This is one of the prime examples of the non-chronological nature of the story. We saw Stannis plotting his deception in Chapter 7, but the Night's Watch already heard about its results at the end of ADWD and Chapter 1 of this story. Therefore, while this chapter covers events that were obviously referred to in the previous one, they do not take place back to back.
SATIN
Above his head, the sky turned grey as the hoary stormclouds raced in. Below his feet, the Wall itself seemed to shiver as the sledges loaded with stone were dragged across the courtyard, and chisels bit off slabs of ice as old as any weirwood. There was as well flotsam and jetsam from the battle; Satin thought he saw one of Mance's turtles, the great wood-and-wicker contrivance meant to shield the battering ram so the wildlings could get it flush against the gate. It had been turned to rubble now though, shoved into the passage, where it would be frozen with the rest, sealing off the way now and for eternity.
Madness. Madness and stupidity. It was not chance that had chosen Satin's perch up here, with the ruins of the straw sentinels and the wind whisking at him so hard that he felt unbalanced, about to fly or fall. He slept with a dagger now, and did not even dare to bed in the barracks at night, choosing a disused cellar or crumbling tower room instead. He changed it every time. I am next. They want me dead, and they know that I know it. Castle Black was almost at boiling point. The new choosing had been held a few days ago, and since there was no one else left who was even half fit for the job, the Night's Watch had wound up with Bowen Marsh in permanent command. All the Seven together, and the red woman, might not be enough to save us from that.
Hammers rang like swords. This would make you sick if you were here to see it, Jon. Satin rubbed his hand hard across his eyes. He had asked if he might be granted the Lord Commander's body, to take it beyond the Wall and bury it in the weirwood grove as he knew Jon would have wished, but that was before the new Lord Commander conceived his plot to seal the gate shut; Marsh had grudgingly accepted that it would in fact be idiocy to try to force the wildlings back through. Also, nobody seemed able to tell Satin exactly what had happened to Jon's corpse. Ser Alliser would want to piss on it, most like. But Ser Alliser was gone, and Grenn and Pyp and Dolorous Edd and Iron Emmett and everyone, sent away on Jon's own volition lest his friendship with them (notably excepting Ser Alliser) cloud his ability to command them. No one had seen Ghost, Jon's direwolf, either. Did he die as well?
With the wildlings still demanding the castles Jon had promised, and Marsh still refusing, it felt like a matter of not days but hours until the swords came out in earnest. In fact, no matter the imposition that the presence of the Baratheon host and the queen's men had been, they were the only thing barely keeping the peace. And now that the last of them had departed to save the king from Ramsay Bolton, leaving only a skeleton garrison to guard the queen, Princess Shireen, and the red woman, the tension was worse than ever.
As well, several of the wildlings who'd sworn to follow Jon to Winterfell had decided to embark there on their own accord, including Tormund Giantsbane, his son, and warriors. In their way, they genuinely seemed bent on avenging him. But they flatly refused to march with a kneeler host, and they had no love for Stannis; he was the one who'd arrived to break their great attack on the Wall, after all. Thus it was a subject of wager as to whether they'd ever actually reach Winterfell, or get distracted en route and happily occupy themselves in pillaging, robbery, and rape. At best, we have sent out a fierce army who will make life hell for the Bastard of Bolton. At worst, we have unloosed a pack of ravening wolves.
Satin sighed, staring down the kingsroad, which this far north was only a single muddy track that sheared in and out of the trees. It had not seen use in many months, save for Stannis' men proudly departing down it on their rescue mission. Satin hoped they'd be wise enough to get off it by the time they reached the Gift. If the Baratheon men wanted to trumpet their presence to all the eyes in the trees, they could just go right the bloody blazes ahead and –
Hold up. Satin frowned and jumped to his feet, peering over the snow merlon. His eyes might have been deceiving him; he was seven hundred feet up, after all, and they were naught more than tiny moving specks. But he thought he saw three horses. No, four for sure, and then what looked to be half a dozen more close behind. An escort, guards? They're coming fast.
At that moment, Satin decided that he wasn't doing the least bit of good hiding up here. The Wall is only as strong as the men who defend it. And no matter what anyone said, he was one. That was why he had stood up for them in that scene with Melisandre and the queen's men and the wildlings and his own Sworn Brothers, with Jon's blood still red in the snow.
Satin almost ran across the slick path to the winch cage, shut himself in, and gave the rope a sharp tug. There was a moment, then he began to jerk and bump downwards. His heart was pounding by the time the cage hit the bottom, and the sweating winchman saw on just whose behalf he'd been working so hard. He made a disgusted noise and muttered, "Lady Snow, would it be? Wouldn't it, just."
Satin paid him no mind. He wrenched open the cage and darted across the courtyard, just in time to see the riders – there were in fact ten of them – cantering across the bailey. The leader, a tall well-fleshed knight with long white-gold hair, reined in. "Ho," he called. "I will speak to the Lord Commander."
Satin stepped forward. "Massey?"
Surprised, the knight turned to look, and blinked. "Ah, yes. Snow's little. . . squire. Yes. Fetch him, would you?"
"I cannot." Satin ignored the unfriendly stares from all the black brothers, who were laboring to seal the gate and grumbling that he had been shirking his share of the work. "Jon Snow is dead. It is Bowen Marsh who now claims the mantle of Lord Commander."
Massey went blank, then stared. "Seven hells," he said, forgetting the red god completely in his astonishment. "Seven buggering hells. Snow's dead? How?"
"Murdered." The angry murmur grew louder when Satin spoke that word, but he refused to palliate the truth. "By his own Sworn Brothers, in this very courtyard."
"Why don't you tell him what Snow was doing!" one of the builders burst out. "That wild beast he kept denned up beneath Hardin's – it bloody pulled the legs off that Ser Patrek, Snow was trying to defend the cursed thing, and that was the least of his crimes. We'd have done for the giant too if that damned wildling hadn't gotten in the – "
"Leathers is your brother now," Satin snapped. "And fighting Wun Wun would have ended you up just as dead as Ser Patrek."
The builder gave him an appropriately murderous look. Ser Justin Massey still appeared to be blindsided. "Where is the queen? I must speak to her, at least."
"In her apartments," Satin said. "She is afraid to come out."
"I wonder why that might be," someone muttered, not quietly.
I do not blame her. For that, at least. "Ser, I am afraid that that is not all we must tell you. There was a letter from the Bastard of Bolton. King Stannis is – "
" – captured?" For some unfathomable reason, Massey was bloody smiling.
"Yes," Satin said, discomfited. "What remained of the king's men have already marched south, with thoughts of seeing Ramsay's head on a pike. But you did not know, surely, and so – "
"Jon Snow is dead?" A faint, forlorn voice came from Ser Justin's right. A girl who looked like a ghost was bundled in a cloak three times too big for her, haunted brown eyes staring out of her thin face. The tip of her nose was deadened with frostbite, and she slumped in her saddle as if sitting upright was too painful. "Truly?"
Satin moved toward her, but one of the guards viciously checked him. "Keep away from the lady, sodomite."
"The lady is our guest." Satin pushed past and offered a hand to the girl, who stared at him in apparent bewilderment. "What's your name?" he asked gently.
"That," said Massey, "is the reason for our coming. Part of it, at least. This is the Lady Arya Stark, sister of the late Lord Commander, recently rescued from the Bastard by none other than Theon Turncloak himself. I'm depositing her and this one – " he nodded at the rider next to her, who appeared to be another woman, short and stout and bundled in furs – "as your wards, before continuing to Eastwatch."
What? Arya? The irony almost made Satin choke. Fear for his little sister was what had driven Jon to these extremes in the first place, why he had planned to leave the Wall and go south to Winterfell himself. Melisandre had said that she had seen in her flames a grey girl on a dying horse, and Jon had taken it to mean Arya, but it wound up being Alys Karstark instead. What does this mean? Was the red woman right after all? And if Arya had now just turned up here, saved from one nightmare only to walk into another –
We can put her with Val, perhaps. The wildling princess became ever more agitated and anxious every day, however, and had recently been apprehended attempting to steal a horse and escape. Now her guard was twice as heavy, as many men as the black brothers could possibly spare.
Just then, the fourth rider edged his horse forward, and Satin recognized him as well. Tycho Nestoris, the Braavosi banker. "Your pardons, Ser Justin, but while we are here, there is one other matter. I am saddened to learn of Jon Snow's untimely demise, but I require to speak with the new Lord Commander in his place, as regards the status of a loan taken by the Night's Watch from the Iron Bank."
Marsh won't like that. Mayhaps he and Nestoris can count each other into oblivion. "Would someone be so kind as to fetch the Old Pomegranate?"
"You do it, arseboy. You're a squire, you run and get him."
Icily, Satin turned on his heel. It's not worth a fight. So he climbed up to the rooms that had so recently been Jon's, and knocked crisply on the door before opening it. "My lord, you must come. Ser Justin Massey has returned, and brings with him Arya Stark and Tycho Nestoris."
Bowen Marsh stared at him with queasy dislike. "Who?"
"The Iron Bank envoy. He wants to know about the loan Lord Snow obtained." It made Satin almost sick with rage to sit here speaking of these things so calmly, to Jon's killer.
Marsh made a derogatory noise. "Even from beyond the grave he devils us," he muttered. Louder he said, "Very well. I will be down in a moment."
"Now, my lord."
"Very well," Marsh said again, nettled. He pulled on his cloak and followed Satin back down the twisting stair, to the courtyard where the party was still waiting. Someone had had mercy on Lady Arya and gotten her down off the horse; she was staring about as if not entirely sure who or where she was.
"Ser Justin," Marsh said stiffly.
"Lord Commander." Massey inclined his head, with just a hint of mockery. "I see we've interrupted you in the middle of some great industry, so I'll be brief. But my friend here would have a word."
"I would." Tycho Nestoris trotted forward. "My lord will recall that the Night's Watch requested a loan from my order, a sizeable one. Do you still intend to honor the terms of repayment?"
Bowen Marsh was still a steward at heart, and haggling about money was one of the things he did best. He inflated. "That folly was Jon Snow's doing, none of my own," he snapped. "We would have had sufficient coin and provender if half the wildlings beyond the Wall had not been invited to make their home here."
Halder, another of the builders and one who'd known Jon as a recruit, slammed down his hammer.
Marsh glanced at him. "Yes?"
"I call this near as stupid as your last idea," Halder said heatedly. "Last ideas, that is – first killing Jon and then telling us to seal the passage through the Wall. Aye, we might have had what we needed, but we don't. And are you going to get on the Iron Bank's bad side now? Truly, my lord? Truly?"
Ser Justin gaped at the Old Pomegranate. "You killed Snow?"
Marsh's ruddy face went pale. "If I must answer to any man in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms for my actions, I will do so. I will not dodge responsibility. But in regards to your question, my lord, you will see that the Night's Watch is currently in a state of. . . flux. I can give you no answer."
Nestoris inclined his head. "Your dilemma is understood, Lord Commander. I shall return at a later date to clarify."
Bowen Marsh looked hideously relieved. He does not even know that he has not been saved. "Thank you, Nestoris, thank you. We will consent to house Lady Arya and this – " He glanced at Lady Arya's purportedly female companion, failed to think up a suitable adjective, and waved a hand. "For the time being. And this work. . . the gate must be sealed, I ordered it. . ."
"We're making as much progress as we can," Halder said. "Maybe if we're lucky, Cotter Pyke will build another at Eastwatch."
"Mind your tongue. What is the point of sending out rangings now? Lord Snow considerately allowed the wildlings through the Wall already. And if, gods forbid, our men should chance upon wights or Others, they'd all be slaughtered anyway."
"Don't you think we might like to know where they – "
Marsh cut him off. "Squire," he said to Satin, "take the women to the princess' chambers. Massey, you will be continuing onwards?"
"Shortly." Massey dismounted. "Squire, take me to the queen while you're about it."
Satin agreed. With the three of them in train, he hurried to Queen Selyse's apartments. He barely heard the expected comments from her guards, as the sight of Ser Justin was enough to shut them up quick enough. Best not to even attempt to see the queen himself, knowing what she thought of him. With that done, he took hold of Lady Arya's arm. Her eyes were glazed as she looked at him. Gods, what has the Bastard done? Jon had not spoken much of his little sister; the subject must have been too painful. But he had been forthright about his fear that she would fight Ramsay Bolton like a wildcat, and that he would irreparably damage her in retaliation. He has, but inside, where it does not show.
"What's your name, squire?" Lady Arya's handmaid asked. She was square and strong, no beauty, but had a tough, weather-beaten look to her.
"Satin, my lady."
"Satin?" The woman emitted a most unladylike snort.
"I have never had another." None of her business where he came from, who he'd been. A man put aside everything when he took the black. "I am taking you to Val, the wildling princess, along with her nephew and his wet nurses. You will be safe there."
"Wildlings have no princesses," said the handmaid. "Or sers or lords neither."
Satin glanced at her in amused surprise. She is northern born, this one. "I fear I have not been very mannerly, my lady. What am I to call you?"
"Alysane Mormont." She gave a shrug of her heavy shoulders. "Though there's some that call me the She-Bear."
A Mormont? Satin had not known Jeor Mormont, the Lord Commander prior to Jon, but had heard tales of the Old Bear's bravery and dedication to his duty. Does it make you easier at heart to know that Arya is being watched over by one of them, Jon? Wherever you have gone.
They reached the King's Tower chambers, and Satin knocked. "My lady? I have brought some companions for you. It is our hope that you will – "
"Come in," a woman's voice called. A rich, deep voice. Not Val's.
Satin hesitated, then pushed the door open. As he had known he would, he saw Melisandre standing before the fire, and Val backed into a corner like a treed cat. "My ladies. Am I interrupting?"
"Not at all." Melisandre glided forward and offered a graceful hand first to Alysane Mormont, who stared at her suspiciously, and then to Lady Arya, who did not move. "I was merely having a brief discussion with the princess about that escape she tried, and seeing to it that she understood. She does. With that so, I will withdraw." She smiled, the ruby in her collar pulsing, and did so.
Val remained where she was, and the look she cast on Satin was wild-eyed. "Next kneeler sets foot in this room without my leave, I'll cut their throat. She's always sniffing about, that one. Asking me questions about the babe again, the wolf – "
A slow, peculiar chill crawled down Satin's spine. "What about the babe?"
"The monster," Val muttered. "She knows what Jon did, I'd swear to it. But it was the only way – Dalla wouldn't have forgiven me otherwise – "
Satin did not know what she meant, and it seemed to be falling to him to make introductions, which could hardly have been more awkward at the moment. "My lady. . . this is Alysane Mormont and Lady Arya Stark. They will be sharing your quarters for the time being." The suite of rooms was amply spacious; surely enough for all three of them to avoid each other, if they wanted. "And this is Val, good-sister of the King-beyond-the-Wall."
"M'lady," Alysane said gruffly. "Pleasure."
Val stared at the She-Bear with a glassy, feverish look somewhat similar to Lady Arya's. "You're not a spy, are you? A spy for her?"
What has Melisandre been doing? And there was something else Val had said. What about the babe? The wolf? What did Jon do?
"My lady," Satin began cautiously. He caught Alysane's gaze, and somehow she understood what he meant and began to tow the unresisting Lady Arya away. "I must ask you. The wolf. . . do you mean Ghost?" It was a shallow and silly hope.
Val did not answer immediately. In fact, she remained completely silent, and he had just started to turn, disappointed, when her fingers caught his arm. "The wolf," the wildling woman breathed. "The white wolf. I saw it with her last night."
This time, it was definitely a lightning bolt that struck. "Where?"
"Outside my window. Crossing the courtyard. No one else but them. It limped. It was hurt. There was blood on its fur. I saw no more. She would have known. In her flames."
Melisandre, Satin thought. She has known where Ghost is this entire time. And I'll wager a fortune that she knows where Jon is too. "Thank you, my lady." His voice sounded strange: queer, thick, hoarse. "I'll not disturb you further."
Satin's head was in a whirl as he descended the steps. I should have guessed. Melisandre had taken a particular interest in Jon even before his death. The interest was not reciprocated, so far as Satin knew; in fact, Jon had kept her at arm's length, hungry for what she might be able to prophesy about the future and steadfastly mistrusting it all the same. But there were many strange tales about the priests of R'hllor, and Satin, like all the others, had learned not to doubt the red woman's power. What is she doing with him? What does she want? Can she not even let him rest in peace?
In the Oldtown brothel where he'd been born and raised, Satin had had a number of aspiring maesters as clients; many of them had chosen to attend the Citadel in order to escape pressure from their families to wed, and did not feel they had the temperament to be a septon. Or they could have joined the Night's Watch. But to a man, the acolytes liked to talk – to prove to him, the pretty dark-eyed boy whore they'd bought to suck their cocks – what power they had, all the things they knew. Some of them ought to have watched their mouths more carefully. Especially one, who was forging a link for his maester's chain out of Valyrian steel, studying the higher mysteries. Satin had heard too many strange things there, and seen too many of them here, to disbelieve anything anymore.
I must find the red woman and speak to her alone. Satin's mouth set into a grim line. And I must do it soon. I will not let her have Jon. I will not.
The way under the Wall was sealed fast by dusk. The snow started to fall by dark.