27-Of Plans and Resolve

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

Edited by: Void Uzumaki and Himura; B. Reader: Bub3loka

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

***

27th Day of the 6th Moon

Tyrion Lannister, Castle Black

His boots crunched as they stepped over the crushed gravel atop the walkway.

Tywin Lannister's youngest son was cold - the thick, fur-lined cloak and the layers of wool and leather couldn't truly fight off the vicious icy winds cutting at his face and pulling up his clothes like an insistent lover. The sun peaked between the turbulent clouds above, but its rays scarcely provided any warmth.

Pissing off the top of the Wall had proven a challenging endeavour with the almost constant gale and the severe risk of his piss freezing or even being blown back to him, but difficulties like this could not stop Tyrion once he made up his mind.

He couldn't help but wonder at the black brothers who had to patrol this hellish place at night - whoever had said the Seven Hells were full of fire had clearly never visited the Wall. The older rangers here, those who had lost a limb or three during winter, would say nothing burned like the cold, and maybe they were right.

Maybe the septons had it all wrong - the seven hells were filled with ice, each one colder than the next. It would be just like the Wall, only worse. And to think this was still the height of Summer…

Regardless, Tyrion took one last look northwards. The haunted forest stretched like an endless carpet of green to the horizon, dotted with red from the five-pointed leaves of the weirwoods that still thrived there; the North had kept their sacred trees unmolested by the steel axes of the Andals, and so did the Lands Beyond the Wall. However, the forest lustily crept towards the south as if trying to envelop the Wall within its embrace.

The nearby portion was kept clean by the black axes of the Watch and its fierce appetite for firewood. However, when Tyrion looked east or west, the treeline had almost reached the base of the Wall - the order was truly lacking for men.

His gaze wandered to the west - the Frostfangs loomed in the distance, peaks veiled in white with the shimmer of rivers and springs that gleamed like diamonds from afar.

It was a primal, magnificent view that could humble even the tallest of men, let alone Tyrion. Casterly Rock was taller than the Wall, but the sight fell short in comparison - the sunset sea to one side and fields and hills to the other - they were dull, ugly, and bare. Not to mention the lack of a lift to take you to the highest point of the Rock dissuaded most people from enjoying the sights, especially for someone with such short, stubby legs like him.

Perhaps he could mention these contraptions to his father to have them installed?

With a shake of his head, Tyrion returned towards the crane, where the iron cage still awaited him.

The black brothers at the winch nodded dully without uttering a word. Not a merry lot for sure, the Watch was filled with thieves, rapers, and bitter old men. Tyrion suspected that many regretted picking the black over the block.

Soon, his descent began, and the cage swung slowly like a pendulum from the angry gales, forcing Tyrion to grab the iron bars and hold on tight.

The sight below was dreary as usual - the yards were filled like a hive full of ants. Men garbed in black, drilling with spears and bows in various formations.

The commanders of the Night's Watch and the senior rangers had debated for nearly a dozen days before deciding to switch the training of the black brothers.

After all, dragonglass could not be hewn into anything longer than a dagger. It was perfect for spearheads and arrowtips, however. Someone had proposed embedding them into clubs, but that idea was quickly put down - it would require too much material for a single weapon. Tyrion had checked the edges of the knapped obsidian arrowhead - it was razor-sharp, more so than castle-forged swords, albeit far more brittle.

Slowly but steadily, he descended until the cage jerked to a stop when it hit the ground with a thud. It took a few moments for the ground to stop wobbling, and Tyrion unlatched the door, unsteadily making his way to one of the wooden keeps where the feast hall was.

He had to go over one of the training yards where Ser Alliser Thorne screamed at the new recruits to stand in a proper spear line. Tyrion shook his head; it was a sorry sight - many of them barely knew one end of the spear from the other.

Around the other courtyards, stewards and masons were busy chipping away at raw obsidian, slowly shaping it for use.

The wooden keep was an even more sorry sight - rather dilapidated and made from stacked weather-beaten pine logs, with a pair of sentries garbed in black leathers and wool cloaks at the door.

"You wanna join the meeting, little man?"

It was the sour-looking man with a craggy, weathered face who spoke.

"Yes," Tyrion nodded curtly.

They opened the door with a creak, letting him enter.

The insides were somewhat dim but cosy and warm, with the rafters above covered by cobwebs and blackened by time and smoke.

Just as one entered, they were faced with a stand where the slender icy sword, which glimmered like a diamond upon the flickering lights, was displayed for all the brothers of the Night's Watch to see. The air around it was frigid despite the roaring hearth, and parts of the stand were laced with a thin layer of frost. Three nights ago, a group of fools had tried stealing it; one lost his hand to the frost, and all of them were caught and hanged for desertion afterwards.

Grumkins and Snarks and Others and Children of the Forest had come to life if the testimonies of six rangers were to be believed.

Tyrion still wasn't sure if all of them were not driven mad by the cold either way, for the tales that were spun were more and more unlikely and sounded like something from the Age of Heroes.

A sword of ice was a queer, unseen-before thing, but it was little proof of anything. Thought the dull dread in the eyes of those who had returned along with Benjen Stark was the real thing, along with the desiccated limbs of what must have been a monstrous-sized spider. Surely, they must have fought and seen something, but Tyrion was not convinced of what it truly was.

The snow could easily play with your eyes during the night, and Children of the Forest, Wargs, Others, walking corpses, and icy spiders were too fantastical for his mind to accept. A bastard, barely of age, doing heroic rescues even less so.

Yet, the more time Tyrion spent here, the less sceptical he felt - in the end, one would not build a seven-hundred-foot wall to keep a few savages with sticks and stones out…

The smooth, straight wound that ran diagonally from the left side of the temple to the right side of the chin turned the First Ranger's face into a savage reminder that could not be denied.

And the icy sword was the real deal; it was unnaturally sharp and could bite into steel and hardened wood with little effort. But for some reason, only Benjen Stark could wield it - the handle was so cold it burned to the touch, even after wrapping it in leather and linen, quickly covered by a layer of frigid hoarfrost.

Tyrion would know - he couldn't help but resist trying to touch for himself; the ache from the slight burn on his finger still lingered, and it was earned from a single yet brief touch.

"Here to join us again, Tyrion?" The Lord Commander's voice brought him out of his musing.

"There's not much else to do for a man like me," he returned as he waddled his way to one of the empty chairs around the high table. Too tired for acrobatics, he climbed the chair like a monkey and sat down, his chest scarcely above the long oaken table.

Jeor Mormont, Denys Mallister, Cotter Pyke, Benjen Stark, the old Maester Aemon and a few others were gathered here, looking at a multitude of maps of the Wall and the lands beyond strewn all over it. Dreary men, all garbed in the black clothes of the Night's Watch.

"Are you certain you wish to leave so soon?" Mormont prodded.

"Indeed," he nodded. "My brother Jaime will be wondering what has become of me. He may decide that you have convinced me to take the black!"

"If only I could," the Lord Commander shook his head and gazed at one of the numerous maps before him. "You have cunning in spades. We could use men of your sort here."

"Then I shall scour the Seven Kingdoms for dwarfs and ship them all to you, Lord Mormont." His jape barely elicited a chuckle or two from the dreary men.

"If all of them had half of your wit and guile, I'd take them without hesitation," the former lord of Bear Isle hummed. "You should consider travelling south with us. From Eastwatch to King's Landing is more than twice as fast as on horse."

Of course, Tyrion knew that already; it was just that seafaring and its endless swaying had never appealed to him. He had tried it once, and it was a dismal experience, feeling as if someone had bludgeoned his head and forced him to keep puking out his luncheon in a bucket.

"Fine," he finally agreed, looking at the desperate gazes of the men around the table. Tyrion felt his insides twist - they all looked like drowning men grasping for straws, and there was little he could do to aid them. Travelling more than two thousand miles on horseback was just as unappealing in the end. At least the torment would be over quicker on a ship, and the sooner he returned, the sooner he could spend his time in Chataya's again. "When do we leave?"

It was little wonder the North was such a gloomy place - the only half-decent whorehouse on the road to Castle Black was in Wintertown.

"In three days," Cotter Pyke's voice was rough, just like the man itself - the ironborn commander was a hardy man; his nose had been broken again, and a coarse beard attempted to hide his pox-scarred face. "I'll accompany you to Eastwatch, and you'll take one of my ships from there."

"We must do something about the increasing desertions," Benjen Stark also spoke up, face grave. "More than a dozen men slipped out through the night ever since I returned."

Tyrion didn't blame them - he wouldn't want to fight terrifying foes of myth and legend either. Most of the brothers of the Watch were just petty outlaws who preferred to avoid losing a limb or the gallows. Fighting wildlings was one thing, but White Walkers, giant spiders, and walking corpses were another.

"You can't expect a few farmer boys to be willing to fight against walking corpses and big spiders," Tyrion pointed out.

"We don't have much choice now, do we?" Cotter Pyke sighed, rubbing his brow tiredly.

"Write to the Northern lords," Denys Mallister tilted his head. "Have them send back the deserters here upon capture, where they ought to be made an example of in person. Anyone else would think thrice before fleeing after a few proper hangings."

"That is easily done. But we barely have a thousand men, and only a third of that any good with arms," Mormont rubbed his brow tiredly. "Far from enough to defend the Wall properly, let alone risk thinning our ranks further by going ranging. Besides, you can train a craven to wield a spear or a sword, but you cannot make him find his guts and fight a battle properly. As much as it pains me to admit it, the Night's Watch cannot deal with this alone. Our only hope is your lordly brother, Stark, and His Grace."

"Even if we had the numbers, it's not like the Others would give us a pitched battle," Benjen pointed out. "They only attack during the cold nights and when they have the element of surprise and number's advantage."

Seven above, all of them were a grim, dreary lot, just like Castle Black. It was a terrifying sight what the lack of hope could do, even to the best of men.

"Both of you are correct," Aemon's voice was soft and quiet, but they all leaned to listen to the old man's words. "But mayhaps we're going at this the wrong way. In the scant records we have, if they can even be called such, it was said that the Long Night lasted for a generation. I know not if such a thing would happen again, but we need to prepare for every scenario. Lord Stark's intent to reform our ancient order will be essential."

"You mean to address every issue the Night's Watch is facing at its very core?" Tyrion asked, intrigued.

"Indeed, Lord Lannister," the ancient maester nodded. "I believe that was our Lord Hand's original idea as well. We must grab this opportunity and take even the smallest advantages here."

"I am wary of discarding eight thousand years of tradition so quickly," Denys Mallister added. "But mayhaps we truly need some change. The Watch will dwindle to nought within a century if nothing changes, even without any foes looming from the north."

"Aptly said," Jeor Mormont straightened up. "That's why I shall be going in person with the ice sword down South with Buckwell and Jafer Flowers to testify what they saw North of the Wall, along a few wandering crows. Now, though, I'll hear your thoughts on how to possibly address the many troubles we are facing."

***

8th Day of the 7th Moon

Val

The tide of corpses seemed endless in the darkness of the night, yet their front line held, with Jon fighting savagely at the helm.

The surroundings were littered with braziers and torches, keeping most of the creeping darkness at bay.

The burning corpses burned out too quickly, leaving little more than charred bones behind.

Val and nearly a score of the best marksmen stayed atop the hill, guarded by a dozen wolves led by Ghost. It was unnerving to wait in the darkness while a battle raged around you, but Jon Snow's tactics had proven their mettle - torches danced in the night, setting the walking corpses aflame.

After a few more minutes, deafening screeches finally heralded the arrival of the enormous spiders and their icy masters, and Jarod Snow signalled them to notch their arrows.

Her heartbeat thundered like an angry drum; her limbs were stiff, and every mouthful of frigid air burned her throat as cold puffs escaped her reddened lips.

The moment the Others appeared, Jarod Snow gave his signal, and the icy foes were greeted with an unending hail of obsidian. The two dozen Singers climbed the trees on the side and began raining arrows from above upon the Cold Ones.

Val could count about ten of the Others, but after a few heartbeats of the relentless onslaught of arrows and a few inhuman screeches, all the spiders were dead, and the Cold Shadows were reduced to a measly three.

One tried to hide between the wights while the other two charged into the melee, but to no avail.

The first one managed to escape into the darkness, but the other two perished - one was decapitated by Jon, while the other was crowded by five spearmen, and even the crystalline sword failed to fend off all the spears aiming for his pale neck.

The Others had all fallen, but the tide of corpses continued - albeit slowly dwindling.

While the fighting at the base of the hill continued, Val and the others, with a bow and obsidian arrows, had to remain vigilant, scanning the dark forest for a return of more Cold Shadows.

For good or for bad, none came, and slowly but surely, the wights lessened until there were no more.

A victorious roar spread through the hill, and the battle ended.

"JON SNOW!"

"WARG LORD!"

Weapons raised high in the air, the cries chanting her man's name were nearly deafening and wouldn't dwindle.

Though the cold night had its way of extinguishing even the most blazing of passions, and a handful of minutes later, Jon sat atop the hill next to the playful flames of a crackling fire. His hair was a splattered mess of gore and sweat, and his attire fared no better - his cloak and doublet were almost entirely covered by guts and blood, yet other than that, he seemed unharmed.

Removing all that grime from his attire would be a challenge, however. The rest of the fighters looked like a mess, but none had fought as hard or killed as many as Jon.

The free folk initially gazing upon Jon Snow with suspicion or mistrust now only had grudging respect and even reverence in their eyes. A few spearwives, especially that red-haired Ygritte, were eyeing him hungrily like bitches in heat, making Val scowl just from the thought of it.

While some men had many lovers and wives, she loathed the idea of sharing him with anyone. Jon Snow was hers, and hers alone.

"I ain't wounded," he waved away the pale-haired Singer. "Go tend to the others."

She nodded and quickly dashed away, like a deer in the night. They might not speak the tongue of men, but most leafcloaks understood the words well enough now.

A relieved sigh escaped Val's mouth as she sat beside Jon on the fallen log. Every time they battled, there was a sliver of worry in her, but it was steadily dwindling - despite still being the first in battle, her man seemed far more cautious.

"Nine dead and thrice as many wounded," Jarod came over and reported dutifully. "Not much obsidian can be scavenged. Seems like we lost half a thousand arrows."

Jon nodded silently and continued cleaning the rippling blade from all the gore with a rag.

"Good fight," sitting across the fire, Blind Doss slammed a fist atop his chest, "and better victory!"

"Aye," one of the raiders, Derk, roared in agreement, and the others quickly joined his clamour. "Feels good ta fight instead o' runnin' like frightened rabbits!"

To the side, a dozen men were quickly piling up all the unburnt corpses and limbs on one enormous pyre. A few were cutting apart the spiders to be roasted - with thousands of throats to feed in one place; you could not afford to discard any source of food, and the spiders tasted surprisingly good. The direwolves also devoured the remains of the spiders with relish.

"This cunning idea of yours worked very well," Styr grunted, impressed.

"The Others are no different than any other foe," Jon's voice was languid. "Once you know their weaknesses and habits, they can be killed and hunted down. I promised you to show you how to fight them, did I not?"

The hill exploded with grunts and hollers of agreement, and many began chanting his name once more.

This was the second time their group had managed to bait the cold ones to attack, and like the first time, Jon Snow led them to victory. Two more warbands had also succeeded, albeit with quite higher casualties, and another, smaller one had been completely annihilated.

For nearly a moon, Jon's forces had felled nearly three dozen Cold Shadows.

And so they did - all those sworn to Jon had been split into a handful of warbands: small ones of fifty men and larger ones of two hundred, and this one was the latter. All in all, it was just about two thousand warriors and spearwives, with the rest of the folk staying back to guard, harvest, and process that obsidian vein where they had made their camp.

A few skinchangers with winged companions allowed a greater ability to respond to those overwhelmed too much.

Jon had initially wanted to send out more warbands, but that seemed to be the limit of warriors that could be armed with obsidian by their deposit. Battling against the Cold Ones exhausted their obsidian-tipped arms quickly - they were brittle and quick to break, and too few could be salvaged after a battle.

The warbands would pick a defensible position to dig into for the night and await the arrival of the Others, armed to the teeth with obsidian and prepared to fight wights. The Cold Shadows always came during the night and avoided attacking unless they had the numbers advantage, and Jon punished that habit of theirs with impunity.

"Do we know how many icy fucks are out there?" Howd the Wanderer raised his arms and stretched in a bid to relieve the tension from his limbs.

"It doesn't matter," the Thenn chieftain gave a bloodthirsty grin, looking particularly savage with his missing ears and shaved head, splattered with dark gore. "We'll kill every single one of them."

"Lord Snow!" A cry came from the nearby scout, who ran over hurriedly. He had a piece of ice hooked upon the tip of his spear and was eyeing it with apprehension. "Morl found this where the Cold Ones fell. Had his hand burned when tried to pick it up too!"

The rest of the surrounding warriors quickly spread out, making way for the man.

Jon snatched the icy object from the tip of the spear and carefully inspected it. Val could see it clearly now; under the flickering lights of the fire, it was a slender bracelet hewn from ice, reflecting the surroundings like a pool of water, just like that blade of frost the crow had taken south with him.

***

9th Day of the 7th Moon

They were in the enormous tent that used to belong to Mance Rayder, thrice bigger than any other. Like the rest, it was made of sewn hides, fur still on, but this one was made of the shaggy white pelts of snow bears. Jon had claimed it for his own, and they held meetings here.

The ice bracelet was too thin for Jon's wrists, so he hung it from the wooden frame above like a trophy for all to see. Like the sword, he was the only one capable of touching it without getting burned.

The tent was hot and smoky; baskets of peat stood in the four corners, filling the air with dim reddish light, though the icy trophy hanging from above provided a hint of refreshing coolness.

The mouth-watering scent of meat teased her nose as Val, her sister, and a few others spun skewered hens over two braziers. Ghost was lazily sprawled next to her, his enormous shaggy head resting upon her lap and red eyes set on the chickens. Jon and the more important chieftains were spread around in a loose circle, sitting on crude stools or pelts or cleaned logs. The tent felt crowded - more than a score of men and women were inside.

"One of me scouts said the Nightrunners had all perished," Morna White Mask said.

She was a tall, wiry spearwife garbed in a brown fur-lined cloak sprouting long, shaggy hair, her face hidden by her carved weirwood mask, and one of the major chieftains following after the warg lord. Her blue eyes were big but stabbed at you like daggers. Val wondered if she was scarred or ugly underneath to hide her face like that.

"Har," Giantsbane's voice boomed like always, "serves the prickly fools right!"

Val also felt a tinge of vengeful satisfaction at the news - most of the Nightrunner tribes had been a nuisance, oft raiding around the lake and Greystone village. However, that meant that the Cold Ones were becoming more daring.

"I wouldn't be that quick to celebrate, Tormund," Soren Shieldbreaker shook his head, face solemn.

"And why?" The tall-talker grinned, waving a chicken leg stolen from the platter. "Never liked 'em, sneaking during the night, not daring to fight out in the open like proper warriors!"

"As if ye haven't slinked around in the dark yerself, Giantsbabe," Howd jeered, making the tent erupt in laughter.

"Aye, but I can fight, while the Nightrunners can barely make out one end o' the spear from the other! They must do it all wrong, that's why!" Tormund hollered and joined the commotion with a guffaw of his own.

It took them nearly a minute to calm down, and Soren was the first to speak.

"Aye, I know fools are oft the first to die, but the more of 'em that die, the more wights we have to face."

"There's nothing to be done," Jon shook his head. "Let them make their own way. Even with the river beside us for fishing and all the sheep, oxen, goats, hens, and pigs we managed to gather, food is not plentiful. More swords, spears, and bows are more a hindrance than aid if they're unruly."

"Aye, a bad friend is far deadlier than a good enemy in battle!" Giantsbane nodded his head vigorously while chewing his chicken leg. Val could see the oily grease drip into his tangled beard, then onto the shirt and ringmail and grimaced; no wonder some called him Giantstink.

"They chose their lot," Styr shook his head. "Some are hunted like deer in the forest, but others fought off the Cold Shadows. One of Gerrick Redbeard's raiders bragged that their chieftain managed to slay three of the cold gods!"

"Slay three Cold Shadows? Har! That boy might be kissed by fire but can barely handle a bear, let alone the Others."

"It matters little if he was the one to slay them or his men," Jon shrugged. "But this is good - we can fortify our position here properly while most of the Others try and hunt the scattered folk. The more the rest can put up a fight, the better for us."

"Wouldn't we be drowned by a tide of corpses, Lord Snow?" Soren still seemed uneasy. He wore an old, battered mail atop a thick shirt sewn with boiled leather, probably picked up from some slain Crow.

Another hen was fully roasted, and Dalla handed out two braces and a platter of cooked chickens for the chieftains to feast while Val handed out half a chicken to Ghost, who lazily lifted his head from her lap and devoured it in two crunching bites, bones and all.

"The Others won't attack unless they have the numbers anyway," Val's man pointed out. "And we'll have a proper wall by then."

"Ye'll make southrons of us all with those walls o' yours," Tormund shook his head, splattering grease all over.

"You say that now, Giantsbane, but I know the likes of you. You'd rather be behind or atop the wall when the fighting starts," Morna snorted, and the tall-talker didn't refute but smiled with a nod.

"Anyone has anything of import to discuss?" Jon asked.

"Ah, I almost forgot!" Tormund slapped his head. "The Great Walrus sent some men, asking if he could join ye."

"He leads the people of the frozen shore, does he not?"

"Aye, the ones with the walrus tusks, not the antlers," Giantsbane nodded. "I think he had near two thousand folks with him, though only a third o' that any good in a fight."

Jon rubbed his chin thoughtfully while looking at the fire.

"Tell him he's welcome to join if he should agree to my rules." The tall-talker nodded. "If that is all, the meeting is adjourned!"

The mentioned rules were simple enough - anyone above the age of eight had to contribute to the camp one way or another, and all had to swear to follow Jon's word. If you couldn't fight, hunt, or cut down trees, you had to learn to knap obsidian, work wood, cook, fish, fletch arrows, carve shafts, or tan furs and hides. The Great Walrus was far from the only one who had expressed a desire to join Jon's forces after Mance's army dispersed after his death. But, too many were proud and savage, unwilling to bow down to the warg chieftain and his southron rules.

None raised any more concerns, and the chieftains quickly streamed out of the tent.

Jon walked up to her and leaned over, his hand ruffling Ghost's shaggy fur, while his mouth approached her ear.

"I shall wait for you within the springs," the whisper sent pleasant shivers down her neck.

One last teasing grin was thrown her way before he also headed out.

Ghost finally stirred and, after a lazy stretch, trotted after his master. Val stood up unsteadily, her legs a tad numb.

"You're going to spar in the hot springs again, aren't ya?" Dalla gazed at her knowingly.

"And what of it?" Val flicked her sister's forehead, eliciting a fierce scowl from her sister. "You should go and steal Duncan already. I've seen a few spearwives eye the man."

"I don't like the big lunk!"

The protest was not as vehement as it was half a moon ago.

"Indeed, and that's why your gaze wanders to him every time he's around," the spearwife tutted.

"Even, and I mean, even if I liked him," Dalla glared at her. "I ain't a fighter to steal him proper, and the lug refuses to come for me!"

"Aye, but that's not the Southron way," Val shook her head. "I couldn't fight off Jon even if there were two dozen of me. There's no need for stealing - go into his tent tonight; I doubt he'll send you away from his bed."

Her sister spluttered incoherently, and her face reddened.

Val smirked victoriously and also left the tent. Its entrance was guarded by Red Jeyne, Helicent, curled atop two mossy stones nearby, and three raiders who had sworn directly to Jon.

The hill was covered by tents in almost every direction, with folk roaming around like a hive of ants. Val had never seen so many people clustered in one place, and even now, it made her marvel at the sheer grandness of it. The smell was somewhat sour and unpleasant - shit and piss and sweat wafted up with the wind. Although it wasn't as bad as a sennight ago since Jon had ordered everyone to start digging for outhouses and latrines, and everyone who dared shit in the open was made to clear his mess or outright exiled mercilessly. The few who dared argue with Jon were beaten up and thrown out without any pity.

Scores of younger children were frolicking around amidst laughter and smiles, but they were few.

Many women and older children knapped black pieces of rock, slowly turning them into speartips and arrowheads. Others were carving shafts or fletching the arrows while dogs and hens ran around, scourging the surroundings for leftovers.

Though, it was not a single hill - only the highest one, surrounded by a handful of lesser ones, also covered with tents and the such, with a few creeks and brooks running in the lowlands.

Others were clustered around fires, cooking and sewing. Down the hill in a clearing, Duncan Liddle drilled raiders with spears to fight in a line and to follow orders.

The free folk resisted the attempts of order, but Jon Snow's tactic gave tangible results, and he was not a man who could be denied - those who did not wish to follow were chased away. Slowly but surely, Jon had turned the scattered, numerous folk into what looked to be a cohesive force. Yet, even with all that, more than a thousand had left anyway, refusing to be told what to do by some kneeler.

Duncan, Tormund, and Jarod were Jon's most trusted - if the warg lord was out with a warband, one of them would hold the hill in his name.

At any time, at least ten bands were out, either hunting for food or digging up on some hill for the day, preparing for an attack by the Cold Ones.

Val's gaze moved to the west, where the Milkwater flowed. On the shore, younger boys and girls were fishing while oxen and goats roamed, looking for grass.

To the outer base of the hills, some men and giants were digging a trench while others were slowly building an odd palisade - a double-layered fence of thick fresh logs filled with pressed ground and crushed gravel between. Val couldn't help but wonder if this place would look like a Southron castle; some were already calling it the Warg's Hill or even the Warg's Keep.

Many had voiced their disagreements at such an endeavour at the start, but Jon had managed to convince them of the merits of a proper defensive wall.

Plenty of men were clearing the nearby treeline - by Jon's orders, there had to be a mile of bare ground from their wall. Even more were toiling at the obsidian vein at the crag less than half a league to the southeast. The black rock had become even more precious than steel once the news of its ability to harm the Cold Ones spread.

All that work would have been slow and hard without the aid of the mammoths and giants. Their enormous size and strength lent itself to the back-breaking work Jon had endeavoured to begin.

The camp was like an enormous ant's nest - buzzing with activity, which only calmed down during the nights. But even then, it did not stop fully.

Jon, however, told her that this was nothing compared to certain places south of the Wall, and Val struggled to wrap her head around his words.

Ah, it didn't matter. The spearwife shook her head and headed towards the cave.

On her way there, Val noticed the red witch. She was staring into the fire again, and the spearwife couldn't help but think Melisandre was lost or confused despite her impassive face.

Jon avoided her like the grey plague and wouldn't even look at the woman. It was a good thing, for Melisandre was a beauty that turned many a head, although none dared to steal her after some fool sneaked into her tent one night and had his member burned out, wailing pitifully for the whole camp to hear.

Any doubts about her ability with sorcery were quickly dispelled after that, and she was left unmolested - none were daring or foolish enough to provoke a witch.

During the last sennight, Melisandre could only be seen gazing into the fire restlessly, face glum. According to the rumours, she had not touched food or drink even once for the last half a moon, yet looked no worse for it. Not only that, but the red woman of the east seemed to feel no cold and would only stir for a short walk before returning to her resting place before her favourite bonfire.

Even those who had decided to believe in her red god could not get more than a few words out of her, as opposed to her rumoured sermons that were said to happen before.

Val passed by her, and the woman did not tear her gaze from the flames. For some reason, Leaf was sitting on a large boulder nearby, looking thoughtfully in the direction of the red witch.

A few heartbeats later, the spearwife approached Jon's fancy tent. It was nestled before a small grove of trees on the western slope of the main hill, the only ones left uncut. Jon had claimed the place for his own, and Leaf had carved a face in the biggest weirwood.

Amidst the trees was hidden the stony mouth of a cave that puffed out roiling clouds of soft mist dispersed by the wind. Val made her way inside, under the watchful eyes of a handful of singers and direwolves that lounged amidst the grove and descended into a small hot pool of bubbling water.

The insides were warm, damp, and foggy by the steam, and she had to watch her step to avoid slipping on the rocky surface. According to Leaf, the water made its way underground and flowed within the Milkwater.

She finally arrived after a short flight of crude steps hewn into the stone. Jon was already there, his muscled torso half-covered by the bubbling water, surrounded by a ring of smooth, round rocks. He had removed everything sharp from within the cave and the pool itself.

Val quickly discarded her garb - cloak, breeches, and shirt, joining Jon's clothes on the hanger he had managed to latch on one of the walls.

Once her white fur boots were undone and Val was in her maiden day's suit, she bravely dipped into the bubbling hot water, leaned into Jon's torso, and sat beside him.

His eyes were closed, but a smile appeared upon his lips as Val began to run her fingers over his scarred torso. Some of them were smooth, straight cuts earned from the icy blades of the Others, but there was also a jagged claw mark upon his side, courtesy of an enormous bear he had slain.

There was little fat on him; Jon's body was brimming with power. Beneath his skin, she could feel the corded muscles, almost as hard as steel.

"You should stop dyeing your hair," the words made her freeze.

How did he know?

While Val stood there, stiff, Jon cracked an eye open and grabbed one of her locks. The tip of it had gone silvery, with only the barest hint of gold left in it.

"Snow-kissed hair is cursed," her voice was nary a whisper, and she couldn't hide her trepidation.

Red hair was kissed by fire - it spoke of warmth, fire, and lifeblood and thus brought luck. White hair was everything but - associated with snow, cold, death, and the like.

It had given her many fights and curses and distrustful glares in her childhood until her mother had found a proper concoction to dye it with. Yet now, the dye seemed to be easily washed from the steaming water.

Val wanted to disappear into the bubbling pool now, hide away from the world and couldn't bring herself to lift her gaze and meet the gaze of distrust or disgust that her hair usually received.

Was Jon going to leave her now and take to one of the many other spearwives that lusted over him instead?

"Don't care," the words might have been soft but sounded like a thunderclap in her ears.

A finger lifted her chin, forcing her to meet a pair of grey eyes dark with lust.

"B-But, it brings bad luck," she choked on her words. "Many would claim me a witch to have beguiled you with some vile sorcery."

"I am most definitely bewitched." Jon Snow let out a bark of laughter, then pulled her in his lap, embracing her body as his head rested upon her shoulder, and his mouth began to pepper her neck with soft, warm kisses, making her insides heat and flutter. By the time his mouth approached her ear, Val had already melted. "Your wiles are irresistible! Tongues will always wag - they call me the warg lord or Lord Snow. A sorcerous witch would make a fitting wife for the likes of me."

She turned to face him, face flushed.

"You want to wed?"

Val had not contemplated that idea much before; stealing and bedding was one thing, but you could still decide to leave or find another lover. On the other hand, marriage was far rarer, different and more final - it was a union that lasted until death before the eyes of the gods. In fact, not many of the free folk ever bothered with things like that.

"Aye, I'll take you before the heart tree and speak the vows if you wish," his voice was as soft as the silken cot in his fancy tent. "I am not blind - I can see you glaring at the spearwives as if you wanted to claw their eyes out for looking at me."

Oh gods, she wanted it. Yet, she could not bring herself to say yes just yet.

"You don't want to have a dozen lovers or wives akin to the likes of Ygon Oldfather and his odd brood?"

"There is a certain appeal to that, I'll admit," she would have slapped his arm if there wasn't an amused smirk on his face, "but that's what the savage folk do. We, southrons, only wed once."

The words made her pause. Once wed, the spearwife was supposed to put down her spear, get her belly heavy with babes, and rely on her man for most things. It was not much different from what was happening now, but there were no babes…

The thought was not unappealing, and it would get the other lusty spearwives to finally back off - a married man was not to be snatched, and Jon Snow would never leave her.

"I will not be your meek and mewling southron lady, Jon Snow," she reluctantly peeled her body off his and gazed into his eyes. "But I would wed you."