CHAPTER 7
Jon at Eastwatch
Jon Snow peered through his cabin window, and watched the lime-stone towers of Eastwatch rise from the sea. Thick clouds choked the pale sky, and biting winds howled through their haggard sails. But thus far, they had eluded the winter storms. The Red God was appeased, he mused. Though at what cost…?
"We made it," Jon murmured, his eyes still fixed on the castle, as though it might vanish if he dared look away.
"Of course," Melisandre's sultry voice replied. "R'hllor shines his light on those who pay him homage." The Red Queen stirred behind him, her lithe silhouette shifting across the cabin walls. "I cannot speak for our voyage beyond the Wall, though. For that is the realm of the Great Other, whose power grows with each passing moon."
Nervous, Jon fingered the peeling yellow paint along the windowsill. This is getting too risky, a voice fretted in his head. As the pleasure of their moonlit frolic faded, the guilt returned, like a vagrant dog, lurking on the edges of his conscience. "Your grace… this is the eighth night in a row you've spent in my cabin."
"It is," she purred.
"Well? What have you been telling your men about our little midnight meetings?"
"The truth," she declared in a throaty laugh. "That you have accepted R'hllor into your heart. And that I am instructing you in the ways of light and flame."
Among other things, the voice chimed again. "But it's wrong," he muttered. "Stannis trusts me. How can I betray him like this? How can you?"
Her tone grew defensive now. "I have done all I can to restore Stannis Baratheon to power. He has come a long way since his defeat on the Blackwater, and in uniting the North, has played a vital role in the coming war… But I see now that he is not the Lord's Chosen… You are, and I must do all I can to aide you in your sacred mission."
"Including taking me into your bed?"
"If you so desire." Jon winced at that. Sensing his discomfort, she continued, "My lord, you must set aside such hesitations. You are a Prince of Fire, a Warrior of Light. Stannis should be bowing to you… Do not forget the trappings of power. The Great Other preys upon such frailties of the spirit."
"The Great Other," Jon repeated. He turned his head to look at her. The Queen was coiled beneath white silk sheets, her long, red hair tangled across naked shoulders. Beads of sweat still clung to her flushed chest. "And is that what I saw in the flames that night… that great serpent, with scales of hoarfrost, and wings that blackened the earth?"
Her expression was difficult to read, yet Jon glimpsed uneasiness in her eyes. For all the fervour she lavished upon R'hllor, Melisandre seemed strangely guarded about discussing the enemy. "I had assumed you were loath to speak of that vision. You haven't mentioned it since the night we left Karhold."
Since the night we first made love, Jon reflected pensively. "Do you know what it was or not?" His gaze returned to the white-capped horizon outside his window.
Silence descended over the cabin, and for a while, all Jon could hear was the distant crashes of waves against the bough. "There are stories of such a beast," she began in a hushed tone. "The sacred scrolls speak of a white serpent, far older and mightier than any Valyrian dragon, but rather than fire… it breathed ice.
"Some have dedicated their lives to studying the nature of the enemy, though it is rarely spoken of outside the sanctuary of our temples." She was beginning to shiver. Jon closed the window, pulled a lantern from his desk, and sat down beside her on the bed. Somehow, he always felt warmer in her presence. "It's alright," he said, wrapping his arm around her. "Go on."
She nodded, her gaze distracted by the flickering flame. Fire always seemed to embolden her. "'Soul-eater' the old Ghiscari tapestries named him, for his coming heralded the blackest winter in over a thousand years."
"You speak of the Long Night?" Jon probed.
"That is what you Westerosi call it," she replied, touching the red ruby at her throat. "That was the first time they appeared. They marched from the Far North, and fell hard upon the ancient tribes, shattering their bronze shields beneath spears of ice."
"You mean the Others?" Jon breathed, but she didn't seem to hear him.
"One by one, towns and castles of the First Men were sacked, and their dead turned into walking slaves. As the enemy journeyed south, the dread beast flew above them. He darkened the skies to give them passage and froze the rivers and seas. Cold death rained down from above, and whole generations were born and died in darkness. Each man would pray for a dawn that would never come, for the Old Gods were too weak." Melisandre's eyes were flickering red now, but she continued all the same, as if in a trance.
"The ice dragon lead his host to every corner of the earth, and he was feared and despised by all, for he would delight in feeding on the bodies of young maidens and children. It is said his breath was so cold it would freeze the blood of men where they stood, and entire armies were reduced to hordes of glass statues locked in combat… monuments to the dragon's cruelty.
"The blood of men began to dwindle, and soon kings and peasants alike were forced to hide in caves and swamps and beneath hills. But then, when all hope seemed lost, when the fires of humanity had almost been extinguished forever, the Lord of Light sent forth his champion.
"With Lightbringer in hand, Azor Ahai rallied the kingdoms of men and lead a great charge against the Others. He drove them back across the Narrow Sea and into the frozen north from whence they came. With his five most fierce captains, Azor ascended the Mountains of Wyrm to challenge the ice dragon in his own nest. Their battle was bloody and bitter, and all but Azor himself was slain by the beast. But after forty days and forty nights of combat, Azor thrust Lightbringer into the monster's heart, and cast him down from his bloodstained perch. The earth erupted where the beast of winter fell, forming a huge crevasse. Azor tore down the Mountains of Wyrm to fill in the hole, and built a great castle atop the grave, to seal the beast away forever."
Jon's eyes widened. "Where the beast of winter fell…" he repeated.
Melisandre blinked and turned to Jon, as if seeing him for the first time. She took his hands in hers and pulled him closer. Jon looked into her glowing eyes, half afraid, half in wonder. "But now the dread beast's chains have been broken. The Others have awoken in the North, the old magic has returned to the world, and the kingdoms of men are consumed by hatred and decay. These things are all connected."
The cold winds are rising. Now it was Jon who shivered. "So this thing, this beast I saw in the flames. He is the Great Other you speak of? The White God?"
Melisandre shook her head. "The gods of ice and fire are not of this world, Jon Snow. Rather, this monster serves as the White God's champion, his instrument in the everlasting war… as you are to the Red God."
"Does this dragon have a name?"
"It cannot be spoken."
"Tell me."
"I can't."
Jon stared at her. "If I am what you say, then I ought to know my enemy's name."
Her eyes were wide with fear. "Khu'raak," she whispered eventually. At that moment, the window sprang back open, and a gust of icy wind howled through the cabin, sending Jon's charts across the floor.
"Khu'raak," Jon repeated, and gripped her tight. "What does it mean?"
"The word is Old Ashai'in, a language long dead. It is difficult to translate into the common tongue, but my master, Priest Thin'ell, described it as… "the shadow that blots out the sun".
"And Lightbringer will destroy it?"
"It must… or the night will never end."
…
As their haggard vessels pulled into port, it became clear that something was very wrong. Nobody was there to greet them, not even a steward or maester. The docks were slick with frozen brine, and one of the old watchtowers had collapsed into the tide. The windows of Eastwatch seemed dark and empty, and mounds of snow had built up along the posterns, as though no one had used them in months.
Gods beneath, Jon thought. Are we too late? Have the Others already come to claim their prize? There were no signs of battle. Only neglect.
"W-Where is everyone?" Devan muttered. The rest of the crew were deathly silent.
"Lady Asha," Jon called. "We'll drop anchor here, and row the rest of the way."
"Aye, my lord," she muttered, shooting him a poisonous glare.
"This may be a trap. I'll take thirty men ashore to investigate. The rest of you will stay on deck. I want archers covering us from the galleys." He turned and spotted Queen Melisandre. Her red eyes were upon him. Is this what she expected? Is this what she saw in the flames? "Your grace, I must insist you return to your cabin."
"Cabin! Cabin!" Mormont's raven shrieked from one of the sails.
Melisandre nodded and made her way below deck. You cannot trust her, a voice in Jon's head murmured.
Jon's arms were sore by the time their rowboats found land. He and his men climbed out and made their way cautiously to the castle gates. The Wall loomed high above them, a great grey curtain of ice and stone. To some men it might inspire fear, but for Jon, it felt like home.
West of the castle, crows—the feathered kind—were gathered around a small black mound. As they got closer, Jon saw that it was dead bodies, piled and burned. Perhaps their cremation was a measure against Wights, but it seemed to Jon that something more sinister was going on.
Even after they'd shovelled the snow from around the castle gates, the iron doors still would not budge. The hinges and arches were frozen shut. So while Garett and Ser Ormund pushed and kicked, Jon traced the outline of the entrance with a torch. After a few minutes they heard a sickening crunch, and the doors of Eastwatch scraped forwards.
Jon led them slowly into castle's interior. It was dark, and there was a stale smell in the air. Their torchlight splashed against the narrow stone hallways, throwing strange shapes across their path. Jon thought he saw blood spattered on the walls, but it was only mould. They trod lightly, their ears strained for any sounds or signs of movement.
Jon gripped the hilt of Longclaw, loosened it from its scabbard. He was about to draw it when the narrow corridor widened: the castle's vast dining hall suddenly appeared before them.
As still and empty as the room was now, it was clear that a struggle had occurred, though how much time had passed between then and now was anyone's guess. The overturned tables and chairs had cobwebs strung from them, and the ruffled carpets were coated in dust. Half the shields that had adorned the walls had been toppled.
Jon bent over, and picked up a shield with the faded sigil of House Stark. "Garett, take four men and see if there is anyone alive in the dungeons. Hullard, see if you can find some food in the kitchens or larders. The rest of you, follow Ser Ormund into the wormways and check if the main gate is still intact. Go quietly, and do not engage with any intruders. Report to me in the rookery with your findings." The men nodded,and proceeded quickly. Devan had made to follow Ser Ormund, when Jon grabbed his arm. "You're with me, squire."
The closer they got to the rookery, the worse the smell became. As Jon swung upon the door, the thick aroma of death and decay washed over them. Devan bent over retching, while Jon pressed ahead. Inside, a dozen ravens lay dead in their cages. Fat white maggots were visible beneath their greasy black feathers. Dried blood spattered some of the pens, where the birds had obviously struggled to get out.
"W-what happened," Devan trembled, wiping some sick from his mouth.
"They haven't been fed," Jon replied, pulling a sheet over some of the cages. "And they couldn't get out to find—"
"Corn!" an angry voice shrieked. A small grey raven burst from the corner of the room, and circled Jon twice, before landing on the frost-covered windowsill. "Corn! Corn!"
"A survivor!" Devan exclaimed, smiling meekly. "He must have chewed through his cage?"
Jon shook his head. "No. This one is from the Shadow Tower. Look, there's a message attached to its leg. Fetch it a cup of grain from that chest and bring me the letter."
Devan obeyed diligently, while Jon covered the rest of the cages. After handing Jon the note, Devan closed the shutters and set about building a fire in the maester's hearth. Jon unfurled the note and took a seat at the maester's desk, while the grey raven buried its hungry beak into some oats.
"It's from Ser Denys." Jon began to read silently, as the room grew orange with the crackle of flame.
Lord Snow
I was surprised to hear you were still alive, but pleased all the same. We need every man we can muster, and you have proven yourself an able battle commander. As I'm sure you know by now, the Wall from Oakenshield to Queensgate has been shattered, and Castle Black is lost. A great host of dead things has poured through the cracks. They marched south-west, to Hurrik's Perch, where your lady sister and her wildling host is gathered. A great battle is being fought there as I write. For the past seven nights, fires have burned in the mountains from dusk til dawn. King Stannis is sending auxiliary forces to attack their eastern flank, and I have deployed fifty men-on-horses to harass their rear with fire and steel. With any luck, their ranks will become tangled in the mountains, and we will close in on them from all sides.
But one battle does not win the war, as I'm sure you know, Lord Snow. The Wall must be held and its damage repaired as soon as possible. King Stannis writes that he has sent four scores of masons and builders with you. Keep them safe and well-fed, and I will inform you of when it is safe to begin constructing a temporary barrier over the ruins of Castle Black. I haven't received word from Eastwatch in months, so I cannot speak to its current condition or assembly. I doubt either is very strong. Your orders are to re-garrison the castle and to hold it against any attacks from the eastern coast.
Signed, Ser Denys Mallister, 999th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch
My orders, Jon thought bitterly. The date at the bottom of the letter was from two weeks ago. Who knows if Mallister is even still alive? Or Arya? He screwed up the letter, and cast it into the fireplace. You are sworn to the Night's Watch, a voice whispered, but then he remembered how Bowen Marsh's cold blade felt as it slid inside him. I am sworn to no one. He watched the parchment curl and blacken.
Jon turned and saw Devan's eyes were wide with anticipation. He seemed about to say something, when he noticed Jon's expression.
"The battle in the western hills has started," Jon muttered. "Ser Denys seems confident."
Footsteps echoed up the stairway. "Please!" an unfamiliar voice was crying. "Please, I had to… I had to…"
Hullard barged into the room, dragging an old man in filthy, grey robes. "Lord Snow," he declared. "We found this one in the dungeons. There was a dead boy in there with him. He was… Well, my lord, his legs had been eaten."
"I had no choice," the man spluttered. "They left me nothing to eat. I would have starved!" There were tears running down his sunken face. He is skin and bone, Jon thought. "I'm sorry, Lord Snow. I didn't want to, but… He was already dead!"
"Who are you?" Jon asked calmly.
"I'm Maester Samson," the old man said, wiping his tears.
"And what happened here, maester."
"Mutiny, my lord. After Castle Black fell, some of the men wanted to desert, to take the Watch's last two ships and sail to Braavos… The other men called them cravens and oath-breakers. So that evening, the cravens attacked them in the dining hall with swords and knives." The maester was shaking his head and Jon helped him into a chair. "They killed them all! They would have killed me and my steward too, but their leader said 'no'. He made us drag the bodies outside to be burned. Then he locked us in the dungeons with no food or water. Digham, his name was. I'll never forget the way he smiled at me as he walked up those stairs. It would have been kinder to kill us…
"Me and my steward, we had to drink our own piss to survive. He died before me. What kind of gods would kill the young and leave the old to linger…?" The old man looked up at Jon, his eyes pleading for an answer. "I starved as long as I could… until I couldn't any longer. I confess it: I ate the boy's legs. I tore the flesh from his bones with my teeth… like an animal… I wept afterwards and prayed for forgiveness, not that there were any gods to hear me." His expression hardened. "This never would have happened if Cotter Pyke were still here… He'd have hanged Digham from the Wall and let the crows feast on his smiling lips."
A heavy silence had fallen over the room. Devan was staring at his feet, while Hullard fingered the hilt of his axe. The maester cowered beneath Jon's shadow like cornered dog. "You have committed a terrible crime," Jon said after a while. "Most would say death was the more honourable choice. If King Stannis was here he would burn you alive." The maester nodded in defeat. My father would have taken your head. "But I am in charge now, which means your life belongs to me. Therefore, you shall absolve your crimes by serving me and me alone."
Maester Samson looked up at Jon. "I will Lord Commander. My life is yours."
"Good. Hullard, find this man some fresh clothes, and see if Garrett has something for him to eat. After that, take the boy's body outside and burn it with the others."
"Yes, my lord," Hullard mumbled, still staring at the floor. He helped the maester to his feet and led him to the stairwell.
"And Hullard."
"Yes, my lord?"
"See that this grisly tale is not told again... or else I'll know the one who told it."
"Yes, my lord."
When they had left the room, Devan turned awkwardly and began jabbing at the hearth with a poker. Jon watched the flames curl and crackle. The darkness is gathering, Jon realised. Men are but embers against this storm.
But I will not be so easily snuffed out, he swore. No more waiting on parapets and hiding behind walls. It is time to make our move against the enemy. Ser Denys can wield the shield. I will swing the sword.
Jon followed Ser Ormund through the winding tunnels beneath Eastwatch, towards the main gate of the Wall. When Jon asked what he had found, the old knights replied simply that he'd "better come and see it for himself".
No intruders had been discovered in the castle thus far. The deserters had ransacked the kitchens, but thankfully the storerooms remained unmolested. Garrett and Hullard managed to break the locks with axes, and—to Jon's relief—discovered enough grain and rations to last the next three years. We will not starve, at least, Jon thought.
They came at last to the main gate, and Jon saw that it was still standing. However, through its cold, iron bars, he glimpsed movement. Tall hairy figures could be seen through the howling frost and great grey beasts. "Giants and mammoths!" Ser Ormund blurted out at last. "And wildlings, lord save us. More than three times our numbers."
"Thank R'hllor the gates have held this long," one of Ormund's men remarked. "Else they'd have ambushed us at port and strewn our guts among their devil trees."
Southron fool, Jon almost replied. "These are Free Folk," he said instead. "And by the looks of it, they can barely stand, let alone wield a blade.
"Look," Devan said. "Some of the mammoths have already died."
Jon nodded. "I knew Cotter Pyke had started settling refugees in the eastern Gift. This must have been the unlucky mob who arrived after Digham and his lot deserted the castle."
By now, some of the wildlings had realised they were being watched. "Water!" a woman shrieked. "Damn you crows, we need water." They began to rise, one by one—those that could rise—and stagger towards the gates. "Our little ones are dying of thirst. And this seawater is poison."
"We were promised safe passage," an old man cried. "The King Crow gave his word. We were to go south, in exchange for our treasures." They began to crowd against the gate, pushing their faces and frostbitten hands through the bars.
"Lying crow bastards!" a young boy squealed. "Let us in!" Suddenly there were a hundred bony arms flailing towards them.
Are they reaching for our mercy or for our blood? Jon thought. Both, it would seem. He wondered if Maester Samson mightn't be the only survivor here who had tasted the meat of men. Some of the wildlings were spitting, and screaming insults and threats. As the icy bars begun to shudder and creak, everyone but Jon took a step backwards. Ser Ormund drew his sword.
This could get ugly, Jon realised. "The King Crow was killed," he called back at them, trying to sound calm. "He was pecked to death by his faithless brothers." He stepped forward, to show them that he was not afraid. "But he has risen again, like a dragon from the flames." Jon could taste their anger, but he would not turn away.
"Lord Snow?" a familiar voice cut through the rabble. A wide-eyed man in a black cloak was pushing his way through the crowd. "Lord Snow… I… It's me, Leathers."
"Leathers," Jon gasped. Leathers had been one of two wildlings to join the Watch. His face was much thinner than Jon had remembered. "I thought you would have fled south with Tormund."
"No, my lord… I…" the wildling brother's mouth hung agape. "Forgive me, Lord Snow, but you were dead… I saw you… I wasn't there when they stabbed you, but I saw your body in the yard. The Black Brothers and Tormund's kin were fighting all around… but you just lay there in a pool of red snow." The other wildlings had begun to quiet down and back away slowly from the gates. "How?" Leathers breathed. The word was a puff of white air that drifted between the bars.
Jon moved closer. "It's… It's a long story. I'm not a wight though, if that's what you're thinking. Just a warg."
Leathers stared back at Jon, long and hard. "No," he said after a moment, a faint grin creeping across his haggard face. "It's you, Lord Snow… in the flesh." The two brothers reached through the gate, and grasped each others' forearm.
"Leathers, tell me what happened? I've been in Winterfell with King Stannis. I've only just now gotten back to the Wall."
Leathers nodded and gestured to his shivering kin. "We're starving is what happened. I fled here from Castle Black after Marsh seized the castle. Val and I took the child hostages with us, and hundreds more joined us on our flight east."
"The children," Jon muttered. "Gods, I'd completely forgotten." Behind Leathers he spied at least three dozen of the child wards they'd collected from Tormund's host, keepsakes against any wildling mischief south of the Wall. "Did you lose many… many…"
The look of grief on Leathers' face was answer enough. "Forgive me, m'lord. I'll tell you anything you want, but we need to get out of this cold. We need to eat. Some of these won't last the night."
"Of course. I'm so sorry, Leathers. I had no idea. Ser Ormund, have your men raise the gate." Ser Ormund raised an eyebrow instead.
"And let this lot in," a Baratheon soldier scoffed. "Not bloody likely, Snow."
Jon turned to see the same southron fool from earlier, smirking beneath a mob of chestnut hair. Better to be hated and obeyed, than loved and betrayed. Jon moved to face the lad, letting the air fill with silence. "Lord Snow," he replied coldly. "And if you open your mouth once more I'll have you clapped in chains and thrown into the Shivering Sea." The soldier's eyes widened and he made to say something, but held his tongue when he saw Jon's expression.
"Aye," Ser Ormund added quickly. "We've got no use for soldiers who talk back." He turned back to the gates. "Leathers, was it? Can you assure us they'll be no trouble from your people?"
"Yes, ser," Leathers shivered. "Most can barely walk. The rest will name their sons after you just for giving them a bite of food."
"Very well," Ser Ormund nodded. "Raise the gate!"
The wildings that trudged through the wormways of Eastwatch were a sad, defeated mob. Their faces were sullen and hollowed out from hunger, and their flesh had grown pale and loose across the bones beneath. Some looked up and nodded to Jon in thanks. Others scowled at him in defiance. But most cast their gaze downwards, concentrating on keepingone foot in front of the other. Many had to be carried into the castle. And more still had died in the previous night or were so close to death that they were given the gift of mercy. The corpses were dragged into a pile and burned beneath the shadow of the Haunted Forest.
Jon had Hullard thaw some bread from the storeroom and cook up a large pot of spiced pumpkin soup. The giants and mammoths were unable to fit beneath Eastwatch's crumbling gate, so they brought out some bushels of apples and turnips for them to eat, as well as a trough of water and some skins of wine. While the wildlings were given fresh cloaks and basins to wash themselves, Jon began unloading some of the men and supplies from their ships. Once the dining room was swept and restored to a reasonable level of habitation, Queen Melisandre and her royal guards were escorted into the castle.
Jon sat himself at the knight's table and made a place for Leathers on his left and Ser Ormund on his right, as a sign of unity. Melisandre and her retinue were served at the King's table, closest to the fire. As the Baratheon men filed in to the hall, they quickly found a seat and began wolfing down the food that had been laid out for them. The wildlings were more tentative. They crept in one by one, freshly bathed, eying the bowls of steaming orange broth with a mixture of longing and caution.
Jon stood up and gestured them forward. "Please, come in and have a seat. Hullard has prepared some soup and warm bread. Don't be afraid, the free folk are most welcome here."
"Lord Snow, speaks true," Leathers echoed. "Make yourselves comfortable by the fire. I know you are all very tired and hungry, but the nightmare is over."
"The nightmare's only just started," an old man scoffed. "You crows'll learn that soon enough." But gradually the wildlings took their seats and began to eat. As the flickering hearth painted their shadows upon the walls, some colour began to return to their gaunt cheeks.
"How many are there?" Jon asked Leathers after a time.
"Two hundred," Leather replied, quaffing some ale from a mug. "Maybe three."
"And how many can still fight?"
"Fight? Gods, maybe fifty or so. Seventy if you include Black Maris and her spearwives. And six of the giants are still strong. They fare better during the winter than men."
Jon's eyes scanned the smokey hall, but there was no sign of her. "And Val?" he breathed. "Did she…?"
Leathers wiped some orange broth from his chin. The look of sadness that passed across his eyes told Jon everything. "She… She helped me get the little ones out of harm's way… during the mutiny…" He paused and seemed reticent to continue.
"Tell me everything," Jon probed. He had meant to sound concerned, but it came out like an order.
Leathers nodded. "While Tormund and his kin were fighting crows in the yard, I found her on the walkway, clutching a knife stained with crow's blood. She was weeping when she told me what had happened… what Marsh had done to you. I helped her back to Flint's Barracks, where the children hostages were hiding.
"She guarded their rooms while Jax and I returned to the yard with steel in hand. But by then the free folk were breaking rank and fleeing through the southern gate. A fire raged over the rookery and dead bodies littered the ramparts. With the tide of battle turning in Marsh's favour, we fell back to the barracks and started escorting children into the tunnels, out of harm's way. We figured the crows would be too distracted chasing Tormund to look north." Jon nodded, his heart breaking at the thought of all those children wandering the Haunted Forest.
"Anyways," Leathers continued, "once we were on the far side of the Wall, we fled east… away from the carnage. We followed the Wall for weeks and weeks, moving beneath the trees to hide from Marsh's patrols. We found hundreds of dead free folk in the forest, as well as those so close to death it was no use helping 'em. We burned every corpse we found and made a ring of flame wherever we set camp… But the winds were so cold they gnawed at our flesh and chewed our fires to nothing. When the darkness fell and the northern winds rose, that's when they would come: the blue-eyed corpses and their shiny masters. They never came in force, thank the gods. Likely they thought us too meek an opponent. But we lost almost a dozen children. They weren't killed, mind. They just vanished in the night, with nary a cry nor whimper to note their passing. Just gone... like mist." Leathers' expression was thick with grief. "That's what hurt Val the most. She would go off searching for them… and sometimes come back with blood on her clothes. And then one day she just never came back at all." Leathers spat at his foot, but Jon could see the tears forming in his eyes.
"She might still be alive," Jon lied. "She knows those lands well. There are places to hide, underground caves and hollows."
"Might be," Leathers grunted. "Black Maris and her spearwives joined us outside of Long Barrow, and after that the Wights seemed to keep their distance. We smelt the sea before we saw it and found hundreds more wildlings waiting for us outside the gates of Eastwatch. They had giants, mammoths, and cattle with them—a lot more than you saw today. The gates were closed to us though, and the castle was an empty nest. We tried to ram the gates open with mounted tree trunks, but they wouldn't budge. We tried rafting around the bay, but the water was too choppy. A grown man would die within minutes of touching that icewater, let alone a starving child. So we sat on our arses, and waited, and netted what little fish we could, and ate from the livestock we had herded… and then the mammoths as they died one by one. The cold kept the meat fresh at least. More free folk joined us every day… fleeing the walkers, fleeing the attacks on the Wall. A score or two even made it all the way from Hardhome. They tell me it's bad up there. Very bad. I've heard stories of that place that would make your blood freeze blue." There was laughter heard from one of the tables, and Jon glanced over to see a wildling woman balancing a spoon on her nose, while some soldiers clapped her on.
"My blood runs black, Leathers, same as yours. And nothing has changed between then and now. I still mean to make for Hardhome." Jon took a sip of wine and let that sentence hang in the air for a moment.
"My lord, that… I would… No one admires your efforts to save the free folk more than me, but Hardhome is… it's lost, along with all those poor fools who sought refuge within it. The lands beyond the Wall are no longer a place for living things… They belong to the Others now."
"You would have me stay at Eastwatch," Jon inquired, "and guard the Wall?"
"I would not presume to council you, my lord."
"I am asking."
"Then yes, Lord Snow. The Wall is our best hope against those… those things. We are men of the Night's Watch. We said the words."
"Aye," Jon nodded slowly. "We did… Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death." Leathers' gaze lowered grimly to the half-empty bowl before him. "The war has started," Jon continued, taking another sip of wine. "The true war, Leathers. The only war that matters. It started the day Bowen Marsh shoved a knife through my chest and declared himself the Night's King reborn. Wildling and crow, Stark and Baratheon—none of it matters anymore. We either fight as one people, or die apart.
"Night's King…?" Leathers breathed. "Gods beneath."
"Much and more has transpired since then," Jon forged ahead. "Castle Black has fallen to our foe, and the Wall stands agape. The Others now march in force across the realm. Mance Rayder and my sister have met them in battle along the western hills. Last Hearth and Karhold guard the Kingsroad and the south-west passage, whilst Lord Mallister defends the gorge and the Bridge of Skulls. And King Stannis holds Winterfell and is co-coordinating our main force. He has tasked me with re-garrisoning Eastwatch, and that's what I mean to do…
"But there is only so long we can wait within our castles… and hide behind our walls. Eventually, we will have to make an offensive move against the enemy. Queen Melisandre believes that Hardhome is strategically important, and I am inclined to agree." He left out the part about Lightbringer. "Once Eastwatch is settled, I mean to take Seawolf and a hundred men, sail up the Bay of Seals, and reclaim the city in the name of King Stannis and the Night's Watch. With the main host of the Others marching on Hurrik's Perch, the ruins of Hardhome can be fortified and rebuilt into a base of operations behind enemy lines." Jon could feel his wolfblood rising as he finally gave voice to the plans he had been formulating these past weeks. He knew others in the room had begun to eavesdrop, but he kept going.
"Hardhome is the key, Leathers. It will be our foothold beyond the Wall—a spear-point that I can wield against the enemy in his own realm—and a safe haven for any free folk still alive in the wilderness."
"Aye, you mean to take the fight to them." Leathers had begun to nod, and his eyes were ablaze with the flickering hearth light. "You do not lack for boldness, Lord Snow. I can see what Mance and Tormund saw in you."
"I'll need the free folk on my side. The giants too. Are you with me, Leathers?"
"Always, Lord Commander. What would you have of me?"
"The giants will be of great worth to me at Hardhome. The mammoths too. But I can't carry them by ship. I want you to take every wildling man and spearwife of fighting strength, and make your way by land to Hardhome, collecting any survivors in the Haunted Forest as you go. I will give you plenty of food and livestock to ration as you see fit, though it would be my preference that some was saved for Hardhome itself. I realise it will be a dangerous trek, but if you stick to the eastern coast, in view of Seawolf, you might just allude the Wights altogether. As I said, their main strength is now concentrated in the south-west.
"Those free folk who cannot fight—the sick and wounded, the children and elderly—I will shelter here at Eastwatch, under the protection of Ser Ormund, and provide them with food and medical treatment. As they recover, however, they will be assigned duties for the defence and upkeep of the castle."
Leathers thought for a moment, before draining the last of his mug. "I like this plan, my lord. I will fight for you."
"But will your kin? Will Black Maris and her spearwives?" Jon saw Maris eying him from the far side of the hall. She was a large middle-aged woman with tangled black hair and a deepset scar where her left ear had once been. She scowled and whispered something to a younger woman in rusted armour beside her.
"They will," Leathers replied. "They hate the crows, but they hate the Others more. And they have at least a grudging respect for you, Lord Snow… though they would never admit it to your face."
"Good." Jon rose, threw back the last of his wine and patted Leathers on the back. "I want to be ready to leave by week's end."
As he made his way out of the hall to relieve himself, Jon caught the red flash of Mel's eyes. She was smiling at him, and for the first time since Arya's letter, Jon felt a glint of hope.