VAL
Everything was chaos. She elbowed through it one way and then another, but as soon as she'd cleared a path it closed, and more kneelers went pelting past in their steel smallclothes and their absurd helmets. One of the kneelers was pleading that they must look to the queen, who'd collapsed at the news of her husband and had had to be carried away. Someone else wanted to know where the red witch was, wanted her head for her lying fires that had led His Grace to his end in the ruinous northern hinterlands. And louder than them all rose the bellows of Tormund Giantsbane, demanding to be let at the crows that had done for Lord Snow, demanding to know if they were men or cockless cowards to do this thing.
In all the madness, nobody had a thought to spare for Val. It was nearly dawn, but the eastern horizon was veiled in brooding fog. No sun this day. It was cursed, she'd known so. Even before the young crow lord had been struck down by his own, and reflexively she glanced at the place where Jon Snow had fallen. There was nothing left but a great smear of blood – someone had carried off the crow himself, whether he was a corpse already or just turning into one. Gods, what have they done?
Val was wildling born and bred. She was no crow wife, and would have opened the throat of anyone who suggested otherwise. Though she'd been prisoner here at Castle Black ever since the crows had defeated the wildlings in the battle before the Wall, she'd taken on no taint of southron heresy, found the kneelers as ridiculous as ever, them with their bowing and scraping and their "m'lord"-ing and their little cloth animals stitched so proud on their teats. And the Night's Watch, the crows in their black cloaks, were her people's nemesis.
But Jon Snow was no ordinary crow. The nine hundred and ninety-eighth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, he was – or had been. Like as not the youngest; he couldn't have seen more than three winters, and all of them short. And like as not, too, the first Lord Commander since Night's King – the one who had been stricken from all the rolls, the one whose name was not spoken – who actively sought to make alliance with the wildlings. Who had ridden as one of them, for a time. Who had sent Val out into the wilds to find Tormund and the free folk, had opened the massive gates to allow them safe passage to the other side. Who had raised some to the black cloak, had formed companies of raiders and spearwives to garrison the abandoned castles along the Wall, had housed their women and children in his own halls and on his own coin. Who had formed a fleet to sail to Hardhome, to rescue the nearly four thousand wildlings fleeing from the white hunters in the woods. And who had, not even two hours past, paid for that decision with his life's blood, spilled by his own Sworn Brothers.
Val's mouth tightened. She knew that the kneelers loathed her and hers, just as she loathed them and theirs. But by killing Jon Snow, they had proved themselves even stupider than her direst estimations. The great part of the Night's Watch felt that their boy commander had betrayed them unforgivably, by granting amnesty and friendship to savages when for so much of their long history they'd fought them with all their strength. When they still had strength. If the crows thought they could hold on their own, against the cold and what came with it. . . Fools. Bloody fools.
And mayhaps not even with her free folk, either, but Val pushed that thought away. She was conscious suddenly of an emotion she hadn't felt since her sister died bringing Mance's son into the world, in the midst of the battle: fear. She hadn't realized how much she was counting on Jon Snow until he was gone. He was the one who ordered her fed, sheltered, guarded from the queen's men who thought she was some sort of princess, and accordingly were convinced that she, as a woman, must belong to one of them. Had trusted her to find Tormund. It is not only the kneelers who have long memories and old prejudices. When she'd first told her people of Jon Snow's plan, the general reaction had been to ask which of them was lying or mad. Why did they need the southerners for anything? The ones who had built the Wall so high and fed it on the blood of their kin for centuries?
But we do. Val knew what was out in those woods. Knew why Mance had been trying to rally the clans together, flee from the winds of winter. Force the crows at knifepoint to let them pass the Wall. And Jon Snow had offered it freely. No ordinary crow.
And now. . . all gone. The turncloaks who'd killed Snow would take over the Watch, force the free folk back into their "rightful place." The queen's men would march to the castle called Winterfell where their king was supposed to have been taken, captured or dead. Val would be glad to see the back of them, but the damned fools couldn't even grasp that if the king was dead, there was little purpose in rushing to join him in his freezing grave. They must attack nonetheless. For their honor. Of all the kneelers' peculiar concepts, that might be the one that had cost them the most in blood.
The chaos was slowly acquiring a semblance of order. Queen's men were shoving aside crows and free folk alike as they made for the great staircase that switchbacked, half-finished, up the great icy face of the Wall. Once they had reached it, one unslung his horn and blew a mighty, echoing blast. A queasy silence fell over the bailey.
"Men of the Night's Watch," the designated spokesman began. "Brave retainers of King Stannis, and. . . free folk. A great miracle has taken place this night, by the providence of the Lord of Light. The false Lord Commander has been struck down, and so will lead no – "
That was as far as he was allowed to get before a booming voice interrupted. "Lord Snow!" The squat, massive, white-bearded form of Tormund Giantsbane shouldered through the crowd. "Who murdered the crow lord?"
"That is no concern of yours, old man. You do not wear a black cloak, and thus by rights should still be on the other side of the Wall. Where you will soon arrive, once – "
"Pah!" Tormund spat a great gobbet of phlegm into the mud. "Who murdered the crow lord, you southron bastard?"
"I said, that is no concern of yours." The kneeler had to raise his voice. "But with the Lord Commander dead, the mantle of leadership passes to the Lord Steward, Bowen Marsh, until such moment as a choosing may be held. We trust that this time you will not have it done by a old blind man while Snow's fat friend hovers at his side. And we trust as well that the Night's Watch will recall their debt to King Stannis and choose a Commander who – "
"Shut up!" This shout did not come from Tormund, but from Snow's squire – the former boy whore named Satin, the foppish dark-eyed youth who grated on the Watch's old guard nearly as much as Snow had himself. I find it a wonder he too still draws breath, Val thought. Close that pretty mouth before they decide to make it clean.
Too late; Satin was storming forward. "Shut up!" he shouted again. "How dare you tell us what we must do? We are men of the Night's Watch, we take no orders from any save our own, and as for your king, word is that he's the Bastard of Bolton's prisoner or dead before the walls of Winterfell, his magic sword pissed out and his quest over and done! We owe nothing to dead men! We fight dead men!"
An agreeing, angry rumble began to rise. There will be more blood in the mud before much longer. Val slid her hand to the haft of her bone knife, sheathed in her boot.
"Have a care of your words, Satin of the Night's Watch." Another new voice spoke, this one a woman's. The red priestess herself, the red ruby winking at her throat, her long red sleeves swirling, stepped lightly up onto the stair. "Stannis Baratheon is Azor Ahai reborn. No matter where he has been taken, by which man, he lives yet. The flames have shown me."
"Bugger your flames," one of the crows shouted. "Those lying – "
Lady Melisandre turned her red eyes on him. "The flames never lie, ser. If errors are made, they are mine own. But I saw the knives in the dark. I warned the Lord Commander. If he did not take my words to heart – "
"Then it's the fault of the craven bastards that did for him!" Satin screamed.
Tormund Giantsbane seconded this in a roar that shook the towers of Castle Black, and the horde of wildlings behind him thirded it. Free folk raising their voices for a crow lord. And that was not even the strangest thing Val had seen recently.
"Be that as it may," Melisandre went on, "every leal subject of His Grace must pledge their sword at once to march on Winterfell, to spring him from the clutches of the foul usurper Ramsay Bolton. Only once is this done can we begin to hope to clarify our mutual debts and obligations to the Night's Watch. But if we leave King Stannis in the hands of this beast who makes cloaks of human skin, we will certainly – "
"What about Mance?" one of Tormund's chieftains broke in. "Did you not hear the rest of the tale, you pink whore? It's said that the Bastard of Bolton has Mance hung in a crow cage – aye, and gave him a cloak of the skins of the spearwives that were with him! But how could this possibly be? For did you not burn the Mance before all our eyes – or did you? Southerners and kneelers are all liars, bloody damned liars and witches!"
More bellows of assent went up, cracking the sullen dawn sky. And for a moment, Val thought she glimpsed the same uncertainty, almost fear, in the red priestess's eyes. Melisandre nodded to the man beside her, who winded his horn once again, but not even this was sufficient to secure silence. Then to add to the commotion, Wun Wun the giant, one of Castle Black's more exotic recent boarders, came blundering out from his lair beneath Hardin's Tower, looking confused and upset. "NOISE!" he bellowed. "WUN WUN NOT LIKE!"
The castle master-at-arms, Leathers – formerly a wildling, now a crow, and Wun Wun's unofficial handler – lunged to head him off. A whole rank of queen's men had strung their bows or drawn their swords, and once more it was Satin who put himself between them. "You will not touch him! He is our guest, in the north the laws of hospitality still – "
"We don't take orders from Lord Snow's arseboy," one of them sneered. "Look at it. It's a filthy beast. All of you! You're not worth the price of – "
"Hold your tongue, kneeler." Tormund's son, Tall Toregg, stepped forward and unlimbered his great stone axe. "Unless you want to lose it."
The mood was getting uglier every moment. Val's fingers went white on the hilt of her knife. If it went completely sour, she wondered if she could get up the King's Tower steps in time, fetch out the monster and his wet nurses, find somewhere to run – but where? Back through the Wall? Three women and a babe? That was suicide.
"We will have no bloodshed." Melisandre's voice seemed to have grown deeper somehow, colder. "It would be an affront to the new morning that R'hllor has made for us – in these days of darkening winter, will you profane the dawn this way? Stand down!"
The queen's men listened to her unquestioningly, and this was the first time that Val had ever been grateful for it. Slowly, grudgingly, they slung their bows back on their shoulders and sheathed their swords, though with expressions that said quite clearly that they thought the free folk would be much improved by some profaning. As for Tall Toregg, he put his axe back just as angrily, restrained by Tormund's huge furry paw on his shoulder.
"Now then." Melisandre smoothed her skirts. "Any of the free folk who wish to reaffirm their loyalty to King Stannis, and reap the benefits of his gratitude, are welcome to come with us to Winterfell and rescue His Grace and Mance alike. If so – "
"But Queen Selyse said he was an usurper," one of the kneelers interrupted. "That that Gerrick Kingsblood, he's descended from Raymun what's-his-name, the true heir – "
Fools, Val thought, yet again. Her sister's husband hadn't been King-beyond-the-Wall because his father was, because someone smeared oils on him or because he tied ribbons around his lance or made witty conversation or smelled like a rose when he farted. He had been King because he had the strength, the wit and cunning and daring to stitch together the disparate wildling tribes, to turn them to their true foe – the crows' true foe. Mankind's true foe. It had been thought the red woman burned him at her fires. It seemed that someone had lied. For if Mance was also a prisoner at Winterfell, he could hardly be the one who died screaming beforehand. We'd best pray so. Without Mance the free folk would be doomed. And it might be even worse now that we are on the right side of the Wall.
"Yet again, this is a question that can only be answered once we rescue King Stannis," said Melisandre. "And thus – "
"You kneelers won't be choosing no king for us," Tall Toregg broke in heatedly. "We're the free folk. The free folk."
Melisandre's red gaze lingered on him. "Not here, ser. No longer. When you placed the protection of the Wall between you and the servants of the Dark One, you became bound by the acts of fealty and the rule of law that hold the rest of men. Any of you who does not wish to acknowledge R'hllor as the one true god and Stannis Baratheon as the one true king is, of course, free to return from whence you came."
"I'm not no southron ser. Piss on your kneelers' tin titles."
Tormund tightened his grip on his son's shoulder, and Tall Toregg reluctantly subsided once again. Combined with Leathers' successful insertion of Wun Wun back into his den, the ambient turmoil dipped slightly, but Val did not let go her grip on her knife. She wondered if Lord Snow was dead. She was forced to admit that it was certainly likely. But even if he is, that doesn't necessarily mean we've seen the last of him.
"Acting Lord Commander Marsh," Melisandre said. "What is the will of the Night's Watch in this matter?"
Bowen Marsh, the man Val had heard mocked as the Old Pomegranate, struggled forward. He was sweating profusely despite the cold of the morning, and his face was nearly as red as the priestess as he climbed up beside her. "The Night's Watch," he began. He swallowed, licked his lips and had to try again. "The Night's Watch was formed thousands of years ago to shield the realms of men from everything that lies beyond the Wall. I advised Lord Snow to seal the gates with ice and steel and stone. He did not. I advised him not to let the wildlings pass. He did. And now it has – "
"Murderer!" Satin roared.
Bowen Marsh flinched. "I did not. . ." He licked his lips again. "I breached my vows in no part. It was no more murder than what Lord Snow did to Janos Slynt – "
Another angry babel. Val inched to her right. She had no doubt Satin's accusation was true, though she could scarce picture that one as a murderer. Yet it was true, and she had cause to know, that desperation drove men – and women – to unimaginable lengths.
Marsh plowed forth. "I will certainly take into account the wishes of my Sworn Brothers," he said, in a tone which implied that that was precisely the fault which had occasioned Lord Snow's recent demise. "I am not an unreasonable man, and I have no wish to create more enemies. But it is not and has never been the responsibility of the Night's Watch to shelter and feed and arm wildlings. We have little enough, and winter soon on us."
"We're not going back through the Wall, crow," a wildling shouted. "You'd better bloody get used to it."
"You will if I order it." Marsh glared at him. "Nor can I permit your people to squat in the castles along the Wall. They must be garrisoned by my men – "
"Har!" Tormund this time. "What other men do you have?"
He's right, crow. Bowen Marsh struck Val as dull and conservative and frightened out of his wits, and that spelled doom for the lot of them unless someone did, quickly, for him as he'd done for Jon Snow. It was a choice between letting the wildlings garrison those castles, or abandoning them as they'd been for so many years. And with the Others growing stronger every night, what sort of fool would leave so many blind eyes and blank spaces in the first line of defense? Your hatred for the free folk is going to kill you as dead as us. She had to get out of here. But where? Where?
Behind her, Val heard another wildling say, "And our folk stranded at Hardhome? What for them? What for the mothers and children and greybeards?"
"It is – regrettable." Bowen Marsh cleared his throat. "But half the ships that Lord Snow sent have been lost already. Sending more would be a waste we cannot countenance."
"Because they're wildlings? Is that it? Would you be leaving them there if they was southrons? I don't think so."
"The Night's Watch is the enemy of the wildlings! How many times must I say it?
The silence went on so long that Val had to turn and look. Tall Toregg's fingers were visibly quivering with the effort of not drawing his axe. The rest of Tormund's band was just as roused, and the crows too had their hands hovering over their longswords.
At last, Tormund Giantsbane was the one to speak. "It's a grievous thing you've done to your brothers and ours," he informed Marsh. "And don't you worry, it were Lord Snow we took to friend, not you. But though you stabbed him in the belly like a craven, you won't be getting rid of us the same. You want to send us back through the Wall, crow? Very good, you try it. But I'll warn you now, you'll have to fight us every step of the way. We'll bleed, aye. We're men. And I can promise you this: so will you. And when them blue-eyed bastards come marching on you and the snows pile up a hundred foot deep and you're shitting your breeks for fear, who fights next to you then? Which of your men garrison them castles, crow? Who wears your black cloaks? Or is that they're dead and either you're eating them to survive, or wondering when they rise too?"
Marsh stared at him, jowls aquiver, in a way that reminded Val of Janos Slynt, the black brother Lord Snow had shortened by a head. He appeared to have no answer.
"Or," Tormund went on, "you could bend them stiff southern necks o' yours and do your best to save them. It damned well might be the only way you will. Me and my men, we'll fight with you or we'll fight against you, but either way we're staying. We'll be making our homes in the Gift and the Wall castles and everywhere else Lord Snow promised. And let me beg your fancy courtly pardons if I have this wrong, but you don't seem the sharpest sword in the scabbard. Didn't you just say that you didn't want to create no more enemies? We aren't right now, crow. But by all the gods, we will be if you want it."
Again, Marsh seemed to be at a loss for words. He looked wildly at Melisandre as if expecting help, but the red priestess said nothing. The crows won't even make it to winter with this one leading. For their sake, they'd best hold that choosing quickly. Gods, was Jon Snow really gone? The frangible peace between crows and free folk already at an end?
"So," another wildling growled. "You not saving those at Hardhome? You saying they dead?"
"They led themselves there. Perchance they can lead themselves to safety. The Night's Watch will have nothing further to do with it. We must look to ourselves."
Fool. Val began to walk, turned a corner, picked up her pace. Fool, fool, fool. They'll die, all right. All four thousand of them. And with white walkers in the hills, every one will rise again. And where will they come? Will the crows look to themselves then?
Aye, so they will. With eyes blue as cornflowers, and cold as the abyss.