction. Dareon had returned from the Tourney of Winterfell with a few dozen eager northern recruits and a much less eager Ryswell of the Rills, and the next few months saw scattered companies of men take the long trek up the kingsroad. Some came to join the Watch, but more came to observe, to see for themselves whether the King in the North spoke truly when he spoke of a war against the Others.

Lacking wights to show them, Jon bade them speak with Dywen, Grenn, and other survivors of the Fight at the Fist, who'd seen dead men in their hundreds come swarming over the hill, unafraid and unstoppable. Samwell Tarly would not speak about the Other unless forced, stammering and sweating all the while. Some took him seriously, attributing his terror to fear of the Other, but others scoffed at the idea of a plump, anxious steward slaying a monster out of legend.

It was the second moon of the year when a band of young knights from the Vale came riding through the Gift, on their way to Castle Black. When they reached Tormund's village along the kingsroad, they demanded hospitality, which they received, albeit grudgingly. All might have been well, but for the fact that a few of the lordlings somehow heard about the little village nearby whose only inhabitants were wildling women, and decided to do some stealing of their own. Tormund went after them in a towering rage, killing one and injuring another, but the third knocked him off his garron, breaking an arm and a leg before Freltha took the knight unawares and brained him with a hammer.

The only good to come of that unfortunate incident was the betrothal between Tormund and Freltha, small comfort for the many outraged ravens Jon still received from the Vale. Even Lord Wyman Manderly had almost taken back his promise of two new warships for Eastwatch, until Jon wrote him a very long, very tactful letter which implied that the southron knights had been caught in the act of raping a helpless maid, and slain by their doting grandfather.

It was not as if anyone could or would tell Lord Wyman the truth. The other southron knights had been abed when the incident happened, and certainly did not care about the lineage of wildlings. Nor did they have any way of knowing that Tormund had started killing before the knights laid a hand on any woman, maiden or otherwise. Jon had questioned Freltha at length on that point; the knights were still arguing with her, demanding to take their pick of the women at swordpoint when Tormund arrived, bellowing and swearing. Tormund's account was the same, though it meandered somewhat, as he was on milk of the poppy so Turquin could splint the broken arm and set the broken leg before covering it in a plaster cast.

"Nothing like a big woman," Tormund rambled, eyes gleaming. "Arms like a smith, har, and the way she swung that hammer! You'd think she'd broken open a cask of red wine when she brained him. No helm, y'see, I knocked it off."

That was weeks and weeks ago, and though Tormund's arm was healed, his leg required longer. Had it been up to him Tormund would have let his own folk tend the injury, but Jon could not forget the debt he owed. Harma Dogshead would have whipped him to death, if not for Tormund, and it was Tormund who had loaded him into the winch cage and bellowed until the winchmen began pulling him up. No amount of petulant whining or elaborate threats would convince Jon to let Tormund out of his sickbed until his leg was mended.

Despite the wildling's righteous indignation, Jon still tried to visit every few days, telling himself it was so he might glean more insight into the various clans now strewn across the Gift. If they spoke of other things, of the burdens of command and the cold terror of the war to come, that was no one's business but his own.

"How long until the cast comes off?" He asked, tapping the plaster which covered Tormund's foot.

"A month," Tormund grumbled. It was strange to see him in a tunic instead of ringmail, and even stranger to see him sliding the tunic up so he could itch at the top of the cast. Not wanting to see whether Tormund wore a clout over the member he loved to boast about, Jon turned to look out the window.

"Tormund," he asked, ignoring the pain in his belly. He felt oddly bloated, full despite his spare breakfast. "Do you know if any of the clans favor dragonglass for their weapons?"

Even from the window he could feel Tormund raising those bushy white eyebrows. "Aye, I might."

"Which ones? I've crates of dragonglass and no men to shape it."

Tormund was decent when Jon turned to look at him, tunic draped back over his cast as Tormund scratched at his beard, feigning confusion. "No? Methinks I saw hundreds of crows flapping about."

A cold silence hung between them. "They don't know how to work dragonglass," Jon admitted at last, annoyed by the smug look on Tormund's face.

Naught was left of the small chest Cotter Pyke bought from the captain of the Cinnamon Wind; rather than turning into daggers and arrowheads the chunks of glass had turned into splinters beneath the hammers of inept stewards and incapable builders. The first few crates from Dragonstone which arrived in sixth moon had faced the same fate, but Cotter Pyke had not seen fit to inform the lord commander until a few weeks ago, when Jon sent a raven demanding an inventory of arrowheads and daggers. Even so, it took days of arguing before he convinced a resentful Bowen Marsh that it might be better to let the wildlings take charge of shaping the dragonglass.

"And we do," Tormund grinned. "Har! I can tell you which clan chiefs can be trusted to do the work without stealing away half of it for their sons and their spearwives." The whitebeard's face shifted, softened. "Is there any word of Toregg?"

"A raven arrived from Winterfell only yesterday; your son is well."

In truth Robb had barely mentioned the wildling hostages, merely saying there were no difficulties at present. Most of the letter was about supplies for the Watch, ships of grain and salted meat, perhaps even obsidian if Robb could find someone willing to go to Skagos. Although the fearsome island in the Bay of Seals owed fealty to Winterfell, the Starks mostly left the Skagosi alone, especially after they slew Lord Barthogan Stark in a failed uprising during the reign of Daeron the Good, some hundred years ago. Jon did not envy whoever ended up with that task; in Old Nan's tales the Skagosi were bloodthirsty cannibals who rode unicorns and ate the hearts of their enemies.

Bran had loved those stories, loved how they sent shivers up his spine and gooseprickles up his arms. Rickon was only two, too little to understand anything except the idea of unicorns, and somehow Arya got the clever idea of strapping an old drinking horn to Bran's forehead. Bran proceeded to spend the next week on all fours, giving Rickon piggyback rides across the godswood while their little brother giggled with glee. Lord Eddard only put an end to it after Sansa happened to catch them in the act, Bran's new wool tunic covered in mud, Rickon's mouth bleeding from when Bran had accidentally dropped him on an especially knobby tree root. Arya wouldn't speak to Sansa for a week, even though Bran forgave his sister the same day, sheepishly admitting he should have put on an old tunic before romping around.

Jon's stomach rumbled; even putting a hand to his mouth could not cover the mighty belch that erupted from his mouth and coated his throat with the taste of acid. Across the room Maester Turquin perked up, his other patients forgotten as he looked Jon over with a gimlet eye, marking the grimace on his lips and the hand which rested on his aching belly.

For a moment Jon considered his choices. He could ignore the maester and take his leave. Then what? A belch was nothing, nothing at all. Then his eye fell on Roone, who gaped openly as he glanced back and forth between the maester and the lord commander. Roone was a problem. Roone would tell Pyp, and Pyp would either make jokes or make Jon's life a living hell until he either reprimanded him for insubordination or submitted to an examination.

So when Maester Turquin strode over, lips pursed, the lord commander grimly answered the litany of questions. He let the maester poke and prod him, he listed his sleeping, eating, and drinking habits, the frequent headaches and the pains in his stomach and chest. To his confusion Turquin grew happier and happier with every word, and when Jon was once again properly dressed he actually clapped with glee before announcing his conclusions.

"Stomach ulcers, my lord," the maester said triumphantly. "I told that bookbound stuck up fool Gormon, I told him!"

"Told him what?" Jon asked, annoyed. Turquin rubbed his hands together, as giddy as a lord on his wedding night.

"Maester Gormon asserted that ulcers are caused by attacks of melancholy, an old theory with little basis. I studied four dozen men with arduous positions, men who barely slept or ate thanks to the heavy burdens on their shoulders, but only three of them developed ulcers."

Jon resisted the urge to either put his face in his hands or throttle the preening maester. "If you would kindly get to the point, I have duties to attend to."

"Willowbark tea," Turquin said smugly. "When taken in excess willow bark upsets the stomach. Your squire gave you far too much of it; a man should drink no more than two cups a day, not endless tankards."

He could almost feel a fresh headache coming on already, but Jon asked the question anyway. "Will I have to stop taking willowbark tea?"

To his dismay Turquin informed him that willowbark tea was out of the question, unless he wanted to start vomiting blood. Nor was there any potion or medicine which would stop both the ulcers and the headaches. With great pomposity the maester informed Jon that the best remedy was to eat proper meals and sleep at least seven hours a night.

"Certain foods are best for a sickly stomach; I shall inform Hobb as to the requirements of your diet." As if Hobb wasn't already worse than a mother hen. "You should not stay awake past the Hour of the Stranger, nor rise before the Hour of the Crone." As if Jon remained awake out of choice, not because he had piles of work to complete. "Lastly, my lord," Turquin eyed him beadily. "Ulcers are not caused by melancholy, but headaches are. A regimen of daily prayer might provide some relief."

Castle Black had no godswood; the closest weirwoods lay beyond the Wall. Yet Jon could not forget quiet hours in the godswood, his father praying before the heart tree, the lines on his long face softening. And so each night, after Dolorous Edd carefully nudged him toward his bed, still guilty over inadvertantly poisoning the lord commander, Jon flew with Mormont's old raven, landing on a weirwood branch and praying until he fell asleep.

Fourth moon was almost gone when Maester Turquin finally removed the cast from Tormund's leg and gave him permission to hobble about the sickroom on crutches. After a few weeks the wildling could hobble down the stairs to the yard, face red beneath his beard. No one took much notice of Tormund; Pyp and his mummers were finally ready to put on their play after the evening meal, and black brothers dashed about the yard with props and scrap wood for the stage and bits of colorful cloth that would serve as costumes.

Bright as they were, they were nothing compared to the red woman as she rode into the yard, accompanied by a small column of men-at-arms and a pair of knights. Her mare was a striking blood bay, her flanks covered by folds of the long robes which draped both the red priestess and the girl who rode pillion with her, a furry hood pulled down over face.

"Lady Melisandre," Jon said, ignoring the chatter spreading over the yard. "To what do we owe the honor?" A brisk wind snapped at his cloak; the princess made a soft cry of dismay and huddled closer to the red priestess.

"I shall gladly tell you, once the princess is somewhere warm. The kitchens, perhaps?"

The Lord Commander beckoned a nearby steward, charging him with escorting the princess and several men at arms to the kitchens. Her fool followed after them, the tattooed patchwork of his face as unsettling as ever.

"The Nightfort is a drafty place," Melisandre said when they were alone. "Nearly all the princess's ladies have winter fever; His Grace hoped she might stay at Castle Black until the danger passes."

"I thought healing was easy as breathing for the chosen of R'hllor," Jon said evenly.

The red priestess gazed at him, a flicker of unease in her red eyes. "So it is, but they have lost their faith and will not let me heal them. I have purged the miasma from the princess's lungs but…" She hesitated. "The king needs me by his side. He means to go beyond the Wall and burn these wights, one by one. Princess Shireen struggles in the cold; if I leave her at the Nightfort she will take sick and I will be too far away to save her."

The lord commander stared at the red witch. A lesser woman might blush, but she met his gaze unflinching. "Well? Will she be safe under your protection?"

"I shall protect her as if she were my own, I swear it by the old gods and the new."

Bowen Marsh would be pleased to take charge of a princess, but tonight Jon would see to her himself. As the red woman and her escort galloped back toward the Nightfort he found Shireen in the kitchens, one cheek grey, the other pink as she warmed herself by the ovens. When he told her of the mummer's show she gasped; even the prospect of watching from beside the lord commander and a wildling chief could not dim her joy.

Jon chewed a piece of marshmallow root later that evening as he waited for the show to begin, looking down on the ramshackle stage from his chair on the dais. The maester claimed ginger and licorice were better for ulcers than marshmallow, but they were also far more rare and expensive. Voices echoed around him; Bowen Marsh and Othell Yarwyck sat to his right, talking of bricks and mortar; to his left sat Princess Shireen and Tormund, who was trying to draw a smile from the princess by telling some absurd story about a lost goat.

Thankfully the mummers were ready to begin before Tormund could finish the tale. Grenn boomed for quiet, and when the hall at last fell silent a skinny figure in a blue gown took the stage.

Jon frowned. He knew that men would be playing all the women's roles, but why was Pyp wearing a long red wig? And why did he seem so determined not to meet Jon's eyes?

"Hear ye, hear ye," boomed Grenn. Absently Jon wondered how Pyp had tricked him into playing the role of the chorus. "By the leave of Lord Commander Snow, the Black Mummers are pleased to present The Romance of Strongspear the Squire and the Weirwood Maid."

There was a faint buzzing in his ears. Oh, no. For a moment he wished he was with the red priestess, riding through the cold night. He would rather face the Others and their wights instead of the horror he was about to endure.


This chapter marks the halfway point of Part IV: Desert Wolf! 26 chapters down, 26 to go. Can't wait to see what you guys think of this one :D

Upcoming chapters:

124: Arya V featuring the siege of the Dreadfort

125: Dany IV featuring unrest in Volantis

126: Cersei III featuring the trials of ruling

127: Bran III featuring the arrival of winter

NOTES

1) Frumenty is a hot porridge made from wheat or barley.

2) In canon, Jon sends Pyp and Grenn away because Ser Denys and Cotter Pyke are hounding him for more men. And, subtext implies, because he doesn't want to be distracted by his friends now that he's Lord Commander. Here, the influx of new recruits has prevented that scenario, although Jon is still holding himself aloof. Dammit, Jon, it's okay to need people!

3) The drunk septon is named Cellador? As in CELLAR DOOR??? Really, GRRM? Really? I've seen theories that the drunk septon is the same one who married Tyrion and Tysha; I hate that theory because it's too neat/convenient. Westeros has thousands of septons, ffs. That said, I could totally see GRRM doing that. Man loves his contrived coincidences. See also: Tyrion and Cat meeting at the Crossroads Inn despite timelines/travel logistics making zero sense.

4) In canon, Stannis smashes Mance's army at the end of January, 300 AC, Jon became Lord Commander in February, and events at Hardhome occur between June-August. Here, Stannis didn't smash Mance until early March, and Jon wasn't elected until July (the choosing was stalemated and then delayed; Stannis had less leverage to force a vote given Robb's survival). The Night's Watch didn't get much news of Hardhome until Tormund's people came through the Wall in July 301 AC.

5) Willowbark tea contains salicin, which is similar to aspirin and works as a pain reliever. We saw Robb taking a cup of willowbark tea twice daily in Arya III. Meanwhile, Jon has been drinking it 4 times a day in large quantities since last July. Fun fact: overdosing on aspirin can cause stomach ulcers. Oops. Poor Jon. Real life treatment would be medication to reduce stomach acid, which does not exist in Westeros. Ginger, licorice, and marshmallow root have all been used as herbal antacid remedies; there is not conclusive medical evidence as to their efficacy. For Jon's sake, on Planetos they do somewhat work. "Melancholy" is used here to refer to chronic stress/anxiety; medieval theories on mental health are fascinating.

6) When Melisandre arrived on Dragonstone is never explicitly stated. We get a reference in ACOK to Selyse taking up with a red priest "some years past" but in AGOT Tywin had a line about Varys' whispers stating "Stannis is bringing a shadowbinder from Asshai." Huh????