A Feast for Dragons

the steps two at a time, nodding to the queen’s guards
as he descended. Her Grace had posted men on every landing to keep her safe
from murderous wildlings. Halfway down, a voice called out from above him. “Jon
Snow.”
    Jon turned. “Lady Melisandre.”
    “We must speak.”
    “Must we?”
I think not
. “My lady, I have duties.”
    “It is those duties I would speak of.” She made her way
down, the hem of her scarlet skirts swishing over the steps. It almost seemed
as if she floated. “Where is your direwolf?”
    “Asleep in my chambers. Her Grace does not allow Ghost in
her presence. She claims he scares the princess. And so long as Borroq and his
boar are about, I dare not let him loose.” The skinchanger was to accompany
Soren Shieldbreaker to Stonedoor once the wayns carrying the Sealskinner’s clan
to Greenguard returned. Until such time, Borroq had taken up residence in one
of the ancient tombs beside the castle lichyard. The company of men long dead
seemed to suit him better than that of the living, and his boar seemed happy
rooting amongst the graves, well away from other animals. “That thing is the
size of a bull, with tusks as long as swords. Ghost would go after him if he
were loose, and one or both of them would not survive the meeting.”
    “Borroq is the least of your concerns. This ranging …”
    “A word from you might have swayed the queen.”
    “Selyse has the right of this, Lord Snow.
Let them
die
. You cannot save them. Your ships are lost—”
    “Six remain. More than half the fleet.”
    “Your ships are lost.
All
of them. Not a man
shall return. I have seen that in my fires.”
    “Your fires have been known to lie.”
    “I have made mistakes, I have admitted as much, but—”
    “A grey girl on a dying horse. Daggers in the dark. A
promised prince, born in smoke and salt. It seems to me that you make nothing
but
mistakes, my lady. Where is Stannis? What of Rattleshirt and his spearwives?
Where
is my sister?”
    “All your questions shall be answered. Look to the skies,
Lord Snow. And when you have your answers, send to me. Winter is almost upon us
now. I am your only hope.”
    “A fool’s hope.” Jon turned and left her.
    Leathers was prowling the yard outside. “Toregg has
returned,” he reported when Jon emerged. “His father’s settled his people at
Oakenshield and will be back this afternoon with eighty fighting men. What did
the bearded queen have to say?”
    “Her Grace can provide no help.”
    “Too busy plucking out her chin hairs, is she?” Leathers
spat. “Makes no matter. Tormund’s men and ours will be enough.”
    Enough to get us there, perhaps
. It was the
journey back that concerned Jon Snow. Coming home, they would be slowed by
thousands of free folk, many sick and starved.
A river of humanity
moving slower than a river of ice
. That would leave them vulnerable.
Dead
things in the woods. Dead things in the water
. “How many men are
enough?” he asked Leathers. “A hundred? Two hundred? Five hundred? A thousand?”
Should I take more
men, or fewer?
A smaller
ranging would reach Hardhome sooner … but what good were swords
without food? Mother Mole and her people were already at the point of eating
their own dead. To feed them, he would need to bring carts and wagons, and
draft animals to haul them—horses, oxen, dogs. Instead of flying through the
wood, they would be condemned to crawl. “There is still much to decide. Spread
the word. I want all the leading men in the Shieldhall when the evening watch
begins. Tormund should be back by then. Where can I find Toregg?”
    “With the little monster, like as not. He’s taken a liking
to one o’ them milkmaids, I hear.”
    He has taken a liking to Val. Her sister was a queen,
why not her?
Tormund had once thought to make himself the
King-Beyond-the-Wall, before Mance had bested him. Toregg the Tall might well
be dreaming the same dream.
Better him than Gerrick Kingsblood
.
“Let them be,” said Jon. “I can speak with Toregg later.” He glanced up past
the King’s Tower. The Wall was a dull white, the sky above it whiter.
A
snow sky
. “Just pray we do not get another storm.”
    Outside the armory, Mully and the Flea stood shivering at
guard. “Shouldn’t you be inside, out of this wind?” Jon asked.
    “That’d be sweet, m’lord,” said Fulk the Flea, “but your
wolf’s in no mood for company today.”
    Mully agreed. “He tried to take a bite o’ me, he