Chapter 132 129

The North. Winterfell. 299 AC.

Jon Snow.

Seated in his study (gods, he would never grow accustomed to that), was a man of middle age with a distinguished face and a sardonic smile. Jon's eye caught involuntarily on the knight's cloak clasp, which bore the sigil of a Crownlands house: a white saltire on azure, crossed by two black warhammers. The Rykker arms, Lords of Duskendale. Jon, drawing on what his uncle Benjen had told him, understood that he was looking at one of the finest rangers in the entire order, Jaremy Rykker. Unfortunately, beyond the name and a handful of stories, Snow could recall nothing of substance.

"And what business brings a brother of the Night's Watch here to Winterfell?" His voice came out rougher than he intended, but Jon was in a poor mood.

"Need, my lord. The Starks have always been the truest friends the Night's Watch has ever had. For thousands of years we have stood together against the wildlings, and we need that friendship now more than ever." Rykker passed him a letter and added, "The details are inside."

It took two minutes to read. Had he been alone, Jon might have groaned aloud. The absence of an army in the North and the war in the south were making the region's position more precarious by the day. Pirate raids from the Shivering Sea and the Sunset Sea grew bolder with each passing month, enormous bands of outlaws were ranging across the countryside and preying on smallfolk ahead of winter, wildling raids were increasing in frequency, and the war in the south still demanded men and coin.

"I thank you for the journey, ser. Be my guest while I work out how best to help you." Seeing that the knight was about to object, Jon spoke first. "One day. No more."

The messenger had no choice but to rise, give a short bow, and withdraw to the chambers set aside for him. The moment the door closed and Jon was alone, he sank back into the chair. Sensing, somewhere below conscious thought, that this would be the hardest decision of his life, Snow began to turn the wretched situation over in his mind.

Fifty thousand wildlings was a serious force even if the full army of the North stood ready to meet them, which it did not. The Watch had barely a thousand men, and only a quarter of those were fighters. If the Wall broke, everything on the southern side of it would be swept away in a matter of hours. The only chance lay in stripping every other post and throwing everything at the defense of that great slab of ice.

A grim choice from every angle. Baring the rear would leave thousands of people defenseless against the North's other enemies, but if he did not, and the Wall fell, the entire region would go under the heel of the wildlings. In the moment of deciding, Jon felt wretched.

"Send for Maester Luwin."

...

Castle Black was the Night's Watch's most vital stronghold, the center of the brotherhood's operations and the seat of its Lord Commander. Of the nineteen castles along the Wall, only three were garrisoned by the start of 299, and Castle Black itself held six hundred men. Any war was a windfall for the Night's Watch, bringing a flood of convicted criminals and defeated nobles through its gates. Over the course of the year, three factions had been engaged in active fighting, with several others playing secondary roles, Dorne, the Iron Islands, Viserys. That peculiar situation had produced an extraordinary number of highborn men who, for one reason or another, could not be executed and whose ransoms could not be accepted. Such men were sent to the Wall, and the order's numbers and fighting strength grew accordingly.

Fifteen days passed after the messenger's arrival from Castle Black. A full week went into correspondence and coordination between lords. On paper, three thousand men could be gathered from across the North, but they were scattered across the entire region, and bringing them together promised to take time. How many would reach the battle before it was decided was anyone's guess.

Jon himself assembled what men and provisions he could and rode north personally, arriving at Castle Black eight days later.

He had heard often enough about the Watch's decline, but seeing it with his own eyes was something else entirely. Rotting timber buildings and half-crumbled stone towers: that was what awaited them. The ancient stronghold bore no resemblance to Winterfell, nothing about it suggested a castle at all. It had no walls. It could not be defended from the south, nor from the west.

And they were already waiting for him there.

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