A Feast for Dragons

a raven pecking at his chest. “
Snow
,”
the bird cried. Jon swatted at it. The raven shrieked its displeasure and
flapped up to a bedpost to glare down balefully at him through the predawn
gloom.
    The day had come. It was the hour of the wolf. Soon enough
the sun would rise, and four thousand wildlings would come pouring through the
Wall.
Madness
. Jon Snow ran his burned hand through his hair
and wondered once again what he was doing. Once the gate was opened there would
be no turning back.
It should have been the Old Bear to treat with
Tormund. It should have been Jaremy Rykker or Qhorin Halfhand or Denys
Mallister or some other seasoned man. It should have been my uncle
. It
was too late for such misgivings, though. Every choice had its risks, every
choice its consequences. He would play the game to its conclusion.
    He rose and dressed in darkness, as Mormont’s raven muttered
across the room.
“Corn,”
the bird said, and,
“King,”
and,
“Snow, Jon Snow, Jon Snow.”
That was queer. The bird had
never said his full name before, as best Jon could recall.
    He broke his fast in the cellar with his officers. Fried
bread, fried eggs, blood sausages, and barley porridge made up the meal, washed
down with thin yellow beer. As they ate they went over the preparations yet
again. “All is in readiness,” Bowen Marsh assured him. “If the wildlings uphold
the terms of the bargain, all will go as you’ve commanded.”
    And if not, it may turn to blood and carnage
.
“Remember,” Jon said, “Tormund’s people are hungry, cold, and fearful. Some of
them hate us as much as some of you hate them. We are dancing on rotten ice here,
them and us. One crack, and we all drown. If blood should be shed today, it had
best not be one of us who strikes the first blow, or I swear by the old gods
and the new that I will have the head of the man who strikes it.”
    They answered him with ayes and nods and muttered words,
with “As you command,” and “It will be done,” and “Yes, my lord.” And one by
one they rose and buckled on their swords and donned their warm black cloaks
and strode out into the cold.
    Last to leave the table was Dolorous Edd Tollett, who had
come in during the night with six wagons from the Long Barrow. Whore’s Barrow,
the black brothers called the fortress now. Edd had been sent to gather up as
many spearwives as his wagons would hold and bring them back to join their
sisters.
    Jon watched him mop up a runny yolk with a chunk of bread.
It was strangely comforting to see Edd’s dour face again. “How goes the
restoration work?” he asked his old steward.
    “Ten more years should do it,” Tollett replied in his usual
gloomy tone. “Place was overrun with rats when we moved in. The spearwives
killed the nasty buggers. Now the place is overrun with spearwives. There’s
days I want the rats back.”
    “How do you find serving under Iron Emmett?” Jon asked.
    “Mostly it’s Black Maris serving under him, m’lord. Me, I
have the mules. Nettles claims we’re kin. It’s true we have the same long face,
but I’m not near as stubborn. Anyway I never knew their mothers, on my honor.”
He finished the last of his eggs and sighed. “I do like me a nice runny egg. If
it please m’lord, don’t let the wildlings eat all our chickens.”
    Out in the yard, the eastern sky had just begun to lighten.
There was not a wisp of cloud in sight. “We have a good day for this, it would
seem,” Jon said. “A bright day, warm and sunny.”
    “The Wall will weep. And winter almost on us. It’s
unnatural, m’lord. A bad sign, you ask me.”
    Jon smiled. “And if it were to snow?”
    “A worse sign.”
    “What sort of weather would you prefer?”
    “The sort they keep indoors,” said Dolorous Edd. “If it
please m’lord, I should get back to my mules. They miss me when I’m gone. More
than I can say for them spearwives.”
    They parted there, Tollett for the east road, where his
wagons waited, Jon Snow for the stables. Satin had his horse saddled and
bridled and waiting for him, a fiery grey courser with a mane as black and
shiny as maester’s ink. He was not the sort of mount that Jon would have chosen
for a ranging, but on this morning all that mattered was that he look
impressive, and for that the stallion was a perfect choice.
    His tail was waiting too. Jon had never liked surrounding
himself with guards, but today it seemed prudent to keep a few good men beside
him. They made a grim