"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."
...
The men in the crowd exchanged wary looks. "Fight for you?" a wildling asked. A Thenn, going by his manner of dress. The Magnar of Thenn. Sigorn. "No. Kill you, more like."
Jon shrugged. "And when the wights and Walkers come?" he asked, silencing Sigorn with a scathing look. "What then? Will you have the strength to resist them? Your father was a brave man, but Styr died trying to fight us. Same for Mance," Jon said, again shooting Rattleshirt a look. "You'll fare no better. And even if he had succeeded, then you would all be dead. The Lords of the North would have crushed you. Or else the wights and Walkers would have followed you. The Wall is only as good as the men who patrol it."
"I'd sooner go naked than don one of your cloaks, crow!" the same rabble-rouser shouted, again attracting a glare from Rattleshirt.
"Then strip and we'll have you," Jon japed. "I'm not asking you to swear to our brotherhood, though if you would like to you can. I'm not asking you to betray your gods - I couldn't care less to which ones you pray. Nor am I asking you to kneel to my king. I'm only asking for you to fight for your lives, the lives of your loved ones, and stand beside us against the enemy. It's spears we need. Spears and bows. Any man older than fourteen will do. Able-bodied, but cripples too. There are plenty of jobs to be done. Goats to be milked, stables to be mucked, even more spears and shields to be made."
A wary silence persisted at the proposition. For a second Jon thought his speech had failed, but the reluctance soon broke and the volunteers came. A small lad who looked a tad too young for fourteen was the first, then an older man missing an arm. Misfits and weaklings, but soon even the able-bodied were joining up. Rattleshirt's presence doubtless helped.
A spearwife wanted to join, but Jon refused her, citing the need for someone to defend Mole Town itself. But mostly he was worried about the rapes - and there would inevitably be rapes. It would do him no good at such a precarious time to make any more room for conflict between the Watch and the wildlings. Having women at the Wall would only unsettle things, make matters worse.
Still, on the way north their caravan was filled with many more men - a little over fifty of them. There were no Thenns, and few if any looked like fighters, but it was still a hopeful sign. "Are you certain about this?" Bowen asked again, concerned. "Giving wildlings weapons and spreading them amongst our ranks? Would it not weaken us?"
"Against the Walkers they'll stand with us."
"Against the Walkers, aye," Bowen agreed. "But against Tormund Giantsbane? Against the Weeping Man? Against their fellow Free Folk?"
Jon stayed silent for a long second as the continued on, lips pursed. "It's a risk," he eventually conceded. "But it's also our best hope."
"Wildlings follow strength," Rattleshirt growled, apparently having overheard them. His scornful eyes trailed over Jon. "They follow the man. Are you strong enough, boy?"
Bowen scowled at the Lord of Bones, but still nodded in agreement, grim. Familiar words, Jon mused. Mance had told him something similar. The Lord of Bones Jon had known had been a ruthless savage, not prone to offering advice. His words were yet more evidence that Tommen spoke the truth about the Red Witch. Yet more conspiracies Jon was forced to contend with. Yet more secrets hiding in the shadows.
And so onwards they went, till finally they were back at Castle Black. The wildlings were led away to the places they'd be able to stay for the night, black brothers eyeing them suspiciously wherever they went. It'll take a while yet to make these men work together, Jon reminded himself, sullen. Old wounds did not heal quickly. But they did heal, given enough time and treatment. And they would have to. If only to stop the armies of the dead swelling even more.
As Jon entered the castle Sam rushed up to greet him. "I saw your caravan arrive," he explained. "Are these all you could muster? I thought there were three-hundred fighting men at Mole Town? Half these look like cripples."
Jon cringed. "Evidently, I misjudged the wildlings eagerness to work with us."
Sam frowned, settling into step behind Jon as he made for his quarters. "Well, then, what now? Fifty men won't be enough, especially as most won't be good to fight for some time yet. Are you planning on calling on Kings Landing for more aid?"
"Tommen's terms were clear enough," Jon said. "We need a live wight to get any more from him. Elsewise his small council would gainsay him."
"I thought he was king," Sam complained.
"Even the greatest kings don't last long without the support of their councillors," Jon said. "Especially if one of their councillors happens to be Lord Tywin Lannister."
"Perhaps Stannis could lend his aid?" Sam asked as they escaped from the open air and began the climb up the spiral steps.
"Stannis is preoccupied with the North and the fight against the Boltons and Ironmen," Jon said. "He hasn't the strength to spare. And as far as his Red Witch goes... I don't trust her."
"So if neither the wildlings, nor King Stannis, nor King Tommen can help us, then what can we do?"
"With the wildlings we can slowly build trust," Jon said. "It is true I expected more to come with me, but the fact that any came at all is a promising sign considering the contempt the wildlings hold for the Watch, and the Watch for the wildlings. The Thenns may never make common cause with us, but I reckon some of the other clans could be convinced. As for getting more aid from the south... King Tommen made his terms clear enough. We need a live wight."
"If I had one I would be happy to hand it over, my lord," Sam said, half in jest as they entered his chambers and Jon rounded his desk and collapsed into his seat, his breath still emerging from between his lips in clouds of mist, the hearth yet unlit. The room was dark, the only sources of light the thin lines of grey steaming through the gaps in the shutters on the windows, and the warm glow of a couple of candles almost burned out. Sam stayed standing. "How are we going to get one?"
"We're going to get it as we would any other wild animal. We're going to hunt it and catch it."
"A ranging," Sam realised. Jon nodded. "It's too dangerous-"
"Not me," Jon cut in, knowing Sam's words before he uttered them. "I'm not stupid enough to risk myself on such an unsure thing. Fetch Ser Alliser, will you?"
Sam stood still for a moment. "He'll think you're trying to get him killed for opposing you."
"He may well think that," Jon said. "But an order is an order all the same. He can face the snows or he can face my sword, as Slynt did. Now go."
Sam nodded, and the rushed off. Jon poured himself a cup of wine, took a few bracing sips of the ice-cold liquid, and then turned his attention to his hearth. Ordinarily the Lord Commander could call in his steward for the task, but Jon had yet to appoint a steward. He stacked a few logs of firewood, and with a little tinder and the last half-inch of wick from one of the lit candles managed to start a flame that slowly grew into a true fire. Before he knew it warm air was flooding out from the hearth, and Jon pulled off his gloves to hold his numb fingers in the heat, letting the feeling slowly return to his extremities.
Ser Alliser arrived a few moments later, looking tense. Jon told him what he intended. Ser Alliser's expression soured further, even as his mouth twisted into some cruel mockery of a smile that never quite reached his eyes; cold and hard as they were. "So the bastard boy sends me to die."
"So the Lord Commander sends you to do your duty," Jon corrected. "To range; to venture out, find our foes and slay them, to capture one of the numbers of our greatest enemy and bring it home for study and use. I don't doubt you will survive. You are skilled with a blade. You were the master-at-arms first at Eastwatch and then here."
"My duty is protecting the Wall," Alliser argued. "Not running around in the freezing cold chasing after corpses in some fool's quest!"
Jon cocked his head. "Your duty is whatever the Lord Commander says it is. You're a skilled swordsman. You'll survive."
Alliser's smile narrowed into an angry grimace, his hand straying dangerously close to the hilt of his sword. Jon tensed. Would Alliser be bold enough to draw his blade here and now? "Aye, I'm a skilled swordsman," he said, voice tight with outrage, but then let his hand drop away from his pommel in defeat. "I spent half a lifetime teaching others how to swing swords, how to fight and how to kill. Fat lot of good that will do me out in those woods."
"You won't be going alone," Jon assured him. It was strange. Jon would never count Ser Alliser Thorne among his friends, but he was a brother all the same. Nobody said you had to like your brothers. "Other skilled rangers will be going with you. Experienced men who can watch your back. And you won't be the only one. Other rangings will be sent out as well."
Alliser nodded grimly. "I'll be back, boy," he swore, half as a threat and half as a promise. "Even if I have to return as one of those cold, dead cunts rather than with one as my captive, I'll be back."
"I should hope so," Jon said. "Because if the worst comes to pass, the fate of the Watch itself may well depend on it."
...
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