The Wall

They arrived in a snowstorm, the blizzard that had troubled Stannis on his march to Winterfell only growing twice as worse in the passing years. It had been a constant, and men, plant and animal alike were scythed down by winter’s chill. The snow came up to a tall man’s knees and a short man’s hips, with those lucky enough to still have their horse avoiding the worst of it. Most of them had been killed and eaten on the road through the Neck, where the ground turned their mounts into burdens. They started to stave to death shortly after; five hundred had died of sickness or famine before they had even reached Moat Cailin. They found a little succour at Winterfell, but for a whale Lord Manderly was miserly with their stores and only permit them to stay but one night. And so more froze and starved.

Ser Eustace Osgrey still had his horse, lean and sickly though it was. His green and white silks had bend traded for black wool and furs, and a pair of fine boots that he had shamefully pilfered from the corpse of Short Jon Roxton, who’d begun to find blood in his spittle after they passed Last Hearth. The Reachmen who’d survived and were too proud to serve Stannis rode together near the snaking column’s head, with Lord Tarly and Lord Osgrey Chief among them. They were the privileged few that could afford horses and furs, and so few of them had fallen victim to the same cold and pestilence that had slain many hundreds of the sellswords and footmen that fought for the Red Dragon. The Northerners that escorted them had kept all the provisions and horses to themselves, and so were spared the worst of winter’s ravaging.

The Wall had loomed over them for some time, but now they were in its shadow, at the very gates of Castle Black. The Lord Commander was away on a ranging, or so they’d heard, and so the ancient Ser Denys Mallister rode to greet them with a hundred of the Wall’s finest; vagabonds and cutthroats that had been coupling with Wildlings, if the rumours were true. A few hundred of those so called Free Folk came to watch them take their vows, too, which Osgrey muttered before the altar of the Sept. There were many more of them than there were actual Watchmen, Osgrey noted, but any seeds of rebellion were swiftly put to an end when the ever miserable Lord Snow hanged twenty sellswords for plotting a mutiny. They took their placed in the ranks, the sudden swelling of numbers putting an immense strain on the supplies. They would have to eat half rations for the foreseeable future. Their new quarters were rather miserable, too, but it was better than being out in the cold.

So, there they were, freezing their balls off at the edge of the world. Next morning they would be risen for their first muster, so Osgrey went to console himself with a good night of sleep.

Ser Randyll Tarly entered the hall of Castle black, his thick fur cloak pulled tight against the cold of the Wall. He, along with the rest of the new arrivals, had been less than a week on the wall, and it would be long yet before he acclimated to the chill, if his old bones ever did. Another thing that would take getting used to, both for himself and for any man who had ever seen the former Lord Tarly ride to war, was the sight of castle-forged steel on his hip. He had never spent a day apart from the the mighty Greatsword of his house since he had risen to Lordship of Horn Hill, so many years ago, but now it remained with his son in the Reach, and he stood within the sparsely adorned halls of the Night's Watch fortress. He tugged a hand through the beard that he had not shaven since he had departed the castle - a King's Hand, then, if only for a while - and approached the sputtering hearth. The newly appointed Lord Commander still had not returned from his ranging, but Snow - Stark now, he reminded himself - had enough familiarity with the position to integrate the new recruits.

He and Lord Osgrey both had been treated with some respect for their previous station, not forced to join as rank-and-file among the other thousands of recruits, but command didn't spare one from taking half rations. Nor should it. Randyll approved, on the whole, of the way Jon was handling things here. He was more than capable, it seemed, and would no doubt make a fine warden of the north. Some of the veteran rangers told whispered tales of horrors beyond the wall, so it seemed such a strong hand might be necessary sooner rather than later.

He found Eustace Osgrey among those who had already gathered around the fire, come in from the same training that Randyll had. They may not need the instruction in the ways of combat that a poacher or thief might, but there were still things to learn on the wall. Riding in the Vanguard of a Reach host did not necessarily prepare one for ranging beyond the wall. From somewhere in the castle above, the raw croak of a crow echoed down. Snow! Snow! Another thing to get used to on the wall, it seemed. He hailed the group when he approached, pulling of soaked gloves so that his hands could feel the heat of the hearth.

"Ser indeed. For all of us." Tarly smiled grimly, something that would have been a rare sight not long ago. Somehow the event that had stripped him of land, titles, and any future beyond freezing and dying had granted the grizzled warrior at last something of a sense of humor, albeit one that would have made Tyrion Lannister proud for its bitter, sardonic nature. "I had heard much the same - would be nice to have some recognition, but I'm mostly hoping I get a command so I don't have to sleep with this lot." He made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the handful of veteran brothers and Reachmen that stood around them, and was rewarded with a few laughs from the former. the Reachmen were too cold to do much more than shiver. Even in the dead of winter, it would have been mild and pleasant in their homeland - still was, he supposed, though they were not there to see it.

He shifted his feet, and gripped the hilt of his sword, his gaze drifting into the flickering flame. Melessa would be home, with their two unwed daughters, and Dickon and Eleanor would be sitting as Lord and Lady of Horn Hill now. Talla would be in Highgarden with Willas, hopefully the two of them still fared well. He bore no ill will against Mace Tyrell's eldest son, his own son-in-law, though he imagined there might be some resentment the other way. Hopefully Dickon would be spared the effects of that resentment.

"I must confess, I hadn't realized just how sparse our defenses had become here in the North. If Lord Stark and King Stannis hadn't managed to talk the Wildlings onto their side, we might have soon had more to worry about than who sits the Iron Throne."

Rickon Umber arrived at the gates of castle black. Accompanied by a small band of men of Last Hearth.

"Adventure" the youngest of the Greatjon his children had said. "But mostly Wildling blood" he quickly added.

Umber spat on the snow, the heat of his spit sacking through the snow as if it was a knife through butter. "I didn't come to go beyond the wall." Rickon said irritated. "I have come to question these fucking wildlings, in search for my niece." Rickon Umber's niece had been abducted from the grounds of Last Hearth by stinking Wildlings, now Lord Snow had let these mortal enemies in the Umbers would hunt for her until the end of days, or at least until the last Wildling in the north had been slayed. "Point me towards where the largest wildling group resides and me and my men will do the rest crow."

Randyll nodded slowly. They had both heard the tales - all of the men who had come to the north had heard the tales. "Aye, Snow, er Stark, whatever he is now, seems to be living proof that Old Magic still runs through the soil this far North." Despite the heat, the old knight felt a chill run through him. He had spoken to Jon a few times on the ride north, and the young lord had seemed grim, and urgent to get the men North. What reason would he have for that if the Wildmen had been brought to heel? He had also heard about the Dragonglass being shipped north. Privately, he was torn. On one hand, if the men were that genuinely concerned with these walking dead, then perhaps there was something to the rumors after all. On the other hand though, his first instinct was that the cold had seeped into their brains.

"We both saw Stannis and his flaming sword. If one prophecy can come true, why not another? All of this talk of Dragonglass almost makes me wish I'd brought Heartsbane north with me. See how those corpses fair against Valyrian steel. But no, my son needs it more than I will now."

The fire having warmed him now, he pulled his hood back and looked around the room. "It's not only our brothers that seem wary either, I've noticed," he said, lowering his voice, "The Wildlings look to the North with fear as well, and who would know it better than them? I begin to think more every day that we are not so distant from the events that will shape the world as I had thought we might be."

His face was grim now, mind racing. He had led men into battle many times, but only against other men so far. Men who could bleed and fall and die just like them. If he was given a command, it would be a challenge he had never faced before. Refreshing, in a way; he had always known he would die leading men, but he hadn't expected to have to learn how to fight a different foe.