Chapter 133 130

The North. The Wall. 299 AC.

Jon Snow.

He was a bastard who had wanted nothing more than to be a brother of the Night's Watch, and they received him like some important capital dignitary. The irony of it coaxed a small smile from Jon. In the yard the Lord Commander himself, Jeor Mormont, was waiting alongside every man of consequence in the order. The customary formalities passed, and they moved to the great hall. Word by word, polite conversation gave way to something more purposeful.

"Why are the wildlings marching south?" The question had gnawed at Jon for some time.

"Nothing unusual about it," Lord Mormont replied, untroubled. "Every few generations a King-Beyond-the-Wall appears, unites the scattered clans, and tries to storm the Wall."

"That is not what I mean. Fifty thousand wildlings is an enormous army, the largest the lands beyond the Wall have ever seen. Past kings of theirs gathered ten or fifteen thousand at most." The men around the table were beginning to sense where the question was leading. "What could have raised a host like that?"

Those present exchanged uncertain glances. Jon was now certain they knew something and were unwilling to say it. It might have stayed that way, but the Old Bear spoke up.

"Of late, certain rumors have been coming out of the far North. They speak of the Others." Nonsense, or gross exaggeration. They could have invented something more convincing.

"The White Walkers. An old tale. They use it to frighten disobedient children."

"Then you ought to remember what the tale says," Ser Alliser Thorne cut in. "I have been out there, beyond the Wall, and I have spent my life killing wildlings. And I cannot think of anything else that could unite that rabble of unprincipled killers who would happily cut each other's throats."

"Eight thousand years without a single mention of the Others, and you want to tell me... what, exactly?"

"Boy, you..." Thorne looked ready to unleash a full tirade, but Mormont cut him off.

"They are only rumors. Rangers are already out there verifying them, looking for confirmation or the lack of it." The old man's heavy gaze silenced both Snow and Thorne. "Whether it is true or not, only time will tell. But one thing is beyond dispute: fifty thousand wildlings, not including the non-combatants, want to break through to the south, and only we can stop them."

"Within two weeks, five hundred men will arrive. The remaining fifteen hundred by the end of the following month, along with provisions, weapons, horses, and builders." Their eyes made clear they had hoped for more. "We are at war. I gathered everyone I could."

"I understand," Mormont said, and sighed heavily. "We need to prepare and draw up a plan."

...

Five days. The bastard had been at the Wall for five days now. The impressions of his childhood had been wrong. There was nothing honorable here, nothing equal, nothing of the lofty sentiment he had once attached to the idea. The Night's Watch was simply a gathering of refuse from every corner of the kingdom. There were volunteers, yes, but precious few compared to the rest.

The rangers returned today, but brought nothing useful beyond their dead. Uncle Benjen and a dozen more, after sending back the killed and wounded, had taken the risk of pressing deeper into wildling territory. The one piece of information that might be called useful was that the giant tribes had joined Mance's host. Jon had laughed at first, taking giants for a myth, but the bones beneath the castle had proven otherwise. Beyond the Wall, what the civilized world dismissed as myth was ordinary fact. He was beginning to understand now what weight to give the suggestion about the Others. The thought was not a comfortable one.

That night he was woken by shouting and the clash of steel. Without a moment's pause Snow threw on his clothes, took his sword in hand, and ran toward the sounds of the attack. On the way he came across a man whose head had been twisted around to face backward. The corpse drove out the last remnants of sleep and lent him something like energy. It did not stop him from moving carefully, testing every suspicious corner with the point of his blade.

"Who's there?" No answer came, but a figure in the black cloak of the Night's Watch stepped out to meet him.

Seeing the black cloak, Jon relaxed slightly and even lowered his sword. That was his mistake. The figure lunged and managed to knock the bastard to the ground. Only good reflexes kept the man's teeth from finding his throat. Jon had no time for fear. He used his legs to throw the man over himself, scrambled upright, threw himself forward, and put his full weight behind the blow. Steel opened part of the forearm and lodged somewhere in the belly.

The return blow came instantly. Jon found himself on the ground again. His eyes fixed on the thing above him: glowing blue eyes, a strip of peeled skin hanging grotesquely from its forehead by the last threads, and an unnatural pallor like that of a corpse.

Gods. He knew that face. It was one of the ranger's dead. But he had seen it lying cold.

The dead man drew the sword from its own body without haste. Stepped forward. There was no blood. The one-armed corpse walked as though it felt nothing. Such things had no right to exist in this world. When the dead man raised its arm for the killing blow, Ser Alliser arrived and took the arm off at the shoulder. The corpse turned in search of new prey and received a torch to the face instead.

Jon had never heard a sound so vile. The wight caught all at once and began rolling across the ground trying to smother the fire. It could not manage it; the flames only grew, and ten seconds later the dead man was still.

"Well then, Lord Snow," Thorne said, with his customary bite. "Do you believe in fairy tales now?"