[The Wall - Castle Black]

The sun had broken through near midday, after seven days of dark skies and snow flurries. Some of the drifts were higher than a man, but the stewards had been shoveling all day and the paths were as clean as they were like to get. Reflections glimmered off the Wall, every crack and crevice glittering pale blue.

Seven hundred feet up, Jon Snow stood looking down upon the haunted forest. A north wind swirled through the trees below, sending thin white plumes of snow crystals flying from the highest branches, like icy banners. Elsewise nothing moved. Not a sign of life. That was not entirely reassuring. It was not the living that he feared. Even so ...

The sun is out. The snow has stopped. It may be a moon' s turn before we have another chance as good. It may be a season. "Have Emmett assemble his recruits," he told Dolorous Edd. "We'll want an escort. Ten rangers, armed with dragonglass. I want them ready to leave within the hour."

Edd's mouth turned down even more than usual. "Some might think it better if the lord commander stayed safe and warm south of the Wall. Not that I'd say such myself, but some might."

Jon smiled. "Some had best not say so in my presence."

A sudden gust of wind set Edd's cloak to flapping noisily. "Best go down, m'lord. This wind's like to push us off the Wall, and I never did learn the knack of flying."

They rode the winch lift back to the ground. The wind was gusting, cold as the breath of the ice dragon in the tales Old Nan had told when Jon was a boy. The heavy cage was swaying. From time to time it scraped against the Wall, starting small crystalline showers of ice that sparkled in the sunlight as they fell, like shards of broken glass.

Glass, Jon mused, might be of use here. Castle Black needs its own glass gardens, like the ones at Winterfell. We could grow vegetables even in the deep of winter. The best glass came from Myr, but a good clear pane was worth its weight in spice, and green and yellow glass would not work as well. What we need is gold. With enough coin, we could buy ' prentice glass-blowers and glaziers in Myr, bring them north, offer them their freedom for teaching their art to some of our recruits. That would be the way to go about it. If we had the gold. Which we do not. 

At the base of the Wall he found Ghost rolling in a snowbank. The big white direwolf seemed to love fresh snow. When he saw Jon he bounded back onto his feet and shook himself off. Dolorous Edd said, "He's going with you?"

"He is."

"A clever wolf, him. And me?"

"You're not."

"A clever lord, you. Ghost's the better choice. I don't have the teeth for biting wildlings anymore."

"If the gods are good, we won't encounter any wildlings. I'll want the grey gelding."

Word spread fast at Castle Black. Edd was still saddling the grey when Bowen Marsh stomped across the yard to confront Jon at the stables.

"My lord, I wish you would reconsider. The new men can take their vows in the sept as easily."

"The sept is home to the new gods. The old gods live in the wood, and those who honor them say their words amongst the weirwoods. You know that as well as I."

"Satin comes from Oldtown, and Arron and Emrick from the Westerlands. The old gods are not their gods."

"I do not tell men which god to worship. They were free to choose the Seven or the red woman's Lord of Light. They chose the trees instead, with all the peril that entails."

"The Weeping Man may still be out there, watching."

"The grove is no more than two hours' ride, even with the snow. We should be back by midnight."

"Too long. This is not wise."

"Unwise," said Jon, "but necessary. These men are about to pledge their lives to the Night's Watch, joining a brotherhood that stretches back in an unbroken line for thousands of years. The words matter, and so do these traditions. They bind us all together, highborn and low, young and old, base and noble. They make us brothers." He clapped Marsh on his shoulder. "I promise you, we shall return."

"Aye, my lord," said the Lord Steward, "but will it be as living men or heads on spears with your eyes scooped out? You will be returning through the black of night. The snowdrifts are waist deep in places. I see that you are taking seasoned men with you, that is good, but Black Jack Bulwer knew these woods as well. Even Benjen Stark, your own uncle, he—"

"I have something they did not." Jon turned his head and whistled.

"Ghost. To me." The direwolf shook the snow from his back and trotted to Jon's side. The rangers parted to let him through, though one mare whinnied and shied away till its rider gave her reins a sharp tug.

"The Wall is yours, Lord Bowen." Jon said as he took his horse by the bridle and walked him to the gate and the icy tunnel that snaked beneath the Wall.

Jon observed the towering trees, shrouded in the dense white garments of winter, standing stoically beyond the frozen landscape.

Ghost stalked beside Jon's horse as the rangers and recruits formed up, then stopped and sniffed, his breath frosting in the air.

"What is it?" Jon asked. "Is someone there?"

The woods were devoid of any visible life, extending into the horizon with a chilling emptiness. Yet, the air held a tension, hinting at unseen presences or hidden dangers lurking within the frosty veil.

Ghost dashed towards the tree line, weaving between two pines draped in white, and disappeared amidst a flurry of snowflakes. His intention was not to be questioned; he sought prey, yet the object of his pursuit remained a mystery.

Jon's concern lay not with the direwolf's safety but with the wildlings that might cross his path. A creature of albino fur, he moved with the stealth of a phantom through the monochromatic forest. They would remain oblivious to his approach.

The knowledge that Ghost would only return of his own accord stayed Jon's hand from attempting to follow. Instead, he urged his horse forward, and his companions fell into formation around him. They advanced into the woods at a measured walk, the horses' hooves cracking the icy veneer to reveal the more yielding snow beneath. The colossal Wall grew smaller and smaller as it receded into the distance behind them.

The soldier pines and sentinels wore thick white coats, and icicles draped the bare brown limbs of the broadleafs.

Jon sent Tom Barleycorn ahead to scout for them, though the way to the white grove was oft trod and familiar.

Big Liddle and Luke of Longtown, stealthily disappeared into the underbrush on either side of the column. Their mission was to provide a flanking defense, ensuring that no threats could sneak up unnoticed.

These men were not mere soldiers; they were seasoned veterans of the Night's Watch, their hands as comfortable with the weight of obsidian blades as they were with the cold steel of their forebears. Should the need for reinforcements arise, the warhorns slung over their shoulders would be raised to the wind, echoing across the frozen wasteland in a call for aid.

The others were valiant men as well, skilled in combat and steadfast in their loyalty to their sworn brothers.

Though Jon could not attest to their lives prior to joining the Night's Watch, he was under no illusion that many bore pasts as dark as the cloaks that shrouded them. Here at the Wall, they had found a new identity and purpose, their sins perhaps forgotten or at least set aside.

Against the sharp wind, their hoods were drawn tight, and several had scarves to shield their faces, obscuring their individuality. Yet to Jon, each was known, each name etched in his heart. These were his men, his kin in black. Six more accompanied them - a blend of youth and experience, strength and cunning. Six to bear witness and speak the sacred words.

Hailing from diverse lands, they were united now in service to the Wall. Horse, born in the shadow of the Mole's Town, grew alongside the young Arron and Emrick from Fair Isle, while Satin emerged from the sordid alleyways of Oldtown's brothels. They were all boys still, in the eyes of the world beyond.

Leathers and Jax, however, were men of well past forty years, with lines etched by the harsh forest they called home and the legacy of their own sons and grandsons.

Out of the sixty-three wildlings who chose to follow Jon Snow after his impassioned plea, only these two had decided on the path of the black cloak.

Iron Emmett assured Jon that the group was prepared, as ready as they could ever hope to be. Together with Jon and Bowen Marsh, they had scrutinized each potential recruit, assigning them to their orders.

Leathers, Jax, and Emrick were deemed fit for the rangers, a role that would test their endurance and valor in the frozen wastelands beyond the Wall. Horse, a local from Mole's Town, was designated to the builders, tasked with fortifying the very barrier that shielded the realms of men from the horrors of the North. Arron and Satin, with their youth and agility, were allocated to the stewards, who maintained the vitality of the Night's Watch through their service and care.

The moment had arrived for the taking of vows. Iron Emmett led the procession on the most unsightly horse Jon had ever laid eyes upon, a creature that seemed a conglomeration of fur and hooves. The column of men followed, each riding towards their destiny.

Talk is there was some trouble at Harlot's Tower last night," the master-at-arms said.

"Hardin's Tower." Of the sixty-three who had come back with him from Mole's Town, nineteen had been women and girls. Jon had housed them in the same abandoned tower where he had once slept when he had been new to the Wall. Twelve were spearwives, more than capable of defending both themselves and the younger girls from the unwanted attentions of black brothers. It was some of the men they'd turned away who'd given Hardin's Tower its new, inflammatory name. Jon was not about to condone the mockery. "Three drunken fools mistook Hardin's for a brothel, that's all. They are in the ice cells now, contemplating their mistake."

Iron Emmett grimaced. "Men are men, vows are words, and words are wind. You should put guards around the women."

"And who will guard the guards?" You know nothing, Jon Snow. He had learned, though, and Ygritte had been his teacher. If he could not hold to his own vows, how could he expect more of his brothers? But there were dangers in trifling with wildling women. A man can own a woman, and a man can own a knife, Ygritte had told him once, but no man can own both. Bowen Marsh had not been all wrong. Hardin's Tower was tinder waiting for a spark. "I mean to open three more castles," Jon said. "Deep Lake, Sable Hall, and the Long Barrow. All garrisoned with free folk, under the command of our own officers. The Long Barrow will be all women, aside from the commander and chief steward." There would be some mingling, he did not doubt, but the distances were great enough to make that difficult, at least.

"And what poor fool will get that choice command?"

"I am riding beside him."

The look of mingled horror and delight that passed across Iron Emmett's face was worth more than a sack of gold. "What have I done to make you hate me so, my lord?"

Jon laughed. "Have no fear, you won't be alone. I mean to give you Dolorous Edd as your second and your steward."

"The spearwives will be so happy. You might do well to bestow a castle on the Magnar."

Jon's smile died. "I might if I could trust him. Sigorn blames me for his father's death, I fear. Worse, he was bred and trained to give orders, not to take them. Do not confuse the Thenns with free folk. Magnar means lord in the Old Tongue, I am told, but Styr was closer to a god to his people, and his son is cut from the same skin. I do not require men to kneel, but they do need to obey."

"Aye, m'lord, but you had best do something with the Magnar. You'll have trouble with the Thenns if you ignore them."

Trouble is the lord commander' s lot, Jon might have said.

His visit to Mole's Town was giving him plenty, as it happened, and the women were the least of it. Halleck was proving to be just as truculent as he had feared, and there were some amongst the black brothers whose hatred of the free folk was bone deep.

One of Halleck's followers had already cut off a builder's ear in the yard, and like as not that was just a taste of the bloodshed to come. He had to get the old forts open soon, so Harma's brother could be sent off to garrison Deep Lake or Sable Hall.

Just now, though, neither of those was fit for human habitation, and Othell Yarwyck and his builders were still off trying to restore the Nightfort.

There were nights when Jon Snow wondered if he had not made a grievous mistake by preventing Stannis from marching all the wildlings off to be slaughtered.

I know nothing, Ygritte, he thought, and perhaps I never will.

Their journey took them half a mile from the sacred weirwood grove, where they followed a serpentine game trail. The bare, icy trees allowed the last rays of the sun to pierce through, casting a soft pink light on the snowy landscape.

The riders crossed a frozen stream, between two jagged rocks armored in ice, then followed a twisting game trail to the northeast.

The biting wind stirred the snow into the air, prompting Jon to raise his scarf and hood for protection.

"Not far now," he told the men.

No one replied. Jon smelled Tom Barleycorn before he saw him. Or was it Ghost who smelled him? Of late, Jon Snow sometimes felt as if he and the direwolf were one, even awake. The great white wolf appeared first, shaking off the snow.

A few moments later Tom was there. "Wildlings," he told Jon, softly.

"In the grove."

Jon brought the riders to a halt. "How many?"

"I counted nine. No guards. Some dead, might be, or sleeping. Most look to be women. One child, but there's a giant too. Just the one that I saw. They got a fire burning, smoke drifting through the trees. Fools."

Nine, and I have seven-and-ten. Four of his were green boys, though, and none were giants.

Jon was not of a mind to fall back to the Wall, however. If the wildlings are still alive, it may be we can bring them in. And if they are dead, well... a corpse or two could be of use. "We'll continue on foot," he said, dropping lightly to the frozen ground. The snow was ankle deep. "Pate, stay with the horses." He might have given that duty to the recruits, but they would need to be blooded soon enough. This was as good a time as any. "Spread out and form a crescent. I want to close in on the grove from three sides. Keep the men to your right and left in sight, so the gaps do not widen. The snow should muffle our steps. Less chance of blood if we take them unaware."

The swift descent of night washed over the landscape as the final slivers of sunlight disappeared beneath the horizon, swallowed by the embrace of the western forests. The vibrant pink snowbanks grew paler, the color bleeding away as the world succumbed to the encroaching darkness. An aged cloak-gray sky emerged, frayed and worn, with the earliest stars tentatively piercing its veil.

Jon Snow caught sight of a ghostly white trunk, unmistakably a weirwood, its foliage a stark contrast of crimson leaves against the deepening nightfall.

He drew Longclaw from its sheath and glanced at his companions. With a nod to Satin and Horse, the command was silent yet clear, the gesture rippling through the line of men as they readied themselves.

Together, they sprinted towards the grove, their footsteps muffled by the snow's embrace. Ghost shadowed Jon's movements.

The weirwoods rose in a circle around the edges of the clearing. There were nine, all roughly of the same age and size. Each one had a face carved into it, and no two faces were alike.

Some were smiling, some were screaming, some were shouting at him. In the deepening glow their eyes looked black, but in daylight they would be blood-red, Jon knew. Eyes like Ghost's.

In the heart of the grove, the fire that dwindled was a pitiful spectacle, embers and charred branches emitting a faint smoke. The wildlings huddled around it displayed even less vitality than the flame itself. Upon Jon's emergence from the underbrush, only the child responded, setting off a wail and burrowing into its mother's tattered cloak. The woman's gaze lifted, and she gasped.

Only one of them reacted when Jon stepped from the brush. That was the child, who began to wail, clutching at his mother's ragged cloak. The woman raised her eyes and gasped.

By then the grove was ringed by rangers, sliding past the bone-white trees, steel glinting in black-gloved hands, poised for slaughter.

It was not until the last moment that the giant discerned their presence, roused by the child's cry or the crackling of snow beneath the tread of boots.

With the grace of a startled beast, he rose from his slumber, a behemoth coiled by the fire. His massive hands, each the size of a ham, swept away the veil of sleep.

Upon spotting Iron Emmett and the gleaming sword, the giant's eyes flared with a sudden rage. He surged upright, his hand closing around the haft of a maul with a jerk that seemed to defy his very nature. The weapon was a mere toy in his grip, yet it promised a formidable threat.

Ghost showed his teeth in answer. Jon grabbed the wolf by the scruff of the neck. "We want no battle here."

His men could bring the giant down, he knew, but not without cost. Once blood was shed, the wildlings would join the fray. Most or all would die here, and some of his own brothers too.

"This is a holy place. Yield, and we—"

The colossal giant let out a roar that caused the very leaves of the surrounding trees to tremble and brought his massive maul down upon the earth with a force that sent shockwaves rippling through the ground. The weapon's shaft was an impressive six feet of twisted oak, topped with a stone head as large as a baker's loaf. The tremor from the impact spurred several of the other wildlings into action, scrambling to arm themselves.

Jon Snow, poised to draw his own weapon, Longclaw, was momentarily halted by the voice of Leathers, echoing from the far reaches of the grove. The words that emerged from the man's throat were rough and gravelly, yet they bore the unmistakable melody of the Old Tongue. Leathers spoke at length, and when he ceased, the giant responded with a series of guttural sounds that intermingled with grunts, forming a conversation in a language Jon could not fathom. However, the intent was clear when Leathers gestured towards the dense foliage and the giant followed his gaze, understanding evident in its eyes.

Leathers then spoke once more, his words as unintelligible to Jon as the giant's had been, yet the meaning conveyed was unmistakable. The giant, seeming to grasp the instruction, let out a gruff sound that could have been agreement, and with a show of teeth-grinding reluctance, allowed the heavy maul to fall from his hand.

"It's done," said Leathers. "They want no fight."

"Well done. What did you tell him?"

"That they were our gods too. That we came to pray."

"We shall. Put away your steel, all of you. We will have no blood shed here tonight."

Nine people had been spoken of by Tom Barleycorn, and indeed, there were nine of them gathered in the grove, though two had perished and another hung on to life by the slimmest of threads. The survivors were an unlikely assembly: a mother cradling a child, two ancient men, a Thenn warrior with armor of dented bronze, and a man from the Hornfoot tribe whose bare feet bore the cruel marks of severe frostbite.

As the story unfolded, it became clear that they had not been a cohesive group at the outset of their tragic journey. The aftermath of Stannis' victory over Mance Rayder had sent them fleeing into the wilderness, where they encountered each other by chance. The merciless embrace of winter had claimed more than its share from each of them, stripping away companions and loved ones until only these few remained.

One of the elderly men spoke up, "This grove holds the gods," he said. "We could not have hoped to find a better place to meet our end."

"The Wall is only a few hours south of here," said Jon. "Why not seek shelter there? Others yielded. Even Mance."

The wildlings exchanged looks. Finally one said, "We heard stories. The crows burned all them that yielded."

"Even Mance hisself," the woman added.

Melisandre, Jon thought, you and your red god have much and more to answer for. "All those who wish are welcome to return with us. There is food and shelter at Castle Black, and the Wall to keep you safe from the things that haunt these woods. You have my word, no one will burn."

"A crow's word," the woman said, hugging her child close, "but who's to say that you can keep it? Who are you?"

"Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and a son of Eddard Stark of Winterfell." Jon turned to Tom Barleycorn. "Have Pate bring up the horses. I do not mean to stay here one moment longer than we must."

"As you say, m'lord."

Before their impending departure, one final task awaited them: the very purpose of their journey. Iron Emmett summoned his charges, and as the company maintained a respectful distance, the accused knelt beneath the ancient weirwoods. The day's last light had vanished, leaving only the stars' soft glow and the dwindling embers of the fire that burned feebly at the grove's heart to cast a dim, red light upon the scene.

With their black hoods and thick black cowls, the six might have been carved from shadow. Their voices rose together, small against the vastness of the night. "Night gathers, and now my watch begins," they said, as thousands had said before them. Satin's voice was sweet as song, Horse's hoarse and halting, Arron's a nervous squeak. "It shall not end until my death."

May those deaths be long in coming. Jon Snow sank to one knee in the snow. Gods of my fathers, protect these men. And Arya too, my little sister, wherever she might be. I pray you, let Mance find her and bring her safe to me.

"I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children," the recruits promised, in voices that echoed back through years and centuries. "I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post."

Gods of the wood, grant me the strength to do the same, Jon Snow prayed silently. Give me the wisdom to know what must be done and the courage to do it.

"I am the sword in the darkness," said the six, and it seemed to Jon as though their voices were changing, growing stronger, more certain. "I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men."

The shield that guards the realms of men, the Night's Watch, had new recruits. Ghost, Jon Snow's direwolf, leaned into him as Jon wrapped an arm around the animal, comforting in its presence. The smells of his new brothers were a mélange of unwashed fabric, sweet beard oils, fear's sourness, and the giant's overpowering muskiness. The thud of his heart was a constant reminder of the gravity of their vows. Looking across at the woman, her child, and the two elderly men, Jon saw only future members of the black-clad order.

"I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch," Jon called, "for this night and all the nights to come."

Jon was the first to stand, beckoning the others to follow. "Rise now as men of the Night's Watch," he instructed, lending a hand to the giant, Horse.

The return journey was arduous. The giant's stride, despite his size, was slow and methodical, frequently halting to dislodge snow from branches above. The woman and her son shared a steed with Tory, while the injured Thenn and the frail crone were mounted with Horse and Satin. The Hornfoot man, unable to sit astride, was tied over the back of a garron, alongside the two lifeless forms they had brought back.

Iron Emmett suggested they leave the dead behind, arguing they would only slow them down. "We should chop them up and burn them," he said.

Jon disagreed. "Bring them. I have a purpose for them."

They marched through the dark night with no moon to guide them, only stars peeking through the pines on occasion. The red wanderer, known to the free folk as the Thief, hung in the sky, a silent witness to their trek. The world was stark in its contrast, a canvas of black and white with the wind whispering secrets through the trees.

Finally, the Wall loomed ahead, almost a mirage in the predawn light. Their approach was heralded by a sentry's horn, and Big Liddle returned the call. Dolorous Edd Tollett emerged from the gatehouse, eyeing the giant with skepticism.

"He'll fit," Jon assured him, "even unbuttered."

The giant did indeed squeeze through the gates on all fours, a feat that brought a wry smile to Edd's face. Jon turned to Leathers, giving orders in a low voice.

"Look after him. Speak his language, find him food and warmth. Stay with him, and ensure he's not provoked."

Leathers nodded, understanding the gravity of his task. "Aye."

The living wildlings were sent to the healer, their wounds and frostbite needing attention. The Hornfoot man's feet were a particular concern, likely to require amputation. The two deceased were taken to the ice cells.

In his solar, Jon found a letter from Clydas. The wax seal was gold, not black, and bore the image of a stag within a fiery heart—Stannis's mark. The message within spoke of victory at Deepwood Motte and the allegiance of the mountain clans—Flint, Norrey, Wull, Liddle, all.. The cold had brought unlikely allies together under the banner of the one king.

And we had other help, unexpected but most welcome, from a daughter of Bear Island. Alysane Mormont, whose men call the She-Bear, concealed fighters within a group of fishing sloops and attacked the ironmen by surprise where they were beached. Greyjoy's longships are either burned or in our possession, and their crews have been killed or have surrendered. The captains, knights, and notable warriors, along with those of high birth, we shall either ransom or find another purpose for; the rest are to be hanged.

The Night's Watch was bound by oath to remain neutral in the squabbles and wars of the kingdom, yet Jon Snow could not suppress a sense of gratification. He continued to read.

... More northmen are joining our cause as word of our triumph spreads. They come from various backgrounds: fisherfolk, freeriders, hillmen, crofters from the depths of the wolfswood, and villagers who deserted their homes along the rocky coast to evade the ironmen. Our forces have grown to five thousand, and our numbers continue to increase daily. We have received intelligence that Roose Bolton is advancing on Winterfell with his full might, intending to marry his illegitimate son to your half-sister. We must prevent him from reestablishing the castle's former power. Arnolf Karstark and Mors Umber have pledged to join us. I will endeavor to rescue your sister and seek a more suitable husband for her than Ramsay Snow.

The letter concluded with,

Done in the Light of Lord, under the sign and seal of Stannis of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.

The instant Jon ceased reading, the parchment rolled itself up once more, as if eager to shield its contents. He was unsure of his emotions regarding the information he had just received. Winterfell had seen battles before, but none where a Stark was not present on one side or the other.

"The castle is but a shell," he said aloud, feeling the weight of his words, "not Winterfell, but the ghost of Winterfell." It pained him to consider it.

Jon pondered the number of soldiers Mance Rayder would contribute to the battle and the forces Arnolf Karstark might muster. The Umbers had been divided, with many fighting under the flayed man of the Dreadfort. Even in its current state, the possession of Winterfell would grant substantial strategic advantage.

Robert Baratheon would have seen that at once and moved swiftly to secure the castle, with the forced marches and midnight rides for which he had been famous. Would his brother be as bold?

Not likely. Stannis was a deliberate commander, and his host was a half-digested stew of clansmen, southron knights, king's men and queen's men, salted with a few northern lords. He should move on Winterfell swiftly, or not at all, Jon thought. It was not his place to advise the king, but...

He glanced at the letter again. I will save your sister if I can. A surprisingly tender sentiment from Stannis, though undercut by that final, brutal if I can and the addendum and find a better match for her than Ramsay Snow. But what if Arya was not there to be saved? What if Lady Melisandre's flames had told it true? Could his sister truly have escaped such captors? How would she do that? Arya was always quick and clever, but in the end she's just a little girl, and Roose Bolton is not the sort who would be careless with a prize of such great worth.

What if Bolton never had his sister? This wedding could well be just some ruse to lure Stannis into a trap. Eddard Stark had never had any reason to complain of the Lord of the Dreadfort, so far as Jon knew, but even so he had never trusted him, with his whispery voice and his pale, pale eyes.

A grey girl on a dying horse, fleeing from her marriage.

On the strength of those words he had loosed Mance Rayder and six spearwives on the north. "Young ones, and pretty," Mance had said.

The unburnt king supplied some names, and Dolorous Edd had done the rest, smuggling them from Mole's Town. It seemed like madness now. He might have done better to strike down Mance the moment he revealed himself.

Jon had to admit a grudging respect for the late King-Beyond-the-Wall, but the taint of oathbreaking and treachery clung to him like the frost to the morning grass.

Melisandre, with her fiery visions and enigmatic whispers, inspired even less confidence. And yet, here he was, placing his faith in their dubious alliance.

All to save my sister.

But the men of the Night' s Watch have no sisters.

Once, in the hallowed halls of Winterfell, Jon had aspired to be like the Young Dragon, the valiant boy-king who had claimed the fiery lands of Dorne at the tender age of fourteen. Despite the stigma of his illegitimate birth, he had dreamed of leading armies to victory and fame, just as his hero had.

Now, a man grown, with the weight of the Wall's command upon his shoulders, Jon found himself drowning in doubt. The battles he faced were not those of conquest but of survival, and his only victory seemed to be the unending struggle against his own uncertainty.