CHAPTER 3
Jon and Stannis
Night gathers, and now my watch begins… it shall not end until my death… But death had found Jon Snow beneath the gates of Castle Black, the day he'd mustered an army of wildlings and sworn brothers to march on Ramsay Snow. Bowen Marsh and his men had accosted him in the training yard, driving their cold blades into his chest and neck. "For the watch," they had chanted with tears in their eyes. Jon could still remember how the knives felt inside him, sharp and bitter. The world had darkened and vanished then, and he'd found himself back in his chambers, staring through the eyes of a wolf. Ghost's eyes, he thought with sadness. He had gone half mad with rage and grief, howling at the top of his lungs, and savaging the door with his claws.
"Door! Door! Door!" Mormont's raven had screamed, until at last it swung open amidst a wave of fire and noise. The red woman had entered, her eyes frantic, the sound of steel and screams echoing from behind her. "They are coming for you!" she had cried. "Follow me, Jon Snow. I will open the castle gates. Quickly now, while they are fighting with the savages." The hours that followed were a blur now. He remembered following Melisandre down flights of stony steps on all fours and hearing the carnage swell all around him. He remembered running through the snow as fast he could, until his blood burned like acid beneath his flesh. When he looked back, he saw the black keep bleeding smoke into the heavens, and he kept running, and running, and running, until the screaming stopped…
But that had been a lifetime ago. Now Jon sat alone, in the quiet dark of his father's study, hunched over a scarred wooden desk with a blank piece of parchment at its centre. He touched the wound where Bowen Marsh had stabbed him, recoiling in pain. All these months later and it still stings. His body had been returned to him, yes, but at what cost? His faithful wolf lay blackened beneath the earth, and beside him rested Nymeria, his sister's wolf.
Gods below, he realised. How am I going to break the news to Arya? The whole purpose of his march south had been to rescue his little sister from that monster Ramsay Snow. But now she was at the Wall, while he rested in Winterfell like a wounded beast. The irony was not lost him. And from all accounts, Arya was not the kind of girl who needed rescuing anyway. Gods how he wished to see her again. He wondered how much she had changed from the grubby-faced girl he had known. It had been almost four years since they'd last been together, the day he had given her Needle, before departing for the Wall. She'd be almost a woman grown by now. Will I even recognise her? Sansa and her friends used to call her "Arya Horseface" in the yard, but Mikken had sworn she was the spitting image of Jon's aunt. Lyanna Stark had died before Jon was even born, but everyone who knew her marveled at her wild beauty. Jon would have liked an aunt growing up. Lady Stark had offered little in the way of motherly advice.
Jon stared at the blank slip of paper before him. The feather in his hand had grown hard with ink. He pondered what to write to his sister. Jon's speech and memory had returned to him easily enough, but the writing was something else entirely. He could form the words in his mind, but when he put pen to paper, the letters would not come. Jon dipped his feather in the ink pot, pressed it against the paper, and tried again.
Dear Little Sister, he began. I hope this letter finds you well... It seems father was right all along… winter has come, and yet the news of your survival fills me with warmth… Jon lifted his pen, and stared at the wet ink, glistening in the candlelight. The words were gibberish, closer to runes than letters. Jon growled in frustration and cast the paper to the ground. Perhaps he would need to have Stannis' maester assist him. Following the death of Bowen Marsh, most of the King's household guard had made the trek from Castle Black to Winterfell. Most, but not all.
Jon stood up and began pacing back and forth across the grey floorboards. Ghost's body had died in Melisandre's flames, but his spirit still dwelt within Jon, and the wolf grew restless and hungry with each passing day. The Wolfsblood, Jon had come to know it as; sometimes it was a wild energy that wanted to race across a windswept field, while other times it lusted for blood and the thrill of the hunt. At first it scared Jon, but he had grown to like it and to expect it. It warmed him to know that Ghost was still alive, in some form at least. He wondered if Arya felt the same sensation, up in Castle Black. He wondered how she would react, when she found out that he was still alive.
It had been four days since Jon's fiery rebirth. He had spent most of that time inside this very room. He hadn't spoken with any of Stannis' men, who all seemed frightened by his presence. And the only words he'd had with the King had been their bitter exchange after the burning of the direwolves. Only Lady Melisandre had come to visit him and all that came out of her mouth were questions of what Jon had seen in the flames. He'd told her of the drowning men, of the silver-haired queen, of the falling star, in as much detail as he could remember. But everything before that was a grey haze. He could recall certain thoughts and senses from his time in Ghost's skin—hunger mostly—but his memories as a wolf were largely dissolved, like a dream that would fade the more you tried to grasp it.
When Jon tried to ask her of Arya and the Wall, or of the Battle of Winterfell, Melisandre's only reply had been, "Rest now, Jon Snow. You are weaker than you know. Let your body heal and your mind reflect. The answers will come… in time." Jon had obeyed, for as long as he was able. He had slept and gathered his thoughts, and ate the meals that Melisandre's squire brought for him. It was good to have warm, clean food inside him again. But he was starting to grow restless. There was only so long a wolf could be caged up.
As his reading candle dwindled, Jon readied himself for bed. He was unlacing his boots when a shy knock sounded at the door. Jon opened it to find Melisandre's quire standing in the walkway, shivering beneath a huge grey coat. Devan was a timid young boy, and the son of Davos Seaworth, the King's late Hand. He shuffled back several steps as Jon emerged from his darkened chambers.
"A little late for supper, isn't it Devan?" Jon said, trying to sound pleasant and not the undead wolf-man most of Stannis' men took him for.
"Lo-Lord Snow," the boy stuttered amidst the howling winds. "His gr-grace has requested y-your attendance in the g-great hall."
"Of course," Jon replied, throwing a black cloak over his shoulders and hugging the furs to his chest.
He followed Devan along the walkways above Winterfell's courtyard. Jon had spent most of his life within these walls. They held many fond memories, yet the castle before him now seemed almost unrecognisable. The walls were burnt and crumbling, with beams of wood holding much of the stone in place. The yard stood empty, beneath a moving veil of smog. Snowflakes fell like cinders upon the ruined keep, forming a milky layer of frost that coated the cracked walls and scorched spires. Baratheon guards stood beside the gates and tower doors, caked in frost and clutching their spears tightly, lest they fall asleep at their post. Above them hung the fiery stags of King Stannis, flickering like a dozen bloodshot candles.
Winterfell felt closer to a graveyard than a fortress, and yet, as Jon peered out over the jagged ramparts, he saw a sea of tents, curling out into the grey horizon. The camps stretched out in every direction, and between the pavilions wandered thousands of soldiers, knights and armoured steads, settling down for the night. Watchtowers, carriages and siege engines were silhouetted by the moon's glow, and the sigils of half a hundred southron and northern lords fluttered in the icy winds.
"Gods be good," Jon thought aloud. "Stannis has been busy these past months. There must be ten-thousand men surrounding Winterfell."
"Y-yes, my lord," Devan shivered. "Closer to f-fifteen, in fact."
Jon glimpsed the banners of proud mermen and shackled giants; iron gauntlets and crowned axes; blooming foxes and white owls; black bears, green turtles, brown seahorses, soldier pines, and white lances; and wolves, wolves, wolves, wolves. Everywhere swelled the grey direwolf of House Stark, taller and larger and more splendid than all the other sigils combined. Jon could not help but smile as he watched the banners of his father and brother sail against the Northern sky.
The pride of Winterfell, Jon thought. Winter has come, and still these men of the North refuse to forget their ancient allegiance. Stannis may have claimed lordship over these lands, but it was to House Stark whom the North pledged their love and loyalty, and as Jon Snow walked along the parapets in view of the camps, he began to hear a hundred voices braid together. They see me, Jon realised. They know who I am. The blood of the direwolf lives… and the North remembers.
Jon followed Devan down several flights of stairs, as they moved further and further towards the great hall. He found himself struggling to keep up with the young squire.
"I was sorry to hear of your lord father's passing," Jon said, moving swiftly to the boy's side. "I never had the pleasure of meeting Ser Davos, but by all accounts he was brave knight and true."
"Thank you, my lord. You are kind to say. My father gave his life for King Stannis… and I am honoured to do the same. Like you, Lord Snow, I pray we shall all be reborn in the Light of R'hllor." It was not the answer Jon had expected, and then again, everyone dealt with grief in their own way.
At last they reached Winterfell's inner keep. The large Weirwood doors were guarded by four armoured knights, two on each side. Wooden trestle tables had been arranged around the square, presumably for Stannis' personal guards to break their fast each morning. The knights nodded as Jon and Devan approached, and pulled open the heavy doors to let them through.
Jon entered the great hall of Winterfell and felt a wave of heat rush against him. The room was almost empty, and yet all six hearths were ablaze. At the far end of the hall sat Stannis Baratheon, with an iron crown atop his balding head. His face was stern and gaunt, with a black and silver beard wrapped around his hardened jaw. Beside him stood Ser Godry Farring, the proud southron knight who had styled himself "Giantslayer", ever since Stannis' victory in the Haunted Forest. Both men looked up as Jon Snow's footsteps echoed against the stone tiles.
"Ah," Stannis grunted, shifting in his chair. "The bastard reborn." It seems nothing will clean me of that title, Jon mused. "I trust you are well rested after your little dalliance in the woods."
Jon halted several feet from the throne of Winterfell, where the King stood and his knight leered. "Well enough, your grace," he replied coolly. There was a pause then, and Jon felt as though he was expected to kneel, but didn't.
"So the wolf boy lives," Ser Godry said, as he folded a piece of parchment and stuffed it in his coat pocket. "How's your head, boy?" He gave Jon a twisted smile. "I suppose your wolf took the brunt of that blow." Jon flexed his sword hand.
"That will be all, Ser Godry," Stannis said gruffly. "Lord Snow and I have matters to discuss."
His smile vanished. "Of course, your grace," the large knight said, pulling on a pair of padded gloves. "I shall take my leave." As Godry bowed, and started back towards the hall's entrance, Jon noticed the longsword swaying from his hip. It had a stained leather grip, and at its pommel was the snarling head of a wolf with garnets for eyes.
"Longclaw," Jon breathed, his blood rising.
"What?" Ser Godry shot back.
"Nothing," he replied coldly. I'll deal with you later, Giantslayer. The knight gave Jon a poisonous look, before exiting the hall.
"You too, Devan," Stannis called to the back of the room. Jon turned to see the squire bow low and take his leave. The King waited until the wooden doors had slammed shut before addressing Jon.
"I meant to treat with you sooner, Lord Snow, but Lady Melisandre forbade it. She said you needed time to heal and were likely still… vexed, by the death of your wolves."
Jon bristled, but decided to bury his ire beneath courtesy. "I owe Lady Melisandre quite a bit it seems. It was she who helped me escape during the mutiny."
"Indeed," Stannis replied, taking a sip of wine. "She tells me she saw you in her flames… 'a wounded boy, bound in the flesh of a wolf'…or was it the other way around?" The King's face was a vacant stare now, and Jon felt himself becoming uncomfortable. What does he want me to say? "She knew where you'd be, the night my men captured you and dragged you back to Winterfell… 'Beneath the Weirwood tree,' she said, where I'd hanged Lady Stoneheart and the Brotherhood on my march to Moat Cailin…" A vision of rotting corpses flashed before Jon's eyes; they were swaying like wind chimes, their faces open in horror. Stannis took another sip and placed the cup on the tile beside his throne. "She tells me you've spent these past months prowling the winter wastes and feeding off dead things in the Wolfswood. Should I be concerned, Lord Commander?"
Jon tried to loosen the knot in his throat. "It is true, your grace, though my memory of that time is all but gone."
"What do you remember?" Stannis asked, his eyes narrowing.
"Little and less, your grace. I remember being stabbed by my Sworn Brothers and escaping Castle Black on all fours. I remember finding Nymeria, my sister's wolf, in the midst of a fierce ice storm." Jon paused for a moment. "And I remember being beaten and chained up by your soldiers. The rest, I fear, is a grey blur of hunger, cold and dread."
Stannis leaned back in his seat then. "Perhaps my men were a little rough. Though, had they been any softer, you might have torn their throats out and escaped into the night." I still might, Jon mused darkly. "I was sorry your wolves had to die, but Lady Melisandre promised me that it was either their lives or yours." Stannis stroked the length of his beard, his expression softening. "I rather liked the white one. He was as silent as he was loyal. My bannermen could have learned a thing or two." Even in victory he grows sour.
"I glimpsed your 'bannermen' as I passed along the castle walls. It seems as if every Northman with a sword has rallied to your cause." That answer seemed to ease the King's mood somewhat.
"Aye," he replied, with the faintest suggestion of a smile. "A pretty sight indeed. Though it is to you and your sister they rally to. Word of Arya Stark's deeds have spread to every corner of the North. 'House Stark has returned from the dead,' they say, 'the blood of the direwolf lives' …and who am I to dissuade them? The Dreafort lies smouldering in the snow and House Bolton rots alongside it." The King leaned forward now, his voice low and deliberate. "Your sister has delivered me the North, Lord Snow. That's one half of my kingdom, along with twelve-thousand men-at-arms and two-thousand cavalry. And that's on top of the four-thousand I marched from Deepwood Motte to Winterfell. Once she has returned from the Wall, I will grant her lordship of Winterfell." He paused then, as if to make sure Jon had absorbed his words. "I also mean to name her my Warden of the North."
"Arya," Jon spluttered. "Named 'Warden of the North'? But she's… just a girl."
A slow smile unfurled across the King's face. "This girl has mustered an army of wildlings in the Gift. She retook Castle Black and put Bowen Marsh and all of his followers to the sword. This girl sacked the mighty Dreadfort and fed Ramsay Snow to a pack of wolves." The King gave a shrug then, leaning back in his seat. "Or so the tales proclaim. In any event, she is the last Stark in Westeros who still draws breath, and that's good enough for me."
Jon's eyes were swimming. "Gods beneath," he uttered.
"Take a seat, Lord Snow," Stannis chuckled. "There's no point standing on ceremony at this hour."
Jon turned and spotted a wooden chair leaning against the wall between two folded trestles. He fetched it hastily, and, as he returned, Stannis handed him a cup of red wine. "Oh, no your grace. Thank you, but I'll be fine."
"Drink, Jon Snow. Your King commands it." As Stannis sat back down, Jon took a sip and felt the sweet liquid burn its way down his throat.
Little Arya Underfoot, he thought. Champion of the North. It seemed as if he had strayed into a dream. Jon could not help but smile. He took another mouthful and savoured the rich flavour.
"Well," Stannis said at last. "No doubt you have questions, Lord Snow. Ask them now, for you will not get another chance."
Jon rubbed his forehead. His mind was racing. In his father's study, Jon's thoughts had nourished a hundred questions, yet now they seemed to flutter from his mind like frightened ravens. "So much has changed since I fled Castle Black," he uttered. "How in seven hells did you seize Winterfell from Roose Bolton? The last I'd heard, you had taken Deepwood Motte and were marching through the Wolfswood.
"Aye," Stannis replied. "Deepwood was a blessing. It delivered me the loyalty of House Glover, along with valuable Ironborn hostages. But more importantly it put the name of 'Stannis Baratheon' on the lips of every nobleman in the North. Any notions of triumph, however, were quickly washed away by the march south. Our passage through the Wolfswood was wracked by vicious ice storms. When the food stores ran low, the men were forced to eat their fallen horses. Some even turned on each other. We were lost, starving, and barely strong enough to walk, let alone besiege a castle. Eventually we stumbled upon some nameless village a few leagues south of Winterfell. Lord Bolton had already taken and garrisoned the castle weeks prior, and his scouts had been tracking our approach."
"A grim prospect," Jon inferred. "Though it clearly had a happy ending for you and your men."
"We were outnumbered and nearly broken by the march, but Roose made a grievous error. The victory was his for the taking. He needed only wait, let us starve and freeze to death outside his walls. Instead, he rode out to meet us in the field. You see, Lord Snow, Winterfell was overflowing with soldiers and bannermen, but unlike my men, their fealty to Lord Bolton has held by a thread, and their loyalty to each other was non-existent. In an attempt to rid the castle of its warring parties, Lord Bolton deployed a cavalry of Frey and Manderly troops to fall on us at night. But by then, I held the village, which meant now they were the besiegers." The King drained the last of his cup and refilled it from the cask at his feet.
"Numbers matter, Lord Snow, as does discipline, and the morale of your men. But more important than all that is the terrain of the fight: where you are placed on the battlefield and how you use it to your advantage. If the field is narrow and the high ground held, then ten men have a fighting chance against a thousand. I held that village and I meant to make it my own. Every rock, tree and clump of dirt was fashioned in our favour. I had lines of trenches dug around the outside of the village, and across them I laid branches and rotten planks of wood. Within an hour, the falling snow had made the moat invisible to our enemy's eyes and their horse's hooves. I had a massive pyre built half a league west of the village and set ablaze, to draw Bolton's eye, positioning all of my mounted troops in a small basin to the east, in order to rout the enemy and push at least some of them across a frozen lake. Finally, I gathered my men-at-arms into the stone keep at the centre of the village, and filled the outer huts with dry straw and lantern oil, so that my archers could set them alight should the enemy breach our lines. In the end, though, it was all for naught." The King gave a wry laugh.
"Our enemy approached us from two angles: one group was lead by the merman of Manderly, the other followed the twin towers of Frey. They merged a mile north of our position… but then their march seemed to halt and fracture. The men had turned to face one another, while riders rode back and forth across the snow in frantic coils. From where I stood atop the stone keep, Bolton's host seemed to swell and disperse and come together again and again and again. Angry shouts wafted through the air, mingled with the clash of steel. By now their banners had fallen to the ground and were consumed by the swell of battle. My cavalry were preparing their attack, but I signalled them to halt. Eventually, the fighting seemed to die down. Many bodies littered the snow, but hundreds more were still standing. Their lines reformed, and as they continued their march towards us, I saw the merman standard raised to the sky in amity.
"The leader of the host, Ser Marlon, informed me that his lord and father, Wyman Manderly, had ordered his men to slay the Frey's once they had marched beyond the gaze of Winterfell and to offer the fealty of White Harbor to me. Ser Marlon laid his sword at my feet… but instead of taking it from him, I drew Lightbringer and placed it in his hands. 'Return to Winterfell,' I said. 'Tell lord Bolton that I am dead and defeated, and present him this sword as proof. Then, when everyone is fast asleep, content in their triumph, open the gates of Winterfell to me and my men… We will do the rest.' The old knight nodded and swore before the heart tree that the gates would be open upon our arrival."
"The pink letter," Jon blurted out, spilling some of his wine. Stannis looked up, startled. "At the Wall, the day Marsh attacked me, I received a letter from Ramsay Snow declaring that you were slain and swearing to cut out my heart if Arya wasn't returned to him."
Stannis nodded. "By then, the bastard was on his way back to the Dreadfort with Mance Rayder as prisoner. Likely, he presumed I was dead after seeing Ser Marlon place Lightbringer at his father's feet. The plan seemed sound enough and would cost far fewer lives than a protracted siege, but Roose proved more discerning than I'd have hoped. He'd seen through our little ruse and had ordered Lord Manderly hanged for treason. But by then, the Tallharts, the Ryswells, and the Dustins had all turned against Bolton as well, and a skirmish erupted inside Winterfell. Lord Manderly was killed in the carnage, but the Boltons and Freys were overwhelmed and eventually forced to flee the castle. Roose escaped to the Neck, while his Frey bannermen fled the North altogether and returned to the Green Fork to bury their liege lord and squabble over his ruined keep."
"The Twins were destroyed?" Jon said, surprised.
"Aye. It was sacked by outlaws from the Trident. I'm told by the crannogmen that Lord Walder Frey was dragged from his bed in the middle of the night and forced to watch his entire castle put the torch… before being hanged from the bridge by his own entrails."
It must have been a pretty sight, Jon thought darkly, remembering the day Maester Aemon had delivered him news of the Red Wedding. "So you won the Battle of Winterfell without losing a single man?"
"Not to combat, but hundreds died of frostbite and hunger. When my host finally arrived at the castle, we found the gates were indeed open to us, but three-thousand armoured troops were lined up in front of it. When we spied their ranks through the winter fog, I feared the worst. I feared my Kingship would die there and then. But when they saw us, the soldiers bowed their heads and knelt in the snow. It was not the flayed man of Bolton that was raised above Winterfell, but the grey wolf of Stark. Lord's Ryswell and Locke rode forth from the gates, along with Lady Dustin, and old knights from Torrhen's Square, Cerwyn and White Harbour. When they reached us, they knelt as well. Mors Umber slid from his horse beside me, and joined them in the snow. Beneath the flicker of torchlight and the waning winter moon, they swore, by the Old Gods and the New, that they were Stark men and would denounce all fealties to this false lord Bolton and his boy king, Tommen Lannister.
"Winterfell was mine, along with half a dozen Northern lords. Roose Bolton's forces were smashed and his kingdom was crumbling. Soon, word reached my ears that the Dreadfort itself had been sacked and Ramsay Snow found butchered by his own bride… 'Arya Wolfspawn' men were calling her now, waging a bloody trail of vengeance against the enemies of her house. I was certain she would make next for Winterfell, but instead she rode north, accompanied by her monstrous grey wolf and your beloved Mance Rayder, who seems to outwit the Stranger at every turn. Some of my own knights accosted them along the Kingsroad as they were fleeing the Night's Watch mutiny. Only one of them made it to Winterfell alive."
Stannis leaned forward to refill Jon's cup, before doing the same with his own. Jon was starting to sweat now, as the wine and warmth crept into his head. "The truth, Lord Snow," he sighed, "is that the Bolton's never had your sister in their clutches. The girl Ramsay married was an imposter, just another slice of treachery cooked up by the Lannisters. But now the true Arya Stark had returned to the North, and I meant to bring her to my side. I mustered a host of ten-thousand to retake Moat Cailin and end Lord Bolton's reign once and for all. I also deployed ships along the western coast, to throw the last of the Ironborn dregs back into the sea.
"When I arrived at Moat Cailin I found that it was already under siege by Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch. While his crannogmen pummeled Bolton with rocks and poisoned arrows from the south, my men smashed through the northern gate and stormed the fortress. Moat Cailin was taken within a day and Roose placed in a dungeon, alongside his defeated captains. The Stony Shore and Sea Dragon Point were also reclaimed and ravens soon arrived from Ser Denys Mallister proclaiming Bowen Marsh overthrown and the Night's Watch restored. I sent my fastest envoys to Castle Black, to treat with Arya Stark. She pledged me her fealty, and the allegiance of the North… on one condition."
"Which was?" Jon inquired nervously. He knew that Stannis Baratheon was not the kind of man to bend to the whims of a young girl, but surprisingly, the King seemed amused.
"She asked that I kill Roose Bolton with my own sword and place his head on a spike… for all the southern kingdoms to see. 'Arya Stark sends her regards' was the message she gave my knights, and when I whispered it in Lord Bolton's ear, he suddenly become very afraid, and then he let out a long, frenzied laugh that did not end until his head landed in the mud with a splash. He still wears that same twisted expression, peering down from the turrets of Moat Cailin. His captains swore to me that it was the only time they'd ever seen their lord smile, let alone laugh."
Jon was shaking his head, not sure whether to be amused or horrified. "Jamie Lannister sends his regards…" he whispered into his cup.
"What's that?" Stannis probed.
"Those were the words Lord Bolton left my brother with… before sliding a sword through his heart." The North Remembers. Jon's eyes rose to meet the King's. "Well, Bolton made his choice. He sided with the Lannisters. Now it seems my sister has sided with you. I pray it leads her to a happier ending."
"And whose side have you chosen, Jon Snow?" Stannis delved, fire reflecting in his cold blue eyes.
Jon's reply was instinctual. "The Night's Watch does not choose sides, your grace. We are sworn to take no part—"
"—in the wars of the Seven Kingdoms," Stannis finished irritably. "Yes, Lord Snow, you needn't prate your words at me. I've heard them enough times to recite them back to you. I also know your vows were fulfilled, the day Bowen Marsh stuck a dagger in your chest. Death has ended whatever holy pledge you made to the Night's Watch, and believing that you would stay dead, your Sworn Brothers have voted Ser Denys Mallister to be their new Lord Commander." Jon gave a heavy sigh. He'd feared as much. "Whatever you decide, Lord Snow, it is no longer of consequence to my cause. I have my Stark of Winterfell and all the strength of the North at my back. Fifteen-thousand soldiers surround this castle, and another twenty-thousand await my pleasure in the Neck. I have ships at Torrhen's Square and East-Watch, coin from the Iron Bank, and sellswords being mustered in Braavos as we speak. With the southern kingdoms falling into chaos and butchery," the King declared proudly. "I will soon be ready to reclaim my throne."
"'East Watch'," Jon repeated quietly. "Your grace," he said, looking with a jolt. "Has there been any word from Cotter Pyke?! From Hardhome?! I was planning a rescue party—"
"No," Stannis replied gruffly. "I'm afraid there's been neither sight nor sound of your doomed expedition to Hardhome. Cotter Pyke and his men are likely as dead as the wildlings they were sent to save."
A feeling of immense guilt washed over Jon. Perhaps I was never meant to be Lord Commander. Ser Mallister will do the job better than I ever could. A boldness came over him then, perhaps it was the wolfsblood in his veins. "Your grace, how many men have died for that god-forsaken throne? How much blood and tears have been spilt, I wonder. A hundred battles fought, castles destroyed, entire houses extinguished… and meanwhile, our true enemy is at the gates. "
Stannis leaned back in his chair, and pressed his palms against his face. When his hands fell away, Jon could see the exhaustion in the King's eyes. "White Walkers and Wildlings," he said with a weary smile. "Skin-changers and shadowbinding. I tell you Snow, war was simpler when I was young. My Queen tells me that the old magic is returning to the world."
Jon was confused. "Your queen?" He repeated, uncertain. "Then, Lady Selyse has returned from Castle Black unharmed?"
Stannis gave a heavy sigh that carried the weight of the world. He rose from his seat, and wandered over to the nearest fireplace, his back to Jon. "You've missed much, Jon Snow. I'd thought my lady wife might have explained some of it to you… but perhaps she thought certain truths were best left coming from me. So be it. Queen Selyse and Princess Shireen are… gone. They were murdered by that creature Bowen Marsh."
Jon could sense the sorrow in the King's voice. "Your grace… I'm so sorry.
"I was at Moat Cailin when I learned the truth. It's said Marsh grew mad with power… that he was enslaved by the will of the Others, and made sacrifices of his own men and prisoners. When I returned to Winterfell some weeks later, I found Lady Melisandre already waiting for me. She was a great comfort to me… and we were married that very night… in the Light of the Lord. It seemed the wisest choose… given…" The King's thought trailed off.
Jon did not know what to say. He saw the logic of it. Most of Stannis' men had already regarded her as their true queen. She held great sway, perhaps more than the King himself. "I… I'm sure she will give you many sons, your grace."
"Aye. A King needs an heir," he whispered to the flames. He turned his head then, meeting Jon's gaze. "I am well aware of what gathers beyond your Wall. My Queen has shown them to me in her flames… 'an ancient evil' she says, 'wrought of ice and nightmares'. Your brothers do not stand alone in the coming war. But that's also why the Seven Kingdoms must be united behind their true king, if we ever hope to defeat these… creatures." Stannis turned back to the hearth, and for a time, the room became very silent, save for the crackle of flame.
…
Jon and the King spoke at some length that night. When the first few rays of dawn came creeping into the hall, Jon rose to take his leave. As he made his way towards the rear of the hall, one final question entered his mind.
"Your grace…" he said, turning. "Theon Greyjoy. Is it true that you captured him?"
"It was true," the King replied, stepping down from his throne with a grunt. "Until I took his head off over a heart tree and watched it roll against my foot, his face still plastered with that inane grin." Stannis drew Lightbringer from its scabbard, as if to prove the point. "He may have proven a valuable hostage in keeping the Ironmen at bay, but the Northmen would never have allowed him to live. They demanded his head, in payment for the Eddard Stark's sons. They were your brothers, Lord Snow; I assume you'd have done the same."
"Yes," Jon nodded slowly, trying to picture his little brothers' faces, sweet Bran and wild Rickon. When he realised he couldn't, he felt his wounds sting again. "I only wished he'd suffered more," he heard his voice echo down the hall.
"He did," Stannis replied bluntly. "Ramsay Snow turned him into a quivering slave, more dog than man. In the end, Lord Snow, he begged for death. The Northmen thought of it as vengeance, but I could see in the boy's eyes it was a mercy. His rebel sister was spared though. You may have seen in her in dungeons." Stannis followed Jon as he made his way to the doorway. "It was strange though. As his blood poured out into the roots of the tree, all of our ravens took flight and began screaming 'King! King! King!' My God is R'hllor, Jon Snow, but I will not deny your Old Gods have power in these lands."
Jon bowed at last, exiting the great hall. The cold dawn air rushed against red face, running down his spine like a razor. He shivered and pulled his cloak tight over his shoulders.
As he walked through the inner yard, he watched Stannis' knights emerging from their quarters. Some nodded at him discerningly, while others merely stared, and whispered as he passed. Jon reflected on what he and Stannis had discussed. It was a lot to take in.
Walking back along the parapets towards his father's study, Jon heard something from outside the walls. The men in the camps were making noise, and when he gazed down at them, he realised they were speaking to him. "STARK!" they were calling, in the tongues of bears and giants, and mermen and moose. They were many voices at first, but quickly bled into one. "STARK! …STARK! …STARK! …STARK!"
There was a raven cawing in the distance, and for some reason, Jon thought of his father's Weirwood tree. I need to visit the Godswood, he realised. I need to speak to the Old Gods.