March, 303 AC


Atop the Wall, the ice winds howled.

Jon Snow tugged at the thick wool scarf which covered the lower half of his face, pulling it back over his nose. Winter is coming, the Stark words said, and gods help him, it was here. Even Ghost seemed unhappy to be out in the cold. The direwolf's coat of thick white fur bristled as he stared north, hackles raised, fangs bared in a silent snarl.

"It could be worse," Jon told the wolf, his voice muffled by the scarf. "At least it stopped snowing."

For the first time in days the sky was clear, albeit grey and dim. Was Bran out there, somewhere? Was he high in the mountains or deep in the forest? Ghost could sense Summer, just as he sensed his swift and wild brothers and fierce sister at Winterfell, even the echo of the gentle sister who sailed across the sea. So long as Summer lives, Bran must live too, Jon told himself, wishing he could believe it. When he dreamt of Bran he saw his brother shrouded in darkness, buried beneath the frozen earth, sitting amongst thousands of skulls with his eyes closed and a bleeding red star over his head.

A puff of smoke drew his eye, and Jon squinted toward the west. He fancied he could almost see the top of Queensgate. The keep was only a scant five leagues off, closest of the ten castles between Castle Black and the Bay of Ice. Another eight lay to the east, scattered betwixt Castle Black and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.

Three hundred leagues of wall, and only nineteen keeps to hold it. True, every one was garrisoned now, but that comforted him little and less. When the dragons came, the Night's Watch boasted ten thousand men. Three centuries later, Jon arrived to find only a thousand, and near half of those soon died in the fighting upon the Fist of the First Men, in the mutiny at Craster's Keep, or in defense of the Wall against Mance Rayder's host.

That left a paltry six hundred black brothers, most of them stewards and builders. The few surviving rangers were fresh green boys and grizzled greybeards; any men in their prime were battle scarred at best, maimed or crippled at worst. Enough to train the new recruits, if only barely. But would they be enough to keep them in line, when there were seven new brothers for every six of the old?

The lord commander had taken great pains when dividing them amongst the abandoned keeps. Neither the old gods or the new could stop Reachermen and Dornishmen determined to fight each other, though they'd grown more subtle about it of late. The sight of Longclaw streaming blood and heads rolling across the yard was not easily forgotten. A waste, a damned waste. Most of those men had been a credit to the Watch, decent men whose wits and strength were sorely needed. Yet how could Jon Snow hold the Wall if his brothers were always battling each other?

Well, better each other than the king's men. Stannis might yet roam beyond the Wall, hunting wights with his red priestess, but he'd left skeleton garrisons behind to hold the three keeps he'd wrested from the Night's Watch. Ser Davos Seaworth, Hand of the King and Lord of the Rainwood commanded the Nightfort, Ser Richard Horpe commanded Stonedoor, and Ser Godry Farring commanded Sable Hall.

All three decended upon Castle Black at regular intervals, arriving with empty wayns and leaving with full ones. Lord Davos usually stayed for a day or two, hovering over Princess Shireen like a hen over an orphaned chick, fretful of leaving her and her few remaining ladies at Castle Black when they were supposed to be at the Nightfort.

Not that he had much choice. When the winter fever finished running its course, Lord Davos had come to fetch his king's daughter back to his king's seat. A week later, they returned, the princess still shaking like a leaf even after an hour huddled by the kitchen fires under her ladies' watchful eyes, her fool jingling in the corner.

"Cressen said nightmares always plagued her, but this..." Davos stared into the distance, one hand clutched at the hollow of his throat. "I had not heard such screams since the Blackwater; she could barely breathe for weeping, and would tell me nothing of what she dreamt. Three nights passed the same; I doubt she slept more than a few hours. Shireen cannot go on this way, or she will perish as surely as my eldest sons."

"What would you have me do?" Guarding a slight, homely girl was one thing; the men barely remembered her existence, with how often she kept to her chambers. Her ladies, though, there were half a dozen of them, and unlike spearwives they did not go about armed with blades.

"Let her return to her former chambers," the Hand said, his plain face weary. "My garrison may be small, but I can spare enough knights and men-at-arms to guard the princess and her ladies, so long as they keep out of the way."

And so the princess remained at Castle Black, cloistered with her ladies. When she wished to read, a knight fetched her books from the library; when she wished to visit the kitchens, she did so near dawn when most of the sworn brothers were abed. Only Davos's visits seemed to raise her spirits, perhaps because it meant she could speak with the old smuggler and his son Devan, who served him as squire. The children observed their courtesies, but it was clear to see they preferred each other's company to that of a tiresome old Hand and a worn-out Lord Commander. While the young ones talked of books, they talked of leading men, of rationing food and restoring crumbling walls. To his surprise Davos most reminded him of Lord Eddard, save for his knowledge of smuggling and unquestioning devotion to Stannis Baratheon.

Yes, Davos Seaworth was a decent man, Jon had to admit. Horpe and Farring though... they were queen's men, through and through, fond of worshipping at the altar of their own ambitions moreso than that of R'hllor. Where Davos accepted his small share of food from the Watch with good grace, they were wont to curse the lord commander for a pinchfist and demand additional supplies. It was a wonder that Jon did not walk about wreathed in flames, with how often Ser Godry called the Lord of Light's hellfire down upon his head.

That was why Jon had chosen Dywen to command at Woodswatch-by-the-Pool, the closest keep to Sable Hall. The old poacher had served under Theon Turncloak every day for a month without throttling him; ignoring Ser Godry's occasional provocation was child's play compared to that. And the grizzled ranger got on surprisingly well with both Reachermen and Dornishmen, so long as they were common. After only six months, Dywen and his band of fifty men had not only repaired the fort's main walls and patched the leaking roof, but they'd also cleared a small swath of forest, turning every felled tree into cords of firewood and bundles of kindling.

So said the last messenger's report, at any rate. Much as Jon wished to see such progress for himself, he dared not abandon his post for the long months it would take to travel the length of the Wall and back again. Nor could he raven the commanders at his leisure, not when only Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower had rookeries and maesters to tend them. No, any word from the other thirteen keeps was brought by messengers. Those closest to Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower gave their reports to the maester, who wrote down their words and sent a raven to Castle Black; those closest to Castle Black reported to the lord commander himself.

Ser Denys Mallister of the Shadow Tower sent his reports with precise regularity, each more longwinded than the last. The old knight might be vigorous for his age, and dedicated to his duty, but he was also dedicated to informing the lord commander of the Shadow Tower's affairs in excruciating detail.

Cotter Pyke was rather less diligent. His reports came only when he deemed them necessary to inform the lord commander of some change, like when Dagon of Orkmont deserted. That was Jon's fault; he should have known better than to transfer most of the ironborn to Eastwatch, but they'd needed the sailors, even ones like Dagon. Ralf the Red and Ralf the Slow had recovered from their odd fit of madness and slept like any other man, but Dagon was near useless since the maester stopped giving him dreamwine. Even so, somehow Dagon had stolen a fishing boat and taken it out to sea, where Ralf the Slow claimed a ghostly galleon took Dagon aboard before setting sail.

Thankfully the most recent word from Eastwatch was more promising. Lord Yohn Royce and a small host from the Vale were expected within a moon's turn, accompanied by ships laden with grain and salted meat, perhaps even dried fruit. Maester Turquin was growing quite concerned over the number of men coming to him with loose teeth and bleeding gums, and they were running low on the rosehip tea which the maester prescribed as a remedy.

There would be more rosehips at Winterfell. At Winterfell roses bloomed all winter in the glass gardens, along with lemons, oranges, limes and dozens of other fruits and vegetables. Not that the Night's Watch would see any of them. The King in the North had been quite clear that his bounty was for his people, and that did not include the black brothers. No, the lord commander must be satisfied with what could be bought from the Vale, Dorne, and the Free Cities, all of whom charged a costly price.

Winter makes them greedy, Jon thought resentfully. He turned his back to the wind; he'd lingered too long already. It was a short walk to the winch cage, gravel crunching beneath his boots with every step. More would need to be scattered when guard shifts resumed; he could not afford to lose men to twisted ankles and broken legs. Ghost followed Jon into the cage, and as soon as the door was shut the men began lowering them to the ground. The harsh clank of the iron winch chains made both man and wolf wince, their tender ears ringing.

Dolorous Edd Tollett was waiting for him when he reached the ground, looking even more woebegone than usual. Grey hair stuck out from beneath his hood at odd angles, the rest of his face covered by a scarf, save for his bandaged nose. It was just like Edd to get the first case of frostbite among the men, though the skin had turned blue-white, not black, which meant he'd gotten to keep the tip of his nose.

"How was the view, m'lord?" Edd asked. "Any sign of the Lord Onion?"

"Clear as crystal. No wildlings, no wights, no Others. And no sign of Lord Davos, though I don't doubt he'll be here by dusk." There would be no other visitors this night, of that he was certain. There were no wildlings left beyond the Wall. Wights and Others, though... Jon forced himself to smile. "You should have joined me atop the Wall, Edd, and seen for yourself."

"No, m'lord," Edd shuddered. "I'll not try my luck until the smiths have checked them winch chains."

Jon glanced back over his shoulder, frowning at the long lengths of black chain. So many links, wrought by countless smiths over the years, and oiled regularly to keep off the rust. He'd never thought to question their strength, not until a winch man showed him a link beginning to crack, lines as fine as spiderwebs creeping over the metal.

"Deep cold makes iron turn brittle," Manfrey Ironarm had told him later that day, when Jon stopped by the forge. The other smiths had no answers; they had never seen iron crack in such a way. But they were from the warm fields of the Reach and the hot coasts of Dorne. Manfrey came from high in the Red Mountains, where the air was thin and snow fell every winter. "Links alloyed with nickel would resist the cold longer."

Alas, the Night's Watch had no nickel, save the tiny lumps Maester Turquin brought for his students to forge their links. Manfrey and his fellow smiths must be contented with examining the links and replacing those showing signs of stress. And until the chains were repaired, the winch cage could not be used. Nor could they climb the switchback stair. Although the builders had restored the section of the great wooden stair destroyed whilst fighting the Thenns, it was nigh unusable, unless Jon wished to waste precious barrels of salt melting drifts of white snow and slicks of black ice.

The same ice and snow choked the yard, as deep as a man's knees. It had taken a dozen stewards with shovels to clear enough space for Iron Emmett and his men to train, and even then, they could not train for long. Not with the wind cutting through layers of wool like a knife through butter, and wet snow soaking into their boots and breeches.

Today Iron Emmett was running them through spear drills. As usual, Jon made the rounds, Edd and Ghost trailing at his heels as he watched the men practice. Scarves and hoods covered their faces; any bare skin was apt to be frostbitten. He could only tell them apart by their builds and the way they stood. Or the way they shouted.

"Something funny?" Grenn bellowed, towering over a pair of guffawing youths. They held their spears loosely, waving them lazily at each other rather than sparring for true. The sight of the assistant master-at-arms made them swallow their tongues. Jon could not blame them; with his broad frame covered in cloak and furs, Grenn looked more like a bear than an aurochs. Then one of them realized the lord commander was watching, and promptly dropped his spear.

"You'll spar with me now," Grenn said with a grunt. "Drey, pick up that spear, you're first. Unless you'd rather spar his lordship?"

The youth nearly tripped in his haste to get his spear, his arms shaking as he raised it in a defensive pose. A nod of approval to Grenn, and Jon left them to it. He'd already sparred at dawn; he could not devote any more time to his own training today.

There was shouting down at the archery butts too. Ulmer of the Kingswood was beside himself as he roared at his archers, one of whom held a broken bowstring.

"What'd I tell you?" Ulmer demanded, snatching the string from the current target of his ire. Jon was fairly sure he recognized the gangly man as Sober Pate, so called for his refusal to drink aught but water. "Keep the string rubbed down with tallow, fresh strings don't grow on trees! When I rode with the Kingswood Brotherhood..."

The lord commander had heard enough. Longwinded as he was, Ulmer would get to the point eventually. If stories about robbing nobles helped teach proper bow upkeep, so be it. The cold affected everything, even the longbows, which grew more powerful as the temperature dropped. Unfortunately, they also grew stiffer, more prone to causing strain as the archer struggled to draw. Bowstrings suffered too, the dry air making them apt to fuzz and fray unless kept supple by the regular application of tallow.

"Remind me to check the stores of tallow," Jon said absently as he strode toward the base of the Wall and the entrance to the wormways that ran underneath Castle Black. Ghost bounded ahead, his paws almost flying over the snow, but the men were forced to trudge through the ankle deep drifts which had blown over the paths nearly as soon as they were cleared.

"Tallow, m'lord," the steward repeated, grim as a graveyard.

"Cheer up, Edd," the lord commander told him. "We'll be in the wormwalks the rest of the day."

Dolorous Edd said nothing for a long while, but when the guard opened the door to the tunnels he finally heaved a mournful sigh. "Better a worm than an icicle, I suppose. Though I don't think I'd fancy wiggling about with no arms or legs."

Jon did not dignify that with an answer.

Within the wormways the vaults hummed with activity. The Watch could not afford to waste oil nor candles, so the vaults were dark and dim, with barely enough light to see. A group of shadows lingering near the exit proved to be rangers in heavy cloaks, awaiting their imminent turn in the frozen training yard. Further in he found builders at their labor, torchlight illuminating the toiling figures. Carpenters hewed felled trees into beams, masons chiseled stone blocks, miners crushed stone into gravel.

Warm it might be, but the air that filled his lungs was stale and stagnant, rank with the musk of hundreds of bodies. Ghost didn't mind the scent; he was used to it. Besides, the other smells were more interesting. Some of the men they passed smelt of soap and perfume, others of sawdust, stone, and sweat. The torches in the wall sconces smelt of spruce needles, linen, pitch, and flame; the kettles Hobb and his kitchen boys carried smelt of stew, onions, turnips, and mutton.

Hunger gnawed at Jon's belly by the time he reached the crossing where four wormways met. Bowen Marsh awaited him, a sheaf of papers in his hand and a pair of stewards at his back, Tim Tangletongue with a torch in his hand, Wick Whittlestick with a set of keys about his neck.

Their round of the storerooms proceeded much as it had at the last turn of the moon. First came the granaries, their stores depleted by a month of feeding hungry mouths. The root cellars, cheese cellars, and stores of salted meat were similarly diminished, as was the rest. Every tally mark seemed to deepen the frown on the lord steward's shrunken face, his once red cheeks reduced to a dull pink.

"If your lordship pleases, when are the next ships due at Eastwatch?"

"With Lord Royce, at the end of fifth moon," Jon lied.

Truthfully the ships were due at the end of fourth moon, but better that the lord steward be pleasantly surprised by an early arrival than fret himself sick should they not arrive on time. Cotter Pyke's last raven from Eastwatch reported storms raging across the Shivering Sea as far south as the Bay of Seals; the few ships arriving to trade at Eastwatch were battered half to pieces.

"How long could we last, if the shipments ceased?"

Bowen Marsh furrowed his brow, the gesture making him look even older than his fifty-odd years. "A twelvemonth. Maybe two, if the hunters are able to find sufficient game. All the more reason-"

"No, my lord," Jon said, cutting him off. Now was not the time for this argument, not here, with Edd and Wick Whittlestick and Tim Tangletongue all listening. "It was an idle question. The shipments will continue; the Watch has endured long winters before. When Lord Royce arrives it will be with carracks and cogs packed full of provender."

"Unless they all sink." Edd gave the casks of pickled beets, eggs, and herring a dubious look. "Or, if the gods are cruel, we could get all the men and none of the food. I doubt the lordly knights of the lordly Vale will appreciate our fare, but that won't stop the Valemen eating us out of hearth and home."

Jon blinked. "Edd, you're a Valeman." House Tollett's seat of Grey Glen was on the same bay as Runestone; they were sworn bannermen of House Royce.

"Aye," Edd agreed. "And a mud hen and a phoenix are both birds, but only one of them is like to call attention to their plumage. You'd never see a phoenix rolling about in the muck. Ser Waymar Royce, Seven save him, why, he made sure everyone saw how pristine he kept his sable furs, his fine new sword with jewels in its hilt. 'Twas like watching a peacock strut about."

Wick Whittlestick almost laughed, until he saw the look on the lord commander's face.

"You'll not say such things," Jon said quietly. "Not with Lord Royce soon to be our guest. He visited Winterfell when he brought his son north, and made quick work of half the fighting men of the keep." Jon could almost see the sun shining off white hair and bronze armor. "And that was with a sword; he's won a dozen mêlées with naught but a common mace. Whatever you thought of Ser Waymar, he still died for the Watch."

"Slain by wildlings," Bowen Marsh grumbled, giving Jon a beady-eyed look.

"Wildlings boast of slaying crows, and display their plunder proudly," he snapped, out of patience. "Yet not a one claims to have slain Ser Waymar, nor Benjen Stark, nor a dozen others who vanished into the haunted forest before them. Where are these sable furs, my lord? Where is this sword with its jeweled hilt?"

"Beyond the Wall," said the Lord Steward, unpersuaded. "With those that refused the King's mercy, and doubtless plan to march against south and murder us all."

A bitter laugh escaped him. "Plan?" Jon flared, trying hard to keep his temper. "There are no men left beyond the Wall, my lord, save the dead." Unless by some miracle Stannis returned, but those odds grew longer every day. Poor Shireen, who prayed in the sept at dawn and at the nightfires at dusk. Did the Seven hear her? Did R'hllor? "Dead men do not plot. They'll come south at their masters' bidding and not before, and when they do, we'll need living men to put them back in their graves."

"Brothers and sworn knights." A flush crept up Bowen's neck.

"And wildlings," Jon finished, unyielding. "You are dismissed; await me in the library. There is something I ought to show you before we finish this discussion."

Marsh's whole face flushed a deep shade of red; his mouth opened and closed, voiceless. "Lord Snow," he finally managed. With a stiff bow, he took his leave, followed by Wick Whittlestick and Tim Tangletongue.

The vault loomed overhead, the darkness swallowing up everything beyond the reach of the torch in Edd's hand. Ghost's eyes glimmered like garnets, his teeth still bared in a silent snarl. Jon ruffled the wolf's fur, then looked back to Edd.

"Remember what I said about Lord Royce."

"So I will, m'lord. I've no wish to get myself burnt."

Unlike Queen Selyse, Jon thought, but he held his tongue.

When they left the vault they found Wick Whittlestick lingering by the door, bearing his keys and a look of deep discomfort. He ducked his head before locking the door behind them, and fell in behind Jon as they began the long climb through the tunnels.

By the time they reached the library vaults, Jon's legs ached from a long day on his feet. Though Turquin's treatment had stopped the ulcers, and sleep reduced his headaches, no amount of rest seemed to soothe the weariness that leeched into his bones. Praying before the heart tree every night in Mormont's old raven used to help, but as the cold deepened those moments of respite grew fewer and fewer.

And so Jon sank into an empty chair without sparing a glance for the waiting Bowen Marsh. Instead his gaze fell on the five smoking tallow candles which bathed the room in warm light, revealing the dust covered shelf upon which the candles sat. Beside the candles lay a dagger, a dried gillyflower, and a curved shadow less dusty than the rest. Jon could not recall what had lain there; Sam must have taken it with him.

Gods, but he missed Sam. How many moons had passed since he sent him off, two? Three? It felt like years since he watched the wayns fade into the distance, their axles creaking from the weight of their baggage. Thank the gods the ground was frozen; were it mud, the wayns were apt to have sunk into deep ruts and gotten stuck long before they reached their destination.

Enough grain to survive until their first harvest, the King in the North had promised two years past, when the ragged host of wildlings came through the Wall. The lord commander had presented the terms as they were written, his tongue behind his teeth as the clan chiefs begrudgingly signed their names, lips pursed as if they could taste the bitter price of survival.

Enough grain to survive until their first harvest, Robb had said, yet the grain set aside for the wildlings was scarce enough to keep them on their feet, let alone endure the backbreaking work of reclaiming abandoned villages. From dawn to dusk the wildlings labored, mending walls and patching roofs, tending livestock and planting seed. How many would live to reap the harvest, if they starved in the fields before it came?

And so when the next train of supplies arrived at Castle Black from Eastwatch, Jon took hold of the sheafs of paper which recorded the counts. The provisions set aside for the Watch were far more generous, despite their lesser numbers. It would do no harm to share their bounty, so long as no one knew the wayns bound for the Gift were heavier laden than the King in the North had intended.

Over a year of careful rationing passed before Bowen Marsh caught on. That shipment had arrived early, when Jon was busy in the training yard. By the time he reached the wayns, Marsh already had the papers in hand, his face curdled like old milk. Thank the gods Marsh had not argued with him until they were in private, but ever since the lord steward worried at him like a dog with a bone. If the gods were good, their talk today would put an end to that.

With careful hands Jon sorted through the papers Sam had left him, attempting to restore some order to the chaotic pile of hastily jotted notes. How could years of effort result in so little knowledge? There were fewer papers than he'd thought, most of them confused jumbles of runes and attempted translations.

"Lord Steward," Jon said when he felt he could stall no longer. "This matter of the wildlings has gone on long enough. I mean to put an end to it."

"Lord Commander." Marsh's voice was as stiff as the frown upon his lips. "Am I being removed from my post?"

"What?" He'd not even known such a thing was possible. "You misunderstand me, my lord. Here, look at these."

Marsh accepted the sheaf of notes, an air of dull confusion hanging on him like a cloak. Reading the notes did not help; his shoulders shrank as he read, the lines at his eyes deepening.

"Well?" Jon asked when the steward finally set the papers back on the table. The lord steward might be stubborn, but he was no fool.

"Lord Snow, I fail to see what ancient runes have to do with feeding wildlings," the lord steward said bluntly. "Tarly's a clever lad, to find so much in all this tumult—" Marsh waved at the shelves piled high with books and scrolls in utter disarray. "— which makes sending him away even less wise."

"Years of combing through the stacks, and those few pages contain all the scraps Samwell found concerning the enemy. And for what? The wights fear fire, the Others fear obsidian, both of which we knew already. Aught else he found is uncertain, conjectures and suppositions based on translating runes Sam did not fully understand, for he taught himself northron and barely understands the Old Tongue."

"So why send him away?" Bowen Marsh shifted in his chair, one hand drumming on the table. "To bring back some wildling to translate for him? Do they even read?"

Jon restrained the unworthy impulse to shake his lord steward like Ghost might shake a fat squirrel. "How did the wildlings get to the Wall, my lord?"

"On foot."

"Fleeing from the wights and the Others," Jon corrected him. "The wildlings knew to burn their dead long before we did; they knew only fire would stop the wights. And what of Craster's wives? Gilly knew that the Others cannot breed, but must steal babes to make more of their foul kind. Dorsten knew that the Others do not age, that their touch burns like frostbite, that they take pleasure in mockery and pain. What else do the wildlings know which we have forgotten?"

"Superstitious nonsense," Bowen blustered, uneasy. "The idle fancies of women driven mad by years of torment."

Years of torment the Watch permitted for the sake of a hearth and a crust of bread. "Perhaps," Jon allowed. "But even the most foolish of superstitions contain a grain of truth, do they not? That is why I sent Samwell away, to speak with the wildlings, learn all they know of the Others, and bring that knowledge back to the Watch."

Bowen Marsh folded his arms across his chest, still skeptical. "A heavy price, feeding all those wildlings in hopes there's seeds among the chaff. I take it the Watch's largesse shall end upon his return?"

"No, my lord. I'll not have them starve upon our doorstep, not when they've done all we've asked of them. Their hostages remain at Winterfell, and the King in the North's last letter stated they continue to behave themselves." Or so Jon assumed, since Robb did not mention them at all. Were they troublesome, he would have said so. "Their people have remained in the Gift, any incidents of trespassing or wife stealing have been quickly handled by their chieftains, and they paid taxes to the Watch for both of the harvests they brought in before winter came."

"Meager though they were," Marsh grudged. "The wildlings cheated us, I do not doubt; the land is too fertile for such small harvests as they claimed."

I'd like to see how impressive a harvest you could manage, driven from your home to start again in a strange land, Jon thought but did not say. At his side, Ghost bared his teeth, a sight which made the lord steward blanch.

"Even if they did, the wildling women are worth their weight in gold. Your stewards have enough to do without turning out garb for our new men. Should I have told the King in the North we had no use for the bolts of wool he sent, instead of sending them to Queenscrown? Should I have refused the Great Walrus's offer to take as many pelts as he could, instead of having his folk make them into furs for the Watch?"

Marsh looked as though he'd swallowed a lemon. "Trading with the wildlings is better than feeding them for naught."

At least that was an improvement, albeit one based on a misunderstanding. Though the Great Walrus was open to trading with the Night's Watch, that was not what was happening here. The Great Walrus did not like owing the Watch for letting his people through the Wall; the furs would come until he judged that debt paid.

"Well," Marsh grumbled, uncomfortable with Jon's silence. "Better the Great Walrus on our shores than Mance Rayder. Good riddance to that blackhearted turncloak."

Jon's lips thinned. Stannis and his men had found the King Beyond the Wall a few moons after their departure from the Nightfort, his entire camp frozen to death in the night. When the dead men rose, the king's men had burned them, all save Mance. A knight and four men-at-arms had dragged the wildling king's corpse back to the Wall in chains, patched red and black cloak still flapping at his shoulders. Ser Richard Horpe was keeping the wight in an ice cell at Stonedoor, for what reason Jon could not say.

Bowen Marsh warmed slightly at the counts of hundreds of black wool tunics and breeches soon to arrive from Queenscrown. The counts of dozens of fur cloaks and hats and gloves also helped, though Marsh scoffed at the Great Walrus's slow pace. The hunters of the Night's Watch would bring in far more pelts, he claimed. Lord Bowen also said the tailors among the stewards could stitch furs more quickly, a claim which Jon regarded rather dubiously. The wildlings would have frozen to death long ago if they were not skilled at surviving the cold.

It was almost dusk when Jon finally finished with Bowen Marsh. He emerged from the wormwalks to find snowflakes dancing through the air and men dashing about the yard, dodging snowballs while Iron Emmett bellowed orders. There seemed to be two teams, each with a large snowdrift serving as a makeshift fort. Behind a third snowdrift Hobb's kitchen boys were building snow knights, their cheeks ruddy with the cold. Someone, likely Pyp, had made a snow wolf to accompany the largest snow knight, who held a wooden practice sword in his fist.

A waste of time, perhaps, but a necessary one. Men who played in the snow were less apt to fear it, not yet, anyhow. That would change when they began to notice the increasing number of deaths among their brothers. So far they had lost a dozen, older men with weak hearts that failed in the bitter cold, and younger men whose clumsy feet slipped on sheets of ice. One unfortunate man, Alaric, had the ill luck to break his back after rolling down a short flight of stairs and crashing into a hard barrel that lay at the bottom. Turquin still had the man in the sickroom, learning to use his arms again with the help of the novice Roone.

No, much better that the men think of snowball fights. Iron Emmett used them for instruction in the art of battle, but they were also apt to break out unprovoked. Pyp and his mummers especially loved ambushing unsuspecting targets after breakfast.

Nor were they the only ones amusing themselves out in the cold. Just this morning he'd found Patchface in the yard, wrapped in a cloak of motley furs, dancing and singing as he juggled snowballs. "The kraken reaches over the sea, I know, oh, oh, oh." The fool sang, ringing his bells. "The dragon screeches under his tree, I know, oh, oh, oh."

Jon could almost hear the jingling still, but it was lower, accompanied by the stamping of hoofbeats and the heavy creaking of wooden wheels. Turning to the west, he saw them come, a procession of covered wayns whose tops were dusted with frost and freshly fallen snow. They were led by a slight man upon a slight horse, the badge of his office, a golden hand wreathed in flames, pinned to his cloak.

"Lord Davos, welcome," Jon smiled. "Come, dinner awaits."

They dined in the lord commander's chambers. Their meal was the same humble stew and black bread consumed by the black brothers in the vaults below, though Three-Finger Hobb provided butter and rosehip jelly for the bread, and the stew had more chunks of meat than Jon expected.

The conversation was equally plain and unremarkable. Shireen spoke little after Lord Davos informed her there was still no word of Stannis, not since the wight's return more than six months past. Poor child, still holding hope for her father's return. But then, how long had Jon held out hope for Benjen Stark, who was only an uncle?

Fond as he was of little Shireen, Tormund seemed quite pleased by the likelihood of her becoming an orphan. "A man can deal with you Starks, coldhearted as you are," the wildling blustered upon his last visit to Castle Black. "But that Baratheon is another type o' beast entirely. No feeling in him, none at all; you'd think he was raised suckling iron instead o' mother's milk. D'you know, the little princess said that before her uncle died, she saw her father not more than once a year? What sort of man treats his only child so ill?"

"The highborn kind," Jon answered, trying not to think of Lord Eddard. Every morning he'd led his children to pray in the godswood, no matter how busy the rest of the day might be. Lord Eddard had little time to spare, yet he could oft be found watching his children play in the yard, or hearing them recite lessons, or tutoring them in the duties of a Stark of Winterfell. But those days were gone, just like his father, and it did no good to think of them.

While Jon wasted time wool-gathering, Davos had coaxed Shireen into talking about the books she was reading. Though permitted full run of the texts at Castle Black, she tended towards history and law, quietly insistent that she must educate herself as befit her father's heir. Yet for some odd reason she was speaking to Davos of disease and contagion, unpleasant subjects for a young girl.

"Begging my lady's pardon," Jon said, when there was a lull in conversation. "But why are you reading of plagues and poxes?"

"I—" Shireen looked desperately uncomfortable. "I had the pox when I was nine, my lord."

"It came on a Myrish carrack," Davos said heavily. "Or so Maester Pylos said, when the outbreak had run its course through the taverns and wine sinks. It spared the king's household, save for Princess Shireen."

Shireen reddened, one hand tugging at her sleeve. "The captain didn't want to stay on Dragonstone. Maester Cressen said he offered Father his pick of the cargo, and when that didn't work, he gave my lady mother all the Myrish lace he had. Bands of silver lace worked with the seven-pointed star, bands of gold lace worked with flowers, a pale stiff ruff meant for the neck of a lady's gown." The princess lowered her eyes, ashamed. "I knew Father wouldn't let us keep them. But the lace was so pretty, I just wanted to take a closer look..."

Taken aback by the princess's distress, Jon changed the subject. Dinner ended soon enough, and a pair of knights came to escort Shireen back to the safety of her chambers. Only Davos remained behind, his face solemn as the grave as he resumed the tale.

That closer look had come at a heavy price. Within a week, the princess took to her bed, fatigued and feverish. For a fortnight she suffered muscle pangs, nausea, and vomiting, able to keep nothing down despite the best efforts of the maesters. The day word came of King Robert's death was the same day the pox appeared, flat lesions that dappled first the little girl's face and hands, then the rest of her. Poultices and draughts were of no use, and when the pox began to turn the color of ash, the maesters told Stannis and his lady wife that the end was near, and bade them send for the septon.

Instead, Lady Selyse had sent for her red woman.

Lord Davos's voice was as haunted as his eyes as he recounted what happened next. Maester Cressen's protests against the madness of sorcery were in vain, for His Grace would not hear him. "You have failed my daughter," he said to the old man. "If sorcery is all that remains, then I shall try it, before I let the darkness steal mine only child."

Aged and frail as he was, the maester refused to quit the room. In silence he watched the red priestess chant prayers to her red god, the brazier's flames rising higher with every word. Heat blazed across the sickroom like a furnace wind. The condemned man fought against his shackles, the rough iron cutting at his pale flesh. Cressen clutched at his cane, Selyse dropped to her knees, even Stannis swayed, sweat pouring down his brow.

Only the priestess was unmoved. Her eyes shone red, red as the blood of the condemned man's wounds, red as the ember she plucked from the fire's heart and placed in the dying girl's limp hand, red as the powder she flung on the roaring flames.

A boom of thunder, a flash of blinding light, a scream, and it was over. When the clouds of smoke cleared, they found the princess asleep, the pox vanished without leaving nary a scar or scab. Even prying her hand from the condemned man's grasp did not wake her.

The gods were merciful. Shireen remembered nothing of the cold grasp of fingers locked in death. She never saw the ember sunk into the palm of the dead man's hand, still glowing amidst the charred, ruined flesh. She never knew of the corpse covered in the same ashy black sores which once marred her skin, his mouth frozen in an endless, silent shriek, his empty eyes fixed on a priestess limned in ghostly flames.

No, the gods spared her all of that. Weak as she was, Shireen did not wake for days, and then only long enough to eat and move her wasted limbs. By the end of eleventh moon she could stand; by the end of twelfth moon she could run about with her fool. As her strength grew, so did the red woman's favor with the king, so Cressen warned Davos upon his return to Dragonstone. And later that night, when she killed the old maester, the king he raised from boyhood did nothing.

"Melisandre." Davos said the name as if it were a curse. "First she won the mother, then father and daughter both, doting on them as Selyse never did. Shireen near worships the accursed woman; how am I to tell her that—"

Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo

There was nothing in the world so important as the horn blast ringing in his ears. Jon bolted from his seat; by the time he threw on his cloak and pulled on his gloves he was halfway out the door. There were no rangers out beyond the Wall, he'd sent none since Kedge White-Eye and his men failed to return—

Uuuuuuuhooooooooooooooooooooo

The second blast nearly made Jon fall down the stairs; he would have, if not for Davos, who had followed close behind and grabbed him until he could regain his footing. Wildlings? How could that be? There were none yet living, he knew that, he'd flown with Mormont's raven and seen nothing, nothing but dead men with black hands and black pits where their hearts should be. Unless...

Dread flooded his veins; he almost stumbled again when he reached the bottom of the King's Tower. Men were shouting, their voices high and full of terror. Ghost raced across the yard, his paws kicking up snow as he made for the gate that barred the tunnel beneath the ice. Jon followed, walking as quick as he dared. He must not increase the men's panic; he must not let them see his fear.

The Wall defends itself, he thought, clinging to the hollow words like a drowning man might cling to a piece of wreckage. The Wall loomed above him, glimmering faintly in the moonlight, immense, unbreachable. It might as well be made of diamond, rather than stone and earth and ice. And blood, Ygritte's shade whispered. And spells, Melisandre purred. However the Wall was made, the Others had never crossed it, not in thousands of years.

Long though he waited, the third blast never came. Heart still pounding in his throat, Jon bellowed for the men to get back to their work or return to their dinners. They obeyed, albeit slowly, some silent, some japing as though they had not been panicking only moments ago.

"Just wildlings," he reassured Three-Finger Hobb, who'd run out into the cold without a cloak. The boy Hal shivered violently as he clung to Hobb's apron strings; Hobb picked the seven-year-old up with a grunt and headed back toward the kitchens.

But the scarecrows who staggered from beneath the Wall were no wildlings. Two shadows in fine silks led the meager host, the black shadow leaning heavily on the red, who left a trail of melted snow in her wake. A scant twoscore men followed, also afoot, their tread so slow that were it not for the dull eyes hidden beneath hoods and scarves, Jon would have thought them wights.

Lord Davos rushed forward, a glad cry bursting from his lips. By the time Jon finished giving orders for the rest of the king's men to be carried to Maester Turquin's sickroom, the king was already making his way up the stairs of the King's Tower. Each step seemed to cost Stannis dearly; he staggered and swayed like a dying man, kept upright only by Davos, who supported the king's right side just as Melisandre supported his left.

Unable to assist, Jon went ahead of them. Whilst the lord commander built up the fire Dolorous Edd ran for broth, bread, and hot mulled wine. By the time Stannis reached the lord commander's chambers, all was ready. But nothing could have prepared Jon for the sight of the king's face when he removed his hood and scarf.

Stannis had always been a gaunt man, his eyes deep bruises in a hollow face. But now... Jon had never seen a face so wan, so emaciated. Every bone in the king's square jaw jutted out; his cheeks were sunken pits. When Melisandre gently pulled off the king's leather gloves lined with fur, it was to reveal fingers brittle as sticks, the wrists as fleshless as the arms.

While the king ate, the priestess talked. Melisandre was unaltered. Her pale skin glowed, the cheeks a soft pink, the lips soft and plump. Her bosom was as full as ever, her hips as lush. Yet when he looked away from her she flickered strangely, the great ruby at her neck pulsing. From the corner of his eye Jon would have sworn she looked sallow, her robes torn and stained, her curves shriveled away, her bright red eyes faded to a lusterless brown.

Her voice showed no such weakness. It was clear and strong as she recounted their travels beyond the Wall, hunting dead men. All had gone well, at first. As they wandered the forest wights were drawn to them, a half dozen here, a score there. The king's men cut them down with steel, and Melisandre burned them with fire. Autumn was fading, but there was enough game to feed themselves. It was not until tenth month that game began to grow scarce. Then they relied upon their provisions, for their horses were well-laden with hard bread, grain, salted meat, and the like.

"All those long months, and we never saw an Other," Stannis rasped. "Not until it pleased one to toy with us. With mine own eyes I saw it, watching from the shadows of the woods. Its armor rippled like mirrorglass, its sword was a crystal shard. It spoke no word, but pointed the sword at me, with a laugh like the cracking of ice. I called out defiance, I raised Lightbringer high—"

The king bent over, silenced by a racking cough. When it ceased, he could not speak, but was forced to let Melisandre resume the tale whilst he drank wine and ate chunks of bread dipped in broth.

Faced with R'hllor's chosen, the cowardly Other had sheathed its sword, smiled, and dug his heels into the king's own horse, whose eyes gleamed like blue stars, the sign of the Great Other's corruption. When the Other galloped away, the king's men found every one of their mounts dead, frozen at their pickets. Each bore the black mark of frostbite, some upon their snouts, others on their backs or haunches, yet every mark bore the shape of a slender hand.

The king and the priestess had pursued the Other on foot to no avail. His men butchered some of the dead horses, adding their meat to the provisions which they had carried. Without pack animals, the men were forced to rig crude sleds to drag the heavy weight of their supplies. It was a long walk south, one slowed when sleds broke.

Dead animals stalked the edges of their camps at night, the flames of the nightfires burning in their cold eyes. Then the dead animals began to follow them by day. A half rotted bear wrecked five sleds and devoured their precious stores, unbothered by a rain of arrows. Even after an axe took off his head, he killed three more men with the swipe of his claws. A herd of reindeer kicked another two sleds to pieces, scattering the food beneath their hooves to be set upon by weasels and rats. Each attack cost them men, and the meat of the twice slaughtered animals was far less than that which they spoiled.

Then, when their stores were almost gone, the animals vanished. Hunger, never far, wrapped them tight in his hard grasp. Men began to die, not from cold but from starvation, collapsing on the march or never rising from their beds.

"And you burned your dead?" Jon demanded. Gods save them, would the wights remember the Wall's defenses? Would they tell the Others how few black brothers stood betwixt them and the realm of men? "All of them?"

"We left none to become wights," Stannis rasped, pushing himself to his feet. The food must have heartened him, for though he wobbled, he did not fall. "I require horses, and wayns, to bear us back to the Nightfort."

"Your Grace requires rest," Melisandre murmured. There was an odd look in her eyes; her voice trembled. "I may have erred. The Lord of Light—"

"Requires sacrifice," the king gritted through clenched teeth. "King's blood, you said, to wake dragons from stone—"

An almighty creak interrupted him, the door's hinges screaming as Dolorous Edd opened it and stuck his head in. "Pardon, m'lord, but—"

"Father!" Shireen shoved past the old squire, making straight for the king and throwing herself at his feet. "I prayed and prayed, and you came back, just like Patches said you would!"

Stiffly the king patted his daughter's head; when she rose to embrace him, he opened his arms, letting the girl bury her face against his shoulder. For a long moment all was quiet but for the crackle of the fire and the soft sounds of weeping. Then, finally, Shireen pulled away, wet tears shining on her cheeks.

"You were not supposed to be here," Stannis rasped.

His daughter blushed at the rebuke, wringing her hands as she stared at her feet. "I had nightmares, Father. The Nightfort scared me, so Lord Davos brought me here. You should stay here too, it's so much warmer, and Lord Snow is very courteous."

"I think not. My place is at the Nightfort."

Shireen bit her lip. How long was it since he had seen Arya do the same? "Then- then my place is there too. I can be brave, Father, I promise."

"Can you?" Stannis's eyes were nothing human, deep wells sunk in a lifeless husk.

"Let her stay with Lord Snow," Melisandre urged. Davos stared mouth agape as she sank to her knees, taking the king's hands in hers. "Let me look into the flames again, Your Grace, there must be another way."

"I can be brave," Shireen pleaded. "Please, Father."

The king looked from the priestess to the princess, his cracked lips sunken in a deep frown. Finally, he nodded, his chin sinking into his chest and staying there as though his throat had been cut. With a glad cry Shireen curtsied and ran out of the room, no doubt eager to begin packing her things. The king's departure was much slower, for he refused the offer of Melisandre's arm and staggered out of the room unaided, the priestess hovering at his heels. A lingering glance at Davos, and she too was gone.

Only Davos remained, his eyes looking out the window to the yard below. Puzzled by the Onion Knight's numb stare, Jon crossed the room. When he looked out the window he saw Hobb's boys, each one cloaked in heavy furs. They stood atop a snowdrift, snowballs in hand, waiting for Hobb to come in range.

"I had seven sons," Davos said, still staring out the window. "Three, now. Devan is the only one I've seen since the war started. He's a good lad. Quick, smart, faithful. He was the king's squire, until Melisandre bade him leave the boy with me. Devan didn't like that. He wanted to go hunt wights; he'd do anything for King Stannis."

"My lord?"

"Devan will forgive me, I think. But what of Stanny and Steffon? Will they understand what I must do? Will they forgive their father's absence for the sake of a soul and a life?"

"My lord?" Jon repeated, concerned. Such melancholy was unlike Davos; had the priestess addled his wits with the power of her gaze?

"A lord, he made me, aye. Davos of Flea Bottom, Hand of the King. Onions and saltfish I gave him, and he took the joints of my fingers. A small price to pay. My blood is not good enough, but my life will be."

Davos turned, a strange glint in his eye. "The King Beyond the Wall is at Stonedoor. That will not do, he is needed at the Nightfort. Might I borrow a fresh horse?"

"You may have the horse, but Ser Richard Horpe will not like releasing his prize," Jon warned.

"No, but I am yet King's Hand. Besides," the old man smiled grimly. "He will appreciate what I mean to do with it."

"Which is what?" Jon demanded.

Too late; Davos was already gone. Riddles within riddles, he liked it not. Jon had half a mind to follow, to force the Onion Knight to explain his confused ramblings. What madness was Stannis plotting now? Did he mean to burn his priestess for failing him? That would explain her pleading, but not Davos's equally strange behavior.

Much as he distrusted Melisandre, Jon did not care for anyone being burnt to death. The Wall is mine, a voice said, by rights the Nightfort is mine as well. Was it not his duty to stop such black sorcery? The Night's Watch takes no part, another voice replied.

His vows bound him like iron, like the winch chain. Yet that night as he lay awake in bed, he could feel them strain, and see the fine fissures cracking at the links.


So excited to see what you guys think!

I'm annoyed it took me so long to get this chapter out; work and personal life have both been very busy, and I needed to work out plot kinks as we get to the end of Part IV. Jon only has 2 more chapters; the same is true of all the other major POV.

Next up:

Ch 131: Arya VI

Ch 132: Edythe II

Ch 133: Dany V

Ch 134: Irri

NOTES

1) Iron starts to get brittle around -22 F. With icy winds blowing all the time, the winch chains are vulnerable to damage. I also looked up facts about how longbows respond to cold temperatures; Jon's internal monologue is accurate. Medieval torches were not just random sticks lit on fire; there was a process to making them. You might wrap pine needles around the end of the stick using a cloth, or, for a longer-lasting torch, dip coarse cloth in some sort of fat or pitch, then wrap it about the end of the stick with wire.

2) In canon, Stannis spends a year brooding before he crowns himself. Granted, he's a stubborn ass, and he's unsure of what he should do, but letting his enemies have an entire year to move against him really doesn't work with his characterization as a decisive battle commander and skilled strategist. We also never get an explanation for why Stannis, uncomfortable with women, anti-religion Stannis, of all people, suddenly has such faith in Melisandre, who is both a woman and a priest.

The back story with Shireen is my attempt to reconcile these inconsistencies. Shout out to SioKerrigan, who I think was the one who gave me the initial idea when she pointed out that a Rasputin angle would fill in a lot of those gaps. In this universe, Cressen told the whole story to Davos during their canon chat on the stairs the same night Cressen tried to poison Melisandre. No wonder Cressen wanted to poison her, and no wonder Davos is so leery of her! But there's also some sympathy for Mel here, versus "evil witch go brrr" as I saw someone put it.

3) Let's talk about lace! Lace was invented in the mid-1500s, and was heinously expensive, being entirely handmade. Creating lace required the talents of three skilled artisans: an artist created the design, a pattern maker put the pattern on parchment, and a lace maker stitched the lace by hand. Girls as young as nine were trained to make fine lace; many were blind by thirty from eye strain.

The Lace Maker Caspar Netscher 1662

Not only was lace only invented at the very end of the medieval era, it was entirely (so far as I could find) used for trim and other small adornments; the use of lace as fabric panels came much later. The back of a lace cap below (late 1700s) took five years to make.

In ACOK, the captain of the Myraham refers to a "bolt of Myrish lace." Uh... lace wouldn't have been sold in bolts. Most absurd is the Widow of the Waterfront telling Tyrion that the Selaesori Qhoran carries "bales of wool and lace."

Are you fucking kidding me?! Transporting lace in bales- what? A bale of wool is made by stacking fleeces; why on earth would you transport precious, delicate lace in bulk like that?!?

GRRM makes plenty of factual errors, which I usually try to disregard as he's not a historian. But at the same time—textiles matter. If dudes get to go on and on about where GRRM messes up armor and battle tactics, I get to be cranky about him being completely oblivious to the vast amount of time, labor, and expertise poured into making lace. (Not to mention everyone and their cousin is constantly in silk and no one's heard of sumptuary laws)

4) So, smallpox is extremely gross. I based Shireen's case on the malignant version of smallpox, with artistic liberty as to the aftermath of magically transferring the disease.

Yes, pox can be transmitted via contaminated cloth. That touch was inspired by a book I read back in high school about an English village which had an outbreak of plague due to contaminated cloth from London. The book I read is called Year of Wonders, it's a great read.

5) I'm not a huge Star Wars person, but Andor is the best tv show I've seen all year, holy shit. If you love deep world building, examination of systems, and a broad cast of characters who all matter, check it out!