A highborn bearing, and a pair of wandering eyes that always seemed to land on Jon. Davos had mentioned him, in his letter. Always another complication, eh?
Still, the men in the yard were progressing at a fast pace, and the time had come for them to take their vows.
...
Septon Cellador made most the preparations, of course, as most the new recruits were southerners. From within the bowels of Castle Black he emerged, red-faced from the cold, his copy of the Seven Pointed Star held securely against his breast. Today he would have to take their oaths in the yard - there were simply too many of them to fit into his little sept. Jon rallied the men - about two dozen all told. They gathered slowly, their manner thick with trepidation. They were brigands and urchins and vagrants and thieves, the lot of them. All except one.
The highborn man seemed comfortable enough, if a tad disgusted at the company he was keeping.
"Why are you here?" Jon asked, pulling the man aside, his hand hovering warningly over Longclaw's hilt.
"My lord?" the man asked.
"Are you a spy? Why did His Grace send you here with Davos?"
The man looked away. "I am to be your guard, my lord."
"I don't need a guard."
"His Grace cares to disagree."
Jon grit his teeth. "And your name?"
"Osney, my lord," the man said. "Kettleblack."
Jon nodded. "And your crime?"
The man looked away, silent.
"Your crime," Jon insisted.
"I tried to lie with the king's wife."
Jon blinked once, twice. Then a bark of laughter slipped his lips. Jon shook his head, a genuine smile splitting his face for the first time in what felt like months. The man's face seemed to flush red with embarrassment, and then he looked away, sulking, and begged his pardon. Jon watched him go with a smile on his face. The day would come for the knight to swear his vows, but today was not that day.
"Now repeat after me," he told them once they were all ready, kneeling before him, clad in black hoods and cloaks like wraiths. "Night gathers, and now my watch begins."
"Night gathers, and now my watch begins," they repeated after Jon.
"It shall not end till my death."
"It shall not end till my death," they intoned. "I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post." The severity of their words seemed to be settling in now, the oaths echoing back to aeons past. "I am the sword in the darkness, the watcher on the walls. I am the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men, the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn."
Out of the corner of his eyes, Jon saw Melisandre watching as he led the recruits through their vows.
"I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."
And with that, the southern brigands became sworn brothers.
"Rise now as men of the Watch," Jon said, offering a hand to one. They arose, new men. Some - fast friends - offered each other hugs and congratulations. Others seemed despondent, the oaths doubtless already feeling like nooses wrapped tight around their necks.
And then, all went quiet. "Did you hear that?" Septon Cellador asked.
Jon held up a finger to silence him. Watchers on the Wall. One blast means rangers returning.
A hundred heartbeats seemed to pass. Yet the horn sounded again in the distance, clear as day. Two blasts means wildlings. Val. Jon was tempted to set off for the stables. But it was dark, and a long ride through the snows at this hour was just asking for trouble. So instead he gave his commands to Bowen and retired to his quarters for the night, remembering Tommen's letters as he drifted into darkness, then waking at first light and departing ahorse.
There was no time to wait, after all.
For Tormund Giantsbane had finally arrived, with four thousand wildlings in tow.
Jon saw them arrayed at the foot of the Wall, crowding around tents and tiny flames struggling to burn in the cold. His stomach gathered into knots as he approached the camp, only a small band of black brothers in tow to guard him. But he needn't have worried overmuch. The women and children outnumbered the men almost three to one, and the men themselves looked hollow and gaunt, too starved to pose much threat. Tormund greeted him first, the Giantsbane unwelcoming till they were safely ensconced into his tent, Ghost guarding the flap. And then Jon found his face full of beard, his body wrapped in Tormund's arms.
"You've changed, lad. Gotten ever-so-slightly taller, did you notice?"
Jon allowed himself a slight smile. "You haven't changed at all."
"Glad you think so. But I have. I'm not the same man I was. Seen too much death. My son..."
"... I'm sorry."
Tormund snorted. "What for? Weren't you that killed him. And I got two more left. Strong sons."
"I'm glad."
With the niceties traded, the time had come for the negotiations to begin. Jon spoke softly, having prepared the night before for what was to come. Tormund roared, though, when he heard Jon's terms. All sorts of insults and threats came hurtling Jon's way. Jon never replied, though, and answered only in the same soft tone. The Giantsbane downed his mead, threw his drinking horn more than once at Jon's head. But only lightly. Never fast or hard enough to hurt him.
The shadows grew long on the tent wall before long, the light of the sun diminishing as evening approached.
"All this way for a chance," Tormund spat.
"I have to convince the rest of the Watch of this. They'll not easily consent to letting thousands of wildlings past the Wall. A few hundred more than I have already allowed, mayhaps. But already we have fights and scuffles. I can't force this on them, you know that. The black brothers may be no free folk, but even we kneelers have limits of what we'll accept from our lords. This'll have to be put to a vote."
"But you want me to concede all this? Without so much as a single guarantee? What happens if the crows say no?"
"I need to give my sworn brothers surety that you aren't a threat. With that provided, I can turn a chance into something more like a certainty."
"A hundred hostages, lad! My own son!"
"No harm will befall your boys, I swear it."
Tormund Giantsbane pursed his lips, sighed, cursed, then thrust out his hand to shake. "Fine, and may the gods forgive me. Mance should have killed you when he had the chance." Jon shook the Giantsbane's hand, refusing to wince even in Tormund's bone-crushing grasp. "It's a cruel price you ask of me, lad. The mothers of those hostages will want me dead."
"And a good deal of my own brothers will too, just for talking with you. Yet my ranks are filling out with new blood. And with new blood comes new ideas. Many of my brothers hate the wildlings, I do not doubt. But their numbers are dwindling as more recruits arrive from the south."
"I have a hard time thinking crows of any sort will take a liking to us, recruits or not. I've killed more of you black buggers than I can count. Enough to make anyone wary."
"I wouldn't mention that if I were you."
Tormund laughed. "I won't, lad, don't worry." He slapped Jon on the back. "Time you were headed back, then. A certain someone wants to see you."
"Three days after I have your boys," Jon promised. "I'll send word once it's done."
"I heard you the first time," Tormund grumbled. "You make sure your watchers expect them. I'll make sure it's all nice and orderly like. No fighting."
Jon nodded.
"Now out you go."
Jon ducked through the tent flap to find Ghost missing. But it did not take much to find the wolf. He was following Val through the camp, the pair perfectly matched. Val was pale as a sheet, wrapped in white furs. White, not grey. If Melisandre was fire, Val seemed in that moment like ice.
Or like snow, a traitorous part of Jon's mind chimed in.
"Ghost!" Jon called, and the wolf turned it's head and bounded over to him. Jon leant down to scratch beneath his chin, and Val approached. "How was your journey?"
"Good enough. Quicker than I thought it'd be." Val crouched down beside him. "What now? Am I to be returned to my cell?"
"Regrettably, aye," Jon answered. "You'll have the run of the keep, as before, but I can't quite let you go yet."
"Even after I brought you the Giantsbane and all his men?"
Jon paused. "I mean you no harm, my lady."
Val sighed. "I know that well enough. But I still prefer freedom over safety."
"Of course."
"How did you fare with Tormund?"
Jon shrugged, and rose from petting Ghost. "Well enough. We struck a bargain, but the hard part's yet to come. My sworn brothers will not easily accept it."
"Let me help. What can I do?"
Jon lingered a moment in thought. "Some of the men hear the words 'wildling princess' and think that gives you the power to make promises on behalf of all free folk. Like a southern princess. Your word might hold some sway with them. You'll have to be careful, though. Subtle. Not making any explicit promises. The veterans among the Nights Watch will know better than to believe you."
Val's look soured a moment, but then she nodded. "If this is what you require, then so be it. I'll be your perfect wildling princess."
A warrior princess, Jon thought, observing at her features. Not some fainting, prissy creature who sits up in a tower spending her days pining for a knight. "Come, then," he tore his gaze away, gestured with his hand and began to walk to the edges of the wildling camp.
A small band of black brothers were waiting for them when they emerged from the maze of tents. "If it please m'lord, we were wondering."
"Peace," another black-cloaked figure asked, "or war?"
"Peace," Jon answered after a long moment. "If you want it."
...
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