Chapter 43: Jon V
Eastwatch or the Shadow Tower, Jon assumed, yet when he flipped it over the wax was gold rather than black. Stannis.
Jon cracked the seal and unfurled the parchment, casting his gaze over the script.
Stannis has taken Deepwood Motte. Though the Watch was sworn to take no sides in any conflict in the realm, Jon could not help but feel a swell of impotent satisfaction. The North is slowly warming to his cause, in spite the wildlings in his ranks, as they flee the Boltons and Greyjoys.
But for every bit of good news, there was bad. Lord Roose makes for Winterfell with all his strength.
Jon read the king's letter once more, then set the parchment down on his desk, watching it curl back up with trepidation as soon as he released it's edges. He could not be certain how he felt about what he'd just read. That a battle should be fought at the seat of House Stark without so much as a single Stark present felt wrong to him, almost tantamount to sacrilege. It was a painful prospect to entertain, that his childhood home might become the site of a bloodletting.
He wondered, for a moment, how many men Stannis could rally to his cause. Even ruined, Winterfell's walls and towers would confer a considerable advantage to any defender. Doubtless, Lord Roose would move to repair and reinforce his newfound redoubt, and Stannis's task would become harder still. If it were up to him, Jon might have changed his prior stance to advise speed and surprise over strength. Denying the Boltons the chance to rally and fortify was more important than matching their numbers, exhausted by a failed campaign in the south as they were. Else Stannis would have to raise a massive army, and spill an equally massive amount of northern blood.
Doubtless, that was the Boy King's intent. He must have known, as Jon did, that his uncle was a deliberate and careful commander, not given to the sort of daring boldness of his father. He must have known that such a battle would further deplete the north's already-limited capacity for war and peace alike, leaving it ripe for conquest.
A thinly-spread population scattered across rugged terrain might have shielded the North from any army lacking dragons, but it made the prospect of a peace enforced by grain and gold all the more likely. With much of the North's food stores depleted, and winter now doubtless looming large in the minds of many a northern lord, it did not take much imagination to see how the Boy King might make his approach. And if the tone of Tommen's letters were anything to go by, his lack of lingering resentments against the Stark name made his task all the more easier. His youth worked to his credit there. All around him were corpses and cripples and old men, ready to accept the blame for strife and slaughter.
No matter who won the Boy King would emerge stronger. An enfeebled House Bolton would not be able to resist his encroachment. Ironically, in their bid for independence from House Stark, the Boltons would wind up being slaves to an even more controlling master. Conversely, a weakened Stannis could not seriously threaten the south. And the northern lords - under threat of starvation - could be expected to betray Stannis with sufficient enticement. Some of them likely already had.
With the Riverlands subjugated, and the Reach and the Redwyne fleet under the Boy King's thumb by means of his wife, the prospect of aid from the south or from across the narrow sea for Stannis dwindled into nothingness. Short of the interference of the gods themselves, his cause was all but doomed.
It was only a matter of time.
In one effortless stroke Tommen Baratheon would subjugate an entire kingdom and eliminate a rival claimant to his throne. A feat worthy of the histories indeed.
When Jon had been a young boy, his hero had been another boy king. The young dragon, Daeron Targaryen, who at the age of fourteen had had the courage to launch and complete a conquest of Dorne. In his games with Robb, Jon had always been the young dragon, leading men to glory. Yet now he was a man, leading the Wall itself, and there was not an ounce of glory or daring to be seen. Only the dull, difficult reality. How did power do that? Suck the daring from one's soul? Suck the defiance, leaving only a cold, exhausted determination in it's wake?
Had Daeron conquered Dorne as Tommen planned to conquer the North? With cynical schemes and trickery? By sowing division and doubt? Had the histories lied?
Jon rubbed his eyes tiredly. The cold had intensified in recent weeks, and even the flames in his hearth seemed to shrink away from it. The snowfall had at least been mercifully light, even as the wind blustered past the Wall and through Castle Black, whistling between the gaps in the stonework. He had worked his way roughly through half the stack on his desk, writing out replies to most letters with orders or suggestions or supplications. His wrist ached. His head swam with bitter secrets and sweet lies.
Salvation came only in the form of more work. A knock on the door, three sharp raps in sequence.
"Come in," Jon called out.
In shuffled the steward, the septon and the maester-to-be. Bowen Marsh looked cautious, Jon could tell, perhaps a tad irritated. Septon Cellador simply seemed dishevelled; confused and unbalanced with his vestments rumpled. Only Sam had a friendly look about him, marred somewhat by a little frown.
"King Stannis has taken Deepwood Motte," Jon began.
Bowen's lips pursed with displeasure. "On your advice, my lord?"
Jon cocked his head in thought. "I offered a suggestion."
"Need I remind you who feeds us, my lord? The Iron Throne surely will not like this. And what of our neutrality?"
"You need not remind me of our neutrality. I know it well. And, I assure you, the Iron Throne knows and does not care." Bowen did not seem convinced by that half-truth - more confused, if anything - but at least he seemed to be willing to let the matter drop for the moment. "Now, why are you lot here?" Jon asked, eyeing Sam, who could only shrug.
"The men have concerns, my lord," Bowen began.
"The corpses?" Jon guessed.
"They make us all uneasy, I think," the septon said. "Some of the rangings you sent out have already come back with live wildlings - and we all understand why you elect to keep them. But to keep two wildling corpses locked up? And to keep them guarded besides? Surely that is a waste of good steel, unless..." Septon Callador trailed off, pale at the thought.
"Unless you mean to make them rise into wights," Sam finished for him.
Jon could only nod.
"Seven save us," the septon muttered, trembling, incredulous. "These wights are abominations, cursed in the eyes of the gods, both Old and New. Did the Red Woman put this mad notion in your head? You... you cannot mean to speak with them? Like she does with her flames?"
"Can they speak?" Jon asked, directing the question to Sam.
"Not so far as I know," Sam answered with a grimace. "Not the wights, at least. Not according to the annals. The walkers themselves..." Sam could only shrug.
"Hmm," Jon nodded. "In any case, Septon Callador, I do not intend to converse with these corpses. You might have noticed the Iron Throne's support for our cause in recent months. They have wizened to the threat posed by the walkers. But the Boy King is clear that his power is limited. Lord Tywin still governs much of the martial power in the south, and he will not be budged by words and stories. The same is true of all the other lords. They require proof before they will be moved. Especially after war has bled their coffers and killed many of their knights and levies. They need to be convinced the threat is imminent and sufficiently dire. The need to be convinced the threat is real."
"His Grace needs a wight," Bowen realised. "A live wight."
Jon nodded. "And unless you want me to send out men to go and catch one, the Ice Cells are the best solution I have." Stunned silence followed his statement. Not even the septon seemed to have a response to that. Only Sam seemed unsurprised - and that was because he already knew. "Anything else?"
"Is it on the king's advice you wrote Cotter Pyke?" Bowen abruptly asked.
Jon studied his steward's face. "Who told you?"
"I guessed when I heard the ships had set sail, my lord," Bowen said. "Cotter's focus has been to the south for some time now, my lord. Protecting the waters from pirates and raiders from both sides of the narrow sea. For him to go north is not unheard of, but it would require good reason when our ports are so busy with southern ships laden with food, men, and dragonglass. And to make for Hardhome, of all places." Bowen shook his head.
His emphasis on the name was hardly unjustified. Hardhome had gone halfway to civilisation - the only settlement north of the Wall truly worthy of the word - till calamity had struck some six-hundred years ago. The tale was always murky, and changed with every retelling. It's people had either been sold into slavery across the narrow sea or slaughtered for meat by other wildlings or - more worryingly - killed to fill the ranks of the army of the dead. Only devastation tied each version of the story together.
That, and the fire. Whoever or whatever had wrecked the place had decided to leave nothing behind. The ensuing blaze had been so bright that it was said to have looked like a second sun had risen over the horizon from the north to the men patrolling the Wall. Ashes had fallen with the snows for months afterwards - some said as long as a year. Traders reported only a hollowed-out ruin, charred with blackened corpses choking the waterways and entire woods reduced to cinders.
The wild had long reclaimed the place, but it was still considered cursed. Haunted by ghouls and demons of all-too-familiar descriptions, or so it was said.
If the ice cells failed to bear fruit, then perhaps Hardhome might.
Jon licked his lips. "More interesting news came with the live wildlings than with the dead ones. They speak of a woman - a witch. One blessed or perhaps cursed with visions of salvation. Word is she thinks that the wildlings will find salvation where they once found slaughter. Thousands seem to think so too."
The good septon seemed to have regained some of his constitution. "Salvation comes only with the Seven. This witch has led them to ruin."
"And we will lead them away," Jon retorted. "Hardhome sits on a sheltered bay and has a natural harbour deep enough to float the biggest ships. Wood and fish are plenty there. There are caves nearby, Cotter tells me. Caves that might shelter the wildlings long enough from the winds and snow for salvation to arrive. Who knows, septon, you might even have the chance to save some souls?"
Septon Callador bristled, but ultimately kept his peace. Bowen did not seem best pleased, but he at least seemed to defer to Jon's judgement. They both knew that the alternative - that these wildlings would die and join the ranks of the dead - was worse. "At least we can feed them," he finally said, in a gruff tone. "If only barely."
"It gets worse," Jon said. "I didn't just send Cotter north, I plan to send Val as well."
"King Stannis's prize princess?" Sam asked. "Why?"
Jon nodded. "She promises to bring back Tormund, and any he has managed to rally to his cause."
"And you believe her?" Bowen asked, almost incredulous, his tone bordering on outraged.
"I do," Jon said. "She knows better than most that to stay beyond the Wall is to wither and die. Her prospects are better down south with us."
"And if she meets with misadventure?" Bowen pressed. "I can't imagine King Stannis would be best pleased if his prisoner dies."
"If she falls or falters, and if Stannis succeeds in his campaign through the north and returns to the Wall in good enough time, then you might well wind up with a new Lord Commander. Till then, my decision stands. I trust you will all be good enough not to share this information with any of Stannis's people till after Val has departed."
"If she succeeds... That's hundreds, maybe thousands more wildlings," Bowen warned.
"That's thousands less wights," Jon corrected him.
Bowen's face soured. "Some might call it treason. We release a king's hostage to get back wildlings we can barely afford to feed and scarcely afford to house. Rapers, raiders, and savages barely capable of speech."
"Tormund Giantsbane is none of those things," Jon said. "I can vouch for that much."
Bowen met Jon's words with impudent silence.
"And as for housing them," Jon said, turning his gaze on Sam, "I trust the repairs to many of our derelict keeps and forts are proceeding at an appropriate pace."
Sam nodded. "Most of the keep at the Nightfort has been restored. Queen Selyse and her men ought to be moving in soon. And, from what some of the builders tell me, Long Barrow is ready to be manned. Greyguard is coming along, though it'll be years before it's fully repaired. Not ready for a large permanent garrison yet, but perhaps soon. The garrison at Westwatch-by-the-Bridge report the fort is serviceable. If my lord permits, I would expand it. Same for Icemark, Sentinel Stand, Stonedoor, Greenguard, Rimegate, and the Torches. Each keep has only between twenty and thirty men as of now. Enough to keep watch, perhaps, but not enough to defend."
"And the rest are not serviceable?" Jon asked.
"Deep Lake, Sable Hall, Queensgate, and Oakenshield all lie in ruins. They could be garrisoned, but to repair them fully would be a life's work. From what I can tell, among the keeps, the only remaining that might be quickly repaired into a useful state are Hoarfrost Hill and Woodswatch-by-the-Pool. Yet we lack the builders to even start this work, much less complete it in a timely manner."
"My lord," Bowen interjected, worry furrowing his brow, "surely you cannot mean to stuff our ranks with wildlings? To cede more than half our forts to them?"
"Some, or perhaps many, wildlings will join our ranks. This I won't deny. But most those numbers, I expect, will come from the south. King Tommen's gifts to us. Small companies of them, led by veterans of the Watch. Hard men, who can be trusted to keep order among the newcomers."
"Southerners and wildlings will struggle to work together," Bowen warned. "And we might well be lacking in such men, after losing so many to rangings and Mance's assault."
"We'll make do," Jon rebuffed him, though internally he knew Bowen was likely right. "As for builders," Jon said, turning to Sam, "might I suggest using the wildlings? They have hands and can follow orders. And it would certainly be safer than giving them weapons, or else leaving them alone to stir up trouble. The Lord of Bones is my vassal among them. I think he can be trusted to keep those more unruly of his fellows in line."
Sam inclined his head in thought. "I don't know if the builders would be happy with that. It might cost us more time to have them watch over unskilled labourers than to just let the builders work on their own. But I'll be sure to speak them, ask if anyone needs an extra pair of hands."
Jon nodded in understanding. "If that is all, then you have my leave to go."
The trio arose from their seats, and left the way they came without another word. Jon sat in his seat for a long moment, just staring at the door. He waited till the ache in his hand had subsided, then continued with his letters, letting the hours pass. That night Jon slept fitfully, having taken dinner alone. His head pounded. His gut writhed with nervous serpents.
The next morning he awoke early, before the first light. Jon hauled himself from his bed, his stomach rumbling, and donned his furs. Down the steps he went, till he emerged into the darkness. Most of the men would still be asleep at this hour, save the unlucky few charged with watching Castle Black through the night. Yet the quiet afforded to him at this hour was best not wasted. The sun would soon loom over the horizon, and Val would be forced to wait another day to make her escape.
He mounted his horse and set off on the ride north to the Wall, casting eyes around before he did so. The Red Woman had a habit for wandering around in the dark and cold, appearing in unexpected places at oft-inconvenient times. He rode hard and made quick time, running his mount at a canter. The daylight had not yet fully begun it's advancement by the time he arrived, just a purple smudge on the horizon.
She awaited him by the gate in the cold, wrapped in a bearskin so large it made her look rounder than Sam. A half-blind horse was beside her, shaggy-grey and not quite yet dead. Both gelding and girl had breath that frosted in the air, filling it with mist.
"You have enough food?" Jon asked.
Val patted a saddlebag with a gloved hand. "Hard breads and cheeses, oat cakes, all sorts of salt-meats, and some wine. I'll not starve, even if times may turn lean." She eyed Jon warily. "I swear, Lord Snow, that I will return. With Tormund or without him."
"I should hope so," Jon said. "Else it'll be my head."
Val nodded, and together they set off. The road beneath the wall was winding, narrow and cold enough to freeze one's feet. The gates opened one by one, the guards offering a curt bow to Jon but openly gawking at Val. When they emerged on the other side, Val paused to gaze at the land before her. There was the snow-covered plains that just a few months ago had played host to Mance's army, and then the haunted forest beyond. Jon turned to look at the girl.
Val's golden blonde had turned silver in the dying light. Her cheeks had turned the colour of milk in the cold. Her gaze looked worried. Scared, almost.
"You need not do this, my lady," Jon said. You staying might save my head, Jon thought, though he knew that was not the real reason.
Val laughed. "You take me all this way before the light of the morning and then offer me mercy here." She shook her head, taking a bracing breath, letting a chuckle blend into a stoic courage. "No. I will not leave Tormund to die. It is not so bad, anyways. I know those woods better than any black-cloaked ranger. It holds no ghosts for me. And the air tastes sweet besides."
Jon's tongue felt numb and dry. "All I can taste is cold."
"This is no cold," Val said. "When the Others come, when it hurts to breathe, then it will be cold."
Jon nodded, sobered by the thought.
"You have my thanks, Lord Snow. For the supplies, the blades beneath my fur - both the steel and the dragonglass - and for the taste of free air. It is good to be away from the Red Woman." Val's look soured. "I don't trust her. Fire is a fickle thing. Nobody can know which way it'll blow."
"I'll be sure to keep an eye on her," Jon said. "And you don't need to thank me - bring me the Giantsbane and I'll consider us even,"
Val smiled and cast her eyes again out to the forest. "This is farewell, then." She looked back at Jon, their breaths mixing into mist in the air between them.
Jon felt the temptation, the urge there. Not since Ygritte had he looked at a woman this way. He could not help but note her features. Had Stannis made his offer here and now, Jon didn't know if he would have been able to refuse. Winterfell and this woman. But that notion lay buried beneath dark thoughts and the stiff chill and the hunger growing in his belly. He let the moment slip away, not trusting himself, and simply nodded his assent. "I'll watch for your return."
Val almost seemed disappointed. She nodded back, mounted her horse, wheeled it's nose north, and set off at a trot.
Jon watched her go, letting the worries leave his mind for a moment.
He watched her shrink in the distance.
He watched as the woods swallowed her whole.
And before he turned back, he offered the Old Gods a silent prayer for her safe return.
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P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future