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"All I know is that my lord father would be tearing his hair out in dismay if he were here now. Not that there's too much left to tear, but he'd still try," Lord Tyrion said, then shrugged his shoulders. "Let no one say the Old Lion lacks principles."

"I think it's a good thing His Grace has come to see reason," the Lady Allara said.

Prince Aegon and his young wife had been sitting here in the Shieldhall with Lord Lannister for almost an hour already. The stewards of the Night's Watch had clearly gone to great lengths to make this old hall presentable again, even if they hadn't been able to dispel the musty smell and the stench of old dust entirely. These had been the first words the young lady had dared to say to Lord Lannister. The tension between the two had been so thick from the moment they had entered that Oswell thought he could have cut it with his sword had he wanted to. To look straight into the imp's misshapen face, however, she still had still not dared yet. Instead, she had mostly looked back and forth between the cup of hot wine in her delicate hands and the prince next to her, her husband whose arm was wrapped around her shoulders, as if there was nothing else in the world for the young woman at that moment to look at.

Oswell quickly switched from one foot to the other, then back again when he felt that this did not give him any relief. His feet had begun to ache half an hour ago already, his freshly healed ankle more than anything else, yet he had decided against sitting down. He was a knight of the Kingsguard.

Lord Tyrion snorted a laugh in response. He took a piece of the cheese that was waiting on the table and shoved it into his mouth with relish. From the smell of it, it was an old goat's cheese and, according to one of the stewards, the cheese had been made by some brothers of the Night's Watch near Shadow Tower. If the Shadow Tower was in as miserable a state as Castle Black had been until only a few months ago, however, Oswell could not for the life of him imagine how there could be kept enough goats in such a ruin. He hadn't bothered to ask, however. By now, there wasn't much left of the cheese.

"Forgive me, my lady, but I do not consider yielding to the wildlings' whining to be a sign of particular reasonableness," Lord Tyrion then objected once he was done chewing and had swallowed the cheese. "Giving in to the wildlings could be seen as a sign of weakness and a king cannot afford to appear weak. Not if he wants to be king for much longer."

"Better be careful, my Lord Lannister. In other circumstances, such words could quickly be taken as treason," Prince Aegon said. He quickly lightened his words with a wry grin, however. "Not that you'll be banished to the Wall for it."

"At least it wouldn't be too long a walk," Prince Oberyn said.

"Indeed," Lord Lannister said. "In any case, I think His Grace is making a mistake. Having them burn the weirwood trees was a good way to have the wildlings prove their honesty. And now the king is depriving himself of this proof just like that?"

Prince Aegon held out his cup, whereupon a young steward immediately rushed over and refilled it with another sip of hot, spiced and honeyed wine. The prince looked at Oswell, an unspoken question in his eyes. Oswell, however, just shook his head gently. It was nice of the boy to think of him, but he had already treated himself to a cup half an hour ago – a relief in the dreadful cold out there. He had to refuse a second cup, however. At least as long as he was still on duty and here to protect the prince and his young wife.

Besides, there's far too much cinnamon and nutmeg in it anyway. The cook who made this was probably banished to the Wall for this very recipe, Oswell thought. It's wine, Seven Hells, not turnip soup.

The crown prince now looked over at Ser Barristan, who was standing not far from the wide entrance doors, motionless as if frozen to ice. He had already refused the first cup of wine. Prince Aegon indicated with a gesture that the Lord Commander was still welcome to be served a cup as well. Ser Barristan again refused, however, with a shake of his head and a polite "Not for me, my prince. Thank you."

I should have refused the first cup as well, Oswell scolded himself. I'm here to protect the boy and his wife, not to warm myself up and have a good time.

Oswell was sure that he would get an earful from his Lord Commander for this later. And probably the honor of protecting the royal family more often than usual on the seemingly endless, freezing nights instead of the only slightly less cold days in the foreseeable future as well.

Prince Oberyn was not so shy, however, and held out his cup as well, asking for more wine. The Dornish prince had entered the Shieldhall only the better part of an hour ago but, like Lord Lannister, had already drunk twice as many cups of hot wine as the prince and his wife. With one of the stewards, a young lad with black curls and eyes so pretty they would even have graced the face of a maiden, he had repeatedly exchanged glances. Ones that Oswell had not known how to properly read, however. Had a girl been pouring him more and more wine with such glances, Oswell would have believed the girl and the prince had shared some history together. As it was, however...

"Not just like that, my lord," said Lady Allara. The young woman seemed to grow bolder now. A good thing, Oswell decided with a smile. To live at the sides of Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys, she certainly has to be bold. "The wildlings have made a gesture to prove their sincerity. A gesture that was no doubt difficult for them. And now that they have made this gesture, it is enough for King Rhaegar to welcome them into his kingdom with a clear conscience."

Lord Tyrion did not seem convinced.

"Well, some of them have made that gesture," he said. He took another sip of his wine, then another piece of the cheese. Three or four small bites were still left. One of the stewards cautiously asked if he ought to bring some more. Prince Aegon, however, waved it off with a shake of his head and a faint smile.

"What do you think of all this, Ser Oswell?" Prince Oberyn suddenly asked. "You know the wildlings better than any of us. Be so good as to give us some insight into the minds and hearts of the Iron Throne's newest subjects."

At those words, Lord Tyrion turned in his chair to face Oswell, twisting his misshapen body so much that Oswell feared the imp might topple over and crash to the floor at any moment. He looked at Oswell, his cheeks flushed from the wine and his eyes glazed over. So early in the day already.

"A wonderful idea," Lord Lannister said. "So, what do you say, ser? Can the wildlings be trusted now that some of them have felled a few trees and lit a little bonfire for His Grace?"

Oswell furrowed his brow. He realized how much he disliked the disparaging way Lord Tyrion spoke of the sacrifice many of the Free Folk had made to be allowed to the other side of the Wall to safety. Betraying his gods might not seem like a big deal to a creature like Tyrion Lannister. For many good men and women, of which there were plenty on both sides of the Wall, it certainly was. Oswell decided, however, that this was not to be his answer.

Only now did he notice that Prince Aegon and Lady Allara were looking at him curiously as well, apparently eagerly waiting for his reply, his assessment of the wildlings' honesty. Or dishonesty. Oswell briefly cleared his throat before answering.

"I think these trees...," Oswell began, but then broke off again. Whatever he had wanted to answer suddenly no longer felt like it would have fit to the beginning of the sentence in his head. Why, he didn't know himself. After a moment, he spoke on. "I haven't met all of the Free Folk in the flesh, of course, so it's hard for me to pass judgment on all of them." He bit his lip as he suddenly realized that he had called them the Free Folk and not wildlings. Something he had decided to abandon. Oswell decided not to correct himself here and now. Perhaps the others hadn't even noticed. "I share Lady Allara's opinion that the sacrifice these men and women have made so far has been a very great one. However..."

"However?" asked Lady Allara.

"However, the... wildlings are not a uniform mass. Each of them has his own dreams and desires and, yes, his own loyalties. Many of them only to themselves, truth be told."

Oswell hesitated for a moment, having to sort out his own thoughts before he could come to a judgment. He thought of Mance Rayder. Shrewd and honest, but also stubborn and a liar when it suited him. He thought of Tormund, the big bag of laughter and lies who had always shared his mead and meat with him. Stolen mead and stolen meat, of course, yet he had shared it nonetheless. For half a heartbeat, he had to smile, but then quickly forced it from his face again. He thought of the Thenns. Inscrutable, not least because Oswell didn't even understand their language, and yet still the closest thing to what one would understand as nobility on this side of the Wall, with traditions and honor and an understanding of a natural order of things, of rulers and those who were rules that actually meant something. He thought of the Lord of Bones as well, though, vile and ugly and treacherous as coastal fog at night, and of the countless other raiders who would rather drive a dagger into the neck of any southerner than look at them kindly even once. And he thought of the Lady Val, beautiful and pure as a morning in spring, still shrouded in the last cold winter mists. The lovely Lady Val, who had almost made him forget his vows and his honor. Almost. Then he finally continued to speak, even though he wasn't entirely certain that he had truly made up his mind yet. Or that he could ever hope to truly do so.

"I think all those who have been willing to make this sacrifice so far can be indeed trusted," he said. He hoped and prayed that this would turn out to be true.

"Women and children and elders, for the most part," Prince Aegon threw in. "Hardly a real threat anyway."

"And what about the rest?" asked Lord Tyrion. Oswell had hoped that this question would not be raised. But of course that had just been wishful thinking, he knew. "No matter how many wildlings have already made it south of the Wall, they are only a fraction of their total number, are they not? So, what of the rest, Ser Oswell, those who will now be allowed south just like that without having to make this sacrifice?"

Again, everyone looked at him in anticipation. At that moment, Oswell would have preferred to simply turn away and walk out of the hall in silence. That would certainly have been an answer as well, albeit hardly an appropriate one.

He thought about it again for a moment. There were men like the Lord of Bones, women like Harma Dogshead, devious and dangerous. But there were also men like Mance Rayder, women like his Queen Dalla.

"I don't know, my lord," he then admitted.

"But they still have to swear before the royal banner," Lady Allara argued. "The wildlings know no king. Not like we do, anyway. So if they have to swear for the first time in their lives, that's a kind of sacrifice they're making as well, isn't it?"

"Words are wind, love," Prince Aegon said. His hand stroked over her shoulder, along her neck and, on its way back, seemed to miss her bosom by a hair's breadth only. He then gave her a long kiss on the temple, rather unseemly given this quite public setting. Neither of the two seemed to mind, however. Neither the kiss nor the fact that he had almost touched the lady's breasts.

No wonder, Oswell thought and had to smirk. The prince and princess didn't mind being public when it came to some very different things than a mere kiss or a touch. Whatever reservations the Lady Allara might have had about such, the two of them have certainly long since driven those out of her.

"The king made a mistake in rescinding his orders," Lord Tyrion said with a sigh.

"In your opinion, my lord," Ser Barristan interjected. The imp, however, paid him no heed.

"Those who have come so far will be no help and those who are coming now may even be a threat to us. And whether they've burnt a piece of wood or not, they'll probably just cause us problems here in the south either way, use up our firewood, eat our food and, let's not forget, they'll probably drink away all our good wine to boot."

"Wine?" asked the Lady Allara with an elegantly raised eyebrow.

"Absolutely, my lady," the imp said as if it were a matter of course. "A man who is only used to drinking poor mead and river water will hardly be able to stop once he has tasted Arbor Gold or a fine hippocras for the first time."

"We'll make sure to bring some barrels to safety just for you, my lord," Prince Aegon promised with a laugh.

"I would thank you for that, my prince. So at least that burden is lifted from my heart."

"The heaviest burden, no doubt."

"Not all wildlings are liars and traitors, though, my lord," Oswell then objected. He had the feeling that he couldn't just leave it at that. "There are good men and women among them who we will be glad to know are on our side when the war begins."

"Some of them, perhaps," the imp said with a shrug. Lord Tyrion held out his empty cup as well and immediately one of the stewards rushed over, carrying a small cauldron of hot, steaming wine. He refilled the cup with two full ladles and then retreated back to the burning hearth. "But probably few enough, I'd wager. I would just like to briefly remind you of the supposed Horn of Winter."

"That was truly a daring thing to do, Lord Lannister," Prince Aegon said in sincere appreciation, raising his cup in the imp's direction.

A cold shiver ran down Oswell's spine as he thought back to that moment. He had been there and had witnessed when the imp of Casterly Rock had nearly ended the world. True, the supposed Horn of Winter had been nothing but a sham, a deception. Yet had this not been the case...

Lord Tyrion replied to the prince with a satisfied grin and then raised his cup as well, as if to toast him from a distance. At that very moment, the doors of the Shieldhall were flung open with a loud bang.

With a wave of swirling snow and a gush of icy air, the Princess Rhaenys entered the Shieldhall, followed by her half-brother Lord Jon and that strange woman who for some reason their princess had chosen to be her protector, her ever-present shadow. Lady Brienne of Tarth. A woman as unsightly as only the gods could have dreamed up, big and unwieldy as a boulder, stiff and ungainly, always trudging and stomping like a peasant returning home from the fields. Except, it seemed, as soon as the woman unsheathed her sword. Then, Oswell was told, she was different, even if he found it hard to imagine.

Oswell bowed to his princess as she approached. She greeted him with a warm smile.

Princess Rhaenys went over to Prince Aegon and the Lady Allara, securing herself the vacant seat at the prince's side. Without hesitation or lingering with any other greeting, she kissed her brother-husband on the lips, considerably longer and more intensely than would have been necessary for a mere greeting between husband and wife. She then did the same to their shared wife, the Lady Allara, also on the lips, no less long or intense, and in doing so, she leaned so far over her husband that his face disappeared entirely behind – or rather inside – the princess's cleavage.

Speaking of unseemly...

Then she lowered herself onto the bench and pressed herself against her husband's side like a cat that had decided it was in urgent need of cuddles.

"Where is Arya?" the Lady Allara asked, addressing Lord Jon. "I haven't seen her all day. She wasn't even there earlier when we broke the fast."

"Still practicing with Ser Jaime," Lord Jon said. "She literally jumped out of bed this morning. And she probably won't stop until her arms fall off."

Lady Allara let out a bright laugh, clear as a bell.

"So?" began Prince Aegon. "Has she learned to dodge and not block so much by now?"

"She's working on it," Lord Jon said with a faint smirk.

Prince Aegon snorted a laugh. Lady Allara clutched the princes arm and leaned forward, an interested expression on her face.

"Why shouldn't she block?" she asked.

"Blocking hurts, dodging doesn't," Lord Jon explained.

"Dodging is always better," the prince explained. "At least in a fight against a physically superior opponent. Which, in Arya's case, should pretty much always be the case," he added with a wry smile.

"But...," Lady Allara said, "Rhaenys and I watched her do her exercises a few times and dodging always seems to throw her off balance."

"So does a hard hit," Prince Aegon argued. "You can recover your balance if your footwork is strong enough, but a hard hit in the wrong place can quickly end the fight altogether. It may break a bone or two, sever a hand or a foot, or even your head. Hard to recover from that."

Lady Allara thought about that for a moment, then nodded in agreement.

"I see."

"I thought so, love," said the prince and gave his wife another kiss on the temple. "As long as you don't want to start learning swordplay now, too."

"Oh, no. No need for you to worry, husband," laughed Lady Allara and gave the prince a kiss on the cheek.

After that, silence fell over the hall, no one saying so much as a single word. The only sounds to still be heard were the crackling of the flames in the hearth, the scraping of the copper ladles in the cauldrons of hot wine as the stewards stirred them, and the howling and whistling of the icy wind that seemed to tug and tear at the walls and roof of the Shieldhall like a giant beast.

Again, Oswell shifted from one foot to the other for a moment, biting away the pain as best he could. Once again, however, this did not bring him any relief.

"Well, as entertaining as all this has been," Lord Tyrion suddenly broke the silence, "I better take my leave now. I should get on with my studies. After all, we all do want to win the War of the Dawn, don't we? Besides, Tarly and Marwyn will certainly be wondering where I've gone by now."

With these words and a final sip from his silver cup, Lord Tyrion sluggishly worked himself down from his chair. Then he set off towards the heavy double doors on unsteady legs, in front of which Ser Barristan was still standing guard.

"Where do your companions think you are then, my lord?" the Lady Allara called after him.

"On the privy of course, my lady, and if I do not return quickly now, this little fib will become more and more unbelievable," the imp replied. Lady Allara shook her head, weakly smiling, yet said nothing more about it.

"I think I'll join our good Lord of Lannister on his way out," Prince Oberyn said.

"Do you have urgent studies to make as well, uncle?" Princess Rhaenys asked as her uncle kissed her on the cheek to bid her farewell. He bid farewell to his royal nephew with a pat on the shoulder and to Lady Allara with a kiss on the hand. With Lord, Prince Oberyn contented himself with an implied bow and a sharply cut smile.

"Less so, but I have promised Lord Commander Stark to take a look at some of the more promising new recruits of the Night's Watch. Perhaps there are one or two of them who could actually be turned into real fighters."

Then he hurried after the two unlike lions of Casterly Rock.

"Ser Alliser will not like that one bit, my prince," Lord Tyrion said.

"Precisely, my lord."

Lord Tyrion snorted a laugh in reply. Oswell couldn't see the prince's face anymore, but he was sure he could hear the complacent grin in his words. Just before the wide doors, Prince Oberyn had then caught up with Lord Tyrion. He nodded a farewell to Ser Barristan as he passed him, who likewise replied with a curt nod.

"If you ever get bored, you are always welcome to join me and my companions in our investigations, Prince Oberyn," Lord Tyrion said. "You studied at the Citadel in Oldtown for a few years. Surely you would be of great help to us."

"I certainly would be, my lord," Prince Oberyn said. "But I fear I could never be so bored in my life."

Only a moment later the doors were already closed again, the two men having disappeared beyond the doorstep in the drifting snow.

Once again, Prince Aegon had some hot wine poured for him. Lord Jon, who had greedily drunk his first cup, likewise, while the ladies only sipped their cups cautiously. Then the stewards were sent out, as their services were no longer required for the moment.

"So, now that it's just us," the prince said after a moment's silence as soon as the stewards had left the Shieldhall, wrapping his arms around his wives on both sides, "what do you think of it all, Jon? The heart trees, I mean."

Lord Jon seemed to think about his answer for a few heartbeats, then began to smile as he looked at Prince Aegon again, satisfied. For a brief moment, Oswell believed that to be all the answer he was willing to give Prince Aegon. But then Lord Jon began to speak after all.

"I am… content," he said with a nod, now serious again. "I mean, it was terrible what happened. The North is far from amused by that, but... what's done is done. At least His Grace has seen sense now. No more heart trees will be cut down and burned, and that's a good thing."

Prince Aegon listened, then gave a short huff. It was not entirely clear whether it was meant to be an approval or not.

"I think it is a good thing that the wildlings are no longer forced to burn heart trees as well," said Princess Rhaenys. She took a sip of her wine and immediately grimaced. Either because it was no longer properly hot or because it was far too sweet for her liking. "It was a stupid idea from the beginning."

"I would not have thought that the wildlings' little woes would concern you that much," Prince Aegon said.

"They don't," the princess said with a shrug, "but what does concern me is that our father risked alienating Winterfell from the Iron Throne so easily."

Again she took a sip of her wine, yet again she grimaced in open disgust. She put the cup down on the table and then pushed it away from herself with pointed fingers, as if the mere vicinity of this wine was already making her uncomfortable.

"It was her idea," the prince said.

"I know."

"We must keep an eye on the red woman, love," Prince Aegon said to his sister-wife. "She doesn't exactly have a good influence on our father."

"No," sighed the princess. "She truly does not."

"We all should. Keep an eye on that red woman, I mean," Lady Allara said. "Well... you should," she continued. "I don't have much to do with our king, but you are his children. All three of you."

The girl doesn't seem to expect anything from Ser Barristan and me. That's good, Oswell thought, relieved. Not that I disagree with her about the red priestess but… It is our duty to protect our king, not to question his company. Then again, maybe one day we will have to protect him from her as well. How could we possibly know when? How could I know?

Lord Jon looked as if, for half a heartbeat, he wanted to contradict his good-sister. Then he nodded, albeit still looking less than convinced.

"Aye, though I'm not sure what I can possibly do," Lord Jon said. "King Rhaegar is my sire, but… not my father. Not truly. I do not have such a hold on him that I could stand between him and the red priestess."

You underestimate yourself, boy.

"I take it you two do not wish to take part in this conversation, sers?" asked Prince Aegon, first in the direction of Ser Barristan, then of Oswell.

I would if only I could, boy. I really would.

They both shook their heads in silence, however. Oswell was sure he read the same disappointment in his Lord Commander's face that he felt inside himself. It was not possible. They would remain silent about what they had heard and were still hearing here. Of course they would. Even to their king, unless he asked them explicitly. That was all they could do for the moment, however.

"What about your lady mother?" Lady Allara asked. Lord Jon frowned, then nodded thoughtfully.

"She convinced him to stop the burning of the heart trees," Lord Jon said after a moment's thought, yet with clear pride in his voice. "I'll speak to her. Maybe she can do something."

"And what would that be?" asked Princess Rhaenys. "I mean, for all I care, she can club the red wench over the head until she can't see straight anymore, but if she's not going to do just that, then I don't know what she could possibly do."

"Well, talk to the king about the red woman first and foremost," Lord Jon said, not really seeming convinced by his own words, though.

"Talk to him." The princess snorted a laugh. "It won't be easy to convince father to abandon her. The wench has come close to our father for, Jon. Very, very close, if you know what I mean."

"You really think so?"

Again, the princess snorted a laugh before answering.

"Yes, Jon. I really think so. It will take more than a few kind words from your lady mother to convince our father to chase the red wench away."

"And what do you have in mind?" asked Lord Jon.

The princess thought about it for a moment.

"I don't know," she sighed. "Some sort of cause. She has to say or do something, or at best both, that will make our father lose his faith in the red wench and her red god."

"And lose his faith in her quite ample tits, it seems," Prince Aegon added.

"Egg," Lady Allara admonished her husband indignantly. He only replied with an innocent shrug and a smile. Then he gave her a kiss on the brow and pulled her a little closer. At that, the young lady's indignation seemed to vanish.

"I'm afraid our husband is right, sweetling," the princess agreed with her… their husband. "Although I would have put it a little differently. It won't be easy to break the woman away from him. But we must do it. She brings disaster. I can feel it. We have to do it before it's too late."

"So what do we do now?" asked Lady Allara.

"Nothing for now," said the prince.

"That's not exactly much, love."

"No, it isn't. But because we simply can't do anything. We can't force the red woman to make as colossal a mess as it will take to get rid of her. We will watch her, though, we will wait. Wait for an opportunity to pull the rug out from under her feet. Fortunately, we have plenty of other things to do until then so at least we shouldn't get too bored while waiting."

"And what?" Lord Jon asked.

"Well, first we should go and check on our dragons. We should spend some time with them, do some flying with them. All the people around here make them nervous. You can sense that as well, don't you?"

The princess and Lord Jon nodded in agreement.

"I will escort you there," said Ser Barristan. This time it was Prince Aegon who nodded.

1. Not we.

Apparently so, his Lord Commander had no intention of taking Oswell with him. Ser Barristan, despite his years, was still one of the best swordsmen in the realm. Oswell knew that from his own experience of the many hours he had already spent in the training yard with his Lord Commander. Whether a single knight of the Kingsguard, even if it was Barristan the Bold, would be enough to protect not only the crown prince but also his sister-wife, Oswell did not know. He was not foolish enough to publicly question his Lord Commander's decision, however.

"After that, Jon," he continued, "I'd ask you to speak to Lords Umber and Bolton to make sure they don't harbor too much of a grudge against the Crown because of the heart trees. Make it clear to them that the fault lay with the red woman, not with our father or the Crown."

"I will try," sighed Lord Jon. "I don't know if they'll listen to me."

"They will," said the prince. "You are the cousin of their liege, the husband of a daughter of Winterfell, the nephew of the late Lord Eddard. They will listen. And it probably wouldn't be a bad idea if you wrote a letter to Winterfell. Lord Robb will learn what has happened here anyway, so he'd better hear it from you than from anyone else." Lord Jon nodded gravely. "Allara, you speak to your brother. He is highly respected. Many here will speak openly with him. We need to know how far the nonsense of this red god has already spread here at the Wall, who we can trust if the worst comes to the worst."

"I will," said the young lady.

"Good, Rhae and I will write a few letters to mother and a few reliable men in the south. We shouldn't lose sight of how things are looking in the rest of the realm."

The princess nodded. Prince Aegon looked around one last time, everyone nodding to each other with serious, resolute faces.

"I think we should get going now then," Lord Jon said. "I will have horses made ready for us so we can ride to the dragons."

"Good," said the prince. He looked at his sister-wife, who nodded in agreement, even though she didn't seem to relish the prospect of having to ride through the cold and the snow.

"How far away are the dragons?" asked Lady Allara.

"Far enough," said Prince Aegon. "They've built themselves a lair in one of the castle ruins along the Wall. What was the name again?" He looked at Lord Jon, who just shrugged his shoulders as he rose from his seat. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. The important thing is that they will come to meet us, so we won't have to ride the entire way on horseback."

Lady Allara looked at her husband, frowning. Princess Rhaenys seemed to notice this.

"They will come," said Princess Rhaenys. "They will know and they will come."

Lady Allara only hummed as an answer. A sudden thud startled her briefly. Her head whipped around, letting her golden and silver mane wave around her pretty face like a banner in a sudden gust of wind. It had only been the doors of the Shieldhall that had been slammed shut by the wind, however, after Lord Jon had found his way out.

"I would appreciate it if someone could stay here to protect Allara while Rhae, Jon and I are with the dragons," Prince Aegon said.

"I would be honored to assume this duty," Oswell said.

"That will better be done by Ser Jaime. He will have to continue his exercises with Lady Arya another time," Ser Barristan said to the prince. Then he turned to Oswell. "Your ankle has only recently healed and it still needs some rest."

"That won't be necessary, Lord Commander," Oswell lied.

"It certainly will be," he said. "Don't think I haven't noticed that you're in pain. Get yourself something warm to eat, ser, and then get some rest. Your day has been long enough. Lady Brienne and I will accompany our prince and princess to their dragons..." Lady Brienne. I completely forgot about her. "...and Ser Jaime will take over the protection of our Lady Allara."

Oswell thought for a moment and, as the pain flared up once more in his foot and ankle as if as a reminder, then nodded. Of course, it had been an order, not a proposal, but still Oswell felt he should at least agree.

Again Prince Aegon nodded as well, satisfied. The prince and his wives then all rose to their feet. Prince Aegon reached for their thick cloaks with fur trim. They were hung behind their bench on nails that had been hammered into the wood of one of the thick pillars carrying the hall's old roof. Not exactly graceful, yet functional. He draped them around his wives' shoulders one after the other, then put on his own cloak, black, thick, noble, with a red, three-headed dragon embroidered on it.

"Do you think we will be able to do this?" the Lady Allara asked as they were all on their way out already. "Getting rid of the red priestess, I mean. Perhaps the Lady Lyanna should speak to His Grace after all. I mean, she was the one who convinced him that the burning of the heart trees had to stop."

They stopped in front of the doors. Prince Aegon had already placed his hand on the large iron handle, but now hesitated to open the door. After half a heartbeat, he put his hand down again. No wonder, as the handle was certainly just as icy as the air outside.

"I don't think that had much to do with the Lady Lyanna or whatever she told our father," the prince said. Lady Allara looked at him questioningly. "Well, father hasn't spoken to me about it. He hardly speaks to me at all lately." Ever since the Iron Islands. I know, boy. We all know. But don't worry. Surely your father will get over it. I'm sure he will. "I think it had more to do with the heart trees themselves. I mean… They completely cleared this little grove nearby. There is a Myrish Eye in Castle Black and you can clearly tell from the top of the Wall. And look how many wildlings actually bought their way south with the burning of those trees. A tenth of all the wildlings? Fewer? A twentieth? It would take a whole forest of heart trees for all the wildlings to make it south."

"And the fact that so many wildlings refused to go along with it anyway didn't help either," Princess Rhaenys added. "So if our father wanted to prevent the wildlings from either dying beyond the Wall or fighting their way south, then the red witch's idea wasn't a particularly good one. It didn't solve the problem, it just pushed it back a few days."

"And besides, it probably cost the Crown a lot of sympathy not only with the wildlings, but also with its bannermen in the North," Lady Allara continued thoughtfully.

"Absolutely. As I said, it was a stupid idea from the start."

"But you didn't tell Jon that."

"No," said the prince. "For one thing, we don't know exactly what's going on in father's head. As I said, he's hardly spoken to me lately. So maybe it was the Lady Lyanna who convinced him after all and he just wasn't aware of the problem with the number of heart trees in the first place. And for another, it would have done no good to spoil our little brother's good mood. Why ruin his day?"

"That was... kind of you, my husband and wife," Lady Allara said.

"We are kind," Prince Aegon said.

"Sometimes," the young lady returned with a wink. She then twisted her mouth into a mischievous smile and, after half a heartbeat, gave her husband a quick kiss on the lips.

"We should get going," the princess said. Prince Aegon nodded. "And you, ser," she then added, addressing Oswell, "get some rest. I know you don't like not being entirely recovered yet. But some things just can't be rushed. So in case your Lord Commander's order wasn't enough for you to understand, I'll give you the same order as well now. Get yourself something warm to eat and then get some rest. Get a few hours of good sleep, ser. You've earned it."

"As you command, my princess," Oswell said with a faint grin. That seemed to satisfy her.

They left the Shieldhall, Ser Barristan leading, Prince Aegon, Princess Rhaenys, Lady Allara in the center, Oswell and Lady Brienne following after. The wind blew sharply in their faces as they stepped out through the doors, making the snow seem even colder than it already was, hurting the skin like the pricking of a hundred needles. He squinted his eyes to shield them at least a little from the wind and the snow.

He looked around as they walked through Castle Black one after the other, along muddy paths with little embankments of dirty snow to the right and left. A fresh layer of white, however, had already begun to make both the dirty snow as well as the frozen mud on the path in front and behind them disappear again. White faded into white and the little else around began to disappear more and more with every heartbeat. The snow falling from the sky was so heavy and the wind so fierce that they didn't allow to see very far anyway. Not that there was much to see here. An old, half-ruined castle that had been restored at least to some semblance of presentability with enormous expenses, snow covering the ground, freezing men of the Night's Watch busily hurrying about, more snow swirling through the air, craftsmen and workers from the south busily hurrying about, more snow on the roofs and walls and battlements, soldiers of the Umbers and Boltons busily hurrying about and, of course, even more snow. A far from pleasant or comforting view. It wouldn't be long now, Oswell knew, before the men of the Night's Watch and everyone here in Castle Black would resort to using the tunnels that ran beneath the castle to get from one building to the next. Then, if one were to stand in the castle and look around, one would no longer even see these men, the last reminder that life had not yet ceased to exist here, at the end of the world.

On top of that, there was the gloomy twilight that seemed to rule every single day here in the North as of late. It was already past the midday hour, yet the light was still as weak and pale as if the sun had only just risen. A light as pale and drained of color as the entire world around them seemed to be drained of life and warmth and joy. Even at midday, the sun barely managed to fight its way through the thick clouds. And this close to winter, it wouldn't be long before it would disappear behind the horizon again. The days were getting shorter and shorter. Noticeably so. Three, maybe four more hours and then night would already be upon them again.

They found Lord Jon waiting at the southern edge of the courtyard, near what, in a proper castle, would have been the main gate. Here, instead, there was nothing more than a better barn gate, more poorly than properly secured between an earthen dike on one side and a wooden palisade on the other. Lord Jon was waiting next to some horses that were already saddled. Five horses in all. Two of them even had swords already hanging from their saddles.

Not Dragon's Wrath and Longclaw, but good swords forged from castle-forged steel, with which Prince Aegon and Lord Jon would certainly be able to defend themselves as well as the princess in case of doubt.

Next to Lord Jon stood a young soldier, holding the reins of two of the horses. A northerner and, judging by the colors on his doublet and cloak, a man of the northern mountain clans. More savage than even the crudest of northerners, closer to the wildlings than to the lords of the south, truth be told, yet fiercely loyal to Winterfell. The fact that, alongside Lords Umber and Bolton, there were also men of the mountain clans at the Wall, who at least in name were also lords of the realm, was quickly forgotten. Even by Oswell, as he noticed at that moment. Ben Stark had sent most of the men of the mountain clans to other castles to the east and west of Castle Black, yet some soldiers of the Norreys and Harclays were still here, doing their duty.

At least, Oswell believed those were the names of these houses. He certainly didn't know the coats of arms of the families.

Lady Allara decided that she would now quickly retire to her chambers in the King's Tower to do some reading or perhaps some needlework and await the return of her husband and wife before she would freeze to the ground here. A man of the Watch, Lord Jon added, was already in the know and would inform Ser Jaime at this very moment that he was to come to the King's Tower to guard her. Lord Jon ordered the young soldier of the Norreys, or perhaps the Harclays, to escort the Lady Allara there and wait for Ser Jaime to arrive.

"Aye," said the lad. His voice sounded much younger than his beard and build would have suggested, Oswell found.

Lady Allara thanked first Lord Jon, then the young soldier and then took her leave of all those present with a most elegant curtsey. Without waiting for the man, she hurried off, hastily followed by the young soldier. Only a moment later, they had already disappeared in the thick snow. The others mounted their horses and prepared to set off.

"How far will we ride, my prince?" asked Ser Barristan.

"Not far," said Prince Aegon. "A clearing to the southeast. Wide enough for all three."

Oswell took his leave then as well, as there was of course no horse waiting for him anyway while the others rode off.

In the Common Hall he actually found something warm to eat for himself, along with some freezing men of the Night's Watch and some soldiers of the Boltons and Umbers who looked hardly less enthusiastic about the weather. It was a thick stew of mutton, cabbage and dark, stale bread. Even after a thorough search, however, Oswell found hardly meat in it. To his own surprise, however, the taste was much better than the sight suggested. And it was hot. Very hot. So the stew quickly and reliably drove the cold from his belly and his bones.

Oswell ate in silence as he listened to the men around him swearing and complaining. Bolton men, sitting together at the end of the row of tables, were talking about that it was already cold and draughty in the Dreadfort, but that it was still as pleasant as on the Summer Isles there compared to Castle Black.

"At least there's fewer men being flayed here than back home," one said.

"Don't talk shit, fool. The last time old Roose flayed a man, you were still suckling your mother's teats," an older man in the same colors grumbled. His skin was like leather and wrinkled like the lines on a map of some mountain range. "I still remember the screams," the old man went on, unaffected. "Won't forget them for the rest of my life. Poor bastard, that."

"Well, I guess those good times are over then," a third man joked. The man's teeth were as brown as old wood. His word only earned him a few scowls from the others, though.

"We're not that lucky," the old man was sure. "Should we somehow survive all this, the bastard will inherit the Dreadfort sooner or later. I just hope I'll already be in the ground by then."

"Where is the bastard anyway?" asked the first.

"Roose sent him west with a hundred men. To hold one of the castles along the Wall. Gods, I'm glad I didn't have to go there," said the third, now in a serious tone. "They say he's going to get reinforcements, though I'll avoid that somehow. I'd suggest you do the same. And if not and you fools want to do yourselves a favor, don't call him a bastard."

"But he is one," objected the first.

"Aye, but he doesn't like hearing that. So you better stop it, or you'll be the first to star down the barrel once old Roose isn't around anymore."

Oswell didn't know what that all was supposed to mean. He didn't really want to know, though. The matter was so grim that he preferred not to listen to the men's words any longer. Instead, he slid a little to the side on his bench as discreetly as he could, away from the Bolton men. At the other end of the bench sat some brothers of the Night's Watch, who were chatting over a few bowls of stew as well. They didn't seem to be in a particularly good mood either - how could they, when they were condemned to a life at the Wall – but at least, Oswell hoped, the men in black weren't talking about people being flayed. Five men sat together, all of them young boys more than men, though.

"We can deal with this," said one. He was broad and sturdy and looked strong, the only one of the group who already seemed able to grow a beard, thick and brown. The look in his eyes, however, did not suggest that a particularly alert mind was dwelling behind his brow. "The Night's Watch has always dealt with the wildlings. For thousands of years. We can do that now too."

"Aye, but then they were all still on the other side of the Wall," said another. He was the only one in the group who looked a little older. The man had a long face like a mule and hair as gray as cold ashes. "They're all coming here now. Through the Wall. Just like that. I mean, what could possibly go wrong? Apart from absolutely everything, of course."

"They'll fight on our side," said a young lad with ears so big Oswell was sure he could have glided through the air like a bird if he'd thrown himself off the top of the Wall. "I hate the wildlings as much as any of you, but in the war against White Walkers and their wights, I'd rather have them on our side than as our enemies."

Oswell spooned his stew in silence while inwardly agreeing with the young lad. Certainly, not all wildlings were good men or good women. It would probably be better if some of them simply stayed beyond the Wall and died there, so that they could no longer pose a threat south of it. It would be better for the realm and every man and woman in it. Yet for many who would soon fight alongside them to defend the Wall and beat back the White Walkers, he was deeply and honestly grateful.

"They bring their wives and daughters with them," said a third. A young lad with pretty, silky hair. By the way he spoke, he seemed to be a lad from the Reach.

"Isn't that why they sent you here in the first place?" the strong one grumbled. "Because of a girl and because you couldn't keep your breeches on? Whose daughter was it again? Lord Redding? Roxton?"

The pretty one waved him off.

"I'm as innocent as the Maiden herself," he insisted. "She helped me into her room through the window and welcomed me in her bed naked as the day she was born. But someone, she or I, were too loud in our frolic apparently and under her father's eyes she suddenly spoke of rape." The others looked at the pretty one, then exchanged a few disbelieving glances. They had obviously heard the story several times before and, even after the umpteenth time, didn't think it was any more credible than the first time. Oswell didn't believe a word either, even without knowing the fellow. He had seen enough men and boys sent to the scaffold or the Wall for this or that crime, and the few who had not claimed to be innocent he could have counted on one hand.

If all men were as innocent as they claimed, there would be no crime in the world.

The other black brothers now began to giggle at the story, which the pretty one didn't seem to like at all.

"At least I've seen a woman before. Unlike you fools," the pretty one spat. "Naked, mind you, and another than your own mothers. And if there just happens to be some tender flower among the wildlings who can't resist the magic of my voice... where else could they possibly banish me now that I'm at the Wall already?"

"I've already seen some of the women when they came through the Wall," said the next one. A lad who looked as small and skinny as a girl. "Most of them are as ugly as a goat's arse."

Oswell had to pull himself together not to spit the rest of his stew right back into the small bowl out of surprise. He had just shoved the last spoonful into his mouth, on which, to his own surprise, he had actually found a small piece of meat, and now he didn't want to give this little treasure away just like that.

"And you certainly know all about that," mocked the pretty one.

"But there are also a few that no man with a healthy pair of eyes would say no to," said the skinny lad, obviously refraining from answering with an insult of his own.

"Spearwives," said the first man, with gray hair and a face like a mule. "That's what the wildlings call their fighting women. You'd better keep your hands off those, or you'll lose them. The hands, not the women. I'll be sent away with some of them."

"Lucky you," the pretty one cheered. "Will you take me with you, then?"

"Sent away? Where to?" asked the one with the big ears at the same moment.

"Long Barrow," the gray-haired may said. "Iron Emmet is taking over the castle. Has been rebuilt as best as possible. The castle, that is. Not that that's saying much. Let's see if I like it better in that ruin than in this one. I don't think so, though. I'm to be Emmet's steward and second in command. Lord Commander told me that last night. Emmet and I, a few brothers and of course the spearwives are to… well, man the castle." Some of his brothers patted him on the shoulder in congratulations. The gray-haired man, however, only seemed to become even more downhearted. "Yes, what great luck. The perfect position for me. Not important enough to make decisions, but just important enough to be held responsible for the consequences."

"An entire castle full of women just for you and Iron Emmet and a few other fools who have probably long since frozen off their dicks. Yes, a truly ghastly fate," the pretty one mocked. "If this prospect is so terrible for you, then just pray that one of the towers of Long Barrow will collapse and bury you under it. At least then you'd be done with it."

"Maybe I'll do just that. Not that it would do much good. It never has so far, anyway."

"Praying never hurts," said the one with ears like wings. "And it seems we even have a freshly imported god from Essos to choose from now, besides the heart trees and the Seven." The others looked at him, a blend of uncertainty as to whether it was a good idea to make fun of this and anticipation of what was to come on their faces. The boy with the big ears rose from his seat and spread his arms, looking up at the flat ceiling of the Common Hall. Like a septon leading a prayer before his flock. "Let us all pray for venison, my children, with some onions and a bit of tasty gravy," he began, now also in the solemn voice of a septon in prayer. "Oh, Lord of Leek. Protect us from the dread of an empty belly. For the night is dark and full of turnips."

The pretty one and the weakling laughed heartily, while the gray-haired one showed no reaction at all. The strong one did not seem at all amused, however.

"Stop that crap, Pyp," he snapped. "Making mock of another man's prayer is fool's work. And dangerous."

This didn't seem to impress the one with the big ears, apparently called Pyp, however.

"If the red god's offended, let him strike me down," he said. He sat down again, then looked up once more, as if he was waiting for a bolt of lightning to come down from the sky and shoot through the ceiling of the hall after all. Nothing happened, however.

"There's no need to fear this red god," said the weakling. "It's nothing but lies and deception. That's what my father always said, anyway, and he must know. He's a septon, after all."

"Well, anyway," the pretty one began again, "if Emmet and you still need a good man in Long Barrow, let me know. I could certainly help some of those spearwives enjoy their time there a great deal. And you know what they say. Happy wife, happy life. Even if they're married to a stick of wood and not to you."

"Why?" asked Pyp. "Do you happen to know a good man?"

The others began to laugh at the pretty one again and now even the gray-haired fellow couldn't help but smirk, albeit as faintly as imaginable.

"I better just make my way to Eastwatch," the pretty one growled. The others, letting their laughter fade, looked at him questioningly. "I'm innocent. I've done nothing to deserve to spend the rest of my life at the Wall with the likes of you. Hard beds, salt cod, and endless watches, that's the Wall. And now the bloody White Walkers too. No. I'm done with black. Better to take a ship to Essos, I say. Live as good and long as you can. There's some setting sail from Eastwatch every month."

"Desertion?" whispered one of the others, startled. Oswell hadn't been able to hear which one of them it had been.

"Reason, I call it," said the pretty one, even though he now no longer look seemed able to look the others in the eye. "Why should we die here defending a damn wall against monsters from nightmares?"

Immediately, the others were beginning to hiss and snarl at him, swearing like sailors. The tempers and voices were now so heated that Oswell could no longer really understand what the men were saying. But that was no longer necessary anyway. The worst had already been said.

Desertion.

He briefly wondered whether he should inform someone about it. The king, perhaps? Or Lord Commander Stark? He then decided against it, however. He didn't know this young man or his brothers and couldn't possibly tell whether his words had been meant seriously or whether they had just been said out of a moment of sadness, despair or perhaps anger. And for a few thoughtless words, even if strictly speaking those words had been treason, Oswell did not want to bring the lad to the gallows.

Living here at the Wall, it wouldn't surprise me if as a black brother you thought about desertion once a week, Oswell thought. If every man were immediately hanged for that alone, the Night's Watch would be gone within a month.

Oswell then decided that he had heard enough and that it was now time for him to leave. For one thing, his bowl of stew was long since empty and his belly warm and full, and for another, this conversation was strictly speaking none of his concern anyway. So he got up from his seat and pushed his way out between the rows of benches and tables past the Bolton men.

He made his way back to the Lance, along fresh-shoveled pathways between mounds of dirty snow. It was the tower in which the quarters of the knights of the Kingsguard were located, as well as those of the higher ranking guests of the Night's Watch. The name was fitting, Oswell found. The Lance was tall and slender, taller than all the rest of the castle. It did indeed look a bit like a lance, albeit an old one that had already been used in a few too many battles. Sadly, it was just as crumbling as everything else around here, if not worse. So the Lance wasn't exactly the White Sword Tower, but it would suffice for Oswell and his sworn brothers. Its roof was not leaking, the rooms were not too draughty, and overall it was still more comfortable than most of the other houses, keeps and towers Castle Black had to offer. Apart from the King's Tower, of course, and the Lord Commander's Tower, at least the part of it that had already been rebuilt and made habitable after being largely destroyed in a fire.

Once there, he stopped for a moment in front of the entrance door. He hesitated. He was fed up, tired, his feet and ankle were hurting and longing for some rest, and out here in front of the door he quickly began to shiver again. This was indeed a dreary place through and through. There was scant warmth to be found in Castle Black. The walls and halls were cold here, and the people even colder.

His chamber lured him, his bed lured him, however hard. The sleep that would surely embrace him after a few moments lured him. And yet he didn't enter. Instead, Oswell turned and made his way to Hardin's Tower. The tower that held His Grace's... guests. Hostages, that the wildlings had been forced to surrender to the Crown.

The tower was old. So old even that, as Oswell discovered as he approached, it consisted only of stones stacked on top of each other, not even joined by mortar. It was not just old, it was ancient. Also, the tower was leaning so much that it looked as if it would topple over at any moment. Not exactly a favorable combination. Lord Commander Stark had assured His Grace, however, that the tower had been standing like this for well over a century already. So there was no reason to fear that his foundations would give way now of all times.

On King Rhaegar's orders, the middle and upper floors of the tower had been prepared for the wildlings. The two top floors had been disregarded, however, as they were beyond saving. The roof, full of holes, rotten and partially collapsed, would have had to be completely replaced, as would large parts of the floors, the doors, windows and even some of the inner walls. The king and Lord Commander Stark had thus jointly decided that it would not have been worth the effort. The ground floor had been packed with soldiers. In the tower's entrance hall, Oswell knew, there were always at least four or five soldiers at the ready. Not so much to protect the wildlings, however, but rather to make sure that they did not leave the tower on their own and never without company. In a neighboring room, more soldiers were sleeping, waiting, eating, doing whatever soldiers did when they were not on duty, Oswell knew.

Four men greeted him as he entered the tower, of which he only knew one by name, however. A young lad named Eddard Lake, a vassal of the Umbers of Last Hearth. He was tall and strong, had the build to make a good fighter. Whether he actually was one, however, remained to be seen. Unlike many of the other northerners Oswell had met so far, however, this lad even had a kind of manners that would make him welcome at most lordly courts south of the Neck.

"Ser Oswell," he greeted him with an implied bow. "What brings us the honor of your visit?"

The others rose from their chairs, reluctantly tearing themselves away from a game of dice, yet did not bother to greet him.

"I'm here to see the princess."

The princess. She was no princess, of course, but since she was the good-sister of the King-beyond-the-Wall, the men in Castle Black had taken to calling her that. Many even seemed to believe it.

"A nubile girl, not hard to look upon. That's for sure," Lake said with a nod and a faint smirk. "Good hips, good breasts, well made for whelping children." All true enough, but she is so much more than that, boy. She may not be a princess, but she would make a worthy wife for any lord. "Although of course I didn't mean to imply that might be your intention with the girl," he apologized quickly.

"I am a knight of the Kingsguard," Oswell said with a stern look as he pushed his way past young Lake. The lad made no attempt to stop him, nor did the others, who had already begun to turn back to their dice.

"Are you here at the king's behest?" asked Lake.

"No," said Oswell as he began to climb the steps, not bothering to turn around again for the answer, let alone offer the man any further explanation. If the lad had shown a little more respect for the lady, Oswell might have been tempted to give a longer answer. This way, however... The next moment, Oswell had already turned the corner between the first and second floor and the men had disappeared behind him.

The wood of the steps creaked under his heavy boots. So much so that he wondered with every other step whether the stairs should not better have been renewed entirely. Only some boards had been replaced. Worse than the untrustworthy creaking of the old wood, however, was the pain in his ankle, which seemed to get worse with every step he took.

Red hot nails in my flesh and bone and with every step up these stairs, a new nail is driven in.

At least, he realized as he finally reached the top of the tower's occupied floors, so far up there was only one door to choose from. Oswell knocked on it and a moment later, a familiar voice invited him in.

The Lady Val was dressed in white, as always. A simple dress of thick wool, hardly more than an undergarment or a nightdress, yet on her it looked as stunning as the most splendid ball gown. It didn't look as if it belonged to her, though, not as if she had brought it with her from beyond the Wall. So someone must have bought it for her from a southern merchant. Inevitably, Oswell wondered who might have done that. She wore just as simple sandals made of leather, tied to her slender little feet with narrow ribbons of linen. With the white dress on her pale skin, she almost looked like a vision of ice and pure light.

A lady indeed, he decided, or perhaps a princess after all. She would be worthy being called that.

Oswell hadn't been back south of the Wall for long, and yet it seemed like an eternity since he had last seen a sight so lovely. The curious look she had cast in the direction of the door disappeared when she recognized Oswell.

He wanted to greet her, even considered going down on one knee in front of her for half a heartbeat. That would probably have been too much, however, so he abandoned the idea. She was no real princess, after all, not even a real lady. Oswell wasn't quick enough to open his mouth, though.

"Are you particularly brave or particularly stupid that you dare to face me?" she asked.

"A bit of both, I suppose," he admitted, honestly.

"A bit," she snorted. "Probably a lot of both. Well, whatever made the difference in this case, stupidity or bravery, you're a lucky man either way, kneeler. That much is certain," she said. Her voice was grave, as was the expression in her eyes. Indeed, my lady, because I was blessed to have been chosen by you. "Lucky, because when I was brought here..." Oswell noticed how she avoided the word imprisoned, even though it was clearly on the tip of her tongue. "...my dagger was taken from me. If I still had it, it would long since be stuck up to the shaft in your belly."

"If you wanted to kill me, it would probably be better to plunge the dagger into my heart or my throat, my lady, not my belly."

She looked at him for a moment, eyeing him critically and pursing her lips before snorting softly.

"Not if I wanted you to die slowly," she then said. "Why are you here?"

I don't know, he had almost said. To marvel at your beauty again, in the next moment. Both of which he was able to stifle at the last moment.

"I wanted to see if your accommodation was comfortable," he then said.

Hardin's Tower was adequate, no more but no less than that.

Some men of the Night's Watch had advocated that the king's hostages be placed in the ice cells. Dungeon cells at the foot of the Wall, carved into its very ice. His Grace had refused, however. Thankfully. Compared to that, the tower was exceedingly comfortable, though Oswell wasn't sure if the Lady Val and the other hostages were aware of what they had been spared thanks to the king's decision.

"It's more comfortable in here than waiting to die on the other side of the Wall."

He nodded faintly, thinking for a moment.

"Good," he then said, feeling stupid. "I'm glad to hear that," he added, feeling even stupider. "It's called Hardin's Tower. Not as comfortable as other rooms in Castle Black, though as far as I know it's never been called Hardin's Palace either." A jest he had heard Ben Stark make toward His Grace. The Lady Val did not seem nearly as amused as the king had been.

The Lady Val's chamber was not particularly large, but it was warm and dry and the rushes on the floor were fresh. The fact that the tower no longer had a proper roof was unnoticeable here, two floors below. She had been given a good bed with fresh straw and clean sheets. The chamber had its own small hearth, not just a brazier for the cold nights, with cushioned chairs arranged before it and a small table on which stood the remains of a meal that she had been brought. In one corner stood a sturdy chest of heavy wood for the few possessions she had brought with her. And from the windows, though small, one could see far into the land to the east and south, nothing obscuring the view so high above.

"I would choose freedom over comfort every time," she said, turning around and sitting down on one of the small chairs in front of the hearth. "Freedom... The one thing I never wanted to lose and yet the only thing that has now been taken from me. Or rather, that I willingly gave up. Pathetic, isn't it? Although, for a kneeler, probably not so much."

"But you're alive, you're safe." Lady Val turned briefly in her chair to face Oswell. She frowned as if the very idea was absurd. "Besides," he then added, "your freedom is not all that has been taken from you. Your dagger as well, my lady."

For the tiniest moment he thought he saw that smile on her lips again. The smile that had always graced her face when he had called her his lady. Then she looked at the chair next to her, nodded ever so lightly, and quickly turned her gaze forward again, into the flames of the hearth. An invitation, Oswell knew. An invitation to come and sit next to her. He did as he was told.

"Dalla?" she asked after a moment.

"Still north of the Wall," Oswell said.

"And how far is she?"

"The child has not yet come," Oswell said. "King Rhaegar has offered that the birth may take place in Castle Black. With maesters to look after her. Dalla refused."

"Of course she did. The child will be born free," Lady Val said, satisfied.

"It will," he said. It was true, if meaningless. It would make no difference, Oswell knew, no matter where Dallas's child would be born. By the time it crossed the Wall, whether inside or outside its mother's womb, it would become a subject of the Iron Throne. Just as Lady Val had become one, whether yet she was willing to accept it or not. He refrained from saying this aloud, however.

"What will happen now?" she asked after a moment.

What do you mean, my lady? The winter and the war that's coming? Beyond the Wall? Us? At the same moment, however, he scolded himself for that last thought. Us... there is no us. I myself made sure of that. Nothing else has ever been possible. It was a dream, beautiful but short-lived, nothing more.

"That will be decided by His Grace."

The Lady Val snorted a laugh.

"Right. By your oh-so-great king, before whom you couldn't wait to finally bend the knee again," she mocked. "So far, this king of yours hasn't impressed me much. Our ruse with the horn was unmasked for him at the last moment by that droll dwarf and after that your king did nothing but let the red witch decide on this nonsense with the heart trees." His Grace decided, not the priestess, he wanted to say, but then didn't. He didn't know himself how much truth there actually would have been in his words. "And now... Now what, kneeler? Winter is coming closer and closer. And with come the things that bring the cold."

"I know. As does His Grace."

"I should hope so. For all our sakes."

Oswell looked at her, found her gaze and gave her a serious nod. She didn't say anything, though, just looked at him for a moment. Then she turned her gaze away again and reached for the cup on the small table between them. She took a sip of whatever was in it. She didn't offer him anything, though he hadn't expected she would.

In addition to her almost empty plate and a small clay mug, there was a small pile of books on her table, Oswell noticed. The bottom one, he recognized as one of the volumes of the Books of Law, though he couldn't tell from the binding which one it was. Above it in the small stack was Dragonkin, a very, very detailed account of the history of House Targaryen. Good reading if one wanted to learn about the royal family, even if the book was rather dry and exhausting to read. Oswell had liked the book, of which his lord father had owned a copy, as a child already. Although, to be honest, back then mostly because of the magnificent illustrations of the royal dragons in it, especially of Balerion the Black Dread, and less because of the endless, tedious texts.

As a child, I would never have believed that I would ever see a living dragon. And today I've actually ridden one. Strange how life plays out sometimes...

Above it lay a third book. Of Blood Prices and the Guest Right, being a comprehensive assembly of all traditions and customs of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Oswell had never heard of this book. It sounded old and looked so as well, as the practice of the blood price had no longer been practiced in Westeros since the days before the Conquest. Oswell supposed it couldn't hurt to have read it, though. The title certainly sounded as if it might be useful.

Lady Val is preparing to live in the realm, Oswell thought. She knows there is no way back. It's good that she wants to learn.

He regarded the books for a moment longer. Oswell doubted that Lady Val could have brought these books with her from beyond the Wall. Dragonkin in particular, rare and precious, was unlikely to be found beyond the Wall or to survive there for long, among men and women who could neither read nor write but who always had use for good paper and parchment to light their fires in the evenings. So they must have come from the cellars beneath Castle Black, where the Night's Watch housed its library.

Someone must have brought her the books, he decided. Lady Val couldn't possibly have known what she needed to look for down there otherwise. Surely one of the castle's maesters.

They sat in silence for a while, looking together into the flames of the hearth. His feet and his ankle still ached as if there were nails stuck in his flesh. Sitting and resting did him good, though. At that moment, he would have loved to take off his boots. He didn't, however. That kind of hospitality did not exist for him in this chamber, he knew.

After what felt like the better part of an hour, it was the Lady Val who then broke the silence.

"You did not return."

She had only said these few words, but Oswell had not needed more to understand her immediately.

"I had to go, had to return south. To my king. To my duty. I had to honor my oath." He looked over at her again. This time, she did not return his gaze.

"You know I won't forgive you for this, do you?"

"Yes, my lady."

"And that as soon as I get my dagger back, your life is still forfeit?"

"Yes, my lady." Finally she looked at him again and the smile returned. Soft and subtle, yet ravishing and unmistakable. "Had it been possible, I would have stayed. Stayed… with you. But I serve a higher purpose, something greater than myself."

"Something greater than yourself...," she snorted. "Another lie you tell yourselves here in the south so that your knees don't hurt so much when you bend them again and again all day. Your south has nothing to offer but shackles and lies."

Lies. Lies and shackles.

For a moment he wanted to bring up the supposed Horn of Winter, wanted to point out that it had been the wildlings who had tried to trick their way south with a deceitful lie. But then he didn't.

At that moment, he realized that above all else the wildlings were lying to themselves. A lie that bound them more than all the laws of the Seven Kingdoms ever could. And that lie was their so called freedom. The wildlings basked in their alleged freedom, yet in reality they only lived in constant fear, were shackled by their fear. Fear of the Others, fear of their wights, fear of the Night's Watch and the lords of the south, fear of the next winter, and even fear of each other.

Also, what was freedom, real or imagined, even worth without a vision of the future? Nothing. Without that, this so called freedom was nothing but anarchy and savagery, as could just as easily be found in wild beasts. True freedom needed a vision, an idea for the future to which a man could commit himself. The unity of the Seven Kingdoms, the Iron Throne, the king's peace, order and honor... Those all were the foundation for a greater future for every man and every woman. Something a man could strive for and dedicate his life to. A true vision of the future.

None of this, however, Oswell said aloud.

"Lies?" he asked instead.

"Like those dragons you told me about."

"No lie, my lady. The dragons-"

"Enough of this, kneeler," she commanded, in a tone Oswell could not possibly refuse. There was so much more of a noble lady in Val than she probably realized. "Don't treat me like a child. During our time on the other side of the Wall, when we were still free together, you and I, your little fairy tale was still nice and funny. But not anymore. I haven't seen a dragon since I'm here and I know I'll never get to see one." You should have looked out of the window more often, my lady. I know you hate the south, but it would have been worth a look every once in a while. "And I also know I'll never get to see this something greater you're talking about either."

"You want to see one? Or three?" he asked. She seemed irritated by this question for a moment. His lady frowned. Yet her anger faded. "Then follow me, my lady."

He rose from the chair and held out his hand to her. Lady Val took it. Her hand, so soft and tender, was as warm as the summer sun.

"Where to?"

"Outside. Into the forest."

"What is there in the forest, Oswell Ser?"

"The truth," he replied with a smile. Then he left her chamber and waited for her to get dressed. In her breeches of white wool, high white boots of white leather, a white tunic and with the white bearskin over her slender shoulders, she stepped out of her chamber to him shortly afterwards.

Eddard Lake and his men made a weak attempt, half-hearted at best, to stop them when Oswell came down the stairs with the Lady Val by the hand and headed straight for the door. Lake asked where they intended to go and whether Oswell had permission to take the king's guest out of the tower. Oswell only gave him a stern look in reply. This was enough to make the men move out of the way, however. Apparently, none of them dared to seriously stand in the way of a knight of the Kingsguard.

In the castle's main yard, Oswell had two saddled horses handed to him. A man of the Night's Watch handed him the reins of a bay and a gray gelding, yet only after casting Lady Val a skeptical look. No doubt the man wondered why a wildling woman was allowed to roam Castle Black just like that. And then even under the protection and in the company of a knight of the Kingsguard. Oswell, however, did not consider that he owed the man an explanation.

The horses were simple animals, not from any particular noble breed, yet robust enough for the hard life at the Wall. Lady Val certainly seemed to like her gray. After gently stroking his flank, a caress that most men would have sold their own mothers for, she swung herself elegantly into the saddle.

They rode out of Castle Black, through the filthy mess that had formed south of the castle and the Wall from wagons and carts, simple tents and hastily put together houses of crooked wood. The... town had been given the name Blacktown, he had heard men of the night watch say. But whether this dirty, stinking chaos of men and women, horses, oxen, dogs, wagons, huts, tents and plenty of mud and muck would ever become a real town and survive the war, let alone its end, was written in the stars.

He noticed the glances Lady Val cast in all directions as they pushed their way through. Whatever this was, a village in the making, the worst encampment in the world, something else entirely, it certainly wasn't any better than the chaotic, messy wildling camp beyond the Wall had been.

This, whatever it is, will hardly convince her that we south of the Wall are a better, more civilized people than the Free Folk.

They followed the Kingsroad south, not very far though, then turned east into the forest. It was hardly to be called a beaten track what revealed itself between the trees, but still not hard to find. They followed the narrow path and the tracks of the other horses, faded under fresh snow, for perhaps a quarter of an hour. Some of the branches hung so low that Oswell had to push them out of the way, others scraped across his chest and shoulders, his arms or thighs. Small wisps of snow fell down each time. Oswell felt his hands begin to ache with cold, as well as his feet. But at least he didn't have to walk on them. With his aching ankle, the high snow and the uneven ground of frozen earth, rocks and roots would hardly have allowed him to make it this far.

Oswell looked around for Lady Val, who was riding a short distance behind him. She didn't seem to have any problems with the cold, however. On the contrary, she seemed quite comfortable here, in the snow-covered forest, away from the castle and the many people. Her eyes kept wandering back and forth, as if there was anything to see here other than trees, bushes and snow. And yet her eyes were wide open and bright and happy, and even a tiny smile seemed to play around her lips.

Here she feels free, even though she's south of the Wall, Oswell thought. And she probably even is. If she decided to disappear between the trees, I wouldn't be able to bring her back.

She didn't, though, and instead followed Oswell silently and swiftly along the narrow path without hesitation or even resistance. It took them another few minutes before the clearing Oswell had wanted to find finally came into view. Five horses were tied to a tree at the end of the path, behind which the clearing opened up, wide and flat and round like the courtyard of a castle. And next to these five horses stood two figures, tall, with their backs straight, waiting in silence. Ser Barristan, all in white, and next to him the Lady Brienne, clad in her old, dented armor of blue steel, though most of it was hidden beneath a cloak of thick, gray wool.

Their breath was as white as the snow all around them. Small clouds that billowed from their mouths and noses, the only signs that the two were still alive at all and not long frozen to ice.

Ser Barristan was the first to notice their arrival.

"Ser Oswell, should you not be in your bed resting?" he asked. "I believed that my order was quite clear. And that of our princess even more so."

"Indeed. Forgive me, Lord Commander, but... things have taken a slightly different turn."

"I can see that," Ser Barristan said, glancing at Lady Val. Following Oswell's example, she dismounted her horse and tied it to a tree near the other horses. She was too far away from the Lord Commander for a courtly kiss on her gloved hand, so he contented himself with a bow and a "my lady" as a greeting. Lady Brienne also greeted Lady Val with a bow, though silent, while Lady Val herself merely responded to both with a curt nod.

Ser Barristan now gave Oswell a questioning look. He did not have to order him to explain himself. Oswell knew it was in his own interest to start talking willingly.

"I wanted to make sure our king's guests were well accommodated," Oswell said. It was not entirely untrue.

"So you've decided to join the stewards, then, ser? If so, I will of course keep that in mind for your future duties."

"No, Lord Commander." Oswell hesitated. "I just wanted-"

"You want the support of the Free Folk, do you not?" the Lady Val suddenly interrupted him, though she directed her words at Ser Barristan. The knight seemed surprised by her interference for a moment, but then quickly caught himself.

"Our king would rather have your people as his allies than his enemies, my lady," he said.

"Then it should be in your very interest, knight ser, that trust be built between us and you." Ser Barristan nodded. "So you should give Oswell ser leave here, for so far your king has not exactly done much to earn the Free Folk's trust. Rather the opposite. Oswell promised me the truth." Lady Val turned around. "So, Oswell ser, where is this truth you promised me? Where are-"

Her words were cut off. A sudden hiss filled the air, like the creaking of leather sails in a storm, accompanied by a low whistle and a rhythmic rumble like thunder. At the same moment, a huge shadow flashed impossibly fast over them, then another and another. The horses began to shy. They all turned their eyes to the sky.

Thank the gods. Just at the right moment.

The next moment they had already turned back around and were there again, snowstorms sweeping across the clearing under their mighty wings. Ser Barristan, Lady Brienne and Oswell turned their gazes to the side, shielding their eyes from the wind and the swirling snow and ice, while the Lady Val could not take her eyes off of them.

Growling and snarling, three huge beasts descended down into the clearing, captivating Lady Val's eyes as she took first one, then another step forward, fearless, her mouth wide open in awe and wonder as if she wanted to swallow the entire world.