Castle Black — Common Hall — Daniel's POV
The hall smelled of damp wool and boiled oats, the air heavy with the breath of too many men in too small a space. Frost clung to the inside of the shutters, and the fire in the hearth burned low, its light catching on the black banner of the Watch.
The benches were full. Brothers sat shoulder to shoulder, some hunched over their cups, others leaning back with arms crossed, eyes fixed on the front of the hall. The murmur of voices was a low, restless tide.
Daniel took a place along the wall, where he could see the whole room. To his left, Yarwyck and Othell whispered, their eyes flicking toward Thorne. To his right, Grenn sat with Dolorous Edd and a few younger brothers, their faces set with the stubbornness of men who'd fought beside Jon. In between were the undecided — the ones who would sway with the wind or the last voice they heard.
Bowen Marsh stood beside Ser Alliser Thorne at the long table, both framed by the banner. Marsh's cheeks were flushed from the cold, his hands folded over his belly. Thorne's cloak fell in perfect folds, the clasp polished to a dull gleam.
Marsh's voice carried over the murmur. "Brothers. The Watch cannot stand leaderless. The wildlings mass beyond the Wall, and winter presses closer each day. It is time to choose a Lord Commander."
A ripple of sound moved through the room — approval from some, unease from others.
Thorne stepped forward, his voice sharp as the edge of a whetted blade. "We need discipline. We need tradition. We need a commander who will not bend to wildling tricks or southern politics. I have served the Watch for decades. I will see it restored to what it was."
A few voices called his name in support. Others stayed silent.
From the benches, Janos Slynt rose, his smile thin. "Ser Alliser speaks true. We cannot entrust the Wall to boys who break bread with the enemy." His eyes slid toward Jon.
Jon stood slowly. He didn't raise his voice, but the hall quieted. "The Night's Watch is not for settling old scores. It is for defending the realms of men. All men. We've fought together. We've bled together. You know what I am. You know what I've done. If that's not enough, choose another."
No flourish. No plea. He sat.
Daniel felt the shift — small, but there. Men who had been leaning toward Thorne now looked at Jon with something like respect.
Maester Aemon presided, his blind eyes turned toward the sound of each man's step. Three bowls sat before him, each marked with a name: Thorne, Snow, Mallister. One by one, brothers dropped their tokens. The sound of wood on wood was steady, deliberate.
Daniel watched the line move. He could read some choices in the set of a man's shoulders, the way his eyes slid away from Jon or toward Thorne. Others gave nothing away.
When the count was done, Thorne led by three. Murmurs rose. Aemon lifted a hand. "No man wins by a whisper. We will vote again."
XXX
The cold bit sharper outside. Daniel moved among the brothers, speaking low to men he knew. He didn't tell them how to vote — that would have been too blunt. Instead, he reminded them of moments they'd seen with their own eyes.
"You were on the Wall when the wildlings came," he said to one. "You saw who held the line."
To another: "You remember the Fist. Who kept his head when the dead came?"
He paused to help a recruit adjust the strap on his gorget, fingers quick despite the cold. "Keep it snug," he murmured. "You never know when you'll need it." The boy nodded, eyes darting toward the hall.
Two older brothers argued near the armory door — one muttering about "green boys" and "southern bastards," the other countering with "better a bastard who fights than a knight who hides." Daniel didn't interrupt, but he caught the second man's eye and gave a small nod.
Near the stables, he found Pyp leaning against a post, arms folded. "You think he wants it?" Pyp asked.
Daniel shook his head. "Doesn't matter. He's the one we need."
XXX
The second vote was slower. Men hesitated at the bowls, weighing the tokens in their hands as if they'd grown heavier.
Daniel's eyes met those of two undecided brothers. He gave a single nod. One placed his token in Jon's bowl. The other followed.
The sound of the last token dropping seemed to echo. Aemon's hands moved over the bowls, counting by touch. The hall was silent but for the pop of the hearth fire and the faint hiss of wind at the shutters.
When the tally came, Aemon's voice was clear. "By the will of the brothers, Jon Snow is chosen as the nine hundred and ninety-eighth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."
The hall did not cheer. The sound was more like a release — boots shifting, benches scraping, voices low. Thorne's face was carved from stone. Marsh's expression was unreadable.
Jon stood, the weight of the title settling on his shoulders like a fresh cloak. His eyes found Daniel's across the hall. No smile, just a nod — acknowledgment, and the unspoken truth that the real work began now.
XXX
Castle Black — Yard — Daniel's POV
Outside, the wind rose against the Wall, rattling the shutters. The sky had darkened, clouds rolling in from the north. Somewhere above, a horn sounded — one long blast.
Daniel froze. The sound rolled over the yard, low and heavy, carrying the weight of meaning every brother knew. One blast: rangers returning.
Men spilled from the hall, boots thudding on the frozen ground. Jon was among the first, his cloak snapping in the wind. Thorne followed, face tight, already barking for the gates to be manned.
Daniel fell in beside Jon without thinking. "Could be the Shadow Tower's men," he said.
Jon's eyes were on the Wall. "Or what's left of them."
The gatehouse smelled of pitch and cold iron. Brothers crowded the winch, the chains groaning as the great wooden doors began to open. Snow swirled in through the widening gap, stinging Daniel's face.
A figure emerged from the white — a rider hunched in the saddle, cloak rimed with frost. Behind him, two more shapes took form, leading a half‑lame packhorse.
The first rider slid from his mount, legs buckling. Daniel caught him under the arm, feeling the tremor in the man's muscles. His beard was crusted with ice, his lips cracked and bleeding.
"Shadow Tower," the man rasped. "They're coming. Hundreds. Maybe more."
The news spread like fire in dry grass. Men shouted for weapons, for the Maester, for the Lord Commander — and then remembered they had one now.
Jon stood in the center of the yard, the wind tugging at his hair. For a heartbeat, Daniel saw the weight of the moment settle on him — the choosing barely over, and already the Wall was calling.
"Ser Alliser," Jon said, voice cutting through the noise. "Get every man not on the Wall to the yard. Bowen, send a raven to Eastwatch. Daniel—" his eyes locked on him "—with me."
Daniel nodded. The cold in his bones was gone, burned away by the heat of urgency.
The climb was brutal in the wind. The ice rungs were slick under Daniel's gloves, the gusts threatening to tear him from the ladder. By the time he hauled himself onto the top, his breath was ragged.
The view to the west was a smear of white and shadow. But there — a dark line moving against the snow, too steady to be windblown drifts.
Jon raised the horn from the watchman's hands and gave two long blasts. The sound rolled out over the frozen land, a warning to every ear within reach.
Daniel's fingers tightened on the Wall's icy stone. The wildlings were closer than they'd thought. And now, with Jon in command, there would be no hiding behind procedure or delay.
Jon lowered the horn, his breath misting in the air. "We hold until they break, or we break them," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else.
Daniel glanced at him. "Then we'd better make sure it's not us."
Below, the yard was a frenzy of movement — men arming, the gate crews readying the oil, the ravens taking wing. Above, the wind howled like something alive.
The choosing was done. The test had begun. And the darkness was moving fast.