A Feast for Dragons

cold, hardly more than heaps of rubble. At
Eastwatch we heard talk of rats and spiders.”
    The cold will have killed the spiders by now
,
thought Jon,
and the rats may be a useful source of meat come winter
.
“All true, Your Grace … but even ruins offer some shelter. And the
Wall will stand between them and the Others.”
    “I see you have considered all this carefully, Lord Snow. I
am sure King Stannis will be pleased when he returns triumphant from his battle.”
    Assuming he returns at all
.
    “Of course,” the queen went on, “the wildlings must first
acknowledge Stannis as their king and R’hllor as their god.”
    And here we are, face-to-face in the narrow passage
.
“Your Grace, forgive me. Those were not the terms that we agreed to.”
    The queen’s face hardened. “A grievous oversight.” What
faint traces of warmth her voice had held vanished all at once.
    “Free folk do not kneel,” Val told her.
    “Then they must be knelt,” the queen declared.
    “Do that, Your Grace, and we will rise again at the first
chance,” Val promised. “Rise with blades in hand.”
    The queen’s lips tightened, and her chin gave a small
quiver. “You are insolent. I suppose that is only to be expected of a wildling.
We must find you a husband who can teach you courtesy.” The queen turned her
glare on Jon. “I do not approve, Lord Commander. Nor will my lord husband. I
cannot prevent you from opening your gate, as we both know full well, but I
promise you that you shall answer for it when the king returns from battle.
Mayhaps you might want to reconsider.”
    “Your Grace.” Jon knelt again. This time Val did not join
him. “I am sorry my actions have displeased you. I did as I thought best. Do I
have your leave to go?”
    “You do. At once.”
    Once outside and well away from the queen’s men, Val gave
vent to her wroth. “You lied about her beard. That one has more hair on her
chin than I have between my legs. And the daughter … her face …”
    “Greyscale.”
    “The grey death is what we call it.”
    “It is not always mortal in children.”
    “North of the Wall it is. Hemlock is a sure cure, but a
pillow or a blade will work as well. If I had given birth to that poor child, I
would have given her the gift of mercy long ago.”
    This was a Val that Jon had never seen before. “Princess
Shireen is the queen’s only child.”
    “I pity both of them. The child is not clean.”
    “If Stannis wins his war, Shireen will stand as heir to the
Iron Throne.”
    “Then I pity your Seven Kingdoms.”
    “The maesters say greyscale is not—”
    “The maesters may believe what they wish. Ask a woods witch
if you would know the truth. The grey death sleeps, only to wake again.
The
child is not clean!”
    “She seems a sweet girl. You cannot know—”
    “I can. You know nothing, Jon Snow.” Val seized his arm. “I
want the monster out of there. Him and his wet nurses. You cannot leave them in
that same tower as the dead girl.”
    Jon shook her hand away.
“She is not dead.”
    “She is. Her mother cannot see it. Nor you, it seems. Yet
death is there.” She walked away from him, stopped, turned back. “I brought you
Tormund Giantsbane. Bring me my monster.”
    “If I can, I will.”
    “Do. You owe me a debt, Jon Snow.”
    Jon watched her stride away.
She is wrong. She must
be wrong. Greyscale is not so deadly as she claims, not in children
.
    Ghost was gone again. The sun was low in the west.
A
cup of hot spiced wine would serve me well just now. Two cups would serve me
even better
. But that would have to wait. He had foes to face. Foes of
the worst sort: brothers.
    He found Leathers waiting for him by the winch cage. The two
of them rode up together. The higher they went, the stronger the wind. Fifty
feet up, the heavy cage began to sway with every gust. From time to time it
scraped against the Wall, starting small crystalline showers of ice that
sparkled in the sunlight as they fell. They rose above the tallest towers of
the castle. At four hundred feet the wind had teeth, and tore at his black
cloak so it slapped noisily at the iron bars. At seven hundred it cut right
through him.
The Wall is mine
, Jon reminded himself as the
winchmen were swinging in the cage,
for two more days, at least
.
    Jon hopped down onto the ice, thanked the men on the winch,
and nodded to the spearmen standing sentry. Both wore woolen hoods pulled down
over their heads, so nothing could be seen of their