Chapter 232

After conferring again with Sir Luódélìkè and the numerous clan chiefs to confirm how prisoners were to be escorted, he dragged his weary body back to his quarters. Sir Méilìsītè, knowing he had spent the first day in the hall, alone made the long‑vacant artisan room available, cleaned it, and lit a fire.

When he returned, the room was already warm; he felt that if no one came to bother him again and no one told him any more oppressive stupid stories or absurd fantastical legends, that would be perfect.

Tonight he would surely be able to sleep soundly.

He forced himself to banish from his mind the free‑folk prisoners who had nearly frozen in the open air, not to think about how many white walkers roamed beyond the Wall hunting, or how many people spent this night in sleepless fear.

He was not a god; he was merely an ordinary brother of the Night's Watch?

He had support; the soldiers of Winterfell obeyed his commands, Sir Luódélìkè was willing to assist him as he had assisted Robb, he had the backing of the mountain clans, who were also willing to stand behind him as they had for his father, but these could not change his identity, and he was still just an ordinary brother of the Night's Watch, and they would eventually leave. He was not a Stark.

Snow, Snow. That is his true surname; adding the suffix of Winterfell does not make it special. He ought not to fret over matters that the Lord Commander should worry about, nor should he voluntarily shoulder burdens that have not been placed on his shoulders.

He sat back on the bed. Dry straw had been spread on it, topped with an unknown leather; he took off his sword and its sheath and tossed them aside.

He took off his black cloak and used it as a mattress on the bed, unsure whether a rag‑like blanket could keep him warm. If it could let him sleep past midnight without waking from the cold, he would thank the heavens.

If White Spirit were there, it would be even better; he could snuggle up to it, he thought, for White Spirit seldom felt the cold.

Unfortunately, he had thrown it beyond the Wall himself, and he had no time, perhaps no chance, to go back out beyond the Wall to look for it.

White Spirit, White Spirit. How many lonely, cold nights had depended on it to endure and keep watch.

This is the rest of his life, and the rest of the lives of other brothers of the Night's Watch: to keep watch.

He took off his leather armor, crawled into the furs, and blew out the candle. He hoped that when he opened his eyes it would be daytime, and the snow would have stopped.

The firelight in the hearth swayed like a drunkard, continually tugging at him; he felt weary yet could not fall asleep peacefully, and when he opened his eyes he saw only the kettle by the hearth, exhaling a somewhat colored vapor into the firelight.

Was it the shadow cast by the firelight in the hearth?

He rolled over, refusing to look, yet it seemed as if countless shadows were enacting stories behind him—probably the tales once performed in the Shadow Tower from ages past, he thought boredly.

He crawled out from the furs.

The enacted tales ceased at once. The kettle gave a faint whine; the ice and snow inside had boiled hot, he turned over, took up the kettle, and poured out a cup.

In his hand the cup was warm and steaming; he hoped it held strong drink, not meltwater.

He took a sip and then stopped. The melancholy Àidí had once told him that it was best not to drink before sleep, for if he rose in the night to urinate and grew cold and shaky he might overturn the chamber pot…

In the deep night he gave a wry smile, preparing to set down the cup, burrow back into the furs, and try to sleep again.

Faint footsteps came from outside the door, pausing and starting; he stopped and listened. On a night like this, it would be best if they were not an enemy.

The footsteps halted before his door. He drew the Valyrian steel dagger from its sheath; perhaps it was time to test whether dragonsteel worked against the White Walkers or other spirits.

After a few breaths, the knock finally sounded. He sheathed the dagger, drew back the bolt with his left hand, and cautiously opened the door a crack.

"Who goes there?" he asked warily.

"Who did you think it was?" said Láilā.

He relaxed his tension, opened the door, and let the visitor in.

"At least I didn't expect it to be you." He slipped the dagger back into its sheath, "It's dangerous out there, especially…"

"It's also cold out there, Qiongen."

Her hands gripped the heavy outer coat, white snow clinging to it; in the dim firelight he could almost see the snow melting quickly.

"This is winter; everywhere is cold." Qiongen relit the candle, "The Wall is especially so."

In the candlelight, Leyla's profile was breathtakingly beautiful, and he felt his heart rate quickening.

"Some places aren't cold, Snow," she said, throwing open her thick robe—inside she wore nothing—"like this room, like tonight."

Qiongen stared at her, dazed, hearing nothing but his own heartbeat.

"Why… why?"

"I am the sole daughter of the Earl of Noël as you call me; do I need a 'why'?" She fixed her gaze on Qiongen, "What are you doubting? I'm cold, Qiongen, hold me."

"I have sworn an oath." His face flushed.

"Yes, you have sworn an oath; shall I take you to the Noël lands to be my husband?"

She stepped forward.

"No." Qiongen retreated, embarrassed.

"Shall I bear you children?"

She continued forward.

"I don't know." His breathing grew heavy, and he was backed against the wall.

"Shall I grant you the Noël territories?"

"No, no."

"Why?"

"I don't need a 'why'." Láilā slipped her arms around his neck, inhaling softly, "I feel cold, Qiongen, and I feel afraid."

He could not answer, nor did he try, for her lips were already pressed to his, warm, and his hand rested on her warmth.

He had fallen.

The night was so short; when the horn sounded at dawn, he had already set out according to Sir Luódélìkè's plan. He did not see Leyla Noël among the crowd. She and her clansmen had already left the Wall and returned home.

Those days among the deep‑forest clans now seemed like a dream; were it not for the hill‑tribes soldiers at his side, he might have thought he had never been there.

He also did not see Sam. Earlier he had sent three warriors from Winterfell—Mài jí, Hè tǎ, and Tí lì—to follow Sam in search of the duke‑lord commander's treasure…

He led a vast host of prisoners and troops; only after three days did they reach the Black Castle, pausing and proceeding along the way through ruins.

When the force arrived at the Black Castle, Acting Castellan Mǎ ěr xī led the castle's brothers of the Night's Watch out to meet the great host marching from the Shadow Tower.

Mallister the steward rode out on a fine horse to greet them, but he hardly seemed a leader; when Sir Luódélìkè approached him, he once again took on the air of a mere functionary.

He also saw Jié nuò sī sī lín tè step back from the ranks, and he saw dozens of brothers of the Night's Watch standing to left and right of Mallister, if they too were…

The leader had a head of silver‑gold hair, his frame slender yet handsome and upright; the instant he saw this man, he felt he was a dangerous opponent, though he could not say why.

He looked more mature and handsome, just as he had felt when he first saw Zhān mǔ lán ní sī tè.

When he saw Qiongen, he broke into a teasing grin that was both a challenge and a welcome, and Qiongen could not fathom its meaning.

After Maersi, the acting commander, had greeted the arriving Sir Rodrik and the other clan chiefs, he led the black-clad brothers to take charge of the prisoners.

Sir Rodrik and the clan chiefs were lodged in the King's Tower, the soldiers were scattered between Heddin Tower and the Spear Tower, and the prisoners were all sent to the Guard Tower, with the women and children separately sent to the Silent Tower.

As early as several days prior, Ser Merlys had already informed him by letter of the prisoners' situation; although Maersi, the acting commander, complained in his reply, he nonetheless cleaned up the Black Castle and its surrounding towers in preparation for receiving the arriving soldiers and prisoners.

His arrangements were passable, but it's not his place to judge. If he were so inclined, he should have cleared out the ruined castle nearby; otherwise, with so many people crammed into the Black Castle, trouble would inevitably arise.

What surprises me most? Your head wasn't sent back by the wildlings—I've been worried the wildlings would send your head back, I know Colin of the Missing Hand helped you… and there were rumors someone saw you south of the Wall, I thought you'd deserted the Night's Watch. But what surprises me most is that you've brought reinforcements for the Night's Watch—if not for the over hundred horsemen of House Norrey, the Black Castle would surely have fallen… I know this is your doing.

This is House Norrey's merit. When Donald Noy saw Qiongen return, he warmly embraced him.

"As long as Maersi the steward doesn't lock me up in an ice cell, I'll be fine." Qiongen laughed and returned the embrace; seeing his old friend still alive, he was delighted. He had thought this smith was already dead.

You'd better not call him the steward; he's the acting Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and he intends to run for the Lord Commander's post. Though I think he has no chance—whether it's Ser Merlys of the Shadow Tower or the wildling Pyke of Eastwatch, or even the newcomers Jaqen and Alleras, they're all stronger than him.

Qiongen studied the smith's face carefully, wondering why he was saying these things.

"I'll be careful, Acting Lord Commander Maersi." Qiongen forced a smile.

"Better to drop the 'acting' altogether." The smith changed the subject: "Qiongen, after you left, the Iron Throne sent a lot of youngsters; if Maersi hadn't split them among the three castles, perhaps that white-haired fellow would already be running things here—ha, another copper-haired brat, who'll fade in winter, and all you need to watch for is stopping him from escaping."

He was grateful for Donald's explanation and help, yet puzzled by his meaning.

"Who is he?" Qiongen merely sensed the youth's unusualness, which the one-handed smith keenly picked up on.

"The bastard brother of the Lord of the Tides, the Earl of Tidewater, Montford Waters—if you want to say what advantage he has—" Qiongen knew he was comparing this bastard to himself, "his father stood with Stannis, yet he managed to secure the post of Master of Ships for that bitch Cersei—pah, Admiral of the Fleet..."

"If I were a bit better looking, maybe I wouldn't have been chased off by some girl's dog when I was young; from then on I knew pretty women are all snaggletoothed—whether the teeth are in their mouths or elsewhere." Melancholy Edd sighed.

Qiongen laughed, thinking that to rise high one needs more than just good looks—perhaps a pliant temperament as well. He thought of Queen Cersei, and her icy pretty face came to mind. He had never known how to win the favor of such women in power.

All those who came to the Wall with him were sailors he brought from King's Landing, supposedly picked from the city's prison inmates—real sailors were left by Pyke at Eastwatch, rapists were assigned by Maersi to the Shadow Tower, and the rest are thieves—the Regent or that kingslayer Jaime Lannister accused him of possibly stealing the royal fleet, so this silver‑gold lad might be a thief, or even a major thief.

"He's a member of Queen Cersei's little court," Edd said with a weary smile, "maybe he stole Cersei's virtue. Ah, what a great Waters, Snow—you'd better step up too!"

He recalled what had happened the previous night.

"How is the Wall?" he said, hoping to escape from these petty stories.

"What's up with the Wall? That's a good question, Qiongen—the Wall is waiting for its true lord." Donald Noy replied, "The wise Lord Commander is still holding the Black Castle, blocking the passage to the lands beyond."

"Then how is he supposed to communicate with the lands beyond?"

"You just splash water into the passage—that's how men and women communicate, I've heard." Melancholy Edd sighed, "Too bad the steward keeps splashing only cold water."