Chapter 12

"Even in the north men fear the wroth of Tywin Lannister. Boltons make bad enemies as well. It

is not happenstance that put a flayed man on their banners. They north rode with Robb, bled with him,

died for him. They have supped on grief and death, and now you come to offer them another serving.

Do you blame them if they hang back? Forgive me, Your Grace, but some will look at you and see only

another doomed pretender."

"If His Grace is doomed, your realm is doomed as well," said Lady Melisandre. "Remember that,

Lord Snow. It is the one true king of Westeros who stands before you."

Jon kept his face a mask. "As you say, my lady."

Stannis snorted. "You spend your words as if every one were a golden dragon. I wonder, how

much gold do you have laid by?"

"Gold?" Are those the dragons the red woman means to wake? Dragons made of gold? "Such

taxes as we collect are paid in kind, Your Grace. The Watch is rich in turnips but poor in coin."

"Turnips are not like to appease Salladhor Saan. I require gold or silver."

"For that, you need White Harbor. The city cannot compare to Old-town or King's Landing, but it

is still a thriving port. Lord Manderly is the richest of my lord father's bannermen."

"Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse." The letter that Lord Wyman Manderly had sent back from White

Harbor had spoken of his age and infirmity, and little more. Stannis had commanded Jon not to speak of

that one either.

"Perhaps his lordship would fancy a wildling wife," said Lady Melisandre. "Is this fat man

married, Lord Snow?"

"His lady wife is long dead. Lord Wyman has two grown sons, and grandchildren by the elder.

And he is too fat to sit a horse, thirty stone at least. Val would never have him."

"Just once you might try to give me an answer that would please me, Lord Snow," the king

grumbled.

"I would hope the truth would please you, Sire. Your men call Val a princess, but to the free folk

she is only the sister of their king's dead wife. If you force her to marry a man she does not want, she is

like to slit his throat on their wedding night. Even if she accepts her husband, that does not mean the

wildlings will follow him, or you. The only man who can bind them to your cause is Mance Rayder."

"I know that," Stannis said, unhappily. "I have spent hours speaking with the man. He knows

much and more of our true enemy, and there is cunning in him, I'll grant you. Even if he were to

renounce his kingship, though, the man remains an oathbreaker. Suffer one deserter to live, and you

encourage others to desert. No. Laws should be made of iron, not of pudding. Mance Rayder's life is

forfeit by every law of the Seven Kingdoms."

"The law ends at the Wall, Your Grace. You could make good use of Mance."

"I mean to. I'll burn him, and the north will see how I deal with turncloaks and traitors. I have

other men to lead the wildlings. And I have Rayder's son, do not forget. Once the father dies, his help

will be the King-Beyond-the-Wall."

"Your Grace is mistaken." You know nothing, Jon Snow, Ygritte used to say, but he had learned.

"The babe is no more a prince than Val is a princess. You do not become King-Beyond-the-Wall because

your father was."

"Good," said Stannis, "for I will suffer no other kings in Westeros. Have you signed the grant?"

"No, Your Grace." And now it comes. Jon closed his burned fingers and opened them again. "You

ask too much."

"Ask? I asked you to be Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I require these castles."

"We have ceded you the Nightfort."

"Rats and ruins. It is a niggard's gift that costs the giver nothing. Your own man Yarwyck says it

will be half a year before the castle can be made fit for habitation."

"The other forts are no better."

"I know that. It makes no matter. They are all we have. There are nineteen forts along the Wall,

and you have men in only three of them. I mean to have every one of them garrisoned again before the

year is out."

"I have no quarrel with that, Sire, but it is being said that you also mean to grant these castles to

your knights and lords, to hold as their own seats as vassals to Your Grace."

"Kings are expected to be open-handed to their followers. Did Lord Eddard teach his bastard

nothing? Many of my knights and lords abandoned rich lands and stout castles in the south. Should their

loyalty go unrewarded?"

"If Your Grace wishes to lose all of my lord father's bannermen, there is no more certain way

than by giving northern halls to southron lords."

"How can I lose men I do not have? I had hoped to bestow Winterfell on a northman, you may

recall. A son of Eddard Stark. He threw my offer in my face." Stannis Baratheon with a grievance was like

a mastiff with a bone; he gnawed it down to splinters.

"By right Winterfell should go to my sister Sansa."

"Lady Lannister, you mean? Are you so eager to see the Imp perched on your father's seat? I

promise you, that will not happen whilst I live, Lord Snow."

Jon knew better than to press the point. "Sire, some claim that you mean to grant lands and

castles to Rattleshirt and the Magnar of Thenn."

"Who told you that?"

The talk was all over Castle Black. "If you must know, I had the tale from Gilly."

"Who is Gilly?"

"The wet nurse," said Lady Melisandre. "Your Grace gave her freedom of the castle."

"Not for running tales. She's wanted for her teats, not for her tongue. I'll have more milk from

her, and fewer messages."

"Castle Black needs no useless mouths," Jon agreed. "I am sending Gilly south on the next ship

out of Eastwatch."

Melisandre touched the ruby at her neck. "Gilly is giving suck to Dalla's son as well as her own. It

seems cruel of you to part our little prince from his milk brother, my lord."

Careful now, careful. "Mother's milk is all they share. Gilly's son is larger and more robust. He

kicks the prince and pinches him, and shoves him from the breast. Craster was his father, a cruel man

and greedy, and blood tells."

The king was confused. "I thought the wet nurse was this man Craster's daughter?"

"Wife and daughter both, Your Grace. Craster married all his daughters. Gilly's boy was the fruit

of their union."

"Her own father got this child on her?" Stannis sounded shocked.

"We are well rid of her, then. I

will not suffer such abominations here. This is not King's Landing."

"I can find another wet nurse. If there's none amongst the wildlings, I will send to the mountain

clans. Until such time, goat's milk should suffice for the boy, if it please Your Grace."

"Poor fare for a prince … but better than whore's milk, aye." Stannis drummed his fingers on the map. "If we may return to the matter of these forts …"

"Your Grace," said Jon, with chilly courtesy, "I have housed your men and fed them, at dire cost

to our winter stores. I have clothed them so they would not freeze."

Stannis was not appeased. "Aye, you've shared your salt pork and porridge, and you've thrown

us some black rags to keep us warm. Rags the wildlings would have taken off your corpses if I had not

come north."

Jon ignored that. "I have given you fodder for your horses, and once the stair is done I will lend

you builders to restore the Nightfort. I have even agreed to allow you to settle wildlings on the Gift,

which was given to the Night's Watch in perpetuity."

"You offer me empty lands and desolations, yet deny me the castles I require to reward my lords

and bannermen."

"The Night's Watch built those castles …"

"And the Night's Watch abandoned them."

"… to defend the Wall," Jon finished stubbornly, "not as seats for southron lords. The stones of

those forts are mortared with the blood and bones of my brothers, long dead. I cannot give them to

you."

"Cannot or will not?" The cords in the king's neck stood out sharp as swords. "I offered you a name."

"I have a name, Your Grace."

"Snow. Was ever a name more ill-omened?" Stannis touched his sword hilt. "Just who do you

imagine that you are?"

"The watcher on the walls. The sword in the darkness."

"Don't prate your words at me." Stannis drew the blade he called Lightbringer. "Here is your

sword in the darkness." Light rippled up and down the blade, now red, now yellow, now orange,

painting the king's face in harsh, bright hues.

"Even a green boy should be able to see that. Are you

blind?"

"No, Sire. I agree these castles must be garrisoned—"

"The boy commander agrees. How fortunate."

"—by the Night's Watch."

"You do not have the men."

"Then give me men, Sire. I will provide officers for each of the abandoned forts, seasoned

commanders who know the Wall and the lands beyond, and how best to survive the coming winter. In

return for all we've given you, grant me the men to fill out the garrisons.

Men-at-arms,cross-bowmen,

raw boys. I will even take your wounded and infirm."

Stannis stared at him incredulously, then gave a bark of laughter. "You are bold enough, Snow, I

grant you that, but you're mad if you think my men will take the black."

"They can wear any color cloak they choose, so long as they obey my officers as they would your

own."

The king was unmoved. "I have knights and lords in my service, scions of noble Houses old in

honor. They cannot be expected to serve under poachers, peasants, and murderers."

Or bastards, Sire? "Your own Hand is a smuggler."

"Was a smuggler. I shortened his fingers for that. They tell me that you are the nine-hundred-

ninety-eighth man to command the Night's Watch, Lord Snow. What do you think the

nine-hundred-

ninety-ninth might say about these castles? The sight of your head on a spike might

inspire him to be more helpful." The king laid his bright blade down on the map, along the Wall, its steel

shimmering like sunlight on water. "You are only lord commander by my sufferance. You would do well

to remember that."

"I am lord commander because my brothers chose me." There were mornings when Jon Snow

did not quite believe it himself, when he woke up thinking surely this was some mad dream. It's like

putting on new clothes, Sam had told him. The fit feels strange at first, but once you've worn them for a

while you get to feeling comfortable.

"Alliser Thorne complains about the manner of your choosing, and I cannot say he does not

have a grievance." The map lay between them like a battleground, drenched by the colors of the

glowing sword.

"The count was done by a blind man with your fat friend by his elbow. And Slynt names

you a turncloak."