Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki, Himura, and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

7th Day of the 12th Moon

Garlan Tyrell, Appleton

Planning a wedding and rebellion while on the move was cumbersome. The Reach had too many men, and any army bigger than half a hundred thousand would face logistical woes. So, Renly was forced to decide how to split his forces.

The Stormlords were mustering in Wendwater Bridge under Ser Cortnay Penrose and would try to take King's Landing while Lannister was still hundreds of miles away in the Westerlands.

Lord Mathis Rowan was to gather the Lords of the North March and try to block Tywin's passage through the Gold Road.

John Oakheart was to lead another force up to the Ocean Road, and the last was mustering in Highgarden to be commanded by Renly Baratheon himself.

Most of the Marcher Lords were ordered to leave a significant force at their keeps lest the Dornish began making trouble again.

His father insisted on holding the ceremony in Highgarden, but his sister's wheelhouse slowed the journey. Renly's declaration of kinghood had now travelled across the realm, and Tywin Lannister had already stirred from his den. The banners of the Westerlands were already mustering, and a raven from Coldmoat met them at Appleton - an eight-foot-tall giant clad in steel was leading a band of outlaws that were cutting a bloody swath with fire and sword through the west of the lesser Mander. Brandybottom and dozens of other villages were razed to the ground; not even the women and the babes were spared.

"Hundreds of mounted brigands can't appear just like that, Your Grace," the old Meren Appleton said, worriedly fiddling with his greying moustache. They had gathered in Lord Appleton's private audience chamber, looking over maps of the Reach.

"Lannister brigands, no doubt, led by Tywin's rabid dog," Renly stated dismissively. His garments were as pretentious as before but were now joined by a sceptre in his hand and a golden crown atop his brow. Golden roses wove together, propping up a jade stag's head with golden eyes and antlers. Yet, instead of courting his sister, Renly had spent most of his free time in Loras's company, who shadowed the king with his rainbow cloak.

"Lord Daron Webber and his sons have ridden out to deal with the outlaws," Garlan looked at the letter. "They are playing into the Mountain's hands." The Webbers were not famed for their riding or lancing skills—while not terrible, none of them had won a single joust, even small, in two generations. This wasn't a big surprise; they all seemed more interested in drinking and feasting than martial pursuits.

"The Old Lion thinks us weak," his father fumed angrily, doubtlessly thinking of the same thing. "We must not let this slight stand, Your Grace!"

The king paused, deep in thought. "See to it, Lord Hand."

"The Mountain that Rides will have a taste of the valour of the knights of the Reach," the Lord of Highgarden vowed, eyes ablaze. His father hated being challenged in his kingdom. Garlan knew Gregor Clegane's days were numbered, and he would be taken down regardless of cost. "Tywin is trying to delay us as much as possible and wait for his allies to join him."

Renly leaned forward, looking at the map with an unreadable expression. "Let us talk war again, then."

Garlan was dismissed from the private parlour, as only the Lords and the royal councillors would be part of such important talks.

He busied himself in the yard, and his frustrations melted as he tested his mettle against the myriad of skilled knights who were now part of the royal retinue. It wasn't until sunset when his father summoned Garlan to the now-empty private parlour.

His father had shed his jolly visage, face now stern and thoughtful.

"I am sending the Red Crane and Ser Gyles Rowan, along with forty knights, three hundred men at arms and freeriders, to squash Tywin's mad dog and any other incursions."

"That's… quite heavy-handed," Garlan whistled.

"In peace, Tywin Lannister can be a reasonable and measured man." His father poured himself a cup of Arbor Gold. "But in war… one cannot allow the Old Lion even a finger, or he'll bite off the whole hand. I have a task for you, my son."

"My sword is yours to command, Father," he bowed.

"No fighting for you, Garlan, not yet. With Robb Stark married to Myrcella Waters, the North will have no choice but to support Joffrey. But even so, there's that trouble along the Wall, so I doubt we'll face a full Northern muster. The rest can be blocked. You will go to Riverrun as an envoy and offer Edmure Tully a bride."

"A bride?"

His father took a gulp of golden wine and smiled. "Indeed. The trout lord can choose from the maidens of the Reach, and the king has agreed to triple any dowry offered by the lordly father in question."

"Would a Tully fight against his kin?" Family, Duty, and Honour were their words, and Hoster Tully would be a madman to stand against his daughter's husband and grandson.

"They would not need to fight, only stay out of the war or even block the Starks from joining Tywin. The Old Lion can be cunning, but even he cannot cook a feast with empty larders."

"What of Arryn?" Garlan asked. "Valemen are fierce in battle, and their knights are no lesser than ours in valour and skill."

"Fierce and valourous they might be, but they lack a Falcon to lead them," his father laughed. "Robert Arryn is just a sickly boy. My spies tell me Lysa Arryn has gone mad with fear, seeing daggers in every shadow, and is too afraid to leave the Eyrie, let alone join a war."

No wonder Renly was so confident. Garlan realised that if the Seven smiled upon them, Tywin would stand alone, and even the Old Lion could only be smashed under the combined might of Highgarden and Storm's End.

***

11th Day of the 12th Moon

The Big Bucket, Stonegate Keep

A rider had come from Winterfell shortly after the crack of dawn, carrying a letter from Robb Stark. The envoy was given two fresh garrons and a hearty meal, and he rode up the mountains to rouse the Burleys, First Flints, Knotts, and Liddles.

Sooner or later, war always came with surety, just like winter would. Hugo Wull had fought three wars and led his clan in the last two.

The banners were called, and the Wulls would answer, as always. They were the strongest mountain clansmen, and it took about two days to gather their forces outside his keep. Well, less now since Winterfell only demanded their horse.

He was watching now as his courtyard was filled with grim-faced kinsmen, both close and distant, the three brown buckets of Wull painted proudly across their blue shields hanging on their back or side. Each carried two war spears, an arming sword, mace or axe, and was clad with a nasal helm, a padded jacket with layers of cloth and leather covered by a byrnie. A rare few - like himself, his sons, and the most wealthy thegns who owned the biggest swathes of land, also had brigandines of various quality and helmets that covered the neck and the lower head.

The Wulls were the strongest and the most numerous of the Mountain Clansmen, more numerous than some petty southron lordings and masterly houses. Still, they could only field about two hundred mounted men, only half of that cavalry.

"Hugo!" A hoarse yet powerful voice came from the side as the Wull chieftain pulled over his coif. Osric Wull.

"Grand uncle," the chieftain bowed his head. His hair and beard were white as snow. Hugo's uncle was nearing ninety now and had seen far more death and battle than he had. Even now, his posture was wiry and as straight as an arrow. The old ornery bastard was so stubborn he refused to die. For the last three winters, Osric went hunting but always returned with prey - stag and hare here, a wild boar and squirrels there. His sons had said even the cold would not take their granduncle, and Hugo was inclined to agree.

"Are the Ironmen attackin' yet again?" he asked, leaning over a weather-worn war bow—the same bow that had shot three Squid lords dead when Greyjoy had made trouble on the Stoney Shore before Hugo was born.

"Nay."

"Is it the dragons killing one another, then?"

"Nay, the dragons are gone, Uncle Osric," Hugo reminded.

"They are?" The old whitebeard scrunched up his wrinkled face. "Since when?" Uncle Osric's vigour had yet to leave him entirely, but his mind had begun to wither.

"Since we broke them at the Trident." The day of that battle was still fresh in his mind, just like the pretentious white cloak gurgling with Hugo's battle axe piercing its wicked spike through the shiny gorget. His uncle had also been there, raining arrows on the dragon's men, but he had forgotten it. Orsic was now scratching his white mane of shaggy hair and brow scrunched in confusion.

"Has the wildlin' king passed the Wall again?"

"No, the Stark chopped off his head in Winterfell half a year ago."

"Oh. If it's not dragons, wildlings, or Ironmen, who are we fightin'?

"The stags rule and are butting heads now," Hugo sighed. "And you're staying here."

"What?!" His uncle's face twisted in outrage.

"Someone must stay here and hold Stonegate Keep, Uncle Osric."

"Oh," Osric Wul's anger was gone as he sat on one of the benches and gazed curiously at the yard as if seeing something new and unfamiliar. "Alright then."

Still, his uncle's mind had grown too feeble to hold Stonegate Keep and fulfil the obligation of the Wull in his absence. Hugo decided to leave his youngest son, Edwyn, here as a Castellan.

***

???, Elsewhere

He blinked, looking around warily. The air was filled with a sinister chill, but he had gotten used to it. The tide of death and cold threatened to swallow them all. A man clad in purple was wielding a pale greatsword with a soft shine, cleaving through the Others as if they were grass, bearing the brunt of the assault. Dragonglass and fire were raining from above as the Singers tugged at their weirwood bows.

Desperate men and shaggy giants fought side by side. An enormous man wearing buckskin as a cloak was also holding firm against the wights with a massive torch of fire in hand, leading a wreath of men. To the sides, he could see a gnarly warrior clad in rune-scribed bronze and a huntsman clad in red; there was also another with a green hand painted on his head. Bells, lions, red and gold, eagles, bulls, and more. Many had joined from the far south, but the names eluded his mind.

Dawn sliced through the milky neck of an Other, and its inhuman head rolled down before both parts shattered like an icicle thrown against a rock and melted into a cold pool of water.

Ignoring the purple-clad warrior's advance, his gaze was drawn to a glimmer in the slush below. A crystalline blade glimmered like a diamond under the ruddy torchlight, completely intact.

It called to him. What had his father said again? 

Your mother… she was a cold woman, colder than winter itself. 

It was all his sire was willing to speak of her before perishing in the endless battle against the Night. He did not understand back then, but now… now he understood.

Once again, the impossibly sharp ice called to him like an intimate whisper of a lover.

His hand reached out, and his fingers grasped around the crystalline hilt.

It did not burn.

He stood up, the icy handle fitting perfectly in his palm. It felt like he had used this blade for a lifetime. Shrill screeches heralded the arrival of the spiders from the side, and with a warcry in his throat, he threw himself back into the fray.

***

13th Day of the 12th Moon

Val, Warg Hill

Someone was crying. No, not a cry; it was a… howl.

She awoke with a groan as Jon was leaving their bed. No light was coming from the pelt-covered shutter - it was still night.

A howl echoed far in the distance. Then a second, a third, a fourth, each closer than the next. After being wedded to a warg, it no longer bothered Val, but these howls made a cold shiver crawl down her neck.

"We're under attack," her husband's furious words chased away any sign of drowsiness as he buckled up his belt and tossed his cloak over his shoulder with surprising swiftness. Then, the warhorn that was supposed to signify foes tore through the night. "The mad bitch dares. Stay here."

Before Val could ask anything else, Jon drew his sword and rushed out. A call to arms echoed through the night outside, and Warg Hill quickly awakened. Those sleeping in the Great Hall on the other side of the wooden wall quickly stirred, and she could hear the commotion. Had the Others dared to attack them directly?

No, it was not the Others; Val remembered Jon's words.

The mad bitch… that could only be Lerna and her cannibals. There was nobody else.

The pregnant spearwife cursed as soon as she stood up - the sudden action made her dizzy and forced her to lean on the crude wooden table by the cot.

Carrying a babe was hard work, and it sapped your strength. After a few shaky heartbeats to gather herself, Val grabbed her dagger, pulled on her shadowskin cloak, slowly made her way to the front of the Great Hall and lit a lantern with some struggle. Stringing up her weirwood bow was even more challenging, but she somehow managed. She had to get to her sister.

Halfway to the door, she was surrounded by a sea of direwolves, but Ghost's enormous snowy form was nowhere in sight. The clouds above covered the sky and the moon; the only thing that could be seen was an expanse of blurry darkness dotted with torches.

The night was filled with cries of pain, anguish, and death as Val made it through the snowy path down the hill. Then, the spearwife decided to convince Dalla to live with her in the Long Hall. 

It would be safer. Children and older women hid in the house and tents while the giants, men, and spearwives rushed out to fight. Val could see a few lumbering forms in the darkness, but everyone gave her and the pack of direwolves behind her a wide berth.

Val reached Dalla's cottage and entered, only to freeze.

"I almost poked a hole in you," Dalla scowled as she lowered the spear that had just been at Val's throat. A glance around the dark insides told her Duncan was absent - probably outside and fighting.

"Come with me to the longhall," she urged. Her sister nodded and grabbed her bag of herbs hanging on the wall. The two made their way up the snowy path, surrounded by a pack of alert direwolves.

The climb up was far more laborious for Val, and she cursed inwardly again. Even if she didn't mind it, carrying a babe had turned her weak and soft.

Suddenly, all the direwolves halted and looked towards the north; their tails rose in unison like a sea of shaggy spears. Val's blood ran cold as they growled together, and a giant figure shambled towards them through the darkness.

Giants… did Lerna have man-eating giants with her? How had one gotten so close?

Just as Val notched an arrow on her bow, another enormous blur crashed into the giant, and all the direwolves lunged in unison—a savage symphony of biting, growling, and tearing drowned out a pained roar.

Ghost then padded over to her, snout covered with blood. The direwolf had grown bigger yet again, over a head taller than her, and the spearwife could only scratch his ears when he lowered his enormous head. Most of the snow bears Val had seen were now shorter than Ghost, if quite bulkier.

The other direwolves soon returned, all covered with blood and gore, most carrying bones dripping with crimson in their jaws, and Val and Dalla continued up the hill with trepidation. They passed over the mangled remains of what had once been a giant but was now just a bloody mess of broken bones, torn fur, and gore on the ground, and the spearwife had to push down her nausea lest she lost her dinner.

Their journey to the longhall was met with no more woes, but Ghost silently disappeared again into the darkness.

"That was not a wight," Dalla muttered breathlessly as they sat on the fur-covered benches by the crude long tables. The direwolves returned to their favourite spots on the wooden floor, covering it with a carpet of grey, brown, red, and black. A few more spirited ones fought over the bloody bones that were brought, while others outright crushed them between their jaws and devoured the splinters whole along with the marrow.

"It's that Lerna," Val scowled. One of the direwolves, a pregnant bitch, came over and laid her brown head in Val's lap. "The bloody cannibal bitch has found herself man-eating giants."

"Attacking us? Even Lerna can't think she could beat the Warg Lord."

At that moment, Ghost returned, covered by even more blood, something that looked like a giant's spine in his maw, and started crushing it between his jaws.

Before, Val thought the crunching of bones was irritating, but now, it was like music to her ears.

"The cannibals are all mad. And we have plenty of meat for them here," she muttered, eyes focused on Ghost, who was busy devouring his way through the spine. "Besides, we have something even more valuable than food. Obsidian."

"Your man won't let such a challenge stand," Dalla noted.

"He won't," Val agreed, as she started running her hand through the shaggy brown fur of the direwolf in her lap. There was no fear in her - mere humans and giants were no match for Jon. Still, the wait was maddening as howling, fighting, and death echoed in the night.

***

Big Liddle

He realised that it was not Others attacking. The wolves kept howling in the distance, and hounds were angrily barking into the night.

"Bloody cannibals!" The angry cry from down the hill only confirmed his suspicions.

Duncan made his way down the hill, axe in one hand and a round shield in the other. Without a torch, everything was nothing but a blurry silhouette in the darkness. He never liked fighting in the darkness, especially without a fire to throw ruddy light. He would have to make do with the soft glow of the scant few stars left uncovered by the clouds.

Then, the fighting started. Yells, battle cries and moans of pain echoed in the night. But they were coming from two directions.

Had they been attacked from two sides?

Cursing, Duncan turned to the closer sound of fighting and cautiously made his way through the snow. A figure charged at him with a warcry through the darkness, wielding something that looked like a wooden bludgeon. Snorting, Duncan swatted the coming blow with his shield and buried his axe into his opponent's unprotected throat. 

The cannibal gurgled in the snow below, trying to cover his skewered throat with his hands in vain. Duncan cautiously took a closer look and scowled. The slack face was painted with a crude white skull on his forehead, his nose and ears pierced by yellow bones, and a string of severed human ears hanging on his neck. The corpse also stank like a mountain goat, as if the savage had never taken a bath in its wretched life.

Duncan stood up and threw himself into the fighting a few feet below. It was chaotic, and he could barely make out who was who in the darkness, even with the torch to the side. His hungry axe sank into the side of a savage who was clawing at a fallen spearwife and, with a pull, tore him open. Duncan slammed his shield into another, trying to swing a club at him and buried the spike of his axe into his temple. Cannibals were poor fighters, he realised. Savage, ill-disciplined and almost all armed with bone, stone, or wood. Killing them was even simpler.

Clubs slammed into his shield and side but did not slow the Liddle heir as he continued lashing out with his axe methodically. The strikes would doubtlessly turn into bruises later on, but for now, he felt a slight impact through his padded jacket, chainmail, and brigandine, taking the blows Duncan failed to catch with his shield. He had grown too used to fighting wights, who grouped up mindlessly without any pain or fear. The savages began to hesitate after Duncan's axe was buried into the gut of another and eviscerated him with a pull, warm blood splashing on his face. Yet Big Liddle cared little; he yanked off his weapon and lunged forward, a sharp spike burying itself into the throat of another. The cannibals stilled, which only gave him time to kill two more.

Soon, the savages were all slain, and the wildlings grouped with him, shield by shield, as they continued toward the gate, where more fighting was happening. A house was burning by the gate, which would have to be quickly extinguished before it spread.

A giant lumbered over to their side, and then he suddenly turned.

The world spun around as everything went deaf for a moment.

It is as if someone had covered his ears. Duncan blinked as slivers of pain shot through his body as he tried to move his limbs, and he tasted iron in his mouth. No, not iron, but blood. He blinked and blinked and realised someone was yelling in the distance. No, not in the distance. The pained moans and cries slammed into his head as his hearing returned, and he realised the giant had picked up a spearwife, his maw tearing chunks of flesh from her corpse.

Something whistled into the night, and the hairy behemoth suddenly stilled before falling into the snow with a thud.

With a groan, Duncan gathered himself up and approached cautiously. His sides hurt - a few of his ribs were bruised, if not broken. The giant was down on the ground, completely unmoving - three arrows were sticking out of his eyes. Did the bloody cannibals have man-eating giants?

"Duncan," Leaf's voice echoed from atop the roofs like a biting cold gale. More singers were with her, though Duncan struggled to count the numbers in the darkness, but their bright eyes shone like lanterns in the night. "Most of the cannibals are down at the streams! The wolf pack outside is attacking their rear. Go, we'll provide cover from above!"

With the Singers serving as their eyes in the dark, the battle looked far less daunting.

***

Val

The direwolves feasted that day. Of course, the surprise attack had proven to be folly, yet not without casualties. But once Warg Hill was mustered, the disciplined warbands quickly made short work of the savage cannibals. But fighting in the confusion of the night was not without a cost.

The six piles of corpses were like a hill each. Giants, men, dogs, wolves. While most of the dead were Lerna's fools. Yet if one looked closely, they could see women and children - the ones closest to the battered gates who had failed to escape on time. They had gathered the dead outside to be burned in the clearing under the walls. Many of the dead man-eaters carried pieces of bone on their limbs and torso like armour, but it had not saved them.

Melisandre of Asshai, one eye dull red, the other bright green, walked forward, murmuring some final rites. The red gem no longer stood fastened on her neck but crowned a weirwood staff. Long and gnarly, it looked like a tree upside down, with the roots sprouting from the crimson jewel. The woman still wore her thin crimson garment, but a cloak of red weirwood leaves fastened over her shoulders blended her blood-red hair in the fabric.

The gnarly pale staff rose in the air as the ruby looked like it pulsed for a moment, and then the six pyres flickered with flames. First, it was weak, at a small fire at the corner, but it slowly grew and grew and enveloped the piles of flesh hungrily.

The pyres roared to the sky then, banishing the surrounding chill. Although the smell of charred flesh made Val sick, she leaned on her man.

Jon held up the severed head by the tangled brown locks caked with blood and dirt and looked at it. It was Lerna - her face twisted in delight as Jon had chopped her head off. Not that the cannibal spearwife was a beauty - her forehead and chin were painted with crossed red and white bones, her nose pierced by a yellow collarbone, ears missing either from frostbite or the mad bitch ate them, and there were two round holes cut in her cheeks that showed her teeth even when her mouth was closed. Even her lips were split in a choppy way that implied deliberate and repeated mutilation.

With a snort, Jon threw the head into the burning fire.

"Mad bitch," he spat as he looked at the pyres. His face was like an icy mask. Val wasn't sure if he was talking about Lerna, Melisandre, or maybe both. Ever since the red witch had placed her faith in the Old Gods, her husband no longer regarded the witch with distrust… openly. Jon still didn't like Melisandre but was willing to suffer her presence in public. The chieftains and other warband leaders watched up close while everyone else observed from the back and the walls.

"Well, Lerna and her ilk are dead now," Tormund groused, his previous cheer gone. A bandage covered the right side of his face - his ear had been bitten off, and Val heard one of his sons had perished in the fires. "Don't blame yourself, Jon."

They had struck from two different sides, the man-eating giants managing to smash their way through the northern and eastern gates. The fighting amidst the streets would have been far more brutal and the losses worse if Jon had not slaughtered his way into the marauding cannibals. Morna Whitemask claimed he had slain hundreds of enemies and three giants, stalling the eastern assault almost singlehandedly until the others joined him.

"It was I who called off the scouting parties." Her husband was not without wounds. His shoulder and torso had a handful of bruises, his cheek had a new gash, and three more wounds adorned his powerful arms. It might have been worse if not for the bronze scale vest the Thenn Magnar gifted him. Val had taken two hours to clean all the blood away from it and the rest of his clothes in the morning.

"Aye, and for good reason - they were dying to the bloody Cold Shadows in the night," Styr grumbled. "Didn't your wolves warn us in the end?"

"In the last moment. Losses?" Jon turned to Jarod Snow. The old greybeard looked like he had aged ten years as he leaned onto a cane. An herb-filled patch covered his left eye; it had been gouged out in the fighting. His right arm was broken—now bound by a bone and ironwood splint and wrapped in hardened bark.

"Hard to count since we have to burn them quickly. There are thousands of corpses here. Most of them are cannibals, but we lost around two hundred spears to the fighting, with more women and children to the fire that spread near the north gate. Over a thousand are wounded. Thirteen giants of our own are dead, and Mag the Mighty is no more; two cannibal giants managed to bring him down. Elryk, Red Joss, and Kyleg are dead from our warband leaders."

"That's not too bad," the Thenn grunted. "Our fighting strength is unharmed, and we have less mouths to feed. The weak always die anyway."

Callous and pragmatic but not wrong, Val couldn't help but agree. Yet Jon didn't seem joyful about it. For some silly kneeler reason, he saw the death of folk who followed him as a personal failure. The fire had been unpleasant but couldn't spread far in the snow and had not affected their wall. The wooden houses could be easily rebuilt, and there was plenty of wood left from clearing the surrounding forest.

"Three Singers perished," Leak said mournfully from the side. Val could understand that grief better - the leafcloaks were less than a hundred and slow to birth, so every death was a severe blow and tragedy. "How did they travel so far without being beset by the Singers of the Ice?"

"They had no children or babes with them," Jon said. "The Ice River clans and many cannibals worship the gods of snow and ice."

"You mean the fuckers gave their own flesh and blood to the Cold Shadows?" Tormund stepped back, wounded face aghast. Even Val felt queasy.

"Either that or they ate 'em. I've seen it before, and it works - the Others take the babes and leave the rest alone." Even the most savage of wildling chieftains looked uneasy at the words. "'Tis how Craster survived before I strung him up before a Heart Tree."

"Good riddance," Morna spat in the muddy slush underneath. While the remaining cannibals had fled when the sun rose and would doubtlessly disperse without Lerna to lead them, Ghost led his enormous pack of direwolves and wolves into the Haunted Forest, hunting them down without mercy. They had all too much experience in chasing down and eating wights, and there was no doubt in Val's mind the cannibals would be finished for good now.

"What now?" Duncan asked. Because of his fancy Southron armour, Dalla's man was unharmed save for plenty. Unlike Jon's, his was mostly intact, for Duncan had not tangled with the Cold Ones more than once. 

"Now we repair the gates—better, stronger, harder to smash through. We dig ditches and moats and continue hunting down wights during the day," Jon declared. "If the giants had failed to batter the gates open, all of the cannibals would have died under our walls."

"Can't…" Dalla's man hesitated, but his jaw clenched. "Can't we return?"

"Return where?" Morna echoed, confused. Even her pale mask was splattered with blood. "This is a good place. If Lerna's ilk had hit us in the open, we'd have far more dead. Without the walls, the Others will eat away at us every night."

"We did all we set out to do," Duncan looked at Jon. "The odds here are not in our favour."

"Ah, are your kneeler knees itching again, har? Need to go back to your southron king and kneel?" Tormund laughed, and a few of the chieftains jeered along.

"The children of the Great Other are watching," Melisandre came over, her melodic voice extinguishing the hollers and guffaws with ease. "They only wait, gathering their forces. I can feel it."

Jon stiffly inclined his head in agreement. "If I were in their place, I'd bite away at a large group at night until the numbers dwindled enough. Without a wall, we'd find ourselves beset on every side. By the time we travel the hundred leagues to the Wall, we'd be dead or reduced to a mere handful. Besides, say if the Others let us leave. Jarod, if you were Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, would you let over ten thousand wildlings, more than half women and children, pass through the Wall?"

"No," Duncan's uncle snorted. "Well… maybe if they gave up their arms and wealth, gave hostages, and swore on a Heart Tree to follow the King's Peace and laws, then maybe. But even then, I wouldn't trust them and neither would the Northmen."

"We'd rather die than kneel!" Styr's shout was met with nods and yells of approval as Duncan bowed his head. "The crows are only taking my sons over my dead body!"

"Aye," Soren raised his axe. He looked somewhat battered; the word was he had slain a giant. "We don't need no big Wall or kneelers to hide behind! Besides, the crows' word cannot be trusted!"

"There's your answer, Dunk," Jon said, spreading his hands. "I have no desire to cross swords with the Watch or my uncle."

"We're slowly being surrounded now," Duncan Liddle muttered. He feared, Val realised. Not the battle or death, as Dalla's man had proven himself as brave as any other. He feared the chilly grip of cold and despair that slowly crept around them by the day as they remained here. Yet it was the tiredness speaking in him, not reason. She could see that many others were tired, but Warg's Hill was already better and safer than everything they had had before.

"Aye, we are." Jon went over and patted the burly clansman's shoulder. "But they do not dare attack yet. Do you know why?"

Dalla's man shuffled uneasily. "Why?"

"The Others are cravens! They don't dare attack without overwhelming numbers." Jon's shout was met with hollers of approval before his raised fist silenced them. "Perhaps… they will gather enough wights to try and attack. Perhaps they won't. Every day, we ride out to clear the dead thralls. Twenty yesterday. Seventy the day before. Near two thousand in the last moon. How many in a year? We are cornered here, it's true. I know this, you know this, everyone knows this. Perhaps we'll be attacked tomorrow. Maybe in a moon or even a year. Maybe never. But… are we afraid of fighting?"

"No," Duncan shook his head, standing straighter now. Val decided a good night's sleep with Dalla would straighten him out.

Jon Snow turned to the chieftains. "Are we afraid of fighting?!"

"NO!"

***

20th Day of the 12th Moon

Jafer Flowers, King's Landing

Being a wandering crow was dreadful, not half as good as being a ranger. Well, not exactly a wandering crow, as he had his small recruitment hall in the city, along with an acolyte from the Citadel, and he didn't have to search for recruits as they came to him instead. Regardless, Jafer found himself missing the Wall. Everyone got to fight the wildlings and the Others, and he was here dealing with green boys and summer knights. Some of them were good, Jafer would grudgingly admit, but only the first battle in the snow would tell if they would break down or hold their ground.

As the war drums echoed across the realm, the recruits dwindled to one or two per day, some days even zero. Not that it mattered. His job was to organise them, as his new drillmaster, Lym, would teach them some simple discipline and basic arms training until the monthly ship for Eastwatch arrived to sail everyone north.

"The pyromancers cannot be trusted," murmured the grey-robed acolyte. Eldon was a wiry, balding man who had refused to forge his chain in the Citadel and was wed with two daughters to his name. Still, he offered invaluable services as a scribe and could deal with ravens, sums, and numbers.

"It is not for us to decide," Jafer shrugged as they neared the Street of Sisters. "The Lord Commander has issued an invitation, and it is my job to bring it to the Alchemists."

Soon enough, they were faced with the Guild Hall - a building made out of black marble.

They were met with a hunchback old man dressed in plain brown robes at the entrance and eyed Jafer's black cloak cautiously.

"How can the Guild be of service to the Night's Watch?"

"I have a message for the grand master of your order."

"Very well, then. I'll lead you to Wisdom Hallyne," the alchemist bowed and led them into a maze of twisting and turning hallways.

Jafar started feeling dizzy when they finally wound up before a varnished ebony door leading to a large chamber filled with polished oaken tables. Most of them were empty, save for one in the corner, where a balding alchemist dressed in slightly better robes was toiling over a table laden with glass vials and glasses filled with exotic substances of red, purple, green, and even bright yellow that made Jafer's stomach churn unpleasantly.

"Moren," the man, probably Wisdom Hallyne, turned. "You've brought us guests!"

"Yes, Grand Master. They have a message for you."

The alchemist straightened up and walked over, flinty eyes suspiciously gazing at Eldon.

"I see you've brought up a grey sheep with you," the sharp words made the acolyte bristle.

"He's very good with ravens," Jafer shrugged lazily and handed over the leather-bound scroll. "Here."

Hallyne grabbed the message and quickly unfurled it, his eyes drinking in its contents. Then he guffawed.

Sighing, the black brother turned around-

"Wait," the wisdom chortled, heaving over, trying to contain his annoying giggles but failing.

"I have no desire to be mocked to my face," Jafer scowled.

"Pardon my manners," Hallyne coughed abashedly, finally standing straight and patting his chest with a bony hand. "I did not mean offence, my good Ser. But it is not every day we receive a letter penned by an Archmaester requesting our services. The grey fools finally bow down before our mastery in the arts of fire! Of course, we respected King Robert greatly and followed his endorsement with great interest."

"So, what should I answer to the Lord Commander?" Jafer asked impatiently. He was tired of the South - everyone here was longwinded, and there was no fighting, only suffocating heat and loitering fools. Fighting together with Benjen Stark was so much better, and it made him feel more alive than even fucking whores.

"If the Citadel can send men to the Wall, then so can we," the Grand Master of the Alchemists proudly declared. "Every one of theirs I'll match with a Wisdom and two acolytes! Even more, if the Lord Commander agrees to open a Chapter of our hallowed Guild in Castle Black!"