A Feast for Dragons

of Queen Selyse’s
knights had come as well, Jon saw. Ser Narbert and Ser Benethon stood near the
door at the foot of the hall. But the rest of the queen’s men were conspicuous
in their absence. “I had hoped to lead the ranging myself and bring back as
many of the free folk as could survive the journey.” A flash of red in the back
of the hall caught Jon’s eye. Lady Melisandre had arrived. “But now I find I
cannot go to Hardhome. The ranging will be led by Tormund Giantsbane, known to
you all. I have promised him as many men as he requires.”
    “And
where will you be, crow?”
Borroq thundered.
“Hiding here in Castle Black with your white dog?”
    “No. I ride south.” Then Jon read them the letter Ramsay
Snow had written.
    The Shieldhall went mad.
    Every man began to shout at once. They leapt to their feet,
shaking fists.
So much for the calming power of comfortable benches
.
Swords were brandished, axes smashed against shields. Jon Snow looked to
Tormund. The Giantsbane sounded his horn once more, twice as long and twice as
loud as the first time.
    “The Night’s Watch takes no part in the wars of the Seven
Kingdoms,” Jon reminded them when some semblance of quiet had returned. “It is
not for us to oppose the Bastard of Bolton, to avenge Stannis Baratheon, to
defend his widow and his daughter. This
creature
who makes
cloaks from the skins of women has sworn to cut my heart out, and I mean to
make him answer for those words … but I will not ask my brothers to
forswear their vows.
    “The Night’s Watch will make for Hardhome. I ride to
Winterfell alone, unless …” Jon paused. “… is there any man here who
will come stand with me?”
    The roar was all he could have hoped for, the tumult so loud
that the two old shields tumbled from the walls. Soren Shieldbreaker was on his
feet, the Wanderer as well. Toregg the Tall, Brogg, Harle the Huntsman and
Harle the Handsome both, Ygon Oldfather, Blind Doss, even the Great Walrus.
I
have my swords
, thought Jon Snow,
and we are coming for you,
Bastard
.
    Yarwyck and Marsh were slipping out, he saw, and all their
men behind them. It made no matter. He did not need them now. He did not
want
them.
No man can ever say I made my brothers break their vows. If this
is oathbreaking, the crime is mine and mine alone
. Then Tormund was
pounding him on the back, all gap-toothed grin from ear to ear. “Well spoken,
crow. Now bring out the mead! Make them yours and get them drunk, that’s how
it’s done. We’ll make a wildling o’ you yet, boy. Har!”
    “I will send for ale,” Jon said, distracted. Melisandre was
gone, he realized, and so were the queen’s knights.
I should have gone
to Selyse first
.
She has the right to know her lord is dead
.
“You must excuse me. I’ll leave you to get them drunk.”
    “Har! A task I’m well suited for, crow. On your way!”
    Horse and Rory fell in beside Jon as he left the Shieldhall.
I should talk with Melisandre after I see the queen
, he
thought.
If she could see a raven in a storm, she can find Ramsay Snow
for me
. Then he heard the shouting … and a roar so loud it
seemed to shake the Wall. “That come from Hardin’s Tower, m’lord,” Horse
reported. He might have said more, but the scream cut him off.
    Val
, was Jon’s first thought. But that was
no woman’s scream.
That is a man in mortal agony
. He broke into
a run. Horse and Rory raced after him. “Is it wights?” asked Rory. Jon
wondered. Could his corpses have escaped their chains?
    The screaming had stopped by the time they came to Hardin’s
Tower, but Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun was still roaring. The giant was dangling a
bloody corpse by one leg, the same way Arya used to dangle her doll when she
was small, swinging it like a morningstar when menaced by vegetables.
Arya
never tore her dolls to pieces, though
. The dead man’s sword arm was
yards away, the snow beneath it turning red.
    “Let him go,” Jon shouted. “Wun Wun,
let him go.”
    Wun Wun did not hear or did not understand. The giant was
bleeding himself, with sword cuts on his belly and his arm. He swung the dead
knight against the grey stone of the tower, again and again and again, until
the man’s head was red and pulpy as a summer melon. The knight’s cloak flapped
in the cold air. Of white wool it had been, bordered in cloth-of-silver and
patterned with blue stars. Blood and bone were flying everywhere.
    Men poured from the surrounding keeps and towers.