Jon ignored him. He'd heard all Bowen's objections before. "Have the wagons been prepared?" he asked as he ascended the steps.
"Aye," Bowen answered tiredly. "Corn, flour, pickled fruits and all the rest."
...
Jon nodded even as he emerged into the blinding light, the snow glowing in the morning sun. The wagons were already arranged, bursting with the king's corn, Ghost waiting eagerly for him to emerge. The direwolf wagged it's tail half-nervously and half-excitedly as it bounded over to him and nuzzled by his thighs. Jon reached down and patted it's snout, stroking it's fur, seeking comfort in the loyal creature's steadfast companionship.
The Night's Watch has lost too many of it's best men, Jon thought sadly. The Old Bear, Qhorin Halfhand, Donal Noye, my own uncle...
The last few trips had seen some ugliness at Mole Town, and yet more lives had been lost. And so, as their journey began, Jon did not quarrel with Bowen as he insisted on bringing more guards. Though it had not escalated beyond a few sullen curses and a few resentful looks and a single fight started over a woman that had spiralled out of control, Jon knew better than to take unnecessary risks. And as he did so, he made sure to draft the Lord of Bones into his endeavours, if only to keep a close eye.
And so, as the column set off south down the kingsroad, the line of wagons wending around fords and frozen streams still flowing beneath a thin sheet of ice, a dozen spear-men and archers and a half-dozen swordsmen riding escort. Though Mole Town was best known as a place for those Black Brothers who sought to whet their appetites for women, recent times had turned it into a haven for those wildlings who had taken up Stannis's offer to settle south of the Wall.
Mole Town had always been larger than it looked; most of it buried in the tunnels underground where the residents could be shielded from the cold and snow. That was more true now than ever, as any surface signs of settlement had been reduced to ruins by wildling raids. But in the darkness of the vaults below the residents of the village endured, leading truly miserable lives, huddled and alone with death and destruction always lingering, the corpse of what had once been sitting forever above their heads.
Not today, however. The thick snows had carpeted the ruins, and the peace Stannis had struck - no matter how unsteady - seemed to be holding. For now when their line of wagons rolled forwards they were greeted by the sight of swarming children kneeled in the snow, building snowcastles and having fights and rolling around; giggling and screaming and forgetting for a second the harshness of their lives. Jon ordered his wagons to slow, saddened and comforted by the sight. These children had suffered so much that he was reluctant to disturb them.
But circumstances trumped sentiment. The children saw the Black Brothers and quickly scattered, disappearing down hatches and hidey-holes, turning a wondrous playground into another desolate waste, and a few moments later the faces of their parents poked up from the ground, red-faced and shivering. A few of the men climbed out to greet them whilst the women retreated back into their caves. The stench of unwashed bodies carried on the wind. Down in the vaults there were no baths, no rivers or streams. And even if there had been, the winter cold could render even the briefest dip deadly if one wasn't careful.
Mercifully, it seemed that the cold would be their biggest problem today. These men had by now learned their lessons. As the Black Brothers closed in there were a few moody looks and scowls and muttered japes at each other's expense, but nobody made an aggressive move. By the time the wagons had trundled to a stop, they were arranged in semi-neat rows, awaiting the food.
A shout went down - it was safe - and the women and children that previously gone down into hiding emerged again. A veritable flood of them. There were thrice as many women as men, and most men were wounded - crippled and broken. Of the children Jon had seen on his approach only a handful more emerged. Of the women who had carried babies on their arrival to Mole Town, most had none. They'd lost them to cold and disease.
Everyone's faces were the same. Cold, withered, gaunt and haunted. Their eyes lurked, suspicious and angry, exhausted. The men of fighting age formed a ring around their women, but even they were thin and weak and broken. Only the Thenns fared better, clad in their bronze armour and standing apart from the crowd, eyeing Jon's black brothers with more contempt than suspicion. Wolves lurk among these sheep, he reminded himself.
Jon shot a glance at Rattleshirt, standing at the back of the caravan. Depending on the way this went, the man - possibly a disguised Mance - could prove a valuable ally in uniting the wildlings or else he could prove himself an enemy and help to deepen their divisions. Only time would tell.
The black brothers began to pass out the food. They'd brought the toughest, worst pieces of meat and fruit and other sundry from their stores, but a great deal of it. A queue formed, and each person got a little chunk of everything. A sliver of salted meat, a small bag of flour, a few pickled fruits, dried beans and turnips, eggs and the like. This trip was more generous than the last few had been, and there were few complaints, but it was still deliberately meagre. How else could he entice them but by making them choose between privation and plenty?
These sorts of tactics roiled his stomach, but Tommen's advice was sound. And if he ever intended to make peace between the Watch and the wildlings, he would have to make use of more than good intentions. Steel, strength and cruelty would have to play a role as well. Deception, too. For the greater good.
Once much of the food had been distributed, Jon clambered atop one of the deliberately empty wagons, and made to speak. "We're doing our best to feed you all," he declared, to much consternation from the assembled crowd, "but a long winter lies ahead, and we only have so much to spare."
"It's not enough!" one woman cried, looking ragged and half-crazed, cradling a bundle that looked like a baby, but a second look revealed it to be a dead one.
There was a round of nodding. "You crows seem to eat well enough," one of the wildling men said. Out from the corner of his eye Jon saw the flash of steel.
Jon scowled. This was not going how he had intended. He peered down to the Lord of Bones waiting uncharacteristically patiently beside him. "Quiet them," he commanded down to the man.
Rattleshirt nodded, advanced to the front of the black brothers shielding Jon, his expression inscrutable behind his skull mask, and bellowed. "QUIET! QUIET! SHUT YER FUCKING MOUTHS!"
"You one of them now?" a wildling man accused. "A crow?" The black brothers drew their bows with bated breaths, nocking their arrows.
The Lord of Bones stared the offending wildling down, towering over the gaunt man, advancing threateningly. "I said quiet," he hissed, drawing a blade from a sheath concealed beneath his bone armour. "And call me a crow again and I'll cut out yer tongue."
The wildling man scowled, spat on the ground, but fell silent.
Jon cleared his throat. That had been too close for comfort. "We eat well because we hold the Wall," Jon explained. "You know the foe we face, you've seen them. Dead things with blue eyes and black hands. Wights and White Walkers. I've seen them, fought them, even slain one with this sword at my hip. They kill without mercy and send the corpses of your brethren to face you.
The giants tried to stop them and failed. Same of the Thenns," Jon said, gesturing to the bronze-clad men, "the ice-river clans, the Hornfoots and Mance. And as winter advances the enemy does too. You left your homes and came south to save yourselves, but the only thing protecting you is the Wall, and the only thing protecting the Wall is us. The Watch."
"Saved and starved," the same woman spat, clutching her dead baby tight to her breast, eyes feverish and mad.
"You want more food?" Jon asked. "Well, you have to earn it. That food is for fighters. For those willing to stand against the enemy. For those willing to join us on the Wall or wander beyond it when asked."
...
A/N :
Hey guys, So lately I've been hit by the irresistible urge to start another fanfic (I know, dangerous). This one will also be Baratheon-focused, with Renly Baratheon as the MC.
My only dilemma is this: do I keep him gay like in the books, or do I change it? I want to respect canon and avoid accidentally starting a civil war in the comments. So let me know what you think.
...
If you want to read ahead of the public release, or just want to support me.
you can join my p atreon :
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