The burdens and consequences of kingship

Samwell

"Tell me about the Other," Sam asked, his quill poised over the parchment. He tried to make his voice sound firm. Mance had ordered him to try and talk less like a boy, with more force and much less stuttering. The free folk across the table stared suspiciously. "As much as possible. How much do you know of it?"

There were half a dozen wildling raiders just across from his table, men and women of fearsome aspect, their furs still damp and muddy from just returning to Castle Black. They stared at him, some suspicious, others merely bored, as if they weren't taking him seriously at all.

For a moment, Sam thought the raiders weren't going to answer, but then the heavyset wilding behind Sam - Wulf, his guard - gave a quiet grunt.

One of the raider's eyes flickered. "It's a vicious bugger," he said. He was a short man with two scars over his cheek and a hunting bow cradled in his grip. "Cunning too. Arwin's party spent two days tracking it west, before realising it left them a false trail. The thing has been haunting from here to Eastwatch - any holdfast, farmers or scouts are being targeted one by one."

"It's trying to create as many corpses as possible," Sam gulped. The thought of blue-eyed dead crawling across the lands south sent shivers down his spine. "How many wights have you burnt?"

"As many as we find. Not as many as it killed," another raider grunted angrily. "I reckon it's raising everyone it slays and then burying the bodies underground. Storing its army in the snow until it needs them."

The first man nodded, his eyes bitter. "Aye. It's been roaming south for weeks now. It's probably killed at least two hundred. It could have killed more, but it's being very careful too."

Two hundred. There was an army of at least two hundred wights somewhere, biding its time. The reports of missing scouts and abandoned holdfasts were increasing. More and more of their parties had encountered moving corpses on the roads. It was an army that only grew by the day.

But we're prepared for that, Sam tried to tell himself. The wildlings were all on the lookout for the Other, and there were dozens of hunting parties searching for it. They were scouring the woods burning as many bodies as they could find. Two hundred wights could raise a lot of mayhem, but not against experienced men cutting them down.

"And the Other?" Sam insisted. "Has anyone seen it?"

Their gazes darkened. "No," a raider muttered as he chewed a chicken bone. "Nobody's seen it. Nobody's seen Malvern and lived, anyways."

"Malvern?"

"That's the name the hunting parties are giving it," Wulf interjected. "Malvern - it means death in the Old Tongue."

The memory of blue eyes flickered through Sam's vision, causing him to twitch. "We ain't seen it," one of the hunters continued. "But we've felt it. You can feel the cold when it's nearby. It - makes the air colder. Does… things."

Sam nodded, gulped, and then made a scribbled note on his parchment: 'do the Others have powers over weather?' "Really? Is it controlling the weather, or…?"

"Oh, fucked if I know. But, aye. It can control the cold, that I know. The wind too, maybe. Don't know how it does what it does, but when Malvern's close, you can feel it in your chest, it gets harder to breathe, it sucks the warmth out of the world, out of your own blood, just by being there," a man muttered grimly. All of their eyes were dark. "That's the only way you know you're getting close. When your blood freezes. One night, we were so close that our fires froze over, and then a cold mist dropped upon us. We had to huddle together and Malvern slipped away. We couldn't follow it in the fog."

He made another note: 'ability to summon fog?' "You mean it created a fog to hide itself?"

"Aye. But that's nothing. Marv's party swears they got so near that a flurry appeared out of nowhere. They lost two men to a snowstorm that came and went in a flash. No human can match it in weather like that, but Malvern keeps on moving."

'Ability to create flurries? Immunity to cold.' Sam scribbled quickly. "But you can catch it, right?" Sam squeaked. "You can kill it?"

A couple of them shared dark gazes. "It's injured," a spearwife muttered. Sam noticed that didn't quite answer the question. "Most of its kind don't leave any traces at all, but we think Malvern is limping. We can track it, usually. But it's also careful - it doesn't even go near the hunters, like it knows."

"You have dragonglass weapons," Sam muttered. "It knows you do and it's keeping its distance."

He made a note; 'it's not invincible'. Only one dragonglass arrow would be enough to kill the creature, but it had no reason to make things that easy. Sam flustered slightly, flicking through the list of questions he made. "Does it eat? Drink? Does it need to sleep or rest?"

"We think it hides during the day," a man shrugged. "Malvern only seems to move and hunt at night, but it moves fast. We don't think it eats, or sleeps, or shits."

'Vulnerable to daylight/warmth?' Sam kept jotting down notes, kept asking questions, picking apart their answers to see the meaning behind their words, and then asking follow-up questions. Eventually, even the most disciplined of the raiding band began to scowl. These men had been out hunting for weeks now, and had only returned to Castle Black when their supplies became critically low. They were tired, hungry, and unused to authority.

"So is that your job, crow?" the scarred hunter grunted. "Bloody writing? Too scared to swing a sword?"

Sam squirmed in his seat. "Watch your tone," Wulf warned darkly, from behind his chair. The raider grunted, but didn't reply.

Writing is important, Sam wanted to protest. Jon, King Snow, wanted to know as much as possible about the Others, how to hunt them, how to kill them, and that meant trying to collect everything the free folk knew, every scrap of knowledge.

Sam was interviewing hunters by the day, collecting and dispersing information, and had even issued orders to capture a moving wight for study. Sam had to gather information from every direction he could think of; he was even thinking about sending his research to Oldtown. Perhaps the maesters could assist. They were said to have ancient, secret knowledge.

Sam continued with his questions because that was his job, but the raiders didn't stop glaring at him. If it wasn't for Wulf standing behind Sam, he had no doubt the men would have spat at him and left already. Wulf made an imposing sight, standing stiff with folded arms.

When Sam was finally done with his lists, the free folk stomped off without a word. The man with the scars gave Sam a spiteful glare as he left the room. Wulf shifted slightly.

"That brat was giving you the evil eye," said Wulf, after the door closed. Wulf's hand went to his axe. "Say the word and I'll teach him some respect."

"No, no," Sam choked, shaking his head quickly. "Please don't, tha-that's not needed."

Wulf frowned, but didn't reply. He thinks I'm weak too, Sam thought. Jon had asked Wulf to act as Sam's bodyguard, but there was derision in Wulf's eyes when he looked at Sam as well. The wildling was a big man, almost as broad and stocky as Sam was, but Wulf was head and shoulders taller, far more muscular than fat. A gruff figure coated in ringmail and hides.

Wulf had never once been anything less than devoted to his role as bodyguard, but his constant presence scared Sam as much as much any of these wildling raiders.

"How many warbands are out hunting for Malvern?" Sam asked, glancing down the list of scribbled notes. He outlined that name - Malvern, the single Other south of the Wall.

"Right now? A dozen or so. There would be more, but we don't have enough dragonglass to risk it," Wulf replied.

"A dozen," Sam repeated. "So many?"

"Aye, a rumour's going around that King Snow has promised a place on the Dragonguard to whoever kills Malvern. There's no shortage of raiders eager to claim that."

Sam had seen the Dragonguard. There had been a dozen or so chosen for the position, and they were already walking around like kings through the castle. It was a position offered to whomever proved themselves, open to all. A chance to be near the dragon. No wonder so many were eager for a chance to become one of them.

But still… a dozen warbands hunting a single Other and none of them had even come close.

Maybe we're trying to catch it the wrong way, Sam thought. A white walker is too strong, too fast and too smart to easily be caught, especially with the growing storms hampering the hunters' movements constantly. The Others could walk through the cold and the snow far more easily than any human.

But what if we trap it? Sam wondered. We know it's targeting small groups, so what if we disguised a group of wildlings as farmers, and armed them with obsidian weapons, small enough to be hidden? The Other was too strong, too cunning; taking it by surprise might be the only way to easily kill it.

Sam would have proposed the idea to any of the raiding parties, but in all likelihood they would dismiss it just because it came from him. Instead, he would have to try and find a chance to talk to Mance. I might have been appointed as second-in-command of the castle, but I sure don't feel like it.

It was nearly evening. Sam went to the mess hall near the time of the bell, just so he could try to avoid the sworn brothers, but he still passed Pyp and Hake in the courtyard. All the brothers in black gave Sam evil looks, but at least nobody tried to spit on him with Wulf walking behind him.

When he sat down with a bowl of turnip stew, he caught a mutter of whispers in the corner. He saw a red-faced Bowen Marsh talking to Wick Whittlestick in a quiet hiss. There was some brief argument, and a glimpse back to Sam. Bowen Marsh had been removed as Lord Steward two days ago for refusing to work with wildlings. Afterwards, Bowen had been sent to work in the kitchen chopping turnips. Now Sam had to take on the duties of Lord Steward. As well as half a dozen other roles.

After a pause, Bowen hobbled over and sat down opposite Sam, his eyes narrowed. There were bruises on his face, Sam noted. Many sworn brothers had suffered similar beatings.

"Samwell," Bowen muttered quietly, with a nervous glance at Wulf across the table. "A word?"

"I shouldn't be talking to you," Sam muttered, not meeting his eyes.

"I just want a word, Tarly."

"There've been too many words already."

"They bar my door at night, Tarly," he muttered. "I cannot leave the kitchens or the mess hall. They beat me if I stare too long. I'm not even allowed sharp blades for the turnips. You are the only man in a black cloak who moves freely around the castle."

There was disgust in the former Lord Steward's eyes. He hates me too, Sam realised. They all hate me. He's only talking to me because he has no choice.

"A word, Samwell," he muttered darkly. "You write all the letters. What is happening at the Shadow Tower?"

Sam hesitated. "The Magnar of Thenn is laying siege to the tower. It is expected to fall shortly. I wrote Ser Denys the final offer of surrender that he's going get. They will take the castle, with or without prisoners."

Bowen Marsh's gaze darkened. "And what of the mountain clans? The Norreys and the First Flints are the Watch's allies."

"King Snow took his dragon and a force of men to the First Flint Holdfast, and then all around the mountains clan's villages. I hear the clans will yield."

Jon's great-grandmother was a Flint, Sam recalled suddenly. He heard that they were calling him 'the Snow'.

"And House Umber?"

"Last Hearth was attacked by Bolton forces weeks ago." Bowen's eyes twitched. Sam paused, begging the man. "Please. It will be easier if you make peace."

"Peace?" Bowen choked. "The wildlings don't know the meaning of the word. Every night those thugs come into our quarters, just to beat someone new." The man's lips curdled. "You hear what happened to the miller's girls, Samwell?"

Sam fidgeted. "They were children," Bowen hissed. "Children. Right up until some wildling thug decided to take them for himself. They'll do the same to every girl in the north."

"They won't," Sam murmured, averting his eyes. "Jon won't let them."

Bowen just scoffed. "Have a look at what's left of Mole's Town and tell me what Jon Snow won't do."

Sam couldn't even look the man in the eyes. The thought of Mole's Town made him squirm.

Bowen Marsh stormed from his seat. For a moment, it seemed like he was about to spit on Sam as well, but then Wulf stood up. Bowen hesitated, glanced at Wulf, before turning and marching away.

It isn't so bad, Sam tried to tell himself. The monster who took the miller's girls had been punished for it, eventually. Some wildlings were taking advantage and going, well, wild, but Jon's law kept most of them fairly tame. Bowen Marsh and the others only had a rough time of it because they refused to concede, but there were other sworn brothers who were starting to work with the free folk. Sam repeated the thoughts to himself, trying to make himself believe it.

Sam returned to his books. Come evening, a raven arrived, and he was summoned to the solar in the King's Tower. Sam stumbled up the staircase, and saw Mance frowning over his desk.

"Tarly." Mance nodded at him. "There's been a raven from Karhold. I need you to draft a reply."

"Is there news, my lord? Lord Karstark sent word?"

"No, the Weeper," Mance said with grunt. "The Weeper has just taken Karhold."

Sam's mouth stammered. "So quickly? I…" He knew that the Weeper led five thousand men from Eastwatch, but for a castle like Karhold to fall? "Did Jon order him?"

"No. The Weeper's orders were to defend Eastwatch from Karstark forces mustering, not to raise a bloody assault," Mance said darkly. "And yet the Weeper claims that the battle was won swiftly."

"How could Karhold fall so quickly? It is the strongest castle on the east coast, is it not?"

"The Weeper's host marches with five hundred giants, Tarly."

Oh.

Sam took the letter, beginning to read aloud. It was written by Karhold's maester - maester Tybald -but stamped with the bloody fingerprint of the Weeper.

"He says that Karstark forces tried to hold the Grey Ford against them. There were two thousand, though mostly farmers and other rapidly-mustered smallfolk," Sam read quickly. "At night, the Weeper led a sortie three leagues south, swimming the river at the mouth of the Grey Cliffs and raiding their flank. Karstark forces scattered, and then they fled altogether at the sight of giants approaching."

Sam gulped, eyes flickering through the scribbled handwriting. "Lord Karstark retreated to Karhold, but the Weeper followed," he read. "The giants broughts heavy bows and mammoths."

"Aye," Mance grunted. "Giants rarely use bows, Tarly, but when they do they're fearsome. A giant is thrice as big but ten times as strong as a man. You call them bows, but siege weapons is a better term."

Sam remembered relaying orders from Jon about those weapons. The first of them had been scorpions salvaged from Stannis Baratheon's wrecked ships, but then the wildlings had started enlisting villagers and smallfolk to build more for them. They were bows that put human longbows to shame. Yes, that would be an overwhelming force.

"Lord Cregan Karstark surrendered," Sam read. The parchment was stained by what looked like tears. "Both him and his wife Alys are captive in their castle." He gulped as read the final line, glancing at Mance. "My lord, the… the Weeper wants to execute Lord Cregan and take Lady Alys for himself."

"Aye. And won't that just send King Snow into a fury?" Mance sighed. "Write a reply, Tarly, and hope that the maester has a very firm tone of voice when reading it back to him. Tell the Weeper that we're in the south, we play by southron rules. You don't kill hostages and you don't steal a man's wife unless your king gives you permission to."

Sam nodded. Mance winced as he tried to move his fingers, drumming the oak desk. "I'm not sure if Snow is going to be happy or not," he muttered. "The Weeper has got himself a brand new castle, but I shudder to think how many of those smallfolk the man actually spared. And when Rattleshirt learns that the man ran off ahead all by himself…"

"Rattleshirt?" Sam asked.

"The Lord of Bones sent a letter as well." Mance motioned across the desk. The parchment was filled with squiggles, like a child's writing. "Aye, it appears Rattleshirt has been teaching himself to write. Now Rattleshirt and the Seal Admiral have been launching raids against Skagos, like they want to conquer the island all by themselves. News of the Weeper's success by himself will only embolden them further."

"He's attacking Skagos, my lord? Truly?"

"Aye, and Rattleshirt is a fool if he thinks the stoneborn will fall easily. The Skagossons have always been half-wildlings themselves."

"Skagos is sworn to Winterfell, is it not?" They rode unicorns there, to hear the tales. An island of cannibals.

"Only on paper. When was the last time Skagos ever offered men to the north's defence?" Mance shook his head. "The Starks waged a hundred wars against the stoneborn. Even the Kings of Winter broke their jaws on that isle more than once. Eventually, they agreed that they 'bend the knee,' and occasionally the stone lords pay lip-service to those old oaths, but Skagos is and always has been its own land. It just wasn't worth the trouble to keep on fighting it each time they rebelled, and they rebelled often. It's the very furthest corner of the north."

"And the Lord of Bones wants to conquer it? Why?"

"Oh, wildlings and stoneborn have had a bloody history. They raid us almost as much as we've raided them." Mance thought it about it. "We must write another letter convincing Rattleshirt to keep away from that island until they've got a dragon to assist them. Let's not use the word 'order', though, Rattleshirt won't like that."

There were more letters to be sent. Sometimes it felt like Sam could see the panic in the north spreading from the rookery alone. Messengers reported fighting from petty lords at House Forrester's Keep, raiders breaking away from the host across farmlands, a roadblock at West Mill Road, and murders up and down the kingsroad.

We only learn of about a tenth of all the battles and skirmishes happening, Sam thought, at best, and only if we're lucky. It was sobering realisation of how much violence must truly be happening across the north. The wildling's invasion had truly begun.

From Hardhome, Mother Mole and her followers were moving south. Scouts reported Varamyr Sixskins bringing a group of fifty wargs and skinchangers to the gates of Eastwatch. Tormund Giantsbane reported groups of free folk already waiting across the Gorge, and a message from the wildling host at Shadow Tower saying that they were only waiting on King Snow's dragon before assaulting the castle.

"Should we send reinforcements to the Shadow Tower?" Sam asked with a gulp.

"Why bother? It will be over by the time any get there," Mance said with a shrug. "It likely already is."

"But we can't let any more sworn brothers die," Sam warned, thinking of the greenseer's warning. "If the men of the Night's Watch fall so does the barrier."

"Then the easiest way is to just bring in more men of the Night's Watch," Mance replied, giving him a cool stare. "There will be five hundred free folk taking the vows and wearing the black cloaks by the turn of the moon."

Sam blinked. "You're… you're replacing sworn brothers with free folk?"

"Aye. Convincing men to give up women and sit on a wall is a tough sell, but I can do it. The word spread that King Snow wants more volunteers for the Watch and he will look after the families of any who steps forward, and suddenly we've got plenty of recruits."

"And what about the existing men of the Watch?" He asked, with a lump of lead in his stomach.

"They'll either have to learn how to get along, or face the noose," Mance said. "That's the only way this was ever going to work, Tarly. They're the ones who have to bend here, not us."

'Us,' Sam thought. He wasn't even sure what side he was on anymore. Why does that thought fill me with dread?

Mance looked at him, musing. "You'd be a capable Lord Steward, you know that Tarly?"

He stammered. "Excuse me?"

"You should spare a thought to where you want to end up. One way or another, the Watch will be lacking commanders," Mance said, "but they could do a lot worse than choosing you as Lord Steward."

Lord Steward. Sam heard his father's voice ringing in his ears. No son of House Tarly will be a servant. "I would not, I…" he mumbled. "I am not experienced enough."

"Who is?" Mance said humourlessly. "I will not stay on the Wall myself. I may be Lord of Castle Black now, but I have no interest in ever wearing a black cloak again. As soon as the Wall is secure, I mean to go south with my wife and son. I will recommend to Snow that you are considered for Lord Steward."

Sam opened his mouth, and closed it again. He paused. "And what of the next Lord Commander?"

"Likely some leader among the free folk will be given the role. Probably one that the king chooses. I very much doubt any of the existing members are willing to step up for the role now."

A brand new regime for the Night's Watch, Sam thought. The wildlings had won.

Sam didn't say a word as Mance dictated the letters. They were running out of ravens for Eastwatch, so instead Mance had to entrust the message to a runner. Afterwards, Sam watched and acted as scribe as Mance coordinated patrols and assigned commands for the Wall.

In less than a week's time, they would have the largest new recruitment ceremony for the Night's Watch in living memory. Five hundred free folk would head north before a heart tree to take the black. If Jon really wanted the Wall secure, Sam considered, there could well be thousands more very shortly. The wildlings were wholly abandoning the lands beyond the Wall.

At dusk, two riders galloped along the Wall from the west. Messengers from the Shadow Tower, the scouts relayed. Sam's heart was beating as the two men were brought quickly up to the King's Tower. The wait even as they stomped up the staircase was excruciating.

"We bring word from King Snow, Lord Mance," the wildling man said, stepping into the room.

"Aye?" Mance's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "And why didn't Snow send a raven?"

"The Shadow Tower has fallen."

Sam's hands were twitching. "How many casualties?" he asked. "Did the sworn brothers surrender?"

The man frowned. His companion shook his head. "No, we mean literally fallen," the man explained. "The dragon wiped that castle off the map."

Jon

Jon gasped as the warm water hit him. He swashed the steaming water into his face from the bucket, trying to wash out the weariness. After flying for so long the chill had gone deep into him, his hands still hadn't stopped trembling.

"You alright, King Snow?" Hatch asked. Jon could only gasp, spitting hot water out of his mouth.

… snow and screaming, panic whipping through the air, stone crumbling…

Jon nodded weakly. "Have the men prepare Sonagon's evening meal. The dragon will expect it."

Since joining the Dragonguard, Hatch had taken to wearing a steel cuirass with a white serpent painted on the centre. He bobbed his head.

"Yes, your Grace."

Your Grace. Jon had started insisting more on the use of the title. Right now, it didn't feel deserved. Grace? What grace? What kind of a title is that? The sound of desperate screams, shattering stone, shattering men, and the howling winter winds still echoed in his ears.

His face was pale as he staggered through the courtyard. Jon's clenched fists were trembling. His Dragonguard rushed to prepare for Sonagon, clearing the crowds backwards. There were already thirteen members, all of them armoured and rushing towards Hardin's Tower. He had made two appointments just last week when he named Toregg - Tormund's son - and Bullden Horn.

There was still space for more. Guarding the dragon was a tremendous duty and Jon didn't want to restrict the numbers in the Dragonguard. Above him, Sonagon growled as he shifted on his perch hungrily.

Jon saw Grenn approach him, looking disturbed. How much had Castle Black already heard?

"Jon," Grenn sounded scared and shaken. "What happened?"

He bit his lip. "There was an accident at the Shadow Tower."

"Ser Denys?"

Jon just shook his head, pushing his way past. Grenn was left standing confused, stunned.

Jon's staggered stiffly across the courtyard. He met Mance, Val and a few others waiting for him.

"Snow," Mance called. "We got your message."

"It was a mistake," Jon said. "The Shadow Tower… it was an old castle."

"What happened?" Val asked.

He looked around at dark eyes. "Sigorn's and Tormund's forces were camped outside. Ser Denys was insistent on holding siege against us. I flew Sonagon in to break their defences." My mistake. "The sworn brothers panicked. I dropped Sonagon onto the keep, and the dragon breathed frostfire over the courtyard to scatter the barricades."

"And?"

Jon shifted. That moment flashed before his eyes. "Sonagon's frostfire is cold, beyond cold. The tower's stones were old, in ill repair, and the foundations were already crumbling from below. And then when Sonagon dropped on the roof, the weight…"

The Shadow Tower was one of the oldest castles of the Watch. It was built overlooking the Gorge, to keep watch over the Wall's western edge and the Bridge of Skulls. The main keep had been a single tower of black granite, nestled over the grounds and outbuildings where the loyalist Night's Watch had put up their final stand.

That scene turned and turned constantly in his mind, haunting him even on the journey back. Between the snows, the screaming, his own confusion – he had never even seen the Shadow Tower before - Jon hadn't even known what was happening until he heard those old stones groaning…

He shivered. It wasn't even a battle.

Mance had a dark look. Mance had served at the Shadow Tower, Jon recalled.

"How many?" Mance asked quietly.

"Some managed to escape the tower. The Thenns pulled everyone from the rubble that they could." Jon nodded. "There were about a hundred survivors."

And three times that number dead. The Gorge was so deep that they would never even be able to recover the rest of the bodies. The Shadow Tower took a good chunk of the cliffs with it when it fell.

"Dammit," Mance cursed, hands on his head.

"What of the Bridge of Skulls?" Val asked.

"Tormund took it. The Night's Watch tried to collapse the bridge when the army approached, but they didn't have time. Tormund is heading back here with the sworn brother survivors while Sigorn stayed to man the remaining structure."

"The Lord of the Shadow Ruins," someone guffawed. Jon shot the voice a foul look.

"Come on," Val murmured quietly. "Go get yourself cleaned up."

Jon shook his head. "No," he muttered. "I want to talk to Maester Aemon."

Two of his Dragonguard, Haldur Two-Notch and Urwen Rockfist, tried to escort him, but Jon waved them away. He needed time to think.

The image of a great black tower slowly tilting and screaming flashed before his eyes. Even as it fell, there had been men inside who refused to flee.

Eventually, he made his way to the rookery. There he found Maester Aemon waiting for him, boiling a pot of herbal tea.

"Your Grace," the old man said, and bowed. How does a blind man know it's me? Jon shut the door behind him.

"How did Aegon the Conqueror capture castles with dragons?" Jon demanded.

Aemon paused. "The Shadow Tower…" he said.

"My fault. My mistake," Jon muttered. "The tower was old, the structure of it was crumbling. The Builders haven't been properly manned in centuries, and I… I just brought a dragon straight in, I didn't even think…"

"I see." The words were soft. "Your Grace, have you rested?"

"I can't, I…" It felt like there were tears stinging in his eyes. "I need to know what I did wrong. What I should have done better."

Aemon paused. "Your Grace," he said, "have a cup of tea."

Jon wanted to protest, but then Aemon gently steered him to the table. The two cups touched the old pine table.

Jon stared at the table. With everything that had been happening, it had been days since he had even sat down.

… It feels like a lifetime ago when I was at this table, trying to convince Aemon to take Sam as a steward. Now, I'm a king struggling to fight a war on a dozen fronts.

Jon could feel the stress getting to him, like a knife in his gut. Three hundred men dead because of a stupid mistake…

"Is the Bridge of Skulls secure?" Aemon asked quietly.

"Aye. There were still enough outbuildings to house Sigorn's troops," Jon said hollowly. All three gates were now open. There had already been wildlings across the Gorge, waiting to cross. When the clans of the Frozen Shore clans fully crossed to the south, his 'army' could well reach fifty thousand.

"I see," Aemon nodded. "And what of your search for allies?"

"Clan Liddle and Norrey cursed my guts," Jon replied with a sigh. He spent a week in those mountains before rushing to the Shadow Tower. Maybe I rushed too fast. "Nobody likes wildlings. But nobody seems to like Boltons either. I said I was the son of Eddard Stark, and that I could hurt the Boltons for them. Clan Wull at least considered an alliance, and the First Flints agreed to allow my hosts passage. They all saw Sonagon and I don't think they'll move against us."

He paused. "Scouts say Last Hearth was sacked by Bolton forces. The Weeper conquered Karhold, and I think Lord Karstark may be willing to make an alliance. Otherwise the best chance for allies may be House Mormont or Manderly."

"And then you mean to fight against House Bolton?"

"Aye. They won't accept us." And they murdered my brother.

Aemon just nodded, blindly shuffling along to his chair. Jon held his cup but didn't drink it. He spent a long time just staring at the liquid. "How did Aegon Targaryen conquer castles with dragons, maester?"

"His dragons rarely did," the old man replied. "A dragon is far more suited to demolishing a castle, like at Harrenhal, rather than taking one. Aegon used his dragons to destroy, and to force lords to concede or burn. Dragons cannot take territory, but they can clear it, break up opposition, make it easy for the slower ground troops. Aegon and his dragons… changed the game, so to speak. Nobody at the time knew how to fight them." He paused. "If you want to learn more from Aegon's example, however, you'd be better served looking at his failures."

"What do you mean?" Jon frowned.

"It is very easy to think of a dragon as invulnerable," Aemon said softly. "It is not. But that is a mistake that even the first Targaryen conquerors made. They grew so comfortable in their success that they became lax. They became overconfident enough to siege a castle from dragonback without suitable ground support, and thus Meraxes ended up with an iron bolt through its eye."

"The First Dornish War." The first dragon to die in Westeros. "How did Dorne survive Targaryen dragons?"

"Oh, many reasons," Aemon sighed. "House Martell learned their lessons by watching the folly of the Reach, stormlands, and westerlands. Dragon wars require a different type of tactic; the Dornish learned quick to never amass troops in numbers. They learned that dragons themselves could be nigh unstoppable, but the support troops that the Targaryens relied on were anything but. A dragon alone can destroy, but it cannot conquer.

"Eventually," Aemon mused, "it became a matter of simple economics. The newly forged Targaryen kingdom was just too fresh, too unstable, too distant to long maintain a warfront against men who refused to give proper battle, who knew the land, who could meld into the smallfolk. Dragons could accomplish much in Dorne, but they couldn't rebuild trade, establish a stable government, or appease a population. They could only be in one place at a time. Aegon the Conqueror ran out of resources to continually invest in a costly war in Dorne, so he was forced to retreat bloodied into order to secure what he already had. A thousand pinpricks killed a dragon, so to speak."

"I… I see." The Boltons might well use the same tactics against me. "Do you have any books on the First Dornish War?"

"Let us see what we can find, Your Grace." Aemon said softly, rising from his seat and hobblling slowly towards the stairs. He didn't bother with a lantern, but Jon picked one up, as he followed by the maester's side.

As they walked, Aemon asked quietly. "Have you read more of the books on dragons and dragonlore, your Grace?"

The question was so unexpected that Jon blinked. It took him a few seconds to respond, as he remembered the neglected books Aemon had loaned him a week earlier. "I… I've read maybe a third more of Barth's Unnatural History, maester. Fragments of Gyldayn's Fire and Blood, a bit more of Yandel's history on the Dornish war. I've been carrying them with me, on the campaign, but there's never, never enough time."

"I see," the maester said. Aemon's voice was soft, expressing neither approval or disappointment as they slowly walked through the rookery. "May I ask, why do you wish to learn so much, Your Grace?"

Jon's lips pursed. "Because I want to do better."

"Knowledge being the first step, I see. But where do you see that path leading?

That, at least, was easy to answer. "I will set the north to rights. Protect the Wall. Find a peace between the realm and the free folk. Beyond that…" Jon floundered, then.

"You don't know, then? The direction of your path?"

"How could I?" Jon let out a joyless bark that could not be called laughter, as they walked. "I don't know, not at all. I've never been outside of the north. And all my family's enemies are in the lands south."

The maester just nodded, as they reached their destination amidst the rookery's stacks. "Then I believe there are, not one, but two books you should take, both by Yandel. Where is my footstool?"

"It's—"

Aemon found it on his own, and before long, he was pulling down a dusty old tome from where it had been wrapped up in the stacks. Jon lifted the book down when Aemon's hobbling knees failed him.

"First, of course, we have Maester Yandel's study of the use of dragons during the Dornish War. Yandel possesses multiple links in the art of warcraft, thus I found his expertise to be particularly relevant. The first Dornish war was one of the most successful implementations of a defensive warfront organized via lateral, not vertical, tactics and command structures, which proved invaluable in defeating Aegon's technically superior, but inflexible and leadership-deficient invading force."

That sounded particularly relevant, Jon admitted, glancing over the title. The First Dornish War, by Yandel.

The shelves were organized by author, and so, not far away, there was another tome the maester brought out.

"This is the second book I would have you read, your Grace. It is also by Yandel, his most recent work, actually. It is newer, less than a year old. I might suggest that, someday, you send inquiries of him at the Citadel. He is one of the order's more capable contemporary scholars, now that Archmaester Gyldayn has passed."

"Perhaps," Jon said neutrally, as Aemon slowly placed the second tome on the table. This one was thicker than the first, with a cover that had been painted with a world map showing not only Westeros, but continents and lands further still. The title was in gold leaf, and read—

The World of Ice and Fire, by Yandel.

"Of these works by Yandel, this is perhaps the less immediately useful, but it is, I believe, the far more important. A general cyclopedia of geographies and cultures, finely written." Aemon seemed to stare through him. "It has little actionable information, but if the world and its ignorance is a labyrinth of shadows, then knowledge is the light that illuminates the way forwards. I give this to you because I do not believe your path will end here in the north, your Grace."

"…No," Jon said slowly, remembering all that had befallen his family. "No, I expect it won't." He paused, and managed half a smile, though the old man could not see. "Thank you, maester."

Jon pulled out two chairs at a nearby table, laying the books out. Jon invited Aemon to join him, but the old maester protested.

"No, I will fetch a bowl of hot water and a pot of stew, Your Grace," the old man wheezed.

"You need not—"

"I insist." The maester was already walking back up the stairs. "Wash, ease your mind and relax. You will not be disturbed."

Jon bit his lip, but slowly sat down on the chair. Somehow, the quiet gloom of the vaults felt comforting. His eyes were red and weary, but he gingerly opened the book.

The candlelight flickered, wax slowly dripping down the stem.

I should have done more, he thought quietly. I could have gone to the Shadow Tower sooner, before they had a chance to barricade themselves inside. I could have approached slower, more carefully…

Even if I just waited for better weather, I would have been able to see the tower falling. I was too impatient and too late.

Jon started with the study on the Dornish war, even though his World of Ice and Fire had a certain calling to him that he disliked having to ignore. He quickly found that Maester Yandel had a slow, cursive hand, with a bias towards great detail. The words were long and laborious. Jon felt his eyes drooping as he started to read.

Three hundred brothers died at the Shadow Tower. There must be fewer than four hundred left in the entire North. My fault.

The candle slowly burned downwards in peaceful silence. His muscles ached after moving and riding for so long.

He heard footsteps behind him. "Maester," Jon called. "Are there any books on the Second Dornish War? What of the Young Dragon's campaign whe—"

Suddenly he felt metal chain wrap around his throat. Jon gagged.

Arms thrashed. He pushed back, but strong hands held him down. He heard his attacker grunting.

"Quickly!" A voice hissed. "Kill the bastard."

More footsteps behind him. Can't breathe. His face turned red. His whole body lurched in panic, kicking back.

The chair toppled. His feet kicked the table roughly. Parchment scattered, and the candle toppled.

His attacker fell backwards with him. Sweet, sweet air hit his lungs, and then they were crashing into the ground. Bodies rolled in the dark.

Figures. Multiple figures. Jon barely managed to gasp and then someone was on him. A heavyset man grunting and wrestling.

"Kill him already! Kill the bastard!"

"Watch the door!"

"I'm trying, he's squirming!"

Something sharp in the man's hand. Metal. Jon managed to grab his wrist before it stabbed into his chest. It didn't seem like a dagger, it was round and sharpened. A sharpened spoon.

Jon felt the edge press down against his chest. If it wasn't for his leathers, it would have skewered him. The man was on top, trying to push the crude edge downwards, while Jon desperately tried to hold the man's hands up.

A blow. His teeth rattled. One of the other men kicked his face. They rolled, thrashing…

Jon couldn't breathe. His vision blurred, panting…

He felt the metal edge jab into his stomach.

The world rumbled. Jon could barely hear it over the sound of his heart.

"Kill him! Bloody kill him already!"

"For the Watch!" a voice cried. "For the Watch!"

Something big and heavy crashed into his face. Jon fell.

In the distance, he heard screaming. Roaring. The ground was trembling, the stacks shaking. He smelt smoke. Burning parchment.

Jon dropped, and the attackers were on him. Multiple men, lots of feet and blunt objects crashing against his body as he fell. Jon couldn't even feel the pain, not through the panic and fear…

"For the Watch! For the Watch!"

He glimpsed a flash of blond. A sharp cry. Suddenly, warm blood was hissing.

He couldn't even make sense of it. He was too busy gasping on the floor while the bodies thrashed. He heard shouting, and sharp bloody strikes of a blade.

Val, he realised suddenly. He recognised her blond hair striking, face twisted in fury. There were half a dozen men, but she had a sword and they didn't.

Flames hissed. The table he had been sitting at burst into flames from the toppled candle. Ancient tomes scorched in dusty flames. He saw Val kick a figure backwards, where he burned, thrashed and screamed. Wick Whittlestick, Jon recognised suddenly. He could recognise these men. He saw Sweet Donnel Hill scream and fall.

In the light, Jon saw Bowen Marsh fall backwards, crying. "Please, please!" he begged. "It's for the good of the realm!"

Val's sword jammed halfway through his head, splattering the books with gore.

Jon was gasping, struggling to breathe. There were other bodies stomping down the steps. He heard screams as bodies around him were being hacked to pieces.

He saw a podgy young boy flailing as he tried to wrestle a man in a black cloak. He was about to be overpowered, when two wildlings rushed to his aid.

The attackers were being killed quickly, but the everything was shaking…

A figure heaved Jon upwards off the ground. The ground was still trembling. "Your dragon!" Val screamed. "Calm your bloody dragon down!"

It took two men to pull him up the stairs and out of the rookery. Jon's vision was still spinning.

Outside, it was absolute pandemonium.

He heard wood and stone raining downwards. The ceiling was shaking. The rookery, Jon realised. Sonagon had ripped the tower of the rookery apart.

They opened the door, and then the figures yanked Jon backwards as a stone gargoyle crashed into the porch. Heavy wood splintered, stone crumbled. The whole structure shivered, ready to collapse.

There was a scar over the courtyard. Sonagon must have tried to tear up the ground to reach him in the vaults. He could feel the dragon raging.

Calm down, Jon pushed. Calm down! They're dead! They're dead!

Sonagon roared so loudly the whole Wall quivered. Those moments were absolute panic.

The dragon didn't relax, and instead took to flying restlessly above. It felt like the whole castle was screaming. Sonagon felt my pain and panic too. He really didn't like it.

His throat felt raw, bruised. I nearly died. Sonagon went mad.

"Snow!" He saw Hatch and a dozen others stamping towards him clutching weapons. "What happened? What happened?"

"They tried to kill me," Jon muttered, still wheezing. "They tried to kill me…"

He could see the bodies littering the floor. All with black cloaks. Some had tried to run, but they never escaped the building. Eleven of them in total. Val had been first through the door and killed four, and the other wildlings hacked apart the others.

Many of their faces were barely recognisable through the blood and gore. Then, Jon glimpsed a short figure with large eyes, wide eyes and an axe through his gut.

"No…" Jon muttered, staring at the lifeless corpse of his friend. "Pyp?"

Pyp tried to kill me. Bowen Marsh and ten others tried to kill me. Those moments were frantic, replaying in his mind.

Once Pyp chased me down as a friend to stop myself from forsaking my vows. He was a friend. How could he try to kill me?

"We're sorry, Snow!" He heard someone shout in the chaos. "They slipped past and ambushed the guards. Killed a man with a sharpened spoon."

Val was standing there, warily looking around the room, blood still on her sword and streaking through her hair. Jon was still shaking, eyes wide, but he spoke to Val first. "You saved me."

"Aye." Her eyes were hard. "And if I hadn't, that dragon would have slaughtered everyone in this castle."

Everyone in the castle.

"Maester Aemon," Jon demanded, head spinning. "Maester Aemon, where is the old man?" Then he added, almost as an afterthought. "And someone go outside, let them know what has happened."

They found the maester lying crumpled by the pans, blood dripping from his head, lying face down. Jon rolled him over, finding that his eyes were closed. The old man was scattered and crumpled as if he had tripped.

Jon's scream jammed somewhere in his throat. Caught between despair and rage. He scrambled down, feeling at the old maester's neck. He found that there was a faint heartbeat, the old man was still alive.

But the maester was badly hurt, unconscious. Jon ordered a few free folk to see to him, and over the next few minutes, the shape of the assassination attempt became more clear. Eleven men had slipped into the rookery to try and kill him. Six went down into the vaults to do the deed, so while the other five stood guard by the stairs.

It looked like the maester had tried to stop them. It didn't seem like they had deliberately attacked him; rather, it looked like one of them had simply pushed the old man, who then fell and cracked his skull.

Jon's whole body was trembling, as he waited by a window, listening to the screaming through the window, though it soon quieted. He watched a few of the Dragongaurd, overseeing them as they took Aemon outside to the infirmary. He would have followed, but his guards were insistent that he stay inside the Rookery. Then Val returned, passing through the doorway from the outside, panting for breath.

"… how is it, out there?" Jon asked, fearful of the answer.

"Your dragon went berserk," Val replied. "Nobody knew what was happening, but then I heard someone shouting that you were being attacked. Snow, you need to be more bloody careful. Your dragon could have killed us all."

Sonagon was trying to save me too, he realised. Except the dragon didn't understand how, so it went mad trying to reach me. Jon closed his eyes, reaching out to Sonagon, assuring the dragon that the crisis was passed. But the dragon's mind felt like a storm of fury, and was not so easily calmed.

Mance came not long after, and brought him to Hardin's Tower. The tower looked halfway ready to collapse. There were orders to evacuate everything they could just as the walls started to crumble.

Jon took a deep swig of ale from a leather pouch, trying to calm his shaking nerves. Aemon. Gods, Aemon can't die – he's the last Targaryen in Westeros, the oldest man alive. How could a man like that—

His mind kept replaying that moment. There hadn't been any escape plan for the attackers. Pyp, Bowen, Wick, Donnel… they all wanted me dead so badly they were willing to die for it.

"We found three other crows who helped those bastards escape the kitchens. Killed another guard too," a man reported later, his voice angry. "They worked with the conspirators, keeping the guards distracted so the others could slip out to try to kill you."

"Who?" Jon croaked.

"Their names Jeren, Hake and Rast."

Gods I know those men. Jeren was a recruit alongside me…

"Are you sure?" Jon demanded. "Are you sure they were a part of it?"

"Oh aye. The one called Rast had a man's bite mark on his wrist from where he strangled the bloke."

Mance gave him a dark look. "Snow," he muttered. "No matter what these men were to you, you know what has to be done now."

Jon stared at the floor. "Place them in a cell."

"Snow—"

"I'll execute them myself in the morn," Jon snapped. "Just place them in a cell."

Mance lips tightened, but he nodded. Outside, Castle Black felt frantic. Mance's men and the Dragonguard had to seal off Hardin's Tower. Jon couldn't even recover the few things he had inside. The stones of the tower were creaking in an ugly way, and might actually collapse in the next few minutes, or hours, there was no way of telling.

"How many?" Jon asked finally. "How many died?"

"The conspirators killed two, three if you include the old maester, he's hurt badly," said Mance. He paused. "And then your dragon probably killed two dozen or so when it became enraged. I'll tell you exactly how many when we find the bodies."

Jon's hands tightened into fists. He didn't reply.

"We need to deal with the crows, Snow," Hatch warned. "They tried to kill you."

"Some of them tried."

"And how many of the others are going to try again?" Hatch said. "We don't need those crows and they're not going to work with us. Say the word and they'll be dead."

"No," Jon growled.

"And what? You want to keeping staying in the same castle as men who hate our guts?" another voice growled. "How did you think this would end? There must be blood."

There were mutters of approval. "Enough!" Jon shouted. His jaw clenched. "Leave the room."

He saw angry scowls. "… You heard the king," Hatch said, folding his arms. "Everyone out."

Shuffled footsteps traipsed through the door. At Jon's nod, Mance lingered in the room. "How do you want to play this, Snow?"

He stared out of the shuttered window. "Start by picking up the pieces. Keep the Night's Watch men out of the way until tempers cool. Compensation to the families of all those who died, rewards to Val and all the others who came to my aid."

Mance nodded. Jon paused, deliberately unclenching his teeth when he realized they hurt - he had never felt so tense, he had to focus.

"But, keep the sworn brothers alive," Jon continued, muttering lowly. "Weed out any that look like they're going to cause trouble and send those away. They'll work with us, they will, as soon as tensions calm."

"Aye. You stay in the King's Tower tonight, Snow." Jon was ready to object, before he remembered. "This tower has thicker doors and it's easier guarded. I don't trust Hardin's Tower after your dragon gave it a whack."

Jon bit his lip, but nodded. "I can't keep Sonagon in Castle Black, can I?" Jon muttered.

"No. You need to keep that dragon well away from everyone else. We should have moved it out a long time ago."

"Aye." But where can I keep him? "Tormund will be here soon with his host. Keeping so many wildlings, crows and Sonagon… it aggravates things. As soon as Tormund arrives we'll march out."

"It would be easier if we killed the crows," Mance noted.

"You want to do that?"

"No. Just pointing it out. It would be easier."

Jon shook his head, but didn't reply. Mance didn't push the subject. "Where will you be marching to? Winterfell?"

Jon just nodded. Home. "Aye. I will have to. The Wall is yours Mance. Keep it secure."

"Aye." He folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. "But take my advice, Snow. That's a dragon. It's good at destroying and little else. Give it something to destroy."

Val

She watched as Hardin's Tower finally collapsed in a giant whump of stone and dust that made the earth tremble. The free folk began to clear the ruins.

It had taken the dragon only seconds to all but demolish the tower's supporting wooden beams and inner granite walls. From the reports, a single whip of the tail had sent granite and wooden beams hundreds of feet across the courtyard. Before long, Val sent Wun Wun to help, and soon actual giants were involved in the cleanup, none less than they could hoist up the great chunks of tower stone, while men scrambled between the lesser debris.

Hardin's Tower was gone. Two minutes of rage, and the whole castle had been destroyed.

Sonagon wasn't here now; the beast had left to hunt. She had seen it flying away north beyond the Wall, and all Castle Black sighed a breath of relief to see it go.

Val saw the bodies of the dead crows being dragged out. Jon Snow had said nothing, he had only watched as the bodies were taken behind the logging house and burned in a shallow pit.

It's a queer thing, Val thought, to watch men whom you fought being carried out. In the moment it had been nothing but rage and bloodlust. Her shoulder still ached from where one of the big crows had tried to claw at her.

A few hours later, a messenger, a boy with wide eyes and a white stone, told her that 'King Snow' demanded to see her. Her jaw stiffened, but she nodded and headed off to the King's Tower while the boy ran off to other raiders. Val paused as another three raiders trundled up the stairs besides her. There were four Dragonguards standing stiffly at the entrance to the tower, and another three by the king's door. Eyes were on her as she passed; word had spread of how she had led the charge into the rookery.

She found Jon Snow waiting for them. "Val," he nodded to her and the others. His throat was still raw and bruised. "Boyd, Hal, Erik." No one spoke, but Snow just limped forward, and slowly dropped a sheepskin pouch onto the table in the solar. There was a metallic thud. "You all came to my aid, and good service should have good reward. Take yours."

From the pouch, he poured out a mismatch of dull bracelets onto the surface. Silver armbands, Val realised. They were unpolished, but rich. The free folk had little coin, but there was still wealth enough.

She saw flashes of avarice in the expressions of the men next to her, and they quickly bowed, muttered to Jon, and walked away cradling the sliver. Val stared more suspiciously, but she took one of the bracelets in any case.

"You should take more than one, my lady," Jon offered. "You killed four men by yourself."

She paused, then took two. They were both forged for thicker wrists than hers, but she could barter using them. "Aye," Val nodded. "You pay silver in exchange for your life?"

"I already tried to give you a castle, but you refused," he said with a dry smile.

She tutted, but let the issue drop. He looks tired, she realised. Very tired and worn. Now when was the last time he slept? The king seemed to always be moving and working, she didn't think he ever took time to relax.

"… It is that southron you should reward," Val said, as she started to walk away. Fair is fair. "The one you brought in. I heard him shouting for aid. Everyone else was running from the dragon, and he was the only reason I managed to get there in time."

"Then I must reward him too. Care to join me, my lady?"

She paused, but nodded. He wrapped himself up in his cloak and had a quick word with his man, Furs, before following Val. Three of his Dragonguard stomped down the stairs behind them.

"You mean go to everywhere with your guards behind you?" Val asked.

"I think that would be wise."

So did she, but she didn't say anything. The dragon would have killed everyone in the castle if something had happened to Jon. The rumours of what had happened yesterday and had already spread, and she wondered briefly if anyone would dare attack the king now.

"Is there any word of Aemon?" Snow asked.

"No," Val said, shaking her head. That had been one of the matters she had been seeing to amidst the chaos. "Still unconscious. I'm told his hip is broken, that his skull is cracked. It does not look good."

Snow closed his eyes, as if in pain, but he said nothing as the two of them walked the grounds, flanked by guards. Even Val knew it was important for the people to see their leader in this moment, alive and whole.

The camps outside of Castle Black were sprawling tents of cloth and hide, with fire pits dug into the ground, littering outwards from the Tower of the Guards. As soon as Snow even stepped foot towards them, Val felt the murmur pass through the camp and wide eyes staring up at him. So many people all looking and muttering. Even refugees who weren't fighters had made the trek along the Wall to Castle Black with their host, to follow the dragon. Every single person seemed to have a white stone on their furs.

She passed a carving of white bark in the shape of a dragon, sitting at the very centre of the camp.

So many eyes were focused on them, on her that it made her nervous, but Jon either hid his feelings better, or didn't feel them at all. Towards the fringes, there were tents of those that weren't free folk, villagers that had been captured by their army or been forced to flock to Castle Black nevertheless for food and shelter. It didn't escape Val's notice that everyone who wasn't of the free folk was at the back of the queue whenever food was handed out.

Jon saw the boy first; the pudgy young man named Harlow. There was a wound across his forehead from where he had tried to fight the assassins. Val just nodded. "Aye, he's the one."

For a second, Harlow looked scared witless as Jon approached him. Between the crowds, Val couldn't catch the words, but she caught the look of absolute astonishment on the boy's face as Jon extended his hand.

She hung back and watched. Harlow looked stunned, but the king said some words and Harlow nodded, and grinned. Val caught the mutters from the reactions, though not what the king said.

"What did you say to him?" Val asked as he turned back. His Dragonguards escorted Harlow out of the refugee camps.

"I offered him a place on my Dragonguard," Jon replied simply.

"You did what?" Val smirked. "That boy is gormless. I saw him try to fight against one of those crows and it was absolutely pathetic. He is no fighter."

"Yet he still tried," Jon said as he walked. "While everyone else was running mad, Harlow was the only one who thought to chase after me. I would be dead if not for it." Jon shrugged. "And he helped me greatly in dealing with the mountain clans. I know he's brave and resourceful, and I don't think he's scared of Sonagon. He'll do on my Dragonguard."

"And yet he's not exactly a warrior."

"I need more than just warriors."

"And how many are you planning on appointing?"

"As many as needed. The Dragonguard needs stewards and stable-keepers as much as anything." He shook his head. "No, the Dragonguard won't be my version of the kingsguard. It will be a rank open to anyone from commoners to knight."

They were heading back into the castle, muddy slurry underfoot. There were light flecks of snow in the air. "I don't know what a 'kingsguard' is, Snow," Val said with a frown.

Jon blinked. "They are the royal bodyguards of the Iron Throne, the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms."

"Ah, now that would be that fancy place down south, the big chair that the little boy sits on?"

"Tommen Baratheon," Jon nodded. "He is king right now. But the kingsguard is an ancient brotherhood, founded three hundred years ago by Aegon Targaryen."

He must have seen the confusion on her face. "Aegon Targaryen," he repeated, with a frown. "The Conqueror? Do you not know of the Targaryens?"

"Snow, I know how to track a hare under three feet of snow and how to herd a bull mammoth away from a village," Val said, irritated, "but don't be surprised if I know little of your southron names."

He blinked, and then smiled. He had a soft smile. "Forgive me, my lady," he said, bowing his head. "The Targaryens were first dragonlords in Westeros, those who built the Iron Throne and conquered the Seven Kingdoms."

"Dragonlords," she repeated. She'd heard there had been more dragons that went extinct, but she never really knew the truth. Such things were little more than idle rumour north of the Wall. Or they had been, until Sonagon appeared. "Like you?"

"I suppose so." He shifted. He didn't sound comfortable saying so.

Val was about to ask more, but then he paused and headed up the stairs towards the Flint Barracks. Val caught figures coming out to watch him. The Barracks seemed to shuffle.

Val heard the words he gave to a free folk through the doorway. "All men of the Night's Watch men get double their current rations," Jon ordered. "The curfew is still in place, but from now on they have permission to move around the castle freely."

She heard the brothers mumbled. What is he thinking? Val cursed, stepping into the cramped and dirty barracks. The Dragonguard shuffled, trying to squeeze in and follow him.

Jon walked straight up to a thick necked and broad-shouldered crow, a head taller than Jon. Still, the big man looked nervous, shuffling on his feet. He had a blunt and honest face.

"Grenn," Jon said quietly. "Did you know that Pyp was plotting to kill me?"

The big man's voice sounded choked. "I did not," he mumbled. All of the free folk around him were staring hatefully.

Jon didn't reply. Something about the silence demanded answers. "… Pyp was angry, Jon," Grenn muttered. "He… we… had friends at the Shadow Tower. We had brothers who died in the forest. And then you come along with wildlings and dragons and there's death everywhere…"

A free folk growled, moving to strike Grenn. Jon raised his hand, glared at the wildling, and motioned for Grenn to continue. Grenn gulped. "I saw the blue-eyed dead in the woods, I did," Grenn continued nervously. "But I don't know what they were. There were mutters going around that the wildling sorcery was responsible for them, and the Red Woman did say that you were evil…"

His voice trailed. The room was quiet. Jon just paused, then nodded. "You're right," he said slowly. "… I've been expecting the Night's Watch to come around, as I did, but I've given you no reason to do so. No reason to trust me. I'm sorry Grenn, that's on me. I could have done more."

The crow blinked. Jon just continued in a firm voice. "Grenn of Duskendale, I name you to my Dragonguard. I offer you a full position in my service," he said, as the room muttered. "If you believe that my motives are foul, then you can stand in my presence during the day and you can see that they're not."

Grenn's jaw dropped open slightly. He looked stunned. Some free folk looked ready to object, but Jon's gaze turned hard. "Furs, give Grenn armour and weapons as suitable," Jon ordered. "And a room under the King's Tower."

He turned to walk away, passing a cold look over a few free folk that were glowering at him. "I also expect free folk to watch their manners around the men of the Night's Watch," Jon said, warningly.

Some of them tried to object. His Dragonguard pushed their way through. Val heard Hatch the Halfgiant bellowing for them to get back. Val hesitated, lingering away at the bottom of the barracks.

"Are you a fool?" Val muttered as he approached. "The crows try to kill you and you name one of them as your guard?"

"Grenn didn't. I know Grenn, he's a good man."

"You knew the others too."

His glanced at her as they walked. "Grenn is strong and good with animals. He's honest, and he's brave. Aye, I'd trust him as my Dragonguard." He nodded "And I appointed him for the same reason I chose Harlow. I want to fill the ranks with more than just free folk - it has to be free folk, brothers of the watch, and northmen, all coming together. That's what I want the dragonguard to be."

Val narrowed her eyes, but didn't object. They were heading into the King's Tower. Guards opened the double oak doors for them, and they trundled up the staircase. Val lowered her hood.

"There'd be a spot on the Dragonguard for you too, my lady," Jon noted, "if I thought you'd accept it."

Val scoffed. "What? So I could spend my time looking after a dragon?" then she sneered. "I want as little to do with that beast as I can, Snow."

"As you wish."

He shrugged his cloak off as he limped into the solar. The air was cool, and he moved to light the fireplace. Val lingered, looking at him curiously. He is always so busy, she thought, folding her arms. When was the last time he relaxed?

"So these dragons of yours. There were more, at one time?" she asked. "How many?"

"At the Targaryen's height? Dozens. But that was long ago. The last dragon in the south died over a hundred and fifty years ago."

"And they were as large as yours?" She said doubtfully.

"Some were as large, perhaps," he frowned. "But none were larger, I think." He paused, hesitating. "I have a book I can show you, if you're curious, my lady."

"I cannot read, Snow."

"There are pictures too."

Snow had brought a bag with him, and within were half a dozen books whose titled she could not read, but some of them looked pretty as he spread them out on a table. He selected the prettiest of them, a heavy-looking thing bound in crimson leather.

He opened it, and Val saw sheaves of yellowing parchment within, which smelt faintly of preservatives and antiseptics. There was blood on the cover, but the pages within looked clean. Even so, Snow treated the tome with the utmost delicacy. "I intend to find a maester as soon as possible, to make copies of this book." He sounded sad. "This is a very rare tome. We must preserve as much knowledge as possible, before more is lost."

He opened the cover. The faded squiggly lines and runes looked nonsensical to her. He turned the pages again, by the dozens, and soon there was a sketch of a dragon with wings outstretched flapping across the entire double folding of parchment. Val peered over his shoulder. It was a strange thing to look at something so large, drawn so small.

She pursed her lips. "So this what you southrons do then?" she muttered. "You write words and draw little pictures of big things?"

Jon snorted. "Aye, I suppose we do."

He turned to a page showing a dragon's maw and teeth as it gaped open. She had to admit, they were good pictures.

She peered over so she could see, trying to trace the ancient pencil strokes. Val ran the tips of her fingers over the dry parchment. Jon smiled softly.

"So these old dragons," Val muttered. "You said they died. Died how?"

"There was a war."

"A war of dragons?"

"Aye. The Dance of Dragons, it was called. The Targaryen civil war. Where once there were dozens of dragons, after the war there were only a few, and none that produced healthy offspring." He walked, moving to sit down. He sighs when he takes weight off his leg, she noted. "That was the start of the decline of the Targaryen's dynasty."

"These Targaryens," she mused. "Dragonlords. Does that make them kin to you?"

A flicker passed across his face. "I don't know," he admitted. "But the last Targaryen in Westeros was badly wounded today. Though he abandoned his birth name, he was born Aemon Targaryen, and he knew more of dragons than perhaps any man in the entire world. And I'm told that he will most likely die, soon."

"The blind maester." Val glanced at him, trying to read his expression. Whenever he had to deal with trouble, Snow's eyes could turn hard as iron, grey as a blade. Slowly, she watched as his eyes softened. "… So, he could have been your family?"

"I'm not even sure," Jon said, with a hollow smile. "But it felt it."

Val paused. "Lives should be celebrated, Jon Snow," she said, her voice turning softer. "Lets raise wine to the blind old man."

He looked surprised. "I shouldn't," he said, biting his lip. "There are duties to attend to."

Jon seemed strangely nervous. Val smiled sweetly.

"The hour is late. The castle can survive one evening without you, I think." She leant backwards on the chair, stretching outwards. "Tell me about these dragons."

Jon hesitated slightly, but he smiled. "Aye, alright."

"I think Mance stashed a bottle of wine in the cupboard there." Val pointed.

"Will he mind us taking it?"

"We're wildlings, Snow," she said as she stood up. "If we steal his wine, then it's his own damn fault for not keeping it properly."

She went to fetch two wooden cups. There were glasses, of course, but she hesitated to use them. It still felt so weird for her to drink out of a luxury like carved glass. Jon smiled as he uncorked the decanter, and she noted how… out of place the expression looked on him, like his very muscles weren't used to it.

"To Maester Aemon," he said quietly. Their cups clunked.

Snow talked about dragons, about Targaryen history. He mentioned names like Aegon, Dareon, and Aemon, the Conqueror and the Dragonknight and wars in places that she couldn't even place on a map. Val laughed, and drank wine, noticing how his eyes lit up slightly as he talked of history.

It was good wine too. Probably something the old Lord Commander had been saving. Thick southern wine, lighter and fluffier than the hard northern stuff she was used to. Not so bad, she mused, as she downed the last of the cup with a small belch.

For some reason, Jon seemed very amused by that. He burst out in quiet chuckles. "What the hells are you laughing at?" she demanded.

"Nothing," he chuckled. "Nothing, my lady."

They went through the wine quickly. Darkness was falling outside, the smell of smoke from the camps heavy in the air.

"… so when King Daeron declared to announce another campaign on Dorne, his advisors thought him mad," Jon was saying. "They reminded him that that Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters failed twice trying to conquer Dorne and now the Iron Throne had no dragons. Daeron replied, 'You have a dragon. He stands before you.'"

"Wow," said Val. "He sounds like a pompous little shit."

That caused him to chuckle. "I suppose he does. But he was the Young Dragon. He was a top-class tactician, the greatest leader of his generation."

Her head cocked. "You sound like you admire him."

"I do. I used to read stories about his campaign with Robb. We used to pretend we were Daeron the Young Dragon and Aemon the Dragonknight." He paused, a pained expression over his face. Then his eyes grew distant. "… And then Robb led his own campaign. He became the Young Wolf."

He seemed to pause. The wine left his cheeks flushed. "You have a dragon," Val said, lowering her voice.

"I do, but I cannot…" He trailed off, and then shook his head. "Forgive me, my lady, too much wine on an empty stomach. I will have Beth bring us up a meal."

"Beth," Val repeated. "Is that the lass with the mousy hair always tottering around you?"

"Aye. She and the others have been tending to my meals and clothes." He stood up, walking towards the door.

"I'm sure. That's because she wants you to fuck her."

He blinked, gaping. "What, she's not…"

"Snow, she's of the free folk. No free folk girl would ever bring a man food without expecting that man to take them too."

He shook his head. Gods, is he blushing? "They are just being helpful."

"Sure." She rolled her eyes. "Although I am surprised she's kept at it even after she must have heard about the… you know."

"The what?" he asked, baffled.

"The snip-snip," she said softly, with finger motions. He gaped at her. "Well, they do geld you when you take the black don't they? I imagine they must cut it off so you don't miss it when you're on the Wall. It explains a bit."

Jon looked flustered. "I am not a… they didn't… who has been…?" He paused, and blinked. "… Are you teasing me?"

"Never. Perish the thought, Your Grace," she said innocently.

It seemed like he was trying to respond, but his mouth just opened and closed a few times. He shook his head. "… I will see about food, my lady," he said finally, turning to walk away.

Val just smirked, dropping the cup on the table as he left.

She waited. She heard voices outside the door. Somebody shuffling up the stairs.

"What is going on?" Val called, pulling herself up. There were mutters from outside; somebody must have come up to meet Jon.

She creaked open the door. The voices were very low. She saw the fat crow - Samwell - standing nervously by the landing. In the torchlight, Jon's face suddenly seemed hard.

He's clutching a letter, she saw. "Oh, one of your birds have arrived?" Val called. "Where from?"

Neither of them replied. Snow's hands were trembling. Val frowned, decided to move closer.

The letter was pink, made of fine parchment and dyed, she noticed. She couldn't understand the words writ on it, but it looked more official than most letters. It even had a wax stamp on it. "What is going on?" she asked, lowering his voice.

Without a word, Jon dropped the parchment on the ground and stormed away. From behind, she could see his shoulders trembling.

Sam squirmed, fearful of her. He made to turn, but Val reached to out to grab him.

"Oi, crow," she demanded. "Sam, right? What was in that letter, Sam? What the hells did it say?"

He quivered. "… I shouldn't…"

"Tell me." Now what would make Snow react like that?

Eventually, Sam conceded. He picked up the parchment and he read out loud;

"Bastard. False bastard king. You steal my realm, bastard. You and your savages and your dragon. I know all about you. Your sister Arya has been telling me about you. She tells me that you used to love her. She told me that she used to mess up her hair. She told me about the little sword you gave her. That you would play with her. Now, I play with her.

"She's my wife, and when I hurt her it is your fault. I make her scream your name. Sometimes she calls for you to help her. I hurt her. I rape her every night and cut her every morning. For all of your crimes and lies, I make your sister suffer and cry for them.

"Come and see, bastard. Come and see what I'm doing to your sister. I want you gone. Take your savages and go back north of the Wall, but leave. I want your dragon. Surrender the beast to me. Every day you are in defiance I will hurt your sister a little bit more. Come and see. Challenge me and I will cut out your bastard heart and feed it to her.

"Ramsay Bolton, Trueborn Lord of Winterfell."

There was a long silence. Sam gulped. "There was something else," he muttered, lifting up a wooden box with a shrivelled, severed thing inside of it. "It came with the envelope."

Val looked. She cursed in the Old Tongue. "That's a nose," she muttered, then hesitated when she saw how small and fine it might have been, once. It was fresh, clean. They must have washed it before sending. "The nose of a young girl."

Without a pause, she pushed past Sam and strode after Jon. The snows were thick, she had to force her way out into the grounds. She saw him barge his way into Hardin's Tower and storm up the staircase. The guards looked confused.

When Val followed, she heard a short, sharp scream. There were short, dull impacts. Fists punching against the wall.

She had never seen him look so crazed. "… Jon…" she called softly.

His breaths were haggard. He was pacing constantly, restless as a wolf. For a while, Val didn't think he would reply.

"He has my sister," he growled, punching the wall again with an angry growl. "My sister." She walked forward hesitantly. "I know of that man. Ramsay Bolton," he spat, between deep, trembling breaths. "The man is a butcher. A dog. And he has Arya."

"Your sister," Val muttered. "How old is she?"

He stopped. "Twelve. I have not seen her in three years."

I am sorry, she almost said, but she held her tongue. He wasn't looking for sympathies right now.

"They cut off her nose," he growled. "Ramsay Bolton. Bolton. When he married Lady Hornwood he imprisoned and starved her until she had to eat her own fingers. And they married Arya to him?

"They murdered my brother. They killed my family. They torture my sister." He screamed, slamming his fist against the stone again. She heard something crack.

"I think that wall has had enough, Snow," she said. Her voice turned hard. "You done?"

He turned to her. There was no softness in his gaze now. "What?"

"Go ahead, keep beating the wall. While you're breaking your knuckles, your sister is being raped."

"Don't," he warned.

"Fuck hurting yourself over that prick," she snapped. "Don't waste your rage against a wall; savour what you're feeling right now, keep it in your heart, and then put it through that bastard's skull."

She stepped forward, pushing into his space. She kept her gaze locked on his.

"He's got her," Jon muttered. "She's a hostage, he'll kill her…"

"Then take her back," Val challenged, raising her chin defiantly. "Take your justice. Take your vengeance. Take their heads and take their balls. You're a wildling now, Snow."

She took another step forward, keeping her eyes on his. Gods, her heart was racing. The air felt so tense, savage…

"If you want something," she said, "all you've got to do is take it."

The moment froze. In the background, the fire hissed.

There was a flash of ferocity in his eyes. He lunged at her. His body pushed into hers. Val felt herself smirk just before their lips smashed.

His body was against her, pushing her back into the wall. She could smell the thick pang of wine on his lips. She could feel him, drunk and full of desire.

They broke for air. His breath was husky, shallow, panting in her ear. Jon seemed to hesitate, until Val grabbed him and pulled him into her. She bit his lower lip so sharply he winced, which seemed only to drive him further.

His hands pressed into her body. His hips pressing into hers even through their clothes. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders.

It seemed like he tried to say something, but she kissed and bit his lips shut. No words were needed.

Groping hands went for her bosom, and she replied with a sharp slap to his jaw. Jon blinked, looking stunned.

Val just gave him a sultry smirk, eyes twinkling. Her blond hair whipped around her face.

Come on, 'Your Grace,' she challenged, meeting his eyes, demanding that he...

Not a word was said, but he could feel the challenge in her touch, in her gaze.

When his hands went for her again, he was far more aggressive, forceful. She gasped as she felt herself slammed back against the wall. She felt the hardness protrude through his breeches, desperate for release.

Hands fumbled at her furs, so she ripped the threads of his tunic off his shoulders.

His chest was toned, muscular and lean. She felt her hands roam over the scars on his body.

By the time he finally got her clothes off, it felt like there was a fire between them. His hand clawed her breast so tightly it hurt.

Val bit, scratched and slapped him at every chance she got. Her nails scraped between his hair, forcing him to go just a little bit further, a little bit harder, a little bit stronger….

Oh yes… there we are…

Around her, she felt the tower shake as the dragon roared.