Apologies for the delay on this. My wife and I went to Ireland last week to meet many cousins - and we had the most amazing time.
Edd
They left the Overlook at dawn, leaving the place well stocked. They might get a bit hungry on the ride back to the Wall, but they would be travelling light. They needed to. As they started off that lingering feeling of being watched was still there. It nagged at him.
It nagged at others. Ser Jaremy felt the same way, given his barked commands to hurry. They rode at a canter down the valley that led to the Overlook, riding in a line. All in black, all with grim faces. They were being watched, they could all tell.
They made good time that first day. South, headed towards the Milkwater. They'd follow that South to the Shadow Tower and the safety of the Wall there. And with every mile South that feeling of being watched ebbed away, until it was just a slight itch between his shoulderblades.
"A fast trip to the Wall," Ser Jaremy told them as they made camp at the end of the day in a grove of trees that would hide the light of their fire from any prying eyes. "We get to the Shadow Tower and then we head to Castle Black on the South side of the Wall."
The night was quiet. Edd stood his two-hour watch as the others slept in their furs by the crackling fire, walking carefully through the trees and keeping his eyes away from the light. Twice he saw movement and froze. The first time was a snowy owl, drifting through the air on silent wings. The second time was a snow fox, a limp hare in its jaws as it loped along. There was nothing else.
The next day started well, but then tragedy struck. Old Fron, the veteran of the group, was riding along with a hare broke from cover right under the hooves of his horse, which reared up suddenly. Fron was sent flying off his saddle – and hit his head on a rock. By the time that Edd got to him he was dead. It was senseless. He stood over the body of his old Brother helplessly and shook his head at Ser Jaremy, whose jaw tightened with anger.
"And now his Watch is ended," Ser Jaremy muttered, as the others joined in raggedly. "We don't have time to burn him. Brothers – keep riding. I will make sure that he doesn't rise as a wight by some passing Other."
Edd nodded and led the others away from Ser Jaremy, who was standing over Fron's body with his sword drawn. Some minutes later he rejoined them, riding hard, his face grim. "Such a stupid death," Ser Jaremy muttered. "A seasoned Brother killed by a fall from a horse."
Fron's death cast a pall over them as they kept riding South. As they made camp in another copse at the end of the second day the pall had lifted a little, but it was still there in the subdued gestures and quiet mutters of the men. They would be alright in the morning, he knew it.
But dawn came early that night. He was shaken awake not long past midnight judging by the moon – and then he joined the others in staring straight South at the great glow on the horizon.
"Fires in the night," Rollen muttered. "Fires set by wildlings. The Halfhand said that he'd seen them. But that's a greater fire than any I've ever seen before. It's huge."
"Why would they set such fires?" Jerl rumbled.
"Wights," Edd replied, his throat tightening with fear. "Wights and Others. Fire is said to deter them. A fire that big…"
"Aye, Tollett, there must be a powerful number of them there. And they're between us and the Wall. Damn it." He chewed at his lip for a moment. "We'll not risk it. We dare not. Right – straight East tomorrow Brothers. East to Craster's Keep and then South."
Edd looked at him worriedly. "Beg pardon Ser Jaremy, but didn't the First Ranger say that Craster wasn't to be trusted anymore?"
"Aye, he did," Ser Jaremy sighed. "We'll not visit his 'keep', even though I'd like to reprovision there. Riding East will add days to our journey. But we cannot take the choice."
He had a point and then men grunted in agreement and nodded, some of them a little reluctantly, but they nodded. Edd stood the next watch and as he patrolled he kept looking at the glow to the South. Wildlings on the run. Fighting off Others and wights. It made him shudder – and watch the shadows even more carefully. But nothing disturbed them that night.
If Ser Jaremy had pushed them briskly heading South their Eastward ride was harder. He urged them along with many a hard stare to the South. And again he was right to do so. The feeling they were being watched came back again that day. It was strongest at noon but then fell away again. He didn't know who was watching them, or perhaps what was the better word for it, but they were out there.
Once again the others felt it as well, or picked up on the fact that some were sensing something. And so it was with no small amount of relief that he saw the shape of Warmsprings up ahead, the crag that held a cave with a pool of warm water, fed by a hot spring. It had the most unoriginal name ever but it was a welcome sight as the sun set.
"We make camp at Warmsprings," Ser Jaremy told them. "'Tis a good place to rest and also defend. Wash too, Brothers. I don't know about you lot, but I smell."
They laughed a bit at the weak joke, but once they were all in the cave, with the horses by the entrance and a fire being lit on the flat stone above and to one side of the pool, the tension ebbed again. The water was warm and once he had scrubbed himself with the shard of soap he carried for such things he felt a new man. He felt even better when Othor cooked the brace of coneys that he'd killed at noon the previous day and which had been hanging from his saddle ever since. It wasn't much, but every Ranger had a pot of dried vegetables somewhere in his saddlebags for just such an eventuality and the small pot that Jerl carried was enough to hold coney stew for them all.
As they ate they talked and after a while Craster came up as a topic of conversation.
"Never trusted that bloody man," Rollen muttered as he gnawed on a leg bone. "Shifty-eyed bastard."
There was some general mutters of agreement, although Loren Hill rolled his eyes a bit, probably having heard something different from Rollen some time before. "You didn't mind him before."
"That was before I heard he worshipped the Others," Rollen grunted as he threw the leg bone into a corner, before looking at a dragonglass spearhead and then starting to bind it onto a spare spearshaft. They'd all been doing it in the past few days – a spearhead here, an arrow there. Edd now had a dragonglass dagger in a sheath at his right side. "How a man could do that it beyond me. Why would he do that?"
Edd stared at him. "The man has umpteen wives, many of whom are his own bloody daughters, who he makes more daughters with! The man's a monster!"
Various faces were pulled at that. All kinds of men were in the Night's Watch, for all kinds of reasons, many of them unsavoury, but all could agree on that one point.
"I wonder why he's not going South with the rest of the Wildlings?" Dywen asked.
"Rayder said that he worshipped the Others," Ser Jaremy muttered. "He wouldn't be welcome South of the Wall. I'm not sure that we'd want him South of the Wall anyway."
Which was a good point. But something else had occurred to Edd. "Wait a moment. He has daughters with his wives. He marries his daughters and has more daughters. Where are the sons?"
Everyone looked at each other. And then various shrugs were shrugged, not least by Rollen, whose face screwed up as if he had only just thought about that. And then Othor laughed and led them all in a jolly song.
Edd went to sleep that night with a warm meal in his belly and for once the roster meant that he didn't have to get up and stand a watch in the middle of the night. So when they left the next morning he was well-rested.
He needed to be, because he and Ser Jaremy took point and the knight was in a hurry again. Edd soon knew why. That feeling was back again and it grew worse by the hour, until Noon, when Ser Jaremy adjusted their path a little more Southwards, after which it eased again. What was out there? He didn't want to know that. Instead he and Ser Jaremy led them on through the trees and the snow, along the low rocky hills and the tree-covered other hills.
And all through their journey they kept seeing signs of one thing. Abandoned Wildling settlements were all over the place. Some had faint tracks going South from them. Some didn't. Some had been stripped off everything. Some hadn't. They avoided those.
Edd wondered about what had happened in those places. For a while at least. Then he stopped thinking about it. He had to. One village had a small doll, one as for a child in it, by the door to a hut. The doorframe and the doll were covered in dried and frozen blood.
They rode away from that village in a hurry.
They finally caught sight of Craster's 'Keep' the day after the encounter with the village. It was a large wooden building on a hill with a dike around it and they saw it from the cover of some trees to the Westward.
"We avoid that bloody place," Ser Jaremy said through gritted teeth. "And that bloody man."
But that bloody man came to them. As they rode through the trees Edd could see movement in a clearing ahead of them and raised a fist in the air, bringing them all to a halt. He peered through the trees. There was a man walking in the snow in the distance. He passed parallel to their position as they stood there at least 200 yards away. It was Craster, a big bulky man with grey hair. He seemed to be holding something in his arms as he trudged through the snow.
"What's he doing?" Edd muttered at Ser Jaremy, who gestured at them all to be quiet.
The former Crownlander knight peered through the trees and then waved at them all to dismount and then their horses to the strongest branches. "Something's not right here," he muttered to them as they all joined him. "What's that bloody man doing out here? What's he holding? We follow him, deep in the cover of the trees, brothers."
They did so, as quiet as they could, leaving Jerl to wait with the horses. They stayed well away from the treeline, watching as the man walked through the snow. He seemed to be heading towards a place with… an altar? A stone slab at least.
Craster leant down, placed a small bundle on the slab and then stood there for a moment. And then he looked North, seemed to shiver a little and then walked quickly away, back South towards his keep, as fast as he could.
They waited until Craster had long since passed from sight before then approaching the bundle. When Edd was about 20 yards away he paused, shocked. A thin high wail suddenly split the air – and then he rushed over and peered at the bundle. A small scrunched up face peered back at him – and then it wailed in protest.
"It's a bairn," he said as he picked up the little bundle and then faced the others. "A baby."
Ser Jaremy had turned as white as milk. "Is it a boy or a girl?"
He paused and then gingerly pulled the small clothes apart until he could see what was inside, before hastily covering it again. "A boy Ser Jaremy," he muttered, shocked, as his words produced white vapour almost in shock as well. "A boy."
"Now we know what he does with them," Ser Jaremy said with his mouth twisted in revulsion. "Leaves them out for the elements to kill them. Can't have a child with a son."
Edd nodded. And then he paused. A cold mist was rising around them and with every breath he took the white vapour seemed to thicken. "It's getting colder," he said out loud. And then he looked about wildly as his sixth sense suddenly screamed at him. "Ser Jaremy! It's getting colder!"
Ser Jaremy also looked about, a curse on his lips. "Brothers! Beware!"
The others rushed towards them, spears out and swords drawn, all then facing outwards. And then, as the mist seemed to almost thicken in the air, they saw it. It was white and blue, in the shape of a man, but with eyes that burned like blue stars in the night sky and clad in nothing but a loincloth. Whispy white hair fell to its shoulders and its skin looked stretched and almost leathery, pulled taut in places like its ribs. It did not seem to breathe as it stood there, but it lived. Its hands opened and closed for a moment in a gesture that made Edd shiver.
It was staring at Edd. Or rather at the baby boy in his arms. Everything seemed frozen in time at that point, everyone was staring at it. And then the moment broke as the Other stepped forwards, straight at Edd.
Jorik was the nearest to the thing, a young ranger from the Iron Islands originally, with a sword that he had forged himself. It did him no good. He let out a wild cry and then slashed at the creature as it passed him. The blade never met its target – instead the Other, moving with almost inhuman speed, grabbed the sword and slowed it – and then it clenched its fingers and the sword shattered into a thousand pieces, like dust on the wind. Jorik gaped at the remains of the hilt – and then the creature backhanded him about the head, twisting his neck with a sickening crack that left him tumbling lifelessly backwards.
And then it looked at Edd and started to walk towards him.
"Dragonglass!" Someone shouted the word and after a heartbeat he realised that it had been him. "Use the dragonglass!""
Othor was the nest closest and he hefted a spear and then jabbed it at the Other. The creature, still moving at that inhuman speed, dodged it and then grabbed the spear below its head and broke it, before pulling it from Othor's grasp and plunging the broken shaft into the man's heart. Othor choked and then collapsed.
It was still coming towards him. The baby, he thought, it wants the baby. So he turned, threw the child towards the oncoming shape of Dywen, who dropped his spear and caught it with a curse, and then turned back.
He had just enough time to see the arm of the Other approaching his throat and then his brain overrode his legs and he threw himself backwards into the snow. He hit with a thud that knocked the breath from his lungs and he saw stars for an instant. Someone was screaming that they all had to pull back and he looked upwards.
Inhuman eyes passed over him, dismissed him and then looked at Dywen, who was trying to hold the baby and also draw his sword.
Dagger, his brain thought, dagger. The word rambled through his head for a long moment – and then his hand went to his belt and scrabbled for a long, endless moment for the dragonglass dagger that was there. He grabbed it, watched the leg of the Other at is stalked past him and then thrust the dagger into it.
It was like stabbing a frozen hunk of meat, but he used all his strength and then rolled away, looking desperately for another weapon.
But the Other had frozen in shock – and then it turned on him and let out a noise that sounded like the scream of a blizzard, as if frozen wind and broken ice were all screaming at the same time. The flesh of the leg where the dragonglass dagger was impaled had turned a strange off-white colour, like ice that had been hit with a sledgehammer – and then fissures appeared in it, fissures that jagged their way upwards, spreading like nothing he had ever seen. The Other flailed desperately at the dagger, clumsily – and then suddenly it collapsed and broke apart into nothing more than shards of ice and snow.
The mist dissipated in the blink of an eye as a West wind suddenly blew, sending the shards flying. They all stared at the pieces as they fell to the ground – and then they melted in an instant.
Edd reached out and with shaking hands picked up the dragonglass dagger, looking at it with wonder. "I killed it," he said shakily. "I… killed it."
There was a long moment and then Ser Jaremy collected himself and then strode over and reached out a hand. "Well Tollett," he said with a shaky smile, "Congratulations. You're the first man in thousands of years to kill an Other." Then the smile ebbed. "Let's find Craster and have a word with the bastard about what he's doing to his own sons, shall we?"
Mya
The Neck stank. All that swamp, all that rotted vegetation. And then there were the eyes. There were crannogmen out there. She could sense them. Feel them. They were out there, not many, but they were there.
She looked back at the long line of men and waggons and then pulled a slight face. This was just the vanguard of what was eventually to come, unless she missed her guess. The Realm would rally to the North. But in the meantime… well, she was in the tip of the vanguard, the thousand men and women heading North.
North. Her dreams had been of the North. Dreams of a great wall of ice, of a forest and of a woman and a man who looked like the descriptions she'd heard of her Father. And of something that wasn't human.
She'd talked to Lord Royce about those dreams. He'd frowned, stared down at his runed armour as he mulled things over and then looked back at her. "Old things are waking," he'd told her enigmatically. "The old blood sings. The blood of the First Men. Your father's blood amongst them."
Talk of her father still unnerved her. She had vague memories of him – a big man with the black hair and blue eyes that she had inherited from him. But to think that he was the King… it still gave her goosebumps.
Surepath whickered a little at the stench of something particularly noxious and she leant forwards and patted his neck to quiet him. He'd had a rough enough time on the voyage. Runestone could not call upojn a large fleet, but there had been just enough ships to get them through the Bite and to the Kingsroad at the Neck.
Where they had found such a combination of foul smells! For someone used to the Vale and the rocky paths that led to the Eyrie, the Neck had been an… experience. Well, the trip itself had been an experience. Lord Royce's summons had been unexpected. Seeing Runstone again… well she still shivered a little at that. The runes on the walls… and the glowing runes elsewhere.
So much was being prepared there… she hoped that her mules were alright. She also wondered just what would result from all of this. Lord Royce was supposed to be sworn to the Eyrie and Lord Arryn. Lord Redfort too. She tried not to think of Mychel, failed, cursed inwardly and then pulled a face. Well now. Things would work themselves out there. Hopefully.
The men ahead of her slowed and she peered ahead. They were crowding together as they started down the proper causeway, as opposed to the approaches to it. It was a natural choke point and a fell and dangerous one to a hostile force.
Along they road, evil-smelling swamp to the right and the left. Occasionally she felt her scalp prickle and she shivered a little. Yes, the tales were true, Crannogmen were watching them in larger numbers now. They were not alone.
It was almost a relief when she finally caught sight of Moat Cailin. That meant that they were coming close to the end of the Neck. And then she blinked. The old fortress was supposed to consist of three old towers, a lot of ruins and little else. Not any longer. There were five towers now, two that looked as if old stones had been reused to build them with new mortar. The curtain wall had been repaired in places, joining some of the towers, and there was the skeleton of a wooden keep growing in the centre of it all. This was not a ruin any more. There was life there.
There was also a Direwolf banner at the top of the towers, and another banner, one unfamiliar to her, a black lizard-lion on a grey-green background. And there were riders coming South down the causeway, with both banners flying from pennants.
She heard hooves thundering behind her and she looked over her shoulder as Lord Royce and Redfort galloped past her, their cloth-covered armour hiding those runes. The same runes that were on her bracers now.
"Who rides with such force towards Moat Cailin and the North?" The oncoming rider from the North had a loud voice indeed.
Lord Royce had one that matched it: "Lord Royce and Redfort of the Vale." Then he paused and his jaw seemed to work a little under that beard. "Lord Stark sent out the Call. We remember. We have come, those with the blood of the First Men. Those who… remember."
The riders came to a halt in front of the two lords from the Vale and their leader peered at them both - before nodding with all seriousness. "Very well my Lords. A raven will be sent to Lord Stark in Winterfell, to tell him of your arrival in the North." And then he seemed to hesitate for a moment, before nodding again. "My Lords, the North remembers as well. And we will not forget this. I am cousin to Lord Reed of Greywater Watch. My thanks."
Lord Royce and Redfort nodded back and then they all started to trot down the causeway again, towards the ancient fortress.
Hopefully the stink of the Neck would leave them soon. But she still drummed her fingers on the pommel of her saddle. Her father was supposed to be in the North too. What if she met him? She sighed a little. Well, perhaps those damn dreams would stop.
Asha
The harbour was bustling as she walked up the hill. The variety of ships was wide indeed, from the smallest of rowing boats to the great longships that had formerly been a part of Father's Iron Fleet. All were swarming with men and even women, as they were worked on with frantic haste.
Ropes were being stared at for fungus, sails pored over, masts tapped for any rot, swords stacked and shields propped next to each other. Oars were being inspected, tillers scrutinised.
The people of Harlaw were getting ready to fight. Some would no doubt die. She knew that. So did they. She also knew that they knew that there could be no other way. Even the few loyalists knew that something was in the air, that Lord Harlaw had to be followed if they were not all going to die.
She had an odd feeling about that. There was indeed something in the air. Something dark and terrible and heading their way. Father's wrath could be terrible, his vengeance unpleasant to behold.
Her nuncle – her sane one – was on the hill that looked over the harbour, talking to a number of men, many of whom were scowling with thought. She peered at that. They seemed to be thinking so hard that many of them were muttering under their breath.
When Lord Harlaw finished speaking there was a moment of silence. Then he looked around at the assembled men. "I don't like it either," he said grimly. "But we know what's going to happen if Damphair gets his clammy paws on us."
There was another pause and then the men all chorused "Aye." And then they nodded and broke up, walking away.
"A council of war Nuncle?" Asha asked as she watched her uncle look out to see.
"Morelike orders to complete something that need to be finished in the next day or so. They're coming straight for us, Asha. Straight for us."
A shiver stole its way up her spine. "How do you know that?"
"A friend or two at Pyke. My message had its correct effect. Damphair and your Father have sent Victarion against Harlaw with what remains of the Iron Fleet. They have orders to take this island, to kill or enslave everyone on it, to burn down every building and to sow the fields with salt."
The shiver came back. Yes, she could imagine Father giving those orders, with Damphair, that fucking wild-eyed maniac, standing over his shoulder and shuddering with religious lunacy.
"When?" She asked the word in as level a voice as possible.
Rodrik Harlaw stared up at the sky for a long moment as he studied the clouds and then he turned his face to the wind. Only then did he turn back and speak. "Victarion's not an idiot, but he's caught between a rock and a kraken. He'll want time to prepare for an attack – it's time that your father and Damphair will not allow him. No, they'll send him straight at us. My letter to them did the job. I want them to target me first. Great Wyk will need time to gather their forces.
"Wind's changed. Day that our ships came in from the Iron Fleet anchorage it was from the South-East. Now it's from the North-East, and it's a slack wind at that. Victarion's ships will have to row at least part the way. Hard work rowing. You know it, I know it. Victarion will want to have his men rested enough to fight. They won't come tomorrow. Or the day after. No – three days from now at dawn. We'll have to be ready."
She looked at the sky herself and then nodded. "Aye. Three days from now."
Robb
There was a great muttering in the hall of Castle Black as he walked in with his group of fellow lordlings around him. Jon was on his right and Theon on his left, with the Karstarks and the SmallJon on his heels. It gave him an odd feeling at times to see the Karstark brothers again. Jaime Lannister had cut them down in an attempt to get at him at the Battle of the Whispering Wood. As he reached his chair the others broke apart, with Theon striding off outside via the other door to where Father was waiting.
It was an effort at times to not react to that memory, that last sight of them as lifeless bloodied shapes on the ground, with the Kingslayer wheeling his horse about as he looked for him. The GreatJon had clattered him out of his saddle. Memories of that other time could cloud his mind at times. He had to keep his thoughts clear. And at times he had to jest with men whom he had seen dead, or maimed. To talk to Lord Karstark with the right level of politeness, at the same time remembering the moment that he had beheaded him and watched the severed head rolling on the ground. And to converse with Roose Bolton. The man who had finished the job that the Frey crossbowmen had started.
Yes, life could be hard. But he had to put all of that behind him. Had to. There was too much at stake. Off to one side Tyrion Lannister was sitting, his eyes flickering over the assembled nobility of the North.
The Lord Commander took his seat next to the Maester and the Master at Arms and then nodded at Robb, who turned his face to the doors. Maege Mormont had come to Castle Black barely an hour before and she had already send word to Father that she had to talk to him as soon as this meeting was concluded. It was unlike her to be so insistent and he felt uneasy.
Looking through the doors he saw Theon peering through – and then he nodded. He got a nod in response – and then Father swept in through the doors, the GreatJon at one shoulder, Roose Bolton at the other and Lord Karstark bringing up the rear.
"My Lords," the GreatJon roared as they strode to the dais, "The Warden of the North, Lord Eddard Stark!"
Thank the Old Gods that he hadn't referred to Father as the King in the North, that had been something that had preyed at his mind for the past few days.
The Lords – yes, and Ladies – of the North stood almost as one as Father walked up the steps of the dais carrying the Fist of Winter, which he hefted for a moment and then placed heavily on the table in front of him.
"My Lords – pray be seated," Father rumbled. There was a further rumble as they did, with a lot of muttering. Robb led his group to some vacant seats at the front, where they were joined by Theon and Jon.
Father didn't sit down though. He stood and looked out over them all. Robb glanced over his shoulder. Yes, the full muster of lords was there. Some of whom were not exactly friendly to House Stark. Barbery Dustin was sitting there to the right, her face like stone, her father, Lord Ryswell, next to her. He had an odd expression on his face, as if he was worried about something.
"My Lords," Father said eventually. "Winter is coming. Yes, I know that is the motto of my house – but it is also the reality that is facing us. The days are growing shorter. The Citadel might not have declared it yet, but winter is indeed coming. And we face a long winter. The second Long Night perhaps. Given how long this summer has been, can anyone here deny that this coming winter will be as long?"
There was a rumble of agreement, leavened by the thump of fists on the tables.
"And then there is the Call. Can anyone here deny that they heard it? Can anyone deny the warning?" More rumblings and then shaking of heads. "There will be those who ask how it was sent out. I was there when it happened. Long ago my ancestors gave the Hearthstone to the Umbers, telling them to guard it and to bring it to Winterfell if it ever changed colour. It did indeed change colour. My Lords, when it was given to me I saw the enemy. The Others come, commanded by their master the Night King." Father's voice was hoarse suddenly. "I have seen him, my Lords. A creature of the night. All blue and white – and evil. Hopemourne is his citadel, a place so far North that neither man nor horse could get there and live. He comes. They come. And so do their army of wights."
A silence fell, a dark and terrible one, as everyone stared at Father, who set his chin a little. "My Lords, we know that they are coming now. The Call was sent when I reunited the Hearthstone with another artefact found at Winterfell." And then he took a deep breath. "Much has been found at Winterfell. Things that my father knew about. Things that he was never able to tell me, because he was murdered."
Another silence – and then shocked exclamations as the Lords of the North realised how closely they had come to no warning at all. Hugo Wull, the leader of the largest and most powerful of the Hill Clans seemed to be particularly affected, given his sudden pallor.
"My Lords!" Father bellowed, over the uproar. And then again: "MY LORDS!" Silence finally fell. "We know they are coming. We know that we have to act now, to strengthen the Night's Watch, to support it, to call for help from the South. The Call has helped with that. As I said, many things have been found. Including this." He placed a hand on the Fist. "This is the Fist of Winter. The ancestral weapon of the Starks, that we bore before we had Ice. It was hidden in a secret room in my solar, which had been my father's solar before me. Our ancestors were wise. They secured many things against this day."
Hugo Wull had turned white as a sheet and was having a frantic whispered conversation with Torghen Flint and Brandon Norrey, both of whom looked equally shaken.
"Working out what those things do will take time in some cases. But we have another problem. As the Night Kings and the Others sweep South, they drive those people beyond the Wall South. The Wildlings, who call themselves the Free Folk, are fleeing South." Father placed both hands on the Fist. "I have spoken to Mance Rayder, the so-called King beyond the Wall. He told me he could call upon a force of a hundred thousand to march against the Wall."
More mutterings, some angry and some shocked. "What do you mean, could call, Lord Stark?" someone shouted.
"Rayder does not want his people to die. They have seen the Others. Fought them. Lost to them. The legends of their powers are true, he says. But he will not send his warriors against the Wall. He wants to save as many as possible. He has asked to pass his people through the Wall and into the Gift. He would have knelt to me to get permission to do so."
Yet more muttering. The SmallJon appeared to be quite angry, right up until the moment that his father strode up to him, spoke intently and then glowered at his son until the younger man looked shamefaced.
"MY LORDS!" Father bellowed again. "I know that the thought of allowing Wildlings into the Gift sounds like madness. But think of the facts. What the alternative to letting them though is. What happens if we don't let them in? Think of it - a hundred thousand of them, trapped North of the Wall. My Lords that would mean a hundred thousand wights coming at us. Think on that for a moment."
The muttering died in an instant. The silence that fell now was a long one and more than a few men were as white as Hugo Wull had been earlier. He was now merely pasty.
Father looked at the Lord Commander, who stood and glowered at everyone. "You all know me, my Lords. I have no liking for Wildlings. But we cannot leave them to be massacred and then reanimated by the Others. I do not like it, but it must be done. We must allow them into the Gift. We will deny the Night King a source of wights and we will be able to repopulate the Gift and get crops growing in there again. We need them."
The Lord Commander sat again and Father nodded at him. "We need the South too. I know now that the Call has been heard in many places. The blood of the First Men sings. The Mountain Clans of the Vale have sent forces to our aid."
And this time the silence was a stunned one. Lord Ryswell broke it. "The Mountain Clans of the Vale have come to our aid?"
"They have. They came to Winterfell and have sworn to aid us. They march on the Gift now. But we need more. We need the gold of the Westerlands and the knights of the Vale, the grain of the Reach, the Iron of the Iron Islands and the valour of the Stormlands and the Riverlands, as well as the spears of Dorne. We need the South, as did our ancestors. And the King is coming to Winterfell. King Robert has heard the Call. The blood of the Durrandons rings true in him."
There was a scraping noise as Hugo Wull stood. "Your pardon. Has The Ned – I beg your pardon, Lord Stark – heard anything from the Thenn, North of the Wall, since you found the Fist of Winter?"
Father looked at the Lord Commander for a moment and then nodded. "According to the Lord Commander the Thenn have heard that I now wield the Fist and are coming South. Why do you ask Lord Wull?"
Lord Wull looked around at the other lords of the Hill Clans. Then he swallowed. "There is a legend amongst our people. A tale. It's said that when the Stark in Winterfell holds the Fist of Winter and that the Thenns march to obey him – that a second Long Night will follow, because death marches on the Wall."
And then the longest silence of all fell.