Winter's Thaw

Hitting the Wall

Jon

He was back to feeling like himself, or at least pretending to be. He even looked more alive, like a person, but he didn't feel it. He stroked Ghost's fur, glad for the comfort of his presence. He was quiet, too quiet; it let him think clearly. No solutions were forthcoming, making him more anxious than anything else. He could only wait for a strike, the end, or a miracle.

All he could do now was hold The Wall, for as long as possible.

But he knew to check on the different posts, keep up training, and strengthen structural weaknesses. These were the things he could do.

A knock at the door. Good, something to distract him.

"Yes."

Sam enters out of breath.

"There are thousands of men outside The Wall, they say they're here to fight alongside us, against The Others."

"Men from where?" Though he half knows the answer already.

"Baratheon troops, led by Lord Stannis Baratheon." He lets out the air in his chest with a big whoosh. Ghost cocks his head in interest.

"Baratheon." He repeats, immediately recognizing his new connection to the stags. Was it possible?

"Well they're in the mess hall, they had a long journey, but they brought some supplies. And more men, Jon, that's more men, more weapons. It's a good thing."

"Indeed. I'll be down shortly. You go on." He felt strange, the chance she could be down there, but hoping too that she wouldn't be. It was dangerous here; he wanted her alive, but to see her again...

And all of it was so strange. It was as Melisandre promised. She hadn't been specific on the time frame, but she had sworn help would come from two different fronts. And here it was.

He checks himself in the mirror; he looks like he's supposed to- The Lord Commander. Still alive, mostly. With Ghost plodding along silently at his side, he heads down.

At the doorway to the hall, Ghost perks up, sniffing excitedly, but in no general direction. What was he smelling? Ghost sniffs a few more times before settling back down, losing interest or the scent itself. 

Perhaps she was here. But could her scent have changed that much? Had his?

He stops to look through the new faces, searching for one familiar one.

Many men, and women too, The Wildlings a strange but welcome sight in their midst. He truly felt they weren't so different; he'd spent too much time among them to think of them with anything less than respect.

Some have faces painted green or purple or blue; some shoeless with feet hard as boiled leather; more with armor made of discs, the likes of which don't exist South of The Wall. Wildlings and Crows alike, sitting, eating, and drinking, glad for the influx of ale, no doubt. In good spirits, heartened by the extra men too.

His own men, minus the traitors, had proven more loyal than he thought other men capable of. He loved his Crow brothers, and missed the ones long gone, even those he'd had to execute. 

And he missed Ygritte, no matter how he tried not to. 

Ghost runs over to Sam for some scraps, leaving him alone. The new men are startled at the sight of the large animal, but upon Ghost's good behavior, they calm down slowly.

Jon finds the Lord easily enough, surrounded by his personal retinue, while others scatter amongst the others. The Baratheon stag against a flaming heart. An older man, stern, tall; he can see right away is Stannis. And beside him, bright red hair and pale white skin. Melisandre had found him quickly enough; she'd foreseen it after all. They spoke in secret whispers. On his other side, is an older man with a kind face and a round sigil upon his breast. An onion? Across is a tall man, broad, black hair, black tunic; but he can't see his face. He searches the others, soldier after soldier, but she's not there. Arya would be among them at this table, a lady among lords.