( Jon POV )
...
Eastwatch or the Shadow Tower, Jon assumed, yet when he flipped it over the wax was gold rather than black. Stannis.
Jon cracked the seal and unfurled the parchment, casting his gaze over the script.
Stannis has taken Deepwood Motte. Though the Watch was sworn to take no sides in any conflict in the realm, Jon could not help but feel a swell of impotent satisfaction. The North is slowly warming to his cause, in spite the wildlings in his ranks, as they flee the Boltons and Greyjoys.
But for every bit of good news, there was bad. Lord Roose makes for Winterfell with all his strength.
Jon read the king's letter once more, then set the parchment down on his desk, watching it curl back up with trepidation as soon as he released it's edges. He could not be certain how he felt about what he'd just read. That a battle should be fought at the seat of House Stark without so much as a single Stark present felt wrong to him, almost tantamount to sacrilege. It was a painful prospect to entertain, that his childhood home might become the site of a bloodletting.
He wondered, for a moment, how many men Stannis could rally to his cause. Even ruined, Winterfell's walls and towers would confer a considerable advantage to any defender. Doubtless, Lord Roose would move to repair and reinforce his newfound redoubt, and Stannis's task would become harder still. If it were up to him, Jon might have changed his prior stance to advise speed and surprise over strength. Denying the Boltons the chance to rally and fortify was more important than matching their numbers, exhausted by a failed campaign in the south as they were. Else Stannis would have to raise a massive army, and spill an equally massive amount of northern blood.
Doubtless, that was the Boy King's intent. He must have known, as Jon did, that his uncle was a deliberate and careful commander, not given to the sort of daring boldness of his father. He must have known that such a battle would further deplete the north's already-limited capacity for war and peace alike, leaving it ripe for conquest.
A thinly-spread population scattered across rugged terrain might have shielded the North from any army lacking dragons, but it made the prospect of a peace enforced by grain and gold all the more likely. With much of the North's food stores depleted, and winter now doubtless looming large in the minds of many a northern lord, it did not take much imagination to see how the Boy King might make his approach. And if the tone of Tommen's letters were anything to go by, his lack of lingering resentments against the Stark name made his task all the more easier. His youth worked to his credit there. All around him were corpses and cripples and old men, ready to accept the blame for strife and slaughter.
No matter who won the Boy King would emerge stronger. An enfeebled House Bolton would not be able to resist his encroachment. Ironically, in their bid for independence from House Stark, the Boltons would wind up being slaves to an even more controlling master. Conversely, a weakened Stannis could not seriously threaten the south. And the northern lords - under threat of starvation - could be expected to betray Stannis with sufficient enticement. Some of them likely already had.
With the Riverlands subjugated, and the Reach and the Redwyne fleet under the Boy King's thumb by means of his wife, the prospect of aid from the south or from across the narrow sea for Stannis dwindled into nothingness. Short of the interference of the gods themselves, his cause was all but doomed.
It was only a matter of time.
In one effortless stroke Tommen Baratheon would subjugate an entire kingdom and eliminate a rival claimant to his throne. A feat worthy of the histories indeed.
When Jon had been a young boy, his hero had been another boy king. The young dragon, Daeron Targaryen, who at the age of fourteen had had the courage to launch and complete a conquest of Dorne. In his games with Robb, Jon had always been the young dragon, leading men to glory. Yet now he was a man, leading the Wall itself, and there was not an ounce of glory or daring to be seen. Only the dull, difficult reality. How did power do that? Suck the daring from one's soul? Suck the defiance, leaving only a cold, exhausted determination in it's wake?
Had Daeron conquered Dorne as Tommen planned to conquer the North? With cynical schemes and trickery? By sowing division and doubt? Had the histories lied?
Jon rubbed his eyes tiredly. The cold had intensified in recent weeks, and even the flames in his hearth seemed to shrink away from it. The snowfall had at least been mercifully light, even as the wind blustered past the Wall and through Castle Black, whistling between the gaps in the stonework. He had worked his way roughly through half the stack on his desk, writing out replies to most letters with orders or suggestions or supplications. His wrist ached. His head swam with bitter secrets and sweet lies.
Salvation came only in the form of more work. A knock on the door, three sharp raps in sequence.
"Come in," Jon called out.
In shuffled the steward, the septon and the maester-to-be. Bowen Marsh looked cautious, Jon could tell, perhaps a tad irritated. Septon Cellador simply seemed dishevelled; confused and unbalanced with his vestments rumpled. Only Sam had a friendly look about him, marred somewhat by a little frown.
"King Stannis has taken Deepwood Motte," Jon began.
Bowen's lips pursed with displeasure. "On your advice, my lord?"
Jon cocked his head in thought. "I offered a suggestion."
"Need I remind you who feeds us, my lord? The Iron Throne surely will not like this. And what of our neutrality?"
"You need not remind me of our neutrality. I know it well. And, I assure you, the Iron Throne knows and does not care." Bowen did not seem convinced by that half-truth - more confused, if anything - but at least he seemed to be willing to let the matter drop for the moment. "Now, why are you lot here?" Jon asked, eyeing Sam, who could only shrug.
"The men have concerns, my lord," Bowen began.
"The corpses?" Jon guessed.
"They make us all uneasy, I think," the septon said. "Some of the rangings you sent out have already come back with live wildlings - and we all understand why you elect to keep them. But to keep two wildling corpses locked up? And to keep them guarded besides? Surely that is a waste of good steel, unless..." Septon Callador trailed off, pale at the thought.
"Unless you mean to make them rise into wights," Sam finished for him.
Jon could only nod.
"Seven save us," the septon muttered, trembling, incredulous. "These wights are abominations, cursed in the eyes of the gods, both Old and New. Did the Red Woman put this mad notion in your head? You... you cannot mean to speak with them? Like she does with her flames?"
"Can they speak?" Jon asked, directing the question to Sam.
"Not so far as I know," Sam answered with a grimace. "Not the wights, at least. Not according to the annals. The walkers themselves..." Sam could only shrug.
"Hmm," Jon nodded. "In any case, Septon Callador, I do not intend to converse with these corpses. You might have noticed the Iron Throne's support for our cause in recent months. They have wizened to the threat posed by the walkers. But the Boy King is clear that his power is limited. Lord Tywin still governs much of the martial power in the south, and he will not be budged by words and stories. The same is true of all the other lords. They require proof before they will be moved. Especially after war has bled their coffers and killed many of their knights and levies. They need to be convinced the threat is imminent and sufficiently dire. The need to be convinced the threat is real."
"His Grace needs a wight," Bowen realised. "A live wight."
Jon nodded. "And unless you want me to send out men to go and catch one, the Ice Cells are the best solution I have." Stunned silence followed his statement. Not even the septon seemed to have a response to that. Only Sam seemed unsurprised - and that was because he already knew. "Anything else?"
"Is it on the king's advice you wrote Cotter Pyke?" Bowen abruptly asked.
Jon studied his steward's face. "Who told you?"
"I guessed when I heard the ships had set sail, my lord," Bowen said. "Cotter's focus has been to the south for some time now, my lord. Protecting the waters from pirates and raiders from both sides of the narrow sea.
For him to go north is not unheard of, but it would require good reason when our ports are so busy with southern ships laden with food, men, and dragonglass. And to make for Hardhome, of all places." Bowen shook his head.
...
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