1 Prologue:

"Let them die," said Queen Selyse.

It was the answer that Jon Snow had expected. This queen never fails to disappoint. Somehow that did not soften the blow. "Your Grace," he persisted stubbornly, "they are starving at Hardhome by the thousands. Many are women-"

"-and children, yes. Very sad" The queen pulled her daughter closer to her and kissed her cheek. The cheek unmarred by greyscale, Jon did not fail to note. "We are sorry for the little ones, of course, but we must be sensible. We have no food for them, and they are too young to help the king my husband in his wars. Better that they be reborn into the light."

That was just a softer way of saying let them die. The chamber was crowded. Princess Shireen stood beside her mother's seat, with Patchface cross-legged at her feet. Behind the queen loomed Ser Axell Florent. Melisandre of Asshai stood closer to the fire, the ruby at her throat pulsing with every breath she took.

The red woman too had her attendants--the squire Devan Seaworth and two of the guardsmen the king had left her. Queen Selyse's protectors stood along the walls, shining knights all in a row: Ser Malegorn, Ser Benethon, Ser Narbert, Ser Patrek, Ser Dorden, Ser Brus. With so many bloodthirsty wildlings infesting Castle Black, Selyse kept her sworn shields about her night and day.

Tormund Giantsbane had roared to hear it. "Afraid of being carried off, is she? I hope you never said how big me member is, Jon Snow, that'd frighten any woman. I always wanted me one with a mustache." Then he laughed and laughed. 'He would not be laughing now'.

Jon had wasted enough time here. "I'm sorry to have troubled Your Grace. The Night's Watch will attend to this matter." The queen's nostrils flared. "You still mean to ride to Hardhome, I see it on your face. Let them die, I said, yet you will persist in this mad folly. Do not deny it!"

"I must do as I think best. With respect, Your Grace, the Wall is mine, and so is this decision."

"It is," Selyse allowed, "and you will answer for it when the king returns. And for other decisions you have made, I fear. But I see that you are deaf to sense. Do what you must."

Up spoke Ser Malegorn. "Lord Snow, who will lead this ranging?" Curiousity evident in his voice, less mocking than it would have been form the mouth of another. "Are you offering yourself, ser?" The jest brought a few chuckles from the men yet the queen remained unamused. "Do I look so foolish?" The knight asked and before he could be answered Patchface jumped up.

"I will lead it!" His bells rang merrily as he hopped from foot to foot. "We will march into the sea and out again. Under the waves we will ride seahorses, and mermaids will blow seashells to announce our coming, oh, oh, oh."

They all laughed. Even Queen Selyse allowed herself a thin smile.

Jon was less amused. "I will not ask my men to do what I would not do myself. I mean to lead the ranging." Jon had learned that much from his father Eddard Stark and from the Lord Commander Mormont. He heard tales that his King brother did the same, leading from the front lines, fighting where the killing was most dangerous. Had the dwarf Jon met nearly five years ago been there he might have reminded Jon that those men all died, while many commanders who lead from the back still breathed.

"How bold of you," said the queen. "We approve. Afterward some bard will make a stirring song about you, no doubt, and we shall have a more prudent Lord Commander." She took a sip of wine. "Let us speak of other matters. Axell, bring in the wildling king, if you would be so good." She commanded.

"At once, Your Grace?" Ser Axell went through a door and returned a moment later with Gerrick Kingsblood. "Gerrick of House Redbeard" he announced, "King of the Wildlings" Gerrick Kingsblood was a tall man, long of leg and broad of shoulder. The queen had dressed him in some of the king's old clothes, it appeared. Scrubbed and groomed, clad in green velvets and a fur lined half cape, with his long red hair freshly washed and his fiery beard shaped and trimmed, the wildling looked every inch a southron lord. He could walk into the throne room at King's Landing, and no one would blink an eye, Jon thought.

"Gerrick is the true and rightful king of the wildlings," the queen said, "descended in an unbroken male line from their great king Raymun Redbeard, whereas the usurper Mance Rayder was born of some common woman and fathered by one of your black brothers." No, Jon might have said, Gerrick is descended from a younger brother of Raymun Redbeard. To the free folk that counted about as much as being descended from Raymun Redbeard's horse. They know nothing. And worse, they will not learn.

"Gerrick has graciously agreed to give the hand of his eldest daughter to my beloved Axell, to be united by the Lord of Light in holy wedlock," Queen Selyse said. "His other girls shall wed at the same time the second daughter with Ser Brus Buckler and the youngest with Ser Malegorn of Redpool."

"Sers." Jon inclined his head to the knights in question with a false curtesy he often used with the queen and her men. "May you find happiness with your betrothed."

"Under the sea, men marry fishes." Patchface did a little dance step, jingling his bells. "They do, they do, they do." Everyone seemed to ignore the fool bar the princess Shireen.

Queen Selyse sniffed again. "Four marriages can be made as simply as three. It is past time that this woman Val was settled, Lord Snow.

I have decided that she shall wed my good and leal knight, Ser Patrek of King's Mountain."

"Has Val been told, Your Grace?" asked Jon. "Amongst the free folk, when a man desires a woman, he steals her, and thus proves his strength, his cunning, and his courage. The suitor risks a savage beating if he is caught by the woman's kin, and worse than that if she herself finds him unworthy." Jon explained to the queen and the knights though he knew it would do no good.

"A savage custom," Axell Florent said, his dislike of the Wildlings clear in his tone. Ser Patrek only chuckled. "No man has ever had cause to question my courage. No woman ever will."

Queen Selyse pursed her lips. "Lord Snow, as Lady Val is a stranger to our ways, please send her to me, that I might instruct her in the duties of a noble lady toward her lord husband."

'That will go splendidly, I know'. Jon wondered if the queen would be so eager to see Val married to one of her own knights if she knew Val's feelings about Princess Shireen and her scarred cheek, he remembered the conversation about ending the poor girls life before the sickness kills them all. "As you wish," he said, "though if I might speak freely?" He tried one last time to explain how Gerrick was no King to the Wildlings and how Val would not be wed to a Southern knight so easily.

"No, I think not. You may take your leave of us." Jon Snow bent his knee, bowed his head, withdrew. He took the steps two at a time, nodding to the queen's guards as he descended. Her Grace had posted men on every landing to keep her safe from murderous wildlings. Halfway down, a voice called out from above him. "Jon Snow." Jon turned. "Lady Melisandre." It was a cold tone that he responded with, the tone his father would use while dispensing justice, the kind he had found himself using more and more recently.

"We must speak." She urged "Must we?" He scoffed at her "My lady, I have duties." The excuse wasn't a lie. He had many duties to attend. "It is those duties I would speak of." She made her way down, the hem of her scarlet skirts swishing over the steps. It almost seemed as if she floated. "Where is your direwolf?" She questioned suddenly and Jon figured it would be easier to answer.

"Asleep in my chambers. Her Grace does not allow Ghost in her presence. She claims he scares the princess. And so long as Borrog and his boar are about, I dare not let him loose." The skinchanger was to accompany Soren Shieldbreaker to Stonedoor once the wayns carrying the Sealskinner's clan to Greenguard returned. Until such time, Borrog had taken up residence in one of the ancient tombs beside the castle lichyard. The company of men long dead seemed to suit him better than that of the living, and his boar seemed happy rooting amongst the graves, well away from other animals.

"That thing is the size of a bull, with tusks as long as swords. Ghost would go after him if he were loose, and one or both of them would not survive the meeting." Jon had no doubt Ghost would win, however it would cause great damage to his tenuous relationship with the Wildling for a famed Skinchanger to be killed by the Lord Commanders direwolf.

"Borrog is the least of your concerns. This ranging...." The Red woman began "A word from you might have swayed the queen." Jon said but she shook her head in disagreement. "Selyse has the right of this, Lord Snow. Let them die. You cannot save them. Your ships are lost—" he interrupted her before she could enter another rant about visions and his impending doom.

"Six remain. More than half the fleet." He responded but you could not reason with fanatics. "No. Your ships are lost. All of them. Not a man shall return. I have seen that in my fires." She seemed more on edge than usual, it was strange to Jon. "Your fires have been known to lie." The longer Jon found himself in the discussion the harder it was to keep himself composed. "I have made mistakes, I have admitted as much, but-" Jon cared nothing about her excuses however

"A grey girl on a dying horse. Daggers in the dark. A promised prince, born in smoke and salt. It seems to me that you make nothing but mistakes, my lady. Where is Stannis? What of the Spearwives? Where is my sister?" Somewhere during his rant he had roughly grasped the Red Witches wrist causing his hand to burn with heat, strangely he only felt the heat on the burns he got when he killed his first white in the Lord Commanders chamber. He they both pulled away from each other once Jon growled out his last statement and they realised the heat had caused the light snowfall to steam on contact with their lock.

"All your questions shall be answered. Look to the skies, Lord Snow. And when you have your answers, send to me. Winter is almost upon us now. I am your only hope." She said her warning to him as he looked down at his hand in confusion, amazement and a hint of fear but his blood was still boiling in his veins and her comment did nothing to quell his anger. "A fool's hope." Jon spat before he turned and left her.

Leathers was prowling the yard outside. "Toregg has returned" he reported when Jon emerged. "His father's settled his people at Oakenshield and will be back this afternoon with eighty fighting men. What did the bearded queen have to say?" He asked but they both knew what the answer would be

"Her Grace can provide no help." Jon's voice was even as he told him, it was nothing less than they expected. "Too busy plucking out her chin hairs, is she?" Leathers spat, the Wildling turned Black Brother had love for the Southern Queen and made it no secret. "Makes no matter. Tormund's men and ours will be enough." The wildling reassured though Jon wasn't convinced.

'Enough to get us there, perhaps.' But it was the journey back that concerned Jon Snow. Coming home, they would be slowed by thousands of free folk, many sick and starved. A river of humanity moving slower than a river of ice. That would leave them vulnerable. Dead things haunt those woods now. "How many men are enough?" he asked Leathers. "A hundred? Two hundred? Five hundred? A thousand?" He listed the numbers but he got no answer nor did he expect one, he was simply thinking to himself.

Should I take more men, or fewer? A smaller ranging would reach Hardhome sooner ... but what good were swords without food? Mother Mole and her people were already at the point of eating their own dead. To feed them, he would need to bring carts and wagons, and draft animals to haul them- horses, oxen, dogs.

Instead of flying through the wood, they would be condemned to crawl.

"There is still much to decide. Spread the word. I want all the leading men in the Shieldhall when the evening watch begins. Tormund should be back by then." He ordered but before Leathers could set out Jon asked another question "Where can I find Toregg?"

"With the little monster, like as not. He's taken a liking to one o' them milkmaids, I hear." Leathers said a milkmaid but Jon knew the truth if it, He has taken a liking to Val. Her sister was a queen, why not her? Tormund had once thought to make himself the King-Beyond-the-Wall, before Mance had bested him. Toregg the Tall might well be dreaming the same dream. Better him than Gerrick Kingsblood.

"Let them be," said Jon. "I can speak with Toregg later." He glanced up past the King's Tower. The Wall was a dull white, the sky above it whiter. A snow sky. "I just pray we do not get another storm." There was a grave tone to his voice at that thought but the storm was coming. Winter was coming.

Outside the Lord Commanders chambers, Mully and the Flea stood shivering at guard. "Shouldn't you be inside, out of this wind?" Jon asked. "That'd be sweet, m'lord," said Fulk the Flea, "but your wolf's in no mood for company today." Mully agreed. "He tried to take a bite o' me, he did." He said and a shiver went down his spine at the memory of those blood red eyes. "Ghost?" Jon was shocked. "Unless your lordship has some other white wolf, aye. I never seen him like this, m'lord. All wild-like, I mean."

He was not wrong, as Jon discovered for himself when he slipped inside the doors. The big white direwolf would not lie still. He paced from one end of the armory to the other, past the cold forge and back again. "Easy, Ghost," Jon called. "Down. Sit, Ghost. Down." Yet when he made to touch him, the wolf bristled and bared his teeth but settled once Jon stretched his hand out in a calming motion.

It's that bloody boar. Even in here, Ghost can smell his stink. Mormont's raven seemed agitated too. "Snow," the bird kept screaming. "Snow, snow, snow." Jon shooed him off, had Edd start a fire, then sent him out after Bowen Marsh and Othell Yarwyck. "Bring a flagon of mulled wine as well." He ordered his friend and squire. "Three cups, m'lord?"

"Six. Mully and the Flea look in need of something warm. So will you." Jon said with a smile at his friend who sent an appreciative look to the Lord Commander. When Edd left, Jon seated himself and had another look at the maps of the lands north of the Wall. The fastest way to Hardhome was along the coast ... from Eastwatch. The woods were thinner near the sea, the terrain mostly flatlands, rolling hills, and salt marshes.

And when the autumn storms came howling, the coast got sleet and hail and freezing rain rather than snow. The giants are at Eastwatch, and Leathers says that some will help. From Castle Black the way was more difficult, right through the heart of the haunted forest. If the snow is this deep at the Wall, how much worse up there? The thought of being stuck in the snow surrounded by walking dead men did not sound appealing.

Marsh entered snuffling, Yarwyck dour. "Another storm," the First Builder announced. "How are we to work in this? I need more builders." Jon was in no mood to deal with his complaining and he damned Sam for making him Lord Commander. "Use the free folk," Jon told him knowing what the response would be before it even left the First Builders mouth. Yarwyck shook his head. "More trouble than they're worth, that lot. Sloppy, careless, lazy ... some good woodworkers here and there, I'll not deny it, but hardly a mason amongst them, and nary a smith."

"You come to me, ask for men, then complain when I give you men." Jon's voice was stern in his admonishment, "mayhaps you will make do?" The statement made the proud man flush red, a deeper shade than he already was from the chill of the Wall. "Strong backs, might be, but they won't do as they are told. And us with all these ruins to turn back into forts. Can't be done, my lord. I tell you true. It can't be done."

"It will be done," ordered Jon and his word was final, "or they will live in ruins." A lord needed men about him he could rely upon for honest counsel. Marsh and Yarwyck were no lickspittles, and that was to the good... but they were seldom any help either. More and more, he found he knew what they would say before he asked them. Especially when it concerned the free folk, where their disapproval went bone deep.

When Jon settled Stonedoor on Soren Shieldbreaker, Yarwyck complained that it was too isolated. How could they know what mischief Soren might get up to, off in those hills? When he conferred Oakenshield on Tormund Giantsbane and Queensgate on Morna White Mask, Marsh pointed out that Castle Black would now have foes on either side who could easily cut them off from the rest of the Wall. As for Borrog, Othell Yarwyck claimed the woods north of Stonedoor were full of wild boars. Who was to say the skinchanger would not make his own pig army?

Hoarfrost Hill and Rimegate still lacked garrisons, so Jon had asked their views on which of the remaining wildling chiefs and war lords might be best suited to hold them. "We have Brogg, Gavin the Trader, the Great Walrus... Horden the Wanderer walks alone, Tormund says, but there's still Harle the Huntsman, Harle the Handsome, Blind Doss... Ygon Oldfather commands a following, but most are his own sons and grandsons. He has eighteen wives, half of them stolen on raids. Which of these..." Jon didn't even finish his sentence before the First Steward interrupted

"None" Bowen Marsh had said. "I know all these men by their deeds. We should be fitting them for nooses, not giving them our castles."

"Aye," Othell Yarwyck had agreed. "Bad and worse makes a beggar's choice. My lord had as well present us with a pack of wolves and ask which we'd like to tear our throats out." At that Jon thought about calling Ghost to him, to remind them both that he had a wolf to just that, but Jon needed these men in his side if he wanted to keep the Wall functional and with how Ghost had been acting he wasn't fully sure he could stop him killing them both.

It was the same again with Hardhome. Edd poured whilst Jon told them of his audience with the queen. Marsh listened attentively, ignoring the mulled wine, whilst Yarwyck drank one cup and then another. But no sooner had Jon finished than the Lord Steward said,

"Her Grace is wise. Let them die." Jon sat back. "Is that the only counsel you can offer, my lord?

Tormund is bringing eighty men. How many should we send? Shall we call upon the giants? The spearwives at Long Barrow? If we have women with us, it may put Mother Mole's people at ease." Jon was getting tired of these constant comments about the wildlings and once again found himself cursing Sam.

"Send women, then. Send giants. Send suckling babes. Is that what my lord wishes to hear?" Bowen Marsh rubbed at the scar he had won at the Bridge of Skulls. "Send them all. The more we lose, the fewer mouths we'll have to feed."

Yarwyck was no more helpful. "If the wildlings at Hardhome need saving, let the wildlings here go save them. Tormund knows the way to Hardhome. To hear him talk, he can save them all himself with his huge member."

This was pointless, Jon thought. Pointless, fruitless, hopeless.

"Thank you for your counsel, my lords." But there was no truth to his words, they knew it, he knew it yet he said them nonetheless. Edd helped them back into their cloaks. As they walked through to the door, Ghost sniffed at them, his tail upraised and bristling. My brothers. The Night's Watch needed leaders with the wisdom of Maester Aemon, the learning of Samwell Tarly, the courage of Qhorin Halfhand, the stubborn strength of the Old Bear, the compassion of Donal Nove. What it had instead was them. The Wall had lost too many good men, and the dead are marching.

The snow was falling heavily outside. "Wind's from the south." Yarwyck observed. "It's blowing the snow right up against the Wall. See?" He was right. The great stair was buried almost to the first landing, Jon saw, and the wooden doors of the ice cells and storerooms had vanished behind a wall of white. "How many men do we have in ice cells?" he asked Bowen Marsh. "Four living men. Two dead ones." He responded. The corpses. Jon had almost forgotten them. He had hoped to learn something from the bodies they'd brought back from the weirwood grove, but the dead men had stubbornly remained dead. "We need to dig those cells out."

"As you command" was Yarwicks response, no matter if they disagreed he was still Lord Commander. His word was law. "Ten stewards and ten spades should do it," said Marsh. "Use Wun Wun." Jon commanded and Jon could tell he was wary at even the mention of the giant. Ten stewards and one giant made short work of the drifts, but even when the doors were clear again, Jon was not satisfied, "Those cells will be buried again by morning. Wed best move the prisoners before they smother."

"Karstark too, milord?" asked Fulk the Flea. "Can't we just leave that one shivering till spring?" Mully laughed at Fulks jest and Jon wished nothing more than to let him freeze.

"Would that we could." Cregan Karstark had taken to howling in the night of late, and throwing frozen feces at whoever came to feed him. That had not made him beloved of his guards. "Take him to Hardins Tower. The undervault should hold him." Though partly collapsed, the tower would be warmer than the ice cells. Its subcellars were largely intact.

Cregan kicked at the guards when they came through the door, twisted and shoved when they grabbed him, even tried to bite them.

But the cold had weakened him, and Jon's men were bigger, younger, and stronger. They hauled him out, still struggling, and dragged him through thigh-high snow to his new home.

"What would the lord commander like us to do with his corpses?" asked Marsh when the living men had been moved.

"Leave them." Jon ordered. If the storm entombed them, well and good. He would need to burn them eventually, no doubt, but for the moment they were bound with iron chains inside their cells. That, and being dead, should suffice to hold them harmless.

Tormund Giantsbane timed his arrival perfectly, thundering up with his warriors when all the shoveling was done. Only fifty seemed to have turned up, not the eighty Toregg promised Leathers, but Tormund was not called Tall-Talker for naught. The wildling arrived red-faced, shouting for a horn of ale and something hot to eat. He had ice in his beard and more crusting his mustache. By the time Jon got to talking with him a omeone had already told the Thunderfist about Gerrick Kingsblood and his new style. "King o' the Wildlings?" Tormund roared. "Har! King o' My Hairy Butt Crack, more like." Tormunds laugh echoed through Castle Black. "He has a regal look to him," Jon said though Tormund, like most wildlings cared little about regolness.

"He has a little red cock to go with all that red hair, that's what he has. Raymund Redbeard and his sons died at Long Lake, thanks to your bloody Starks and the Drunken Giant. Not the little brother. Ever wonder why they called him the Red Raven?" Tormund's mouth split in a gap-toothed grin. "First to fly the battle, he was. 'Twas a song about it, after. The singer had to find a rhyme for craven, so." He wiped his nose. "If your queen's knights want those girls o' his, they're welcome to them." He said, downing his ale and laughing again

"Girls" squawked Mormont's raven. "Girls, girls."

That set Tormund to laughing all over again. "Now there's a bird with sense. How much do you want for him, Snow? I gave you a son, the least you could do is give me the bloody bird."

"I would," said Jon, "but like as not you'd eat him." Tormund roared at that as well. "Eat," the raven said darkly, flapping its black wings.

"Corn? Corn? Corn?"

"We need to talk about the ranging," said Jon. "I want us to be of one mind at the Shieldhall, we must-" He broke off when Mully poked his nose inside the door, grim-faced, to announce that Clydas had brought a letter. "Tell him to leave it with you. I will read it later." Jon ordered "As you say, m'lord, only... Clydas don't look his proper self... he's more white than pink, if you get my meaning... and he's shaking." This began to worry Jon, Mully defended the Wall from Mance Rayder, he fought the dead during Mormonts great ranging, if he was worried then so was Jon.

"Dark wings, dark words," muttered Tormund. "Isn't that what you kneelers say?"We say a lot of things." Jon said and Mully added his two groats. "My old grandmother always used to say, Summer friends will melt away like summer snows, but winter friends are friends forever."

"I think that's sufficient wisdom for the moment," said Jon Snow the comment stoped the conversation. "Show Clydas in if you would be so good." His voice was warm and his words polite but it was an order.

Mully had not been wrong; the old steward was trembling, his face as pale as the snows outside. "I am being foolish, Lord Commander, but ... this letter frightens me. See here?"

Bastard, was the only word written outside the scroll. No Lord Snow or Jon Snow or Lord Commander. Simply Bastard. And the letter was sealed with a smear of hard pink wax. "You were right to come at once," Jon said. 'You were right to be afraid' he thought but didn't voice it. He cracked the seal, flattened the parchment, and read.

Your false king is dead, bastard. He and all his host were smashed in seven days of battle. I have his magic sword. Tell his red whore.

Your false king's friends are dead. Their heads upon the walls of Winterfell. Come see them, bastard. I have your brother Rickon. Come and see him bastard. You sent wildlings to Winterfell to steal my bride from me.

I will have my bride back. If you want your brother back, come and get him. I have him in a cage for all the north to see, proof of your lies. The cage is cold, but I have made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who you sent to Winterfell.

I want my bride back. I want the false king's queen. I want his daughter and his red witch. I want his wildling princess. I want his little prince, the wildling babe.

Send them to me, bastard, and I will not trouble you or your black crows. Keep them from me, and I will cut out your bastard's heart and eat it.

Signed

Ramsay Bolton

Trueborn Lord of Winterfell

"Snow?" said Tormund Giantsbane. "You look like your father's bloody head just rolled out o' that paper." Jon didn't answer for a moment. "Mully, help Clydas back to his chambers. The night is dark and the paths will be slippery with snow. Edd go with them." His voice was cold as ice yet a burning anger simmered underneath.

He handed Tormund Giantsbane the letter. "Here, see for yourself." The wildling gave the letter a dubious look and handed it right back. "Feels nasty... but Tormund Thunderfist had better things to do than learn to make papers talk at him. They never have any good to say, now do they?"

"Not often," Jon Snow admitted. Dark wings, dark words, Perhaps there was more truth to those wise old sayings than he'd known. "It was sent by Ramsay Snow. I'lI read you what he wrote." When he was done, Tormund whistled. "That's buggered, and no mistake. Do you think he really has your brother?"

"Melisandre…look to the skies, she said." He set the letter down. "A raven in a storm. She saw this coming." When you have your answers, send to me. "Might be all a skin o' lies." Tormund scratched under his beard. "If I had me a nice goose quill and a pot o' maester's ink, I could write down that me member was long and thick as me arm, wouldn't make it so."

"He has Lightbringer. He talks of heads upon the walls of Winterfell. He knows about the spearwives and their number. No. There is truth in there." His voice was grave "I won't say you're wrong. What do you mean to do, crow?"

Jon flexed the fingers of his sword hand. The Night's Watch takes no part. He closed his fist and opened it again. What you propose is nothing less than treason.

He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. Kill the boy and let the man be born. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. Of Rickon's breathless laughter. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady's coat and singing to herself. You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird's nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came to Winterfell...I want my bride back…I want my bride back… I want my bride back. He's a mad bastard if he thinks I'll give him my sister. He hadn't been very close to Sansa for years but she was his sister and the Bastard of Bolton would die before he got his hands on her again.

"I think we had best change the plan." Jon said his voice sharp. They talked for the best part of two hours. Horse and Rory had replaced Fulk and Mully at his Chamber door with the change of watch. "With me." Jon told them, when the time came. Ghost would have followed as well but as the wolf came padding after them, Jon grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and wrestled him back inside. Borroq might be amongst those gathering at the Shieldhall. The last thing Jon needed was his wolf savaging the skinchangers boar.

The Shieldhall was one of the older parts of Castle Black, a long drafty feast hall of dark stone, its oaken rafters black with the smoke of centuries. Back when the Night's Watch had been much larger, its walls had been hung with rows of brightly colored wooden shields.

Then as now, when a knight took the black, tradition decreed that he set aside his former arms and take up the plain black shield of the brotherhood. The shields thus discarded would hang in the Shieldhall.

Hundreds of knights meant hundreds of shields. Hawks and eagles, dragons and griffins, suns and stags, wolves and wyverns, manticores, bulls, trees and flowers, harps, spears, crabs and krakens, red lions and golden lions and chequy lions, owls, lambs, maids and mermen, stallions, stars, buckets and buckles, flayed men and hanged men and burning men, axes, longswords, turtles, unicorns, bears, quills, spiders and snakes and scorpions, and a hundred other heraldic charges had adorned the Shieldhall walls, blazoned in more colors than any rainbow ever dreamed of.

But when a knight died, his shield was taken down, that it might go with him to his pyre or his tomb, and over the years and centuries fewer and fewer knights had taken the black. A day came when it no longer made sense for the knights of Castle Black to dine apart.

The Shieldhall was abandoned. In the last hundred years, it had been used only infrequently. As a dining hall, it left much to be desired--it was dark, dirty, drafty, and hard to heat in winter, its cellars infested with rats, its massive wooden rafters worm-eaten and festooned with cobwebs.

But it was large and long enough to seat two hundred, and half again that many if they crowded close.

When Jon and Tormund entered a sound went through the hall, like wasps stirring in a nest. The wildlings outnumbered the crows by five to one, judging by how little black he saw. Fewer than a dozen shields remained, sad grey thinfs with faded paint and long cracks in the wood. But fresh torches burned in the iron sconces along the walls and Jon ordered benches and tables brought in.

Men with comfortable seats were more inclined to listen, Maester Aemon had once told him; standing men were more inclined to shout. At the top of the hall a sagging platform stood. Jon mounted it, with Tormund Giantsbane at his side, and raised his hands for quiet.

The wasps only buzzed the louder. Then Tormund put his warhorn to his lips and blew a blast. The sound filled the hall, echoing off the rafters overhead. Silence fell.

"I summoned you to make plans for the relief of Hardhome" Jon Snow began. "Thousands of the free folk are gathered there, trapped and starving, and we have had reports of dead things in the wood." To his left he saw Marsh and Yarwyck. Othell was surrounded by his builders, whilst Bowen had Wick Whittlestick, Left Hand Lew, and Alf of Runnymudd beside him.

To his right, Soren Shieldbreaker sat with his arms crossed against his chest. Farther back, Jon saw Gavin the Trader and Harle the Handsome whispering together. Ygon Oldfather sat amongst his wives, Horden the Wanderer alone. Borrog leaned against a wall in a dark corner. Mercifully, his boar was nowhere in evidence.

"The ships I sent to take off Mother Mole and her people have been wracked by storms. We must send what help we can by land or let them die." Two of Queen Selyse's knights had come as well, Jon saw. Ser Narbert and Ser Benethon stood near the door at the foot of the hall. But the rest of the queen's men were absent.

"I had hoped to lead the ranging myself and bring back as many of the free folk as could survive the journey." A flash of red in the back of the hall caught Jon's eye. Lady Melisandre had arrived. "But now I find I cannot go to Hardhome. The ranging will be led by Tormund Giantsbane, known to you all. I have promised him as many men as he requires."

"And where will you be, crow?" Borrog thundered. "Hiding here in Castle Black with your white dog?" His voice rang out in mockery and Jon wished Ghost was here, no doubt he'd love boar for dinner.

"No. I ride south" Then Jon read them the letter Ramsey Snow had written. The Shieldhall went mad. Every man began to shout at once. They leapt to their feet shaking fists. So much for the calming power of comfortable benches. Swords were brandished, axes smashed against shields. Jon Snow looked to Tormund. The Giantsbane sounded his horn once more, twice as long as the first.

"The Night's Watch takes no part in the wars of the Seren Kingdoms," Jon reminded them when some semblance of quiet had returned. "It is not for us to oppose the Bastard of Bolton, to avenge Stannis Baratheon, to defend his widow and his daughter. This creature who makes cloaks from the skins of women has sworn to cut my heart out, and I mean to make him answer for those words...but will not ask my brothers to forswear their vows."

"The Night's Watch will make for Hardhome. I ride to Winterfel alone, unless…" Jon paused. " ...Is there any man here who will come stand with me?"

The roar was all he could have hoped for, the shouts so loud that the two old shields tumbled from the walls. Soren Shieldbreaker was on his feet, the Wanderer as well. Toregg the Tall, Brogg, Harle the Huntsman and Harle the Handsome both, Ygon Oldfather, Blind Doss, even the Great Walrus. I have my swords, thought Jon Snow, and we are coming for you, Bastard.

Yarwyck and Marsh were slipping out, he saw, and all their men behind them. It made no matter. He did not need them now. He did not want them. No man can ever say I made my brothers break their vows. If this is oathbreaking, the crime is mine and mine alone. Then Tormund was pounding him on the back, all gap-toothed grin from ear to ear. "Well spoken, crow. Now bring out the mead! Make them yours and get them drunk, that's how it's done. We'll make a wildling o' you yet, boy. Har!"

"I will send for ale," Jon said, distracted. Melisandre was gone, he realized, and so were the queen's knights. I should have gone to Selyse first. She has the right to know her lord is dead. "You must excuse me. I'lI leave you to get them drunk."

"Har! A task I'm well suited for, crow. On your way!" I should talk with Melisandre after I see the queen, he thought. If she could see a raven in a storm, she can find Ramsay Snow for me. Then he heard the shouting...and a roar so loud it seemed to shake the Wall. "That come from Hardin's Tower, m'lord, Horse reported. He might have said more, but the scream cut him off. Val, was Jon's first thought. But that was no woman's scream. That is a man in mortal agony. He broke into a run. Horse and Rory raced after him. Is it wights?" asked Rory.

Jon wondered. Could his corpses have escaped their chains? The screaming had stopped by the time they came to Hardin's Tower, but Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun was still roaring. The giant was dangling a bloody corpse by one leg, the same way Arya used to dangle her doll when she was small, swinging it like a morningstar when menaced by vegetables. Arya never tore her dolls to pieces, though.

The dead man's sword arm was yards away, the snow beneath it turning red.

"Let him go," Jon shouted. "Wun Wun, let him go." Wan Wun did not hear or did not understand. The giant was bleeding himself, with sword cuts on his belly and his arm. He swung the dead knight against the grey stone of the tower, again and again and again, until the man's head was mush.

The knight's cloak flapped in the cold air. Of white wool it had been, bordered in cloth-of-silver and patterned with blue stars. Blood and bone were flying everywhere. Men poured from the surrounding keeps and towers. Northmen, free folk, queen's men ... "Form a line," Jon Snow commanded them. "Keep them back. Everyone, but especially the queen's men."

The dead man was Ser Patrek of King's Mountain; his head was largely gone, but his heraldry was as distinctive as his face. Jon did not want to risk Ser Malegorn or Ser Brus or any of the queen's other knights trying to avenge him. Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun howled again and gave Ser Patrek's other arm a twist and pull. It tore loose from his shoulder with a spray of bright red blood. Like a child pulling petals off a daisy, thought Jon.

Leathers, talk to him, calm him. The Old Tongue, he understand the Old Tongue. Keep back, the rest of you. Put away your steel, we're scaring him." Couldn't they see the giant had been cut? Jon had put an end to this or more men would die. They had no idea of Wun Wun's strength. A horn, I need a horn. He saw the glint of steel, turned toward it.

"No blades!" he shouted. "Wick, put that knife"....away, he meant to say. When Wick Whittlestick slashed at his throat, the word turned into a grunt. Jon twisted from the knife, just enough so it barely grazed his skin. He cut me. When he put his hand to the side of his neck, blood welled between his fingers. "Why?

"For the Watch." Wick slashed at him again.

This time Jon caught his wrist and bent his arm back until he dropped the dagger. The gangling steward backed away, his hands upraised as if to say, Not me, it was not me. Men were screaming. Jon reached for Longclaw, but his fingers had grown stiff and clumsy. Somehow he could not seem to get the sword free of its scabbard.

Then Bowen Marsh stood there before him, tears running down his cheeks. "For the Watch" He punched Jon in the belly. When he pulled his hand away, the dagger stayed where he had buried it. Jon fell to his knees. He found the dagger's hilt and wrenched it free. In the cold night air the wound was smoking. "Ghost" he whispered. Pain washed over him. When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife.

Only the cold…..