Chapter 38: Jon IV
In the granary were oats, wheat, barley, and barrels of coarse ground flower. In the root cellars lengths of onions and garlic and turnips and radishes dangled on strings from the rafters. Bags of carrots and spuds and barrels of corn lined the walls. On the shelves were large slabs of salted beef, mutton, pork and wheels of cheese so massive they took two men to carry from place to place. There were casks of pickled apples and pears and cabbage and all other sorts of sundry still immersed in brine. Nuts and spices aplenty. Huge jars of olive oil. Smoked salmon, venison, and other sorts of wild game.
As they moved from one tunnel to another, the sheer extent of the wealth stashed away became apparent.
"The king's bounty is indeed generous, my lord," Bowen Marsh announced. "It's not much at the moment, but with Stannis's men no longer being such a drain on our supplies, what little empty room remains should quickly be filled up. Plenty to see the Watch through winter."
"And the wildlings?" Jon asked.
Bowen Marsh suddenly seemed uncomfortable. "My lord... There are a thousand mouths to feed in Mole Town alone. And there are more besides. It was a long summer, my lord, and I have no reason to expect winter will be short. These rooms may seem stuffed with food today, but you would be surprised how quickly they can be emptied if we aren't careful with the rations. Settling the wildlings on the Gift may be well and good, but it is too late this far north to plant crops. They'll stay dependent on us all through winter, and who knows how long that will be? Or whether His Grace's generosity will last that long?"
"Worst comes to worst we could always hunt. There's still game in the woods."
"Game, aye, but also darker things," Bowen retorted. "I would not send out hunters where they could be taken down. Even as our ranks swell, it takes time to train skilled men. We can scarcely afford such risks."
No, Jon agreed. Yet you would have us close our gates forever and seal them up with stone and ice. Half of Castle Black concurred with Bowen's view, Jon knew. Mercifully, the other half seemed to see sense in keeping the gateways open. Elsewise Jon's job would have become a great deal more difficult.
"Then we best hope His Grace's generosity is not exhausted," Jon said, feeling bitter even as the words came out. Here he was, calling the Boy King on the Iron Throne His Grace. Yet what else was he to do, when Arya was down in the capital in the Boy King's custody, and all the hopes of the Watch rested on the continued flow of Tommen's ships? "No matter what, the wildlings must be fed, and so must the remnants of Stannis's men. We still lack the swords to fight them."
Bowen seemed worried. "My lord..."
"Enough," Jon said as he turned stiffly on his heel and made to leave.
"It'll be dangerous," Bowen warned. "We already have men coming from down south. We don't need the extra numbers."
Jon ignored him. He'd heard all Bowen's objections before. "Have the wagons been prepared?" he asked as he ascended the steps.
"Aye," Bowen answered tiredly. "Corn, flour, pickled fruits and all the rest."
Jon nodded even as he emerged into the blinding light, the snow glowing in the morning sun. The wagons were already arranged, bursting with the king's corn, Ghost waiting eagerly for him to emerge. The direwolf wagged it's tail half-nervously and half-excitedly as it bounded over to him and nuzzled by his thighs. Jon reached down and patted it's snout, stroking it's fur, seeking comfort in the loyal creature's steadfast companionship.
The Night's Watch has lost too many of it's best men, Jon thought sadly. The Old Bear, Qhorin Halfhand, Donal Noye, my own uncle...
The last few trips had seen some ugliness at Mole Town, and yet more lives had been lost. And so, as their journey began, Jon did not quarrel with Bowen as he insisted on bringing more guards. Though it had not escalated beyond a few sullen curses and a few resentful looks and a single fight started over a woman that had spiralled out of control, Jon knew better than to take unnecessary risks. And as he did so, he made sure to draft the Lord of Bones into his endeavours, if only to keep a close eye.
And so, as the column set off south down the kingsroad, the line of wagons wending around fords and frozen streams still flowing beneath a thin sheet of ice, a dozen spear-men and archers and a half-dozen swordsmen riding escort. Though Mole Town was best known as a place for those Black Brothers who sought to whet their appetites for women, recent times had turned it into a haven for those wildlings who had taken up Stannis's offer to settle south of the Wall.
Mole Town had always been larger than it looked; most of it buried in the tunnels underground where the residents could be shielded from the cold and snow. That was more true now than ever, as any surface signs of settlement had been reduced to ruins by wildling raids. But in the darkness of the vaults below the residents of the village endured, leading truly miserable lives, huddled and alone with death and destruction always lingering, the corpse of what had once been sitting forever above their heads.
Not today, however. The thick snows had carpeted the ruins, and the peace Stannis had struck - no matter how unsteady - seemed to be holding. For now when their line of wagons rolled forwards they were greeted by the sight of swarming children kneeled in the snow, building snowcastles and having fights and rolling around; giggling and screaming and forgetting for a second the harshness of their lives. Jon ordered his wagons to slow, saddened and comforted by the sight. These children had suffered so much that he was reluctant to disturb them.
But circumstances trumped sentiment. The children saw the Black Brothers and quickly scattered, disappearing down hatches and hidey-holes, turning a wondrous playground into another desolate waste, and a few moments later the faces of their parents poked up from the ground, red-faced and shivering. A few of the men climbed out to greet them whilst the women retreated back into their caves. The stench of unwashed bodies carried on the wind. Down in the vaults there were no baths, no rivers or streams. And even if there had been, the winter cold could render even the briefest dip deadly if one wasn't careful.
Mercifully, it seemed that the cold would be their biggest problem today. These men had by now learned their lessons. As the Black Brothers closed in there were a few moody looks and scowls and muttered japes at each other's expense, but nobody made an aggressive move. By the time the wagons had trundled to a stop, they were arranged in semi-neat rows, awaiting the food. A shout went down - it was safe - and the women and children that previously gone down into hiding emerged again. A veritable flood of them. There were thrice as many women as men, and most men were wounded - crippled and broken. Of the children Jon had seen on his approach only a handful more emerged. Of the women who had carried babies on their arrival to Mole Town, most had none. They'd lost them to cold and disease.
Everyone's faces were the same. Cold, withered, gaunt and haunted. Their eyes lurked, suspicious and angry, exhausted. The men of fighting age formed a ring around their women, but even they were thin and weak and broken. Only the Thenns fared better, clad in their bronze armour and standing apart from the crowd, eyeing Jon's black brothers with more contempt than suspicion. Wolves lurk among these sheep, he reminded himself. Jon shot a glance at Rattleshirt, standing at the back of the caravan. Depending on the way this went, the man - possibly a disguised Mance - could prove a valuable ally in uniting the wildlings or else he could prove himself an enemy and help to deepen their divisions. Only time would tell.
The black brothers began to pass out the food. They'd brought the toughest, worst pieces of meat and fruit and other sundry from their stores, but a great deal of it. A queue formed, and each person got a little chunk of everything. A sliver of salted meat, a small bag of flour, a few pickled fruits, dried beans and turnips, eggs and the like. This trip was more generous than the last few had been, and there were few complaints, but it was still deliberately meagre. How else could he entice them but by making them choose between privation and plenty?
These sorts of tactics roiled his stomach, but Tommen's advice was sound. And if he ever intended to make peace between the Watch and the wildlings, he would have to make use of more than good intentions. Steel, strength and cruelty would have to play a role as well. Deception, too. For the greater good.
Once much of the food had been distributed, Jon clambered atop one of the deliberately empty wagons, and made to speak. "We're doing our best to feed you all," he declared, to much consternation from the assembled crowd, "but a long winter lies ahead, and we only have so much to spare."
"It's not enough!" one woman cried, looking ragged and half-crazed, cradling a bundle that looked like a baby, but a second look revealed it to be a dead one.
There was a round of nodding. "You crows seem to eat well enough," one of the wildling men said. Out from the corner of his eye Jon saw the flash of steel.
Jon scowled. This was not going how he had intended. He peered down to the Lord of Bones waiting uncharacteristically patiently beside him. "Quiet them," he commanded down to the man.
Rattleshirt nodded, advanced to the front of the black brothers shielding Jon, his expression inscrutable behind his skull mask, and bellowed. "QUIET! QUIET! SHUT YER FUCKING MOUTHS!"
"You one of them now?" a wildling man accused. "A crow?" The black brothers drew their bows with bated breaths, nocking their arrows.
The Lord of Bones stared the offending wildling down, towering over the gaunt man, advancing threateningly. "I said quiet," he hissed, drawing a blade from a sheath concealed beneath his bone armour. "And call me a crow again and I'll cut out yer tongue."
The wildling man scowled, spat on the ground, but fell silent.
Jon cleared his throat. That had been too close for comfort. "We eat well because we hold the Wall," Jon explained. "You know the foe we face, you've seen them. Dead things with blue eyes and black hands. Wights and White Walkers. I've seen them, fought them, even slain one with this sword at my hip. They kill without mercy and send the corpses of your brethren to face you. The giants tried to stop them and failed. Same of the Thenns," Jon said, gesturing to the bronze-clad men, "the ice-river clans, the Hornfoots and Mance. And as winter advances the enemy does too. You left your homes and came south to save yourselves, but the only thing protecting you is the Wall, and the only thing protecting the Wall is us. The Watch."
"Saved and starved," the same woman spat, clutching her dead baby tight to her breast, eyes feverish and mad.
"You want more food?" Jon asked. "Well, you have to earn it. That food is for fighters. For those willing to stand against the enemy. For those willing to join us on the Wall or wander beyond it when asked."
The men in the crowd exchanged wary looks. "Fight for you?" a wildling asked. A Thenn, going by his manner of dress. The Magnar of Thenn. Sigorn. "No. Kill you, more like."
Jon shrugged. "And when the wights and Walkers come?" he asked, silencing Sigorn with a scathing look. "What then? Will you have the strength to resist them? Your father was a brave man, but Styr died trying to fight us. Same for Mance," Jon said, again shooting Rattleshirt a look. "You'll fare no better. And even if he had succeeded, then you would all be dead. The Lords of the North would have crushed you. Or else the wights and Walkers would have followed you. The Wall is only as good as the men who patrol it."
"I'd sooner go naked than don one of your cloaks, crow!" the same rabble-rouser shouted, again attracting a glare from Rattleshirt.
"Then strip and we'll have you," Jon japed. "I'm not asking you to swear to our brotherhood, though if you would like to you can. I'm not asking you to betray your gods - I couldn't care less to which ones you pray. Nor am I asking you to kneel to my king. I'm only asking for you to fight for your lives, the lives of your loved ones, and stand beside us against the enemy. It's spears we need. Spears and bows. Any man older than fourteen will do. Able-bodied, but cripples too. There are plenty of jobs to be done. Goats to be milked, stables to be mucked, even more spears and shields to be made."
A wary silence persisted at the proposition. For a second Jon thought his speech had failed, but the reluctance soon broke and the volunteers came. A small lad who looked a tad too young for fourteen was the first, then an older man missing an arm. Misfits and weaklings, but soon even the able-bodied were joining up. Rattleshirt's presence doubtless helped. A spearwife wanted to join, but Jon refused her, citing the need for someone to defend Mole Town itself. But mostly he was worried about the rapes - and there would inevitably be rapes. It would do him no good at such a precarious time to make any more room for conflict between the Watch and the wildlings. Having women at the Wall would only unsettle things, make matters worse.
Still, on the way north their caravan was filled with many more men - a little over fifty of them. There were no Thenns, and few if any looked like fighters, but it was still a hopeful sign. "Are you certain about this?" Bowen asked again, concerned. "Giving wildlings weapons and spreading them amongst our ranks? Would it not weaken us?"
"Against the Walkers they'll stand with us."
"Against the Walkers, aye," Bowen agreed. "But against Tormund Giantsbane? Against the Weeping Man? Against their fellow Free Folk?"
Jon stayed silent for a long second as the continued on, lips pursed. "It's a risk," he eventually conceded. "But it's also our best hope."
"Wildlings follow strength," Rattleshirt growled, apparently having overheard them. His scornful eyes trailed over Jon. "They follow the man. Are you strong enough, boy?"
Bowen scowled at the Lord of Bones, but still nodded in agreement, grim. Familiar words, Jon mused. Mance had told him something similar. The Lord of Bones Jon had known had been a ruthless savage, not prone to offering advice. His words were yet more evidence that Tommen spoke the truth about the Red Witch. Yet more conspiracies Jon was forced to contend with. Yet more secrets hiding in the shadows.
And so onwards they went, till finally they were back at Castle Black. The wildlings were led away to the places they'd be able to stay for the night, black brothers eyeing them suspiciously wherever they went. It'll take a while yet to make these men work together, Jon reminded himself, sullen. Old wounds did not heal quickly. But they did heal, given enough time and treatment. And they would have to. If only to stop the armies of the dead swelling even more.
As Jon entered the castle Sam rushed up to greet him. "I saw your caravan arrive," he explained. "Are these all you could muster? I thought there were three-hundred fighting men at Mole Town? Half these look like cripples."
Jon cringed. "Evidently, I misjudged the wildlings eagerness to work with us."
Sam frowned, settling into step behind Jon as he made for his quarters. "Well, then, what now? Fifty men won't be enough, especially as most won't be good to fight for some time yet. Are you planning on calling on Kings Landing for more aid?"
"Tommen's terms were clear enough," Jon said. "We need a live wight to get any more from him. Elsewise his small council would gainsay him."
"I thought he was king," Sam complained.
"Even the greatest kings don't last long without the support of their councillors," Jon said. "Especially if one of their councillors happens to be Lord Tywin Lannister."
"Perhaps Stannis could lend his aid?" Sam asked as they escaped from the open air and began the climb up the spiral steps.
"Stannis is preoccupied with the North and the fight against the Boltons and Ironmen," Jon said. "He hasn't the strength to spare. And as far as his Red Witch goes... I don't trust her."
"So if neither the wildlings, nor King Stannis, nor King Tommen can help us, then what can we do?"
"With the wildlings we can slowly build trust," Jon said. "It is true I expected more to come with me, but the fact that any came at all is a promising sign considering the contempt the wildlings hold for the Watch, and the Watch for the wildlings. The Thenns may never make common cause with us, but I reckon some of the other clans could be convinced. As for getting more aid from the south... King Tommen made his terms clear enough. We need a live wight."
"If I had one I would be happy to hand it over, my lord," Sam said, half in jest as they entered his chambers and Jon rounded his desk and collapsed into his seat, his breath still emerging from between his lips in clouds of mist, the hearth yet unlit. The room was dark, the only sources of light the thin lines of grey steaming through the gaps in the shutters on the windows, and the warm glow of a couple of candles almost burned out. Sam stayed standing. "How are we going to get one?"
"We're going to get it as we would any other wild animal. We're going to hunt it and catch it."
"A ranging," Sam realised. Jon nodded. "It's too dangerous-"
"Not me," Jon cut in, knowing Sam's words before he uttered them. "I'm not stupid enough to risk myself on such an unsure thing. Fetch Ser Alliser, will you?"
Sam stood still for a moment. "He'll think you're trying to get him killed for opposing you."
"He may well think that," Jon said. "But an order is an order all the same. He can face the snows or he can face my sword, as Slynt did. Now go."
Sam nodded, and the rushed off. Jon poured himself a cup of wine, took a few bracing sips of the ice-cold liquid, and then turned his attention to his hearth. Ordinarily the Lord Commander could call in his steward for the task, but Jon had yet to appoint a steward. He stacked a few logs of firewood, and with a little tinder and the last half-inch of wick from one of the lit candles managed to start a flame that slowly grew into a true fire. Before he knew it warm air was flooding out from the hearth, and Jon pulled off his gloves to hold his numb fingers in the heat, letting the feeling slowly return to his extremities.
Ser Alliser arrived a few moments later, looking tense. Jon told him what he intended. Ser Alliser's expression soured further, even as his mouth twisted into some cruel mockery of a smile that never quite reached his eyes; cold and hard as they were. "So the bastard boy sends me to die."
"So the Lord Commander sends you to do your duty," Jon corrected. "To range; to venture out, find our foes and slay them, to capture one of the numbers of our greatest enemy and bring it home for study and use. I don't doubt you will survive. You are skilled with a blade. You were the master-at-arms first at Eastwatch and then here."
"My duty is protecting the Wall," Alliser argued. "Not running around in the freezing cold chasing after corpses in some fool's quest!"
Jon cocked his head. "Your duty is whatever the Lord Commander says it is. You're a skilled swordsman. You'll survive."
Alliser's smile narrowed into an angry grimace, his hand straying dangerously close to the hilt of his sword. Jon tensed. Would Alliser be bold enough to draw his blade here and now? "Aye, I'm a skilled swordsman," he said, voice tight with outrage, but then let his hand drop away from his pommel in defeat. "I spent half a lifetime teaching others how to swing swords, how to fight and how to kill. Fat lot of good that will do me out in those woods."
"You won't be going alone," Jon assured him. It was strange. Jon would never count Ser Alliser Thorne among his friends, but he was a brother all the same. Nobody said you had to like your brothers. "Other skilled rangers will be going with you. Experienced men who can watch your back. And you won't be the only one. Other rangings will be sent out as well."
Alliser nodded grimly. "I'll be back, boy," he swore, half as a threat and half as a promise. "Even if I have to return as one of those cold, dead cunts rather than with one as my captive, I'll be back."
"I should hope so," Jon said. "Because if the worst comes to pass, the fate of the Watch itself may well depend on it."
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P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future