Shrouded Destiny

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

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

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

***

22nd Day of the 4th Moon, 299AC

Margaery Tyrell, outside of King's Landing

Her pregnancy was progressing more than well–the babe was entering the fourth moon, and there were no problems according to the gaggle of maesters her father had dragged along. Motherhood and the birthing bed were daunting, but her mother and grandmother assured her things would be fine. In the end, Margaery tried not to dwell on it.

She had other woes to consider; everything else was not as rosy.

The war was not going as well or quickly as they had hoped. It was odd to see the walls of King's Landing from afar. Seeing them manned to the brim with men-at-arms, pointy spears, crossbows, and shiny helmets glinting in the sun from afar was even odder.

It wasn't as bad as the aftermath of the Bloody Crossing, as they began calling the battle where Tywin retreated to King's Landing. The bards hailed it as a great victory, with the proud lion scurrying away with his tail between his legs, but Margaery knew better.

The Blackwater Rush had run red for a day with the blood of all the Reachmen slain in the attempted crossing, and bodies were fished out of the Rush for days. She was one of the few privy of the final body count–crossing the river had cost just shy of eleven thousand men.

Still less than the Young Wolf's victory. Stark's brutality at the Trident had ultimately ended many more knights and veteran men-at-arms. It had also left many unsettled, but the royal councillors had plans to stop the Young Wolf from surprising them the same way Rowan had been.

Yet while the Battle of the Bloody Crossing had not left as many Reachmen dead as the one at the Trident, the losses were considerable.

The lesser lords Leygood, Lyberr, and Woodright had perished, along with many second sons and scores of brave knights. Margaery had heard whispers that Renly had sent the most pious first to test their resolve that day. Ser Theodore Tyrell, Elinor's father, had been amongst the many fallen, much to her cousin's grief. The young maiden could not be consoled even with Margaery and half a dozen ladies-in-waiting's combined efforts. 

How many daughters had lost their fathers in that battle? How many wives had lost their husbands, and mothers had lost their sons? That was without even mentioning the considerable number of wounded.

Her Lord Father and her royal husband didn't seem to be affected one bit–it was all foreseen.

"The ugly calculus of war, my daughter," her father had explained in his lordly voice.

Gods, she understood Garlan's words far better now.

"There's nothing uglier than a battlefield," he had said, and now Margaery would wholeheartedly agree. It was nothing like the songs, which most handily forgot to mention the butchery and woe left in war's wake.

Yet, for good or bad, they were before King's Landing. The Iron Throne was so close yet so far. Only the city's thick walls and over thirty thousand of Tywin's men stood between them and the Red Keep.

Penrose led ten thousand men to force all the Lords from Hayford to Rook's Rest into submission and recruit even more men-at-arms and landed knights to their cause. Margaery knew he was ordered to attempt to break Edmure Tully's siege of Harrenhal if the situation allowed it.

The siege was a far more elaborate affair than Margaery expected. Ditches and other serious defensive fortifications, traps, five-fold rows of sharpened stakes and tall wooden watchtowers with sentries sporting myrish far-eyes were being set up around their camp to prevent Robb Stark from striking them in surprise. Scouts constantly screened the rear for any trouble, and many more preparations were made that Margery did not understand.

Sieges were tricky, especially now that they could no longer afford to block the city by sea. Lannister had expelled two-thirds of the city folk into the crownlands, and Renly had to deal with them, too. It meant that King's Landing's food supplies wouldn't diminish half as quickly as they had hoped. The small wharfs facing the bay wouldn't be enough to feed the whole city, but starving them out would take longer.

The army had yet to assault the walls, and men ferried wood from the Kingswood for the engineers to build catapults, trebuchets, battering rams, siege towers, and ladders. The only fighting had been for the harbour, where her father had sacrificed over three hundred riders for a night attack to set the docks on fire and deny easy resupplying for Joffrey and Tywin.

Truthfully, none of these were matters Margaery could affect. She only prayed to the Seven for the city to fall faster so this bloody charade could end quicker and the King's Peace could finally be restored.

She should have been touring the Stormlands, recruiting new ladies-in-waiting and forging new alliances, but circumstances forced her to linger with Renly's army. 

"Was it wise to ally with the reavers, Father?" Margaery asked when word of Garlan's successful negotiation had arrived. Oh, how it would have chafed her kind-hearted brother to break bread and salt with the Ironmen. The whole thing was kept secret, and only her father, the king, and select royal councillors knew of the details of the alliance. Or its motivation. "Wedding cousin Desmera to a pirate scum like Greyjoy? Now poor Elinor is being sent off to marry a Goodbrother while still grieving her father."

"Pah," her father waved a meaty hand, dismissing her concerns. "The girls ought to do their duty, as everyone else. Besides, he might be Ironborn, but Eddard Stark still raised Theon Greyjoy for nearly ten years as a ward, not a hostage. If Desmera truly dislikes her husband, he could be easily removed, and her children will have a claim to the whole of the Iron Isles. It's Paxter who agreed to that particular arrangement, mind you. Also, the Goodbrother heir is said to have a dutiful man, so Elinor should be fine. Reavers or not, the Ironborn are men like every other."

Margaery wanted to tear her hair out at the nonchalant words.

"But you're the one who said the squids cannot be trusted," she stubbornly pointed out. "And how many ladies will be sent to the Iron Isles for this alliance? How many of our lords must marry and host some reaver's daughter in their homes?"

"Seven of each," was the amused reply. "His Grace and myself are well aware that this alliance is only temporary and that the Iron Isles are untrustworthy and must be dealt with sooner or later. And you never know, the Ironmen might honour their vows. When Balon rebelled last time, he gave no vows to Robert. Should the worst come to pass, it still buys us time to deal with a far direr issue."

She deflated under his stern gaze. Of course, her father had a plan. He always did.

"Like what? Those newly cropped-up bandits in the Stormlands?" She snarked. Words of outlaws making trouble in the Dornish Marches had reached them just a few days prior, and Highgarden's Castellan had mustered a few dozen knights and hundreds of outriders to deal with the Dornish brigands. Yet the moment her words left her mouth, Margaery realised her mistake. Her father was an amiable man and loved her dearly, but he hated nothing more than disrespect or defiance.

Mace Tyrell's face reddened, looking like an overripe apple.

"Queen or not, I am your father, and you shall speak to me respectfully," he waved a meaty finger warningly. "It is I who placed this crown atop your head."

"I apologise," she hastily bowed her head. "It's just… I don't see why we must banish so many of our cousins to the dreary Iron Isles."

Her father's fury melted away, morphing into a sly smile as if the anger had been all some mummery.

"I forgive you, my darling. As for allying with the reavers? Renly, your uncle Baelor and I are on the same page here," he said, his words dwindling to a whisper.

The words made her shudder. While her father was amiable, Renly was very headstrong, and her pious Hightower uncle was just as unbending.

She dreaded the answer, yet she asked, "Why?"

"If we include trading cogs and larger fishing vessels, the Reach can boast over a thousand ships across the coastal houses," he rubbed his hands. "I want to get rid of all those vagrants and refugees plaguing my lands. Baelor, the pious lords, and the High Septon want to strike at the tree-worshipping heathens. Renly wants to get rid of the growing influence of the Faith and voices clamouring for the restoration of the Faith Militant, and your good uncle Paxter gets a chance to rule the whole of the Sunset Sea…"

"Wait, how does that-" Margaery's eyes widened as realisation sank in. "You mean just to ship all the problems to the North?"

"Aye. And with the Ironmen temporarily on our side, we can do so undisturbed. The Iron Isles also serve as the perfect resupplying point northward. Of course, no fool is mad enough to restore the Faith Militant and undermine their authority, but all those men the Faith recruited will become arrow fodder and levies. Those like Hightower, Florent, and the other fools along the coast that brought only half a muster would be honour-bound to send their reserve men after so vocally supporting the High Septon. Fifteen, maybe twenty thousand swords if they squeeze hard enough."

It all lined up together now. It also explained why Margaery couldn't see the Rose Septon, his pious entourage, or his new pet, the Hound, with the army. 

"But… you always said you respect Lord Stark."

"The late Lord Stark holds my utmost admiration as a man of staunch character and unbreakable honour," her father nodded. "But so what? The poor man has perished to the waves, and House Tyrell's interests come first. Worse, the Young Wolf has proven himself needlessly cruel. I would have understood if he chopped off a few septon's heads, but killing thousands? Even attempts at surrender were refused unless the men in question were of high birth."

Margery dearly wanted to retort on Rowan's needlessly cruel treatment towards the Riverlanders but withheld her tongue. However, her father seemed to notice and gave her a bemused smile.

"Such a thing is just not done, daughter. Rowan had executed those responsible for that nasty business. Yet Robb Stark personally ordered such needless cruelty. Now, the Young Wolf will reap what he has sown. Besides, it does not matter whether the zealots lose their lives in the cold North or succeed. Our foes, House Stark, my unruly bannermen, and the Faith would weaken each other, and your royal husband and House Tyrell would reap all the benefits."

It all sounded good, yet Margaery could see a glaring hole in the plan.

"What if Greyjoy betrays you from the very start?"

"Of course, we're prepared for such a case, too, for only a fool would trust an Ironman. Paxter and our ships will be well-prepared, and we expect an Ironborn attack at any time. Should that fool Balon go back on his word, he'll choke on his foolish ambition, and all the zealots would be shipped to the Iron Isles first."

No wonder the marriage preparations were already underway after the quick negotiations. Her father and husband were eager to send away all those problems, no matter the cost. Zealots were the bane of every king, as Maegor had seen for himself. Six years of war and even a dragon failed to vanquish the stubborn Swords and Stars.

Only when the Conciliator agreed to send them to the Wall did they become House Stark and the North's problem. Now, Renly was doing the same, but in a far more direct manner, without any false pretences.

She did not doubt the dire consequences of unloading tens of thousands of zealots, pious knights, troublesome septons, and armed vagrant levies in the North. For good or bad, the reavers joined the already volatile mix.

How many would die because of this decision? Truth be told, Margaery was afraid even to begin to imagine the rivers of blood that would be spilt. 

Yet all those men, all these thorns in their side, would not trouble her kin or her husband but would be the North's problems. It meant her unborn son would also be safe. They might even finally spread the Faith throughout the so-called heathen kingdom for good. 

Margaery's hand reached towards the budding swell in her belly. Soon, she would start to show. Everything she did, no matter how much she misliked the scheming, lies, and bloodshed, would be for her son, the future king.

The winner took everything, and the loser perished; she understood that well enough. She had not forgotten nor forgiven the indignity or humiliation that she had been forced to endure for this child. 

All she could do was pray and hope for a swift victory.

***

23rd Day of the 4th Moon, 299 AC

The Warg Lord, Warg Hill

The white wind seeped through furs and leathers, and the air grew frigid as tangible pale foggy wisps escaped his mouth with each breath. Yet the cold was an old friend at this point, if prickly and painful. His back ached with exertion; his fingers had grown numb days ago from gripping the hilt for hours to no end, his wrists were stiff, and his sore muscles groaned with protest after each movement, but mere aches were the lightest burden atop his shoulders. 

For once, the pleasant chill on his limbs felt soothing to his strained flesh.

"Here they come again," Jon muttered more to himself than anything else before raising his voice. "You know the drill by now! Form up and stand your ground!"

The last of the sun's warmth dwindled behind the Frostfangs, casting an ominous shadow over the land that hid the horde of wights approaching until they crashed at Warg Hill's defences. His gate was open, with smartly placed barricades that helped to create a funnel for the enemy to clump. As the first shambling corpse appeared, Jon Snow stood at the front, Dark Sister's weirwood hilt clenched in his grasp.

The first foe, a half-rotten blue-eyed spearwife with a snarl on her face, was deftly beheaded, collapsing on the snowy ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Then, a second, a third, and a fourth followed. Dark Sister turned into a ghostly blur, soaring through the cold darkness and cleaving through the dark sorcery holding the grip of the dead, and they fell one after another. His heart hammered like a war drum, and the rush of the heart gave his tired flesh newfound power. Even the dragonsteel blade in his hand felt warm as if it was even more eager for death than he was. 

It seemed foolish to fight before an opened gate, but the dug-out ring of trench-like moat only connected with the surroundings through crude wooden bridges. The problem was that when they remained all behind the walls, the undead would pile up like a mass of flesh, clogging the shallow moat, making a ladder of rot and bones over the fortifications, and almost overwhelming the defenders. 

A sennight into the fighting, Jon had ordered the skulls counted, but they stopped after fifteen thousand. On a colder night, the water in the moat would freeze despite the weak, and they would have to break the thickening ice each morning. It was something they had learned much to their peril.

Tonight was the thirty-fourth night in a row where the Others attacked. Jon and his men repelled them thirty-three times, and he intended tonight to be the thirty-fourth time, no matter how hard it was getting. 

It started light at first, testing the gates with squads of wights, prodding and looking for weakness. They had prepared this for moons, so the wildlings easily repelled the dead. Then came the second night, with a more vicious attack. And the third, and then the fourth, until they were under a full-scale assault. Those were far harder to repel, but they did it. 

The days were dark as clouds stretched in every direction. Not even an ounce of blue could be seen in the sky above, and the Cold Ones strode through the nearby Haunted Forest, striking at any foraging parties. Worse, the Others had invested wights on the western bank of the Milkwater, and Jon had to leave manpower to defend Jarod's bridge. 

None could deny the Cold One's queer intelligence, for Warg Hill was practically placed under siege.

It didn't make the days any less tiring than the nights; all the charred bones stacked up on hills under the walls had to be removed, lest the wights use them as a staging ground to climb over their defences the next night. During the day, they repaired the broken fortifications, and mud was constantly reapplied so the wooden walls did not burn along with the wights.

Warg Hill repelled each assault, but not without trouble. With only five thousand defenders against a countless, tireless horde, they were getting exhausted. The length of the walls was not insignificant, over two miles long from one end to the other, and Jon split the able-bodied men and spearwives into three parts. Two groups of two thousand would rotate on the wall every second night, and the final thousand with the giants left as a reserve that would plug any breaches.

Giants, the many women who had shied away from becoming spearwives, older folks, and the children too young to help all helped with repairs and clearing during the day to alleviate the burden, but it wasn't enough.

With their access to the forest and obsidian deposit nearby cut off, their supplies were slowly but surely dwindling. There was only a whimper of protest when Jon declared he would ration the dragonglass, seasoned wood, and oil for the torches. The wildlings loved their freedom but were exhausted and loved living more. 

At night, the Cold Ones lurked between the corpses, like vengeful spectres searching for a weakness before pouncing. Some assaults breached the walls a handful of times in this fashion, and the Others and wights had to be expelled from the makeshift town by the reserves led by Tormund, Morna, and Ghost.

The casualties also began to pile up. A dozen died each night, into a score, or even over a hundred if things got ugly when the fortifications were breached. A handful of direwolves and scores of ordinary wolves had died, and the wounded piled up even faster.

The woes did not stop there. The relentless assaults each night took a toll on the fighters, even with the respite. Less than two days were not enough to recover from fighting from dusk till dawn with little rest, and the defenders slowly began to grow exhausted and sluggish with each night. The physical exhaustion was manageable, but some days, it felt as if an invisible cold hand had gripped the minds of men.

The seemingly endless foes kept coming, no matter how many were slain. Each night, again and again, one wave after another, and despair had slowly begun to creep into the defender's hearts. Morale dwindled by little each time the dark, cloudy dawn came, even if they had no choice but to fight.

"The Cold Ones are furious," Melisandre had explained earlier. "The Great Other knows his plan is thwarted and has fallen into slumber again, but his children are vengeful. They can feel you're the one who has foiled their efforts and hate it. They sense your bright, powerful fire that roars within your veins and desire to snuff it out."

Whether that was true or not, it didn't matter for Jon. Unlike the other warriors, he fought each night without respite and slept during the day.

He had lost count of how many wights he had felled. Men, women, children, wild boars, bears, stags, moose, shadowcats, two giants, foxes, hares, and plenty of wolves perished a second time under the black rippled edge of the dragonsteel blade.

Val tried to coax him into resting for a night, but Jon would hear none of it. He had promised the chieftains, clans, and warbands that he would be at the front in each battle, so he fought, no matter how much he wanted to rest. Each time darkness gathered, he picked up Dark Sister and fought, no matter how tired he felt. 

After over thirty nights of cold, bitter struggle, it felt as if his presence was one of the few things that kept their spirits from crumbling. The situation looked dire to many, but as long as Jon kept fighting, the wildlings mustered their strength to stand by his side.

Killing wights and Others had become an art form for him. Slash with just enough force to sever a wight's spine but not too hard to waste strength, parry or feint into a stab quickly enough to slay the Cold Ones before they can defend. While his body was sore with continuous exertion each night, the battles had started to blur together.

His instincts and skills as a swordsman were slowly honed to the limit as he slew more foes. Avoid, slash, cut, stab, thrust, deflect, parry into riposte, faint into a tapering lunge. Even the slightest excess movement was slowly discarded so Jon could slay more foes with greater efficiency and less effort. Sigorn Thenn claimed Jon was becoming faster and stronger, but he did not see it. Jarod Snow had called it the berserker rage of the mountains, which ran in the clansmen's blood.

Yet Jon Snow did not feel angry. His mind never felt so clear as it was in the middle of battle, but his body felt more tired each following night as if his limbs were made out of lead. 

True, the Cold Ones no longer posed a challenge, and he could duel three with laughable ease now; they all fought the same, and his body was fully used to their razor-sharp battle tempo and could see each chink in their crystalline armour with closed eyes. While the mirror-like frost was unbreakable, its creators couldn't rival the human craftsmen in skill. Unlike a master smith who would cover you in steel from head to toe, the Cold One's armours had gaps in their joints, for it seemed that the ice was not flexible, nor could it be hewn into a chainshirt, and they had yet to figure out how to layer and joint it.

Ankles, feet, knees, elbows, armpits, wrists, necks–all were bared. Jon had gathered enough of the ice armour for personal use, and even now, he was clad in the fitting parts and had to wear a thin arming doublet to protect his vulnerable joints. The cold soothed his sore body and washed away the exhaustion for some reason, but Jon tried not to think about it. Even wearing their inhumanely thin ice armour would have been impossible, but Leaf and Melisandre somehow managed to use his blood and weirwood sap to fit each piece to his frame properly. 

He had lost count, but Jarod claimed thousands of wights had fallen to Dark Sister and scores of Others in the last moon alone. His wrists, back, and shoulders began to ache, and his body slowly became numb with exertion as the night progressed despite the soothing cold, but such meagre inconveniences were an old friend and couldn't halt him.

Jon welcomed the pain; it made him feel alive and honed his movements towards even more precision, and the fire in his blood only sang louder. 

A light tapering slash saw the tip of his sword sever two spinal cords with precision, crumbling two wights on the ground. Jon twisted himself and spun his wrist at the same time, leveraging the momentum into a sweeping half-lunge that beheaded two more wights on the way to a pale neck hiding between the corpses. A pale blade soared, trying to intercept Dark Sister, but it was too slow. 

The Other crumbled into shards with an unholy screech, but it was music to Jon's ears.

Another Cold One attempted to strike at his side; Jon had already shifted his footing and jerked backwards while Dark Sister's tip sliced at the overextended wrist where the icy bracer ended, slaying the icy foe.

Jon had learned not to overextend in the heat of the fighting when the Others had tried to surround him countless times before. There was no fear of death, wounds, or defeat in Jon; the fight called to him and his blood pulsed with joy. He was only afraid for his wife and his unborn child. The birthing bed was a battle where he couldn't aid his Val. 

Yet even that worry was lessened. Uncle Benjen–the new Lord Commander–which was a pleasant surprise, had agreed to let Jon's heavily pregnant wife through the Wall should the worst come to pass. Leaf and all the Singers, Ghost and his pack, Jarod Snow and Duncan Liddle, had orders to drag the stubborn spearwife and her sister to a raft and flee through the Milkwater despite her unwillingness should Warg Hill fall. 

With the knowledge Val would be safe, Jon let go of any qualms and fought to his heart's content. Despite the soreness of the limbs that began weighing like lead, his mind felt as light as a feather, as if it were soaring through the skies. The sound of battle filled his senses; war sang in his blood without doubt or hesitation. It was a fleeting feeling that felt more intoxicating than the best Northern ale or the sweetest Southron wine. It rivalled making love with Val in pleasure, and Jon could scarcely get enough. It was a heady feeling that threatened to consume him.

But the cold, the freezing chill, somehow helped him keep a calm mind and focus on the battle. 

There were plenty of ways to sever a spine, and Jon would claim he mastered all of them that required a sword. Tapering cuts that had just the tip slice with the minimum amount of strength required, brutish slashes, well-aimed chops, side lunges–lifeless bodies quickly piled up around him. 

But suddenly, the pressure eased, the tide of flesh dwindled, yet dawn was not yet approaching. Far from enough time had passed for the night to end, and Jon could feel the hesitation and confusion in the endless horde of Others battering his position. Someone was even shouting something above him from the wall, but he couldn't hear it over his heartbeat, drumming loudly in his ears.

Then, a petal of colour exploded in the distance: red, yellow, blue, green, purple, and even white blossomed like fiery flowers.

The sound cleared then, and more yells of surprise echoed in the grim night.

"It's the crows! The crows are comin'!"

***

The fighting continued until the morning; by then, a good chunk of the Haunted Forest was aflame, but nobody cared, for there was no wight or an Other in sight. If any had survived the onslaught, they had long fled.

The Cold Ones were gone, but now Jon Snow and the raiders, hunters, and spearwives behind him formed up, facing the weary Watchmen. Fighting–and probably marching– in the night had also taken a toll on them.

A familiar figure stepped forth from their ranks, his scarred face stern but familiar. 

"You're a sight for sore eyes, Lord Commander," Jon couldn't help but smile, and he hugged him close to whisper in his ear, "Uncle, not that the aid is unappreciated, but what in the seven bloody hells are you doing here?"

A wandering glace and Jon could count far more Watchmen in a single place than he had ever seen, easily thousands of men, all clad in black cloaks with battered ringmail and other padded armour peeking underneath. 

"Saving your arse," came the quiet reply as Benjen's strong arms patted his back forcefully, inspecting each inch to check if he was fine. "Killing some Others. I asked for some volunteers for a dangerous great ranging, and I was drowned with willing men with more pride and thirst for glory than sense."

"Some volunteers?" Jon scoffed, but his eyes were filled with wonder. "I can easily see a few thousand bloody men here."

"Aye, well, everyone wants to vanquish a cold shadow or two to prove their mettle nowadays," Benjen said, shaking his head in wonder. "The risk only makes those overproud madmen more eager."

Tension bled out of his body then, and he could feel Ghost's enormous form, over seven feet on four legs, trot over curiously, making the nearby Watchmen step away fearfully.

"Bloody hells, is that a snowbear?" Someone asked with a quivering voice.

"No, ye dolt, it's a direwolf. A giant one."

A destrier-sized pitch-black direwolf that Jon could not feel in his mind or recognise from Ghost's pack approached cautiously, and he remembered. It could only be the small, whimpering pup gifted to Benjen. Gods, how long had it been?

Ghost seemed to recognise him too, as his shaggy white tail wagged happily, and the black wolf received a playful nip on the ear, and the two of them ran off together. 

"It seems Ghost has abducted Midnight," Benjen chuckled ruefully. 

"Don't worry, they'll be back."

This act seemed to ease the tension between the wildlings and the watchmen, and Jon himself relaxed. Yet, with the calm, heavy exhaustion slammed into him. Another long night of fighting had taken a heavy toll on his body.

He sucked in a lungful of air that never tasted so sweet before despite the plumes of sour smoke wafting from the burning forest nearby.

"Tormund! Bring bread and salt for our guests!"

"I'll see it done," Giantsbane cried out from the wall with wonder. "I have never liked the sight o' crows as much as this morn', har!"

The wildlings held little love for the watchmen, but with a glance, Jon could see something else in their eyes. The loathing, distrust, and hatred had taken a back step, and while his men were tense, they looked more relieved than anything else. 

After thirty days of being choked by the seemingly endless waves of wights and Others, the black brothers were a welcomed sight.

As his father said, true friends could be found on the battlefield, and despite his uncle's reckless ranging, the Watchmen had proven they were willing to fight together with the wildlings. It was unprecedented, something that had never happened before since the time of the Breaker. No matter how much Jon mulled, he could not devise a better way to at least partially mend the relationship between the two groups outside of total subjugation, hostages, and the like.

The battlefield was cleared, duties were split up, and most black brothers were encamped outside the walls to prevent too much trouble. Jon had no doubt problems would arise with so many armed wildlings and black brothers in close proximity, but he could minimise the risks and the fallout.

"Lord Commander," a ranger cautiously walked over, a crystalline breastplate hanging on his spear. "Another one dropped. Ryl also claimed he spotted another wristguard in the slush and is searching for it."

"Useless scrap," Benjen swore. "The damned cold fucks are too thin. I tried fitting a bracer on my arm, but to no avail, you know? Even this breastplate is too small to wear, even if I forgo the arming doublet and ringmail. Seven bloody hells; I don't even see any straps of latches, so it has to be pulled on like a robe. Still not sure why some leave ice pieces behind, while most just melt away."

"It's the beheading," Jon shrugged, tapping the icy bracer on his wrist. "It took me a while to figure it out, but slicing off their head in a single strike interrupts whatever magic binds the ice to them. They make for a great trophy–proof that you took a Cold One's head with a single strike. I myself have a dozen more of these trinkets mounted on my wall, even if I can easily fit in some parts, as you see, even though it leaves my joints open. I'm only missing the breastplate and a helmet for a full set."

"Well, this breastplate is all yours, nephew," Benjen snorted. "Try to fit it if you can, I suppose."

A tired but smiling Tormund finally appeared with a crude platter carrying bread and salt, and Benjen was quick to accept the rites of hospitality.

***

Benjen Stark

It was a relief when his gambit had paid off. The Others were defeated in yet another battle, and the losses between the Watchmen were minimal. Marching through the Haunted Forest had his nerves stretched thin. "The Cold Ones are not looking our way," Moqorro had assured multiple times, and it had turned out to be true, for they had suffered no night attacks.

Seeing Jon alive, if very tired and heavily scarred with big dark circles under his eyes, was a great relief. His nephew looked dead on his feet, and once the heat of the battle was worn down, Jon looked as if he could lie down and sleep for a sennight but still soldiered on.

The fighting against the Other was done, and now came the hard part–having so many black brothers and wildlings closely together without trying to gut each other. Yet Jon's wildlings–because that's what they were in the end, seemed to listen to his word without any visible complaints, and Benjen was invited inside the walls. 

After some thought, he brought only ten men inside the settlement despite Ser Alliser Thorne's protests.

"What if this is some treachery?" The greying knight asked sourly. "A trap to get you alone and killed."

"Guest right has been given," Benjen coldly reminded. "Are you claiming mine own nephew will cut me down?"

That had silenced any complaints. Of course, the greying knight had gruffly volunteered to accompany him. Now, nine of the most disciplined rangers and Moqorro followed behind him while the first ranger, Jeremy Rykker, was left to deal with the aftermath outside the gates and set up camp. Benjen trusted the commanders of Rimegate and Icemark, Sers Harwin Rivers and Elbert Belmore, to keep a good semblance of order.

On Jon's side, the infamous Morna White Mask, a young balding warrior with a painted face and bronze-scaled shirt, cautiously cooperated with the clean-up efforts. 

All in all, even Benjen wasn't mad enough to jam four thousand black brothers in a wildling settlement and expect it to go without trouble. He expected to behead at least one or two fools for insubordination before the day ended.

The watchmen were still distrustful of wildlings in such numbers despite having his nephew as a leader, which was understandable. Aside from the scores of giants that were quite scary on their own, there were a bunch of chieftains or clans that did not have a particularly good relationship with the Watch. While Gavin the Trader had, well, traded oft with the Watch instead of fighting, Soren Shieldbreaker, Tormund Giantsbane, who seemed to have lost an ear, and the other faces he saw amongst the warchiefs were not nearly as friendly. The heavily battered and torn black ringmail on Giantbane's thick torso could have only been picked up from a slain ranger or a wildling who had killed one.

Still, it wasn't as bad as he thought.

The faces greeting them were not… savage or filled with loathing. The distrust was there as usual, of course, but men, women, and children just looked tired above everything else. A few of the spearwives even gave him salacious looks as he passed!

Yet Benjen's eyes couldn't help but wander across the settlement as they slowly moved forth. The so-called Warg Hill was far different from the sea of crude tents, burrows, and makeshift huts he expected. Aside from a handful of tents, the muddy streets were lined with crude log houses on each side. Even the roofing was a surprise. Most had trimmed logs covered with layers of cold grass or leather, mud mixed with clay and straw, but Benjen could see a few with slate. A few rare chimneys dotted the rooftops, plumes of dark smoke twisting out of them.

All of it was done in crude order of shaky rows, with each house at least three yards apart from the rest, probably to prevent fires.

"This looks like a budding town," Ser Mallador Locke murmured next to him, looking at the handful of shaggy goats climbing atop the roof to eat the grass clean. "Reminds me of Icetown, even without any stone masonry." Icetown was one of the two towns Benjen had ultimately decided to build with the royal charter. It was nestled beside a small nameless river, between the northern tail-end of the Northern Mountains and the Bay of Ice, two leagues from Westwatch-by-the-Bridge.

"They even have bronze," the Thorne knight grunted, "I saw at least three scores of bronze scale shirts so far." And Benjen had noticed, too–one of the Thenns was wearing some sort of crude brigandine but with rectangular plates of bronze instead of steel sewn into the boiled leather.

Raising animals, working metals and tools, building houses–only a proper farm was missing, and one could mistake this place for a clansman gathering in the mountains. 

His nephew had caught their wayward glances and snorted.

"The Thenns know how to work the stuff, and we found a tin deposit a few moons prior," Jon explained languidly. 

Unsurprisingly, the burly Duncan Liddle stuck closely by his nephew's side as if wary of some sort of betrayal. Dozens of direwolves followed behind them, making the black brothers uneasy and Benjen amused. Still, he was not blind–he had caught glimpses of the leafcloaks quietly slinking above the roofs, bows in hand. A few wildling raiders and hunters openly looked at them with suspicion.

It seemed that the feeling of mistrust between wildlings and watchmen was mutual. However, none moved, especially after guest rights were offered and received.

"I never believed such…" Benjen struggled to find the words as he waved at the surrounding houses and well-behaved wildlings.

"Civilised behaviour could be displayed by wildlings?" Jon snorted, trying to rub the sleep off his eyes. "Aye, well, I only had to kill so many fools and kick out those who didn't listen. Regardless of being born on the wrong side of the Wall, they are men and women like any other and would do anything to survive."

"And is that what you did, boy?" Ser Allister Thorne tutted condescendingly. "Civilised this lot under pain of death?"

"Almost. Those who didn't like it simply left," his nephew replied before Benjen could get the crotchety Crownlander to stand down. "The Thenns even have lords and laws, and I made everyone abide by such notions, if slowly and with plenty of struggle. Though, I can't help but wonder if your mother forgot to teach you simple manners when entering another's home, Ser?"

The greying knight reddened but did not dare reply, especially after Benjen shot him a warning glare.

"You would do well to remember that blades forged here are just as lethal, and no matter how savage, the men and women speak or at least understand the common tongue and respect the olden rites of hospitality," Jon sighed. "I might be tired but do not mistake that for weakness. So long as you make no trouble here, I guarantee nobody in Warg Hill shall bother you, Ser Alliser Thorne."

Being recognised by name terrified the man immensely, for all the wrong reasons, and only made Benjen feel even more amused.

"Even that lad that looks at me as if I killed his mother and father?" Mallador Locke pointed towards a shaggy-looking raider clad in leather. His face was mostly hidden behind a brown tangle of beard and hair; the only distinctive feature was the three feathers tucked in his belt.

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. 

"Orell indeed lost his father to a watchman while young. He's probably looking for the man who did it," he shrugged.

"And what would this Orell do should he find him?" Moqorro asked curiously.

"Stay put or lose his head for breaking guest right." Jon raised his voice and gazed at Orell, who nodded stiffly. "Should he want to pursue any grudge or feud, he can do it outside my walls and never under my command, lest he issues an open challenge of single combat as is proper."

The words were spoken with iron surety, and Benjen couldn't help but believe. It seemed like his nephew had become quite cunning– instead of completely forbidding the man a chance of revenge, he had set the rules instead in a manner that both wildlings and Northmen could respect. Slowly but methodically, Jon had herded the wildlings from a chaotic mess into a proper group with laws, rules, and discipline.

The rest of the way uphill was spent in silence until they reached a crudely built but sizeable longhall that reminded Benjen of the buildings the poorer mountain clans boasted.

The entrance had a crude door with bronze hinges instead of a piece of cured leather covering it like the other huts and houses. 

Ser Mallador gulped behind him, "That's a lot of bloody direwolves." 

Besides the pair of stern-faced wildlings clad in bronze, the entrance was guarded by a small army of direwolves lazily lounging on the ground. They all curiously inspected Benjen and his rangers as if gauging if they were a threat. Then Ghost and Midnight sauntered over, and the direwolves lowered their bodies and tails in submission. 

"You've nothing to fear," Jon assured, his lips twitching with amusement. "They're very friendly if you don't make any trouble."

"Aye, I saw the bloody beasts take a giant apart like he was some roast hen when Lerna attacked," one of the wildling guards with a dirty blonde mop atop his head snorted. "But other than that, they're as coy as me daughter, if just as playful." 

"How's little Lara doing, Leyn?" Jon stopped, patting the guard on the shoulder. "Getting any better?"

"Aye, the concoction Dalla gave her worked wonders for her fever," the man beamed before turning bashful. "But uh, congratulations, m'lord!"

Benjen's nephew froze there, blinking in confusion.

"What?"

"Aye, your wife. Val, she gave birth to a baby girl–"

Whatever words would follow were interrupted as Jon pushed the man aside and rushed inside the hall.

After a moment of hesitation, Benjen hesitantly followed, signalling his men to remain outside. 

The insides of the hall were rather dim but quite warm, aside from the refreshing chill wafting out from above, courtesy of the few pieces of frost armour hanging from the rafters. A roaring hearth, crude trestle tables and chairs could be seen, like in any longhall south of the Wall.

The hall was almost empty, aside from a greybeard, a few Children, and an Essosi-looking woman with a thin gown of crimson silk who quirked a dark red eyebrow at him.

The Lord Commander found his wayward nephew at a cot in the backroom, hovering frozen over feathered bedding where that spearwife that had caught his nephew's eye seemed to be sleeping. Yet, for some reason, her hair was a far paler shade of blonde that Benjen remembered.

Or was his memory faulty?

No, he was sure he wouldn't have forgotten if she had the Valyrian silver-gold hair.

"-Both of them are in good health but resting. It was a very long night, you know. I lost count of how many times my sister threatened to cut your balls off with a rusty knife if you ever touch her again," Dalla, the woods witch that had been with Jon last time, was there, looking tired and very pregnant with her swollen belly. "So be quiet." She shot him a warning look. "You too, lord crow."

"Congratulations," Benjen whispered, patting Jon's shoulder, "I am a granduncle twice over, now!"

Val chose that moment to wake up, and she sat up with a steel dagger in her grip out of nowhere. She blinked drowsily, which turned into a glare, first at Benjen, then at his nephew. Then, her pale blue eyes softened, and the dagger disappeared as quickly as it appeared.

"Are my eyes deceiving me, or have you found your wayward crow uncle again?"

"It is he who found me this time," Jon's voice had turned hoarse. "May I…"

"Aye, let me show you what you made," Val smiled, looking proud. "Dalla, bring me my daughter!"

A moment later, the pregnant woods witch brought a small bundle of furs from one of the corners. "I thought something was wrong at first when she refused to cry, and her eyes came out wrong. But then the little thing latched onto my hair and pulled."

Jon stiffened again, and Benjen also couldn't help but lean in with worry.

"What do you mean the eyes came out wrong?"

"Aye, well," Val grimaced, hugging the bundle, cautiously standing up, and letting them finally look at the babe. Benjen couldn't help but stare at the small, wrinkled, reddish face as beneath a silver-gold tuft of soft hair, a pair of curious purple eyes innocently blinked at him. "Never heard of anyone having purple eyes before. At least she ain't blind, for she can follow my fingers and has my snow-kissed hair."

Jon just sighed, his face torn halfway between relief and frustration, while all Benjen could do was guffaw.

***

25th Day of the 4th Moon

The fire that had taken hold of the Haunted Forest had fizzled within a few hours. Over a hundred trees had been burned, creating a pleasant scent of seasoned pine and oaks that mingled with the unpleasant stench of charred meat. Thankfully, no weirwoods were harmed by the grace of the gods. The veil of snow and dampness prevented the flames from spreading too much despite the wind. It seemed that even the burn-for-a-night blue flame could only last for so long, and even when they spread out, the things set aflame burned normally.

Another fifteen thousand skulls had been counted amidst the slush and muddy snow in the surrounding hills–a good third of them belonged to beasts. Benjen had thankfully lost only three hundred rangers but had twice as many wounded–the wildling woods witches had helped along with whatever supplies they had spare. The two maesters that had joined them, along with their team of acolytes, had at first bristled at the inclusion of savage healers and their remedies, but the woods witches' experience soon proved invaluable against the wounds caused by rotten teeth and claws.

Jon's losses after a lengthy siege were even greater–nearing a thousand warriors and dozens of giants. The exhaustion had taken its toll, too, for his nephew spent most of the last two days sleeping. 

Alas, Benjen was regrettably right, and trouble had come knocking. Jon had been woken up to beheaded one wildling who got caught trying to attack the night's watchmen at night. Benjen had taken two heads of his own–of black brothers–one who had tried to force himself on a widowed woman going to forage for shrooms and roots while the second was caught robbing the poor woman's tent from her meagre belongings.

A young huntsman had challenged Stonesnake to single combat for his father's death. The duel had taken place this morning. Thankfully, nobody had died, for Jon had decided the weapon of choice–fists. The young wildling boy had his arse beaten black and blue and would be unable to leave his bed for at least a sennight, but he would live.

With that, passions finally settled down, and things eased. A few of the more comely rangers got 'stolen' by an eager spearwife, and Benjen had no doubt many babes were conceived the last two nights. Midnight, that trickster, had also not stopped a slip of a girl with red hair and a crooked but playful smile from sneaking into his tent. A red-faced Benjen had to toss the poor lass out while explaining that while the other crows could take women and sire children, he had sworn otherwise as the Lord Commander.

Amusingly enough, a handful of younger boys in Warg Hill–mostly without parents or siblings to take care of them, had volunteered to take the Black when they heard it was no longer for life.

"Think on it some more," Benjen had told them. "While no longer for life, taking the Black would still be two decades of harsh service."

That seemed only to give the boys hope.

"But we can join, right? You can't kick us out for at least two decades and teach us how to fight, right?"

Not at all what he meant, but Benjen tiredly nodded. "Aye, if you truly want to. But joining means you must follow orders, even if you don't like it."

"That's easy to do," their leader, a scarred, wiry lad of three and ten, snorted, "Everyone knows how to listen proper after the Warg Lord came. Or, well, the others died quickly enough or were chased out."

Later, Mallador Locke pulled him aside to ask, "Are you truly going to let wildlings join?"

"Aye, I am willing to take the risk. I know you're wary of desertion or betrayal, but those could come regardless of where a man is born, and men who are born and bred north of the Wall would make for fine rangers."

"We do not want a repeat of Mance Rayder," the Locke knight reminded glumly.

Not that there would be any. The Seven Kingdoms simply had far more to offer than the cold wilderness. Everyone knew the story of Mance Rayder, but Benjen knew the ranger had deserted after over three decades of service because he started chafing at the harsh restrictions. But neither was service for three decades anymore, nor were the rules of the Watch as harsh as before.

To Benjen's amusement, word of Jon's daughter spread around Warg Hill and even the invited black brothers, and by the second day, everyone had seen the quiet purple-eyed babe. As per the wildling tradition, his grandniece remained unnamed.

Val proudly explained that once she was two years old, the girl would take the name Calla Steelsong–named after her mother, Valla, and the purple blossoms the wildlings called clarines, the flower Benjen knew as Traveller's Joy. 

His nephew was still stuck between pride and disbelief and looked rather unsure with a bundle of furs in his arms. Oddly enough, the babe didn't cry but giggled and loved pulling long locks of hair–something that Benjen had found out when trying to wrestle out his mane from not-yet-Calla's surprisingly strong fingers. Thankfully, nobody seemed to suspect anything about his nephew. All the blame was placed on Val and her Valyrian features.

"Probably the blood of some dragonseed or a seahorse," Ser Alliser Thorne had scoffed almost dismissively as if he wasn't happily smiling like a lackwit at the sight of the babe earlier, even when she was curiously tugging on his sleeve.

Of course, there was one last point of woe between the black brothers and the wildlings.

Moqorro seemed quite disgruntled with the woman clad in a scanty red gown with a cloak of weirwood leaves, who turned out to be called Melisandre of Asshai, a former red priestess who had abandoned R'hllor for the Old Gods.

"Even you dare turn your back on the Lord of Light?" The tall coal-skinned priest had accused, his black finger angrily stabbing at her chest. 

"It is he who turned back on me," Melisandre had retorted. Her eyes were different–one was verdant green, while the other one was angry red, and both made Benjen's skin crawl. "Besides, while a new door has opened for me, it does not mean the old one has been shut closed. If R'hllor is jealous of my newfound devotion, he has yet to show it."

A small ball of red flame had appeared in her palm, and Moqorro and the rest of the priests from the order of the flame were content to avoid her lest they get infected by her heresy. Still, that did not stop the glares exchanged between the two groups.

Despite their quarrel, Melisandre and the red priests of the Watch claimed that most of the Others had all retreated or gone into slumber and would no longer attack, which was welcome news. And indeed, the weather had got quite warmer–at least warmer for Beyond the Wall–and it had stopped snowing.

But Benjen Stark was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and he could not make all of his plans based on a few questionable claims by clergymen.

Thus, Benjen, Jon, and the other commanders and warchiefs gathered in Longhall that evening to discuss further details of possible cooperation. Jon, no longer looking like death warmed over, was the only young face here, aside from Sigorn of Thenn, whose father, Styr, had died from his wounds on the last night of battle.

"So," Tormund Giantsbane patted his bulging belly and burped. "You lot leave us alone in exchange for shelter and food-"

"And trade," Gavin the Trader coughed. "We are willing to pay a good price for steel and knowledge."

And the wildlings were not lacking in wealth. Silver, even gold, ivory, weirwood, and sometimes precious gems were enough to let any merchant salivate with greed. Benjen, however, was no coin counter.

Yes, he had helped his nephew, but now it was time to secure as many benefits for the Night's Watch as possible.

"A certain amount of steel tools can be arranged each year," he decided. Ploughs, hoes, sickles, saws–nothing that could be used as an effective weapon against the Night's Watch, but things that would be useful to the wildlings, should they desire to civilise further. "Volume and variety of items and even knowledge could be increased if you want to cooperate more closely and should all of you be willing to foster a son in the Watch."

The proposition wasn't outright rejected, which was good. Yet, they didn't exactly look too happy about it either, while his nephew wore the infamous unreadable icy face of House Stark that reminded Benjen of his father, Rickard Stark.

Should Benjen succeed in this endeavour, he could see the wildlings abandoning their savage ways in his lifetime. 

"I want all of this," Jon's finger slid across the map, rounding up a large chunk of land on both sides of the Milkwater, including the Valley of Thenn. "The Watch won't meddle in my affairs, but we will keep supporting you unconditionally, especially against the Others when you venture further into the Lands of Always Winter."

"It can be arranged," Benjen shrugged. Rykker looked amused while Elbert Belmore and Harwin Rivers were frowning at the map. "But I want everything you have on the other wildlings. Knowledge of numbers, clans, warchiefs, and positions. This Redbeard, Harle, and Silent Foot Isryn, and your full logistical support should the Watch come to blows against them."

His nephew smiled. 

"Done."

The negotiations continued for a few hours more, and in the end, nobody was truly dissatisfied, and both sides seemed inclined to cooperate. There was no sense of unity amongst the wildlings, just raw self-interest; many of the clans, tribes, warbands, and chieftains were feuding with one another, and Benjen would use this to the fullest. 

Of course, only time would tell how the fruit of this endeavour would ripen.

With the official matters of the Watch finally concluded, Benjen pulled over Jon later that night for a private talk. In the hectic two days, he scarcely had enough time to update his nephew on the happenings of the South.

He was led to a weirwood grove filled with even more direwolves, where they both sat before a bench near a young heart tree.

"So… Father is lost at sea?"

"There hasn't been any word for nearly half a year now," Benjen muttered mournfully. "The sailors say the Narrow Sea grows fierce in autumn."

Jon just sagged on the bench, looking at his palms as his hands shook. At that moment, he looked like a young man of seven and ten despite his scars–one step into manhood, yet not completely shed his childish notions. But was the want of a family childish?

"I… I was afraid to meet him, you know?" Jon's voice thickened with grief. "I was afraid to meet all of them–Robb, Sansa, Bran, Arya, Rickon, and even Lady Catelyn. I had already mourned their deaths once, and it felt as if I was facing ghosts in the flesh, so I escaped towards what I knew best like a damned fool! They were my kin but not my kin, for neither had lived or could understand the woe and loss I had to endure. Now… I'll never even get to lay my eyes on Father or hear his voice again…" 

He raised his head; his grey eyes turned almost silvery with the tears glistening in his gaze. "Do you think he would be proud?"

"Always," Benjen sighed. Even after all that time, it seemed his nephew yearned for a father. Not that Benjen was any different, gods, the things would he give or do to see and hear Rickard again… "Every father would be proud to have the likes of you as a son. I would be no different. But the Starks always endure, no matter the hardship."

Jon grimaced, looking at his feet.

"Am I a Stark, uncle?"

"Perhaps not in name, but in blood," Benjen squeezed his shoulder. "You're as much a Stark as the rest of us, a son of Stark, born and bred in Winterfell. Come now. Your doubts ought to have melted away at first sight of your gaggle of direwolves."

That earned him a wet chuckle, and his nephew wiped his tears away. His face hardened with resolve, even though his eyes still held a sliver of grief.

"Winter is coming," he sighed. "And we ought to prepare."

"Aye. But King Robert enfeoffed you before the whole Southron court, and you're technically a Lord of the Realm," Benjen pointed out, fishing out a roll of parchment from his belt. "Here, I have the decree with me; Ned sent it before he departed King's Landing. You can even pick any empty castle you like for your seat."

"And what am I going to do there, Uncle?" Jon uneasily ran a hand through his dark locks, a hint of melancholy creeping into his words. "The North does not need a Stark bastard anymore, and my presence alone would only bring woe to Robb, let alone if I claim some castle by Robert's decree of all people."

"This is a chance many would kill for," Benjen pointed out, ignoring the irony of the situation. Robert would have never given Jon even an inch of land, let alone a castle, if he had known he was Rhaegar's son, no matter how many achievements and accolades he had under his belt. "Besides, you can grab some land south of the Neck if you fear making trouble for Robb."

"I don't care much about titles and such trifles," Jon chuckled. "Gods, I can hear the jests already. Lord Kneeler!"

"Is that why they call you the Warg Lord?"

"Perhaps, Commander Black Wolf. Couldn't you have chosen a less banal name?" 

"I wasn't the one doing the choosing," Benjen bemoaned. "The damned moniker just stuck like flies on horseshit because of Midnight."

His nephew barked out a laugh.

"Don't I know it? Listen, uncle, I appreciate the proposal, but… my place is here now. It would be good to see my siblings, but perhaps they're better off without meeting me. You ought to know that my presence would be far more trouble than it is worth. I have a wife and a daughter, as you've seen for yourself," Jon sighed. "Their safety is my utmost concern, and if the Others are truly gone as the red priests claim, this place would be the safest for them."

A few younger direwolf pups, the size of hunting hounds, crawled out of the bushes and began to circle the two of them playfully. 

"Here, I am someone," he continued with a clenched jaw, "not just Lord Stark's bastard; my name and respect have been earned with my hands. My unnatural ability to warg is accepted, even though the older wildlings are still wary of it. Besides, how long would the wildlings keep any order should I leave? How long would the hard-fought agreement you made last without me? I have made my bed and can only lay in it."

Benjen grimaced. "You are not wrong, Jon. But the war for the Iron Throne isn't going too well."

"Didn't you say Robb won a great victory on the banks of the Trident?" Jon frowned again, the same expression he held when Benjen told him Robb was fighting on Joffrey's side.

"As you know, a great victory does not mean the war is won. Besides, your brother is the only one who managed to win from Joffrey's side. All the others are suffering a string of defeats. Things are going brutal, and the rift in the Faith is growing worse by the day. Words of men, women, and children being burned alive have spread even all the way to the Wall!"

His nephew shrugged.

"Aye, but there's not much I can do about it from here. I follow the Old Gods just like you do, and I am only one man-"

"With a hundred direwolves-" Benjen coughed. "And those Children-"

"They prefer to be called Singers," Jon interrupted in turn. "Neither of those makes a proper army. Joffrey, Renly, the Faith–neither are my problems nor is this my war, Uncle. On the other side of the Wall, I'm either just a bastard or a small lord who earned a title based on hearsay. For all we know, the current king might not necessarily acknowledge the lordship. Besides, didn't you say Winterfell and the North are well-defended? Even if Robb loses, Renly would have to keep him alive to bend the knee if he ever wants to have the North."

No matter how unwilling, Benjen could see the truth of Jon's words. It sounded callous, but the practicality ought to be respected. 

Of course, the wildlings remained unmentioned by both. Three-four thousand hunters, raiders, and spearwives with stone, bronze, and bone for weapons weren't particularly dangerous or important. While skilled and experienced, they lacked numbers and lancers, which meant their strength on the battlefield was greatly limited. 

Nor would the wildlings necessarily agree to become kneelers, and Benjen couldn't afford to let thousands of armed wildlings pass the Wall without a proper agreement and assurances. Allying with wildlings against other wildlings and the Others was one thing, but letting them cross the Wall in numbers was an entirely different beast.

And Benjen could see it in Jon's eyes and scarred face. His nephew held himself with a sliver of pride and finesse, and his spine was upright like a spear, as he possessed the same look Benjen had seen in many wildlings. 

The desire for freedom, the ability to grasp his fate with his fists and the yearning to only answer to himself and nobody else. Benjen would have thought it was folly, but Jon had the skill and was already close to getting there. 

"Perhaps," Benjen acknowledged. "You're still my nephew, regardless of your choice, and that will never change. Yet keep this in mind– only Robb is left. His son Edwyn and brother Artos are swaddling babes, Rickon is barely six, and there is no other Stark to lead the North should he fall or be captured. Only the gods know what a man like Renly would do should he sit atop the Iron Throne."

"I already killed the Bolton bastard, so the Leech Lord won't be able to make trouble around Winterfell, especially if Robb prepared," Jon muttered. "Surely nobody would be foolish enough to invade a prepared North, right?" 

"I don't know, Jon. Little Edwyn has a claim to the Iron Throne through his mother. With Tommen's death, should the worst come to pass and Joffrey is killed, he would be the next in line for the crown. Neither Renly nor the Tyrells would ever let such a potential threat go free."

Jon sighed, running a scarred hand through his hair. Benjen stared at the smirking face carved into the heart tree in thought. He was Lord Commander now, and the matters of the realm ought not to concern him. Yet, no matter how much he wished to ignore it, he could never close his eyes and could not help but worry for his kin, even if he couldn't act on it.

Hopefully, fortune would turn for Joffrey's cause soon. Benjen dreaded to imagine the alternative.