CHAPTER 8

Jon Beyond the Wall

She was calling to him in a frantic, frightened voice—"Jon… Where are you…? Jon, I can't see…" He was running through the Godswood, feeling the dry leaves crunch beneath his feet.

"I'm coming, Arya!" he cried back, hurrying this way and that. Eerie shadows danced across the forest floor and the vast trees seemed to sway and creak amidst a foul smelling wind. Black branches twisted together, blotting out the stars above. The trunks seemed to close inwards, obstructing Jon's path. "Arya! Keep calling my name!"

"Where are you?" his sister wept. "They're hurting me…" Sharp leaves raked Jon's skin as he pushed past them. He felt his tunic grow wet with blood. Suddenly the trees had faces, and they were smiling at him… laughing. The laughter grew and grew, swelling all around. He tried to call to his sister again, but he could not make out his own voice.

The forest was so dark now, so very dark. He tripped on a root and stumbled into a clearing. As he fell, he bit hard into his tongue and watched it splutter into the dirt in a pool of blood. He looked up and saw Ygritte. She had been nailed to the trunk of a weirwood tree. There was an arrow in each of her wrists, and one in her neck, breast, and inner thigh. Blood and tears snaked its way down her pale, naked body. She looked down at Jon and mouthed the word "why?"

It wasn't me, Jon tried to say. I would never… I loved you… But all he could do was cough up blood. A tall, slender figure was approaching them from the woods. Its footsteps were the cracking of ice. A sword seemed to scream with pain as it left its scabbard.

Somewhere in the darkness, Arya was still weeping. "He's eating me, Jon… Where are you…?"—BANG! BANG! BANG!

Jon Snow woke suddenly to a knocking at his cabin door. "Arya!" he gasped. He reached up and felt his forehead soaked with cold sweat. A dream, he realised, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

A few embers glowed in the fireplace along the far wall. Melisandre was asleep beside him. Her red hair ran down over her hips in a tangled heap. She was curled up and shivering. Jon pulled the blanket up over her bare body. I forgot to stoke the fire, he thought sleepily.

Another sharp knock landed on his door. "My lord," the Ironborn called. "You are needed."

"Coming," he grunted. The cabin was swaying violently, and Jon could hear the crack of thunder in the sky above. He rose wearily and pulled on some breeches, boots, and his black cloak. He opened the door to find Roggon Rustbeard dripping head to toe with saltwater.

"My lord!" he cried over the crash of waves. "These storms are too wild. Any further along this course and we'll be capsized." Jon closed his cabin door, following Roggon up to the deck. "All the sailors you hired out of White Harbour," he continued. "I've had them working since midnight, fighting against these northern winds—" Roggon paused as a bolt of lightning cracked against the eastern skyline. "They're all exhausted. A few more hours and they'll start dropping off the masts like flies."

"Can we move closer to the coast?" Jon asked. "Use the trees as a windbreaker?"

Roggon shook his head angrily. "No, m'lord. If we expose our bough to the wind, the currents will rip right through it, or else the waves will push us over and swallow us whole." The clouds blazed once more, shaking the ship with a violent wave that sent seawater spilling across the deck. Roggon began shouting orders, threatening to flay any man who wasn't working. The crew began feverishly scooping up the water with buckets and throwing it back into the sea.

He turned back to Jon. "In forty years I've never seen such gales. The Storm God is angry with us for giving Qarl to the fire god."

Jon bristled but held his anger in check. Now is not the time. "Can we drop anchor until it passes? Is there an island close by?"

"Aye," Roggon nodded. "The isle of Skane lies five miles north-east of here." He leaned over the edge of Seawolf and pointed at the dark blue horizon.

Jon squinted through the haze of rain and spray but couldn't see anything. "I'll take your word for it. Can we make it?"

"Aye, Lord Snow. If we adjust our course, we can be there within the hour. The waters will be shallower there, and the land should provide some refuge from the winds. My only worry is jagged rocks."

"Is there any other option?!" Jon yelled over the waves.

"None! Not in this weather, anyhow."

"Do it then! I'll send you a dozen more men from below decks if you need them. Send word when we have arrived."

"Aye, lord commander." Roggon turned back to the crew and began shouting more orders, using every fourth sentence to curse the Storm God.

Jon made his way back to his cabin, trudging through the inch of icy saltwater which had settled along the walkway. Gusts of half-frozen air roared this way and that, biting at Jon's ears like a fleet of Dornish bloodflies. Gods it is cold, he cursed, pulling his cloak up over his neck.

He stumbled back into his cabin and slammed the door shut with a sigh of relief. The room was much warmer than he remembered. He turned to find Melisandre kneeling by the fire in a red fur coat. She had lit candles all around the room and had restoked the hearth into an orange blaze. She turned to Jon with a scowl. "You almost let it burn out," she said accusingly. "That can never be allowed to happen, especially now that we are beyond the Wall."

Jon took off his cloak and sat down beside her. "I thought you never slept," he said softly. "I'm sorry." He ran the back of his hand along the curve of her neck and felt the warmth rekindling beneath her flesh. His warmth. She closed her eyes, softening at his touch. Jon slid her coat away, revealing a velvet shoulder.

"No," she said, shrugging him away. "Not now… I just…" She snatched a small vial from her sleeve, emptied a pinch of its contents into her palm and cast it into the flames. The fire grew larger, becoming laced with tongues of green and dark yellow. "My powers are diminished here." She corked the vial and disappeared it once more. "I told you, the White God holds sway over these lands and waters. My connection to R'hllor is more fragile here. His visions are more taxing and putrefied by the dark magic of the Others."

"What do you see in your flames," Jon asked, watching the firelight spread out over her supple features.

"Storms," she whispered, dread in her eyes.

Jon chuckled. "You don't need R'hllor to tell us that. You need only open your ears. The storm rages all around us, your grace." Jon edged closer, so that their knees were touching. "Roggon is mooring us by Skane until it passes."

"It will not pass," Melisandre replied quietly. "Not until a sacrifice has been offered to the Lord of Light." Jon's gaze returned to the flames. He remembered Qarl burning on the pyre outside of Karhold. He had hated himself for letting that happen… but the storm had been lifted.

"I see two great battles raging in the west," she continued. "Storms of blood and steel and bitter sleet…" She closed her eyes and leaned into the glow of the hearth, basking in its liquid heat. "A sea of dead men… pouring into the valley… scrambling up a dark stone spire. Crows fly down and peck them from the walls… but there are too many. The sea is rising - the ice demons are galloping across a bridge of sorrow, banging upon the gates of your Black Brothers…

"Then there is the battle in the mountains—savages and corpses fighting upon the side of a cliff—arrows of flame filling the sky… The snows are stained red with blood, and the torches are snuffed out one by one. A little wolf-girl is howling against the gathering dusk. And the horn, Jon Snow!—the horn that cuts through the veil of the world, pealing flesh from men and taking their bones to thrall. The war rages everywhere, in every corner of the world. Even in the south… dead men have begun to crawl out of their graves, with meat sliding from their faces. Maggots feast upon their brains, and the song of winter flows from their lips…"

The fire dimmed, and she fell back, panting. Her eyes trembled, reflecting Jon's worried expression. "I did not want you to see me like this."

"Like what?" Jon asked.

"Weak," she mumbled. "Cowed by the enemy. I feel his presence all around me, taunting me, draining my power. It is… exhausting."

"You're not alone, you know," Jon replied, taking her hands in his. "We're in this together." He rose from the floor and fetched a parcel of date loaf from his cabin pantry. He poured two glasses of wine, handed one to Melisandre, and broke off a piece of bread for her. "Here, eat something. It's no wonder you're so tired. Your body can't sustain off hymns of praise. At least not out here." She smiled and took a sip of wine. "R'hllor," Jon said, gesturing to the fire. "Did he show you Winterfell? East Watch?" Melisandre shook her head.

Jon had departed East-Watch-by-the-Sea almost four days ago, and he had worried about it every hour since. For his voyage, he'd taken one of the Manderly galleons—Seawolf—along with one-hundred soldiers, twenty sailors, eight builders, two cooks, a maester, and one of the Ironborn prisoners—Roggon Rustbeard—as captain. The rest, he left to maintain and defend Eastwatch, under the command of Ser Ormund. This included two-hundred Baratheon soldiers, and two-hundred-and-forty of the wildlings who had been discovered north of the main gates. Three of the Manderly galleons remained in Eastwatch's port, and the three remaining Ironborn prisoners—Asha, Grimtongue, and Tristifer—had been placed in the castle's dungeon. Jon had wanted to take Asha with him, given her familiarity with Seawolf, but didn't feel he could trust her after what happened with Qarl, whom Jon suspected was her lover. Despite the boy's protestations, Jon had also left his squire Devan at Eastwatch, after promoting him to first steward of the castle - though this honour mostly stemmed from his unique ability to read. Devan was a good lad, but he was also a gentle boy of gentle birth. The men he had selected to garrison Hardhome were battle-worn, and had tested their steel outside the walls of King's Landing, Deepwood Motte and Moat Cailin. Moreover, Lady Seaworth had already lost four children on the Blackwater, and a husband in the Wolf's Den. Jon had no desire to rob her of her eldest living child.

He knew some of the Baratheon men might name his expedition to Hardhome an act of defiance against Stannis, but Melisandre had spoken in the mission's favour, and so far, no displeasure had been voiced towards Jon. Though, mayhaps that was the most dangerous type of discontent – the sort left unaired. He would need to maintain an iron command over his men and heed the sage council of his queen. But most all, he would need to keep his sword-hand primed. Jon didn't think he could take another Bowen Marsh. Even now, the memory stung.

"I saw a ship though," Melisandre broke the silence. "A large galley, sailing south-east from Storrhold's Point."

Jon chuckled again. "Forgive me your grace, but I think we're the only ship foolish enough to sail into these treacherous waters."

…

The next morning, Jon climbed onto the deck of Seawolf to find the gnarled forests of Skane spread out before him. Roggon had dropped anchor some two hundred feet from the shoreline, so close that Jon could smell wet grass and leaves from across the water. A layer of frost coated the treetops, and soldier pines and heart trees could be heard thrashing amidst the winds. Ghost stirred within him. It felt good to sense land again. He was learning as much as he could of shipcraft, but in his heart, Jon had no taste for the sea. He yearned to feel the earth beneath his feet again, to hunt the forests of the night, as Ghost had, so many moons ago.

"How long until these clouds pass?" Jon called to the captain.

"Hard to sa-ay, m'lord," Roggon replied, his words slightly slurred by his morning skin of wine. "Last night's storm has pass-passed on, but the morning brought a new one. We'll be at anchor for at least a day." Jon nodded. He would have preferred to set off sooner rather than later, but Roggon could hardly control the weather.

"I have a mind to go ashore, to search for any food or freshwater the isle might hold."

"As you say m'lord." Roggon hiccupped. "I'll have the lads lower a row boat. Bring back some tim-imber, if you think of it. The second spar is in need of reinforcement."

Jon took a dozen men with him, to bridge the water between Seawolf and the shore. As he rowed, he recalled a story Old Nan had told him about Skane, about how the island was once peopled by tribes very similar to the wildling clans beyond the wall. One day, however, cannibal raiders from Skagos attacked them, carrying off their women and children, and devouring their men in a feast that lasted a fortnight. Since then, the island had remained uninhabited. Men from East Watch claimed it was haunted.

Jon had never even considered going to the Skagosi for aid. Technically speaking, they were vassals of Winterfell and could be summoned by Lady Arya or King Stannis. But there had been very little contact between the Starks and the Skaggs over the past century, and if Old Nan's tale had been true, they may not be the kind of vassals he would want serving him or his sister.

When the boat sloshed to a halt in the tide, they jumped out and dragged it the remaining distance to shore. Despite the chill, Jon slipped off a glove and pressed his hand into the half-frozen beach. He scooped up a handful of coarse sand and broken shells, and let it sift through his fingers. He closed his eyes in breathed in deep. A thousand earthy smells filled the air. The forest was calling him.

"Spread out and search the area," he commanded. "Gather up any nuts or berries you can find. Keep your eye out for game. Alyn, escort Maester Samson to search for healing plants. Jace and Lenyrd, chop down a few trees and start filling the boat with timber. We'll meet back here before noon. Roggon has the horn in case of an emergency," he gestured towards Seawolf. "Keep your ears open and don't get lost." The men nodded and set their feet to the task.

Jon ventured into the forest alone. The trees that closed in around him were old. Very old. Their thick, tangled roots broke all along the forest floor, making it very difficult to walk in a straight line. Some of the trunks had rotted out, but the vast cobweb of limbs seemed to hold the crumbling husks in place. Jon could smell no signs of life, nor sense any movement between the black branches that raked at his arms and face. Most of the island's beasts are likely holed up in caves for the winter, while all of the birds will have flown south.

He wandered for the better part of an hour, until the breaking of the tide and the chatter of his soldiers disappeared beneath a veil of deathly silence. Is this what the world is like without living things in it? Jon mused. Is that what will remain, should the Others triumph. Suddenly, Jon found himself in a large, mist-strewn clearing and stopped dead.

Standing before him, its eyes wide with sorrow, was the largest weirwood that Jon Snow had ever seen. Its root covered the earth like a nest of giant serpents, rising and falling and rising again, almost as high as Jon's chest. Its trunk was as wide and tall as a maester's rookery, rising so high that its top was swallowed by winter fog. A thousand mighty branches-each the size of a small tree-splayed out in every direction, stretching deep into the woodline at the borders of its grove. It was almost as though the entire forest sprouted from this one trunk. It was a cathedral of ancient bark, and carved upon its surface was a face of an old god as sad and lonely as any Jon had gazed upon.

The despair hit him all at once. He fell to his knees, wondering who had made such a thing and how long ago. It could have been thousands of years, before the Targaryens, before the Rhoynar, before the Andals. One of the First Men had sailed to this island during the dawn of days and knelt in this very place. "What did he pray for?" Jon wondered aloud. Jon imagined the centuries, the millennia that had passed between then and now, and how that face might have gazed at nothing, an empty island. Would Jon be the last human these wooden eyes ever saw? Would the Others triumph and bring about Age of Twilight? Would they travel to Skane and rip this tree from its roots, casting it into the Shivering Sea? Or would they never know it existed? If so, the tree would sit alone until the end of time, wondering what had become of those cunning beasts named men.

Suddenly Jon was overcome with fear and melancholy. He began to weep. His sobs filled the wide grove. To his ears they were manic, almost childlike. Jon quickly composed himself, wiping the tears from his face. When he opened his eyes, however, he saw a different face staring back at him.

Is that a horse? He wondered. It looked very much like a horse, except it was smaller and broader, and covered in a woolly main. From the centre of its head protruded a single, polished, ribbed… horn. A unicorn, Jon gasped. The creature didn't flinch, but its watery black eyes remained fixed on Jon. Jon gazed back. He wanted to call out to it, to touch it, but he was afraid it would vanish if he moved a muscle. And so they gazed at one another in still silence. The wind faded between them, and the leaves were stilled.

Just then, a horn sounded. Jon turned his head instinctively. It was coming from the beach, from Seawolf. His gaze turned back to the unicorn… but it was gone, as though it never existed.

Jon emerged from the forest to find his men climbing back onto the galleon. Sailors were drawing up the anchor. Roggon was standing in a row boat, gazing into the north with a Myrish skyglass. He turned, his face bright red from wine and chill.

"Lord Snow," he bellowed excitedly. "I spotted a ship sailing south-west. Just over the horizon. There!" Jon took the instrument and gazed into its curved glass. Sure enough, a stout blue galley was chugging along.

Melisandre was right, he realised. She saw this in her fires. Could she be right about the storms too? "Who are they?" he asked the Ironman. "Whalers from Ibben?"

"Slavers, more like."

Jon bristled. Cotter Pyke had told him slavers had plundered women and children from Hardhome. Was this the same ship? If so, Jon meant to see them answer for those crimes.

"Can you catch them?" He asked. His wolfblood had stirred and he was suddenly spoiling for a fight.

"Of course I can, boy. I am Ironborn. The sea is in my blood."

Seawolf cut lean and clear across the choppy waters of the bay, curving against wave and frozen shard. The wind shook ice from their mast and ropes, but Roggon managed to curve into it, somehow filling the sails and propelling faster towards the slaver's galley.

"Archers, at the ready," Jon roared. "Soldiers, stay hidden, but make sure you are ready to board. No one makes a move unless I give the command. Sailors to the portside. Have your ropes and hooks in hand. Cast off when we are within twenty feet and not an inch sooner."

Jon could see Roggon grinning with anticipation. This one is Ironborn to the bone. He thinks we are plundering this vessal. Mayhaps we will.

Seawolf quickly closed the gap between the two ships. Jon counted a dozen men on the rival deck. Only the gods knew how many were below, but judging by the fear in their faces as the Night's Watch sails smothered them in shadow, the slavers were outmatched.

Jon watched as they withdrew their sails, tossed an anchor into the waves and began to gather where Seawolf approached.

"Lower the anchor!" Roggon roared. Jon strode down to the lower level and towards the portside of the ship. Two Baratheon armoured soldiers were either side of him. He leaned out over the railing.

About thirty feet of freezing water separated Seawolf from this foreign vessel. He squinted through the mist to see the men on the other side. Their faces were gaunt, their expressions dour and their flesh pale as sleet. Jon noticed that beneath a blanket of snowflakes they had beards dyed with blues and purples. There was colour in their woolen cloaks as well.

"I am Jon Snow, castellan of East-Watch-by-the-Sea. Who are you men and what business have you north of the wall?"

"Forgive us, my lord," a tall, thin man called back. "We are merchants from Tyrosh. We were sailing to Ib, to trade silks and dyes for whale blubber and seal-skins." Jon did not know if the man's accent matched Tyrosh, but it certainly sounded more Free City than Westerosi. "The winter winds," he continued. "They have been savaging us for ten days. We lost course and must have drifted further north than we realised."

"These waters are subject to the Night's Watch. It is forbidden to enter them without our leave."

"We humbly beg your pardon," another man chimed in. His accent with thicker, and his mustache was pink and so long that it touched his belly. "The mists obscured our path. Much of our stock is ruined anyway. We were attempting to make the voyage home when you came across us."

"Merchants you say?" Jon probed. "So if we come aboard and look below your decks, we'll find nothing but frozen pots of dye."

"Please ser," the tall man replied. "There is no need to trouble yourselves. We would be happy to pay you ten gold dragons if you would pardon this inconvenience and point us due south."

"As men of the Night's Watch it is our duty to search this vessel for smuggled goods. If you resist or draw a weapon you will be killed. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord, but this is entirely unnecessary."

"Board them!" Jon bellowed.

The gang of shivering Tyroshi barely had a moment to withdraw from the edge of the ship before roped hooks began sprouting from the wood. Roggon was the first on board, quickly taking charge and herding them into the centre of the deck with a barrage of curses and threats. Jon followed close behind, though he was cautious as he crossed the rope ladder. One false move and he would plunge into the Shivering Sea below, where an agonizing death awaited.

As promised, they found crates of dyes and reams of silk below decks, along with an assortment of rubies and gems that the tall man had neglected to disclose.

"Did you trade the wildling for these?" Jon demanded.

"No ser, I swear it," the thin man retorted in increasingly higher tones. "This is currency from Tyrosh. We brought it to trade with the Ibenese, or any other seafolk along the coasts whose wares or board we fancied."

"What's in here then?" a Baratheon soldier said gruffly. Jon wandered over to where a crate had been heaved aside. Beneath it was a large trap door bolted shut with iron.

"Open it," Jon ordered.

"This is all a misunderstanding," the pink-beard man kept insisting.

Jon was losing patience. "Open it now or I'll pick the lock with your jaw bone."

The thin man quickly produced a key from his sleeve and opened the lock with a rusted click. As Roggon heaved the door open, the smell of human misery and suffering wafted from below. Jon could also make out the sound of muffled tears. He grabbed the Tyroshi by the scruff of the neck and heaved him down the stairs with a yelp.

Jon then snatched a torch from a nearby soldier and stomped after him. In the bowels of the ship they found over a hundred wildlings. There were men, women and children, all packed together – filthy, frightened and smothered with chains.

"They are only savages," Jon heard someone say. He turned to find the pink-bearded man climbing down the damp wooden steps. "Forgive our deception, Lord Snow, but poor wretches such as these are hardly worth noting on a manifest. It was true what Rolland said about trading with the Ibenese. That was our intent, but these ungodly storms sent us astray. We were on our way home... but the thought of returning empty-handed was utterly intolerable."

"So you helped yourself to some human lives?" Jon finished.

He felt the Tyroshi's hand rest on his shoulder. "They won't fetch much in the markets. Wildings are notoriously difficult to train. But the men should prove good sport in the fighting pits, and the women... well, the winesots of Volantis and Astapor have never been all that picky."

Jon shrugged the man's hand away in disgust and ventured into the crowd. One man with red hair and bulging muscles had been fastened to the floor by his neck. His back with purple with bruises. He must have put up quite a fight, Jon thought. Even now he pulled and wrenched at the iron restraints . A women not much older than Jon clutched a boy and girl to her chest. They cowered their head in fear as Jon's shadow loomed over them.

"I'm from the Night's Watch. You're safe now." The woman looked up angrily and spat at his feet.

"Come now, Lord Snow," the Tyroshi hissed. "When we found them they were near death and begged for passage across the sea. We are holding up our end."

"Slavery is outlawed in the Seven Kingdoms," Jon fumed. "The punishment is death."

"But we are not in the Seven Kingdoms, are we?" was the man's retort. "What can you and your crows offer them, except more cold and death. At least in Essos they have a chance. If they learn to take a command, some of these men may even serve as laborers. And there's a few comely women amongst the drek." He motioned to the woman and her children. "A good scrub, a little perfume, a firm hand, and this one could fit right in at the pleasure houses of Lys."

He grinned a slimy grin. "You don't fool me, my lord. You are a man of the Night's Watch. Don't tell me you haven't tasted the fruits of the wild." He laughed.

The wolfblood surged within Jon, and everything went black.

Before he knew it, Roggon and another soldier were dragging him to one side of the room. The wildlings were hurrying away, and Jon caught expressions of shock and fear in the swinging torchlight. Someone was screaming.

He looked down at his hands to find them bruised and bloody. A few feet in front of him lay the pink-haired Tyroshi. His face had been reduced to a red ruin and his hand has switching against the wooden decks.

"Get these people some food from the Tyroshi's stores," Jon managed to puff. "And have Maester Samson see to their wounds."

"And the slavers?" Melisandre asked. He turned his head to see her at the foot of the stairs, impassibly lovely, even in this wretched place. "What is to be done with them?" He eyes flashed dark red.

"Build them a raft." Jon ordered.

The raft was assembled from the shelves of the Tyroshi's storeroom, and bound together with their precious silk. Jon had the remaining slavers tossed onto the raft and doused in lantern oil. He could faintly make out their cries for mercy as he kicked the raft into the waves. "Fire or ice," was all he said to them. "The choose is yours."

When they were far enough away, he notched a bow, lit it, and loosed it at the raft. The arrow landed, and the raft bloomed like an orange rose. Their screams of torment pierced the icy wind. But not one of them jumped into the sea. Fire was a kinder fate than having your lungs fill with ice water as you watched the world vanish above your head.

"Rh'llor will be pleased." Melisandre whispered, squeezing Jon's arm. "He will still the waters and clear a path for us to Hardhome."

He was, and he did.