Operation Stumpy Re-Read
ADWD: Jon VII (Chapter 35)
"We'll want an escort. Ten rangers, armed with dragonglass. I want them ready to leave within the hour."
"Aye, m'lord. And to command?"
"That would be me."
Edd's mouth turned down even more than usual. "Some might think it better if the lord commander stayed safe and warm south of the Wall. Not that I'd say such myself, but some might."
Jon smiled. "Some had best not say so in my presence."
The trappings of power.
Personally I don't have a problem with Jon escorting new recruits beyond the Wall. I think the Lord Commander should be present when all men take their vows.
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The wind was gusting, cold as the breath of the ice dragon in the tales Old Nan had told when Jon was a boy.
Everyone laugh at Ned's suffering.
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Glass, Jon mused, might be of use here. Castle Black needs its own glass gardens, like the ones at Winterfell. We could grow vegetables even in the deep of winter.
You could plant roses!
"No. It was always warm, even when it snowed. Water from the hot springs is piped through the walls to warm them, and inside the glass gardens it was always like the hottest day of summer." She stood, towering over the great white castle. "I can't think how to do the glass roof over the gardens." - Sansa VII, ASOS
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The best glass came from Myr, but a good clear pane was worth its weight in spice, and green and yellow glass would not work as well. What we need is gold. With enough coin, we could buy 'prentice glassblowers and glaziers in Myr, bring them north, offer them their freedom for teaching their art to some of our recruits. That would be the way to go about it. If we had the gold. Which we do not.
I can't tell if this is more than Iron Bank foreshadowing.
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Word spread fast at Castle Black. Edd was still saddling the grey when Bowen Marsh stomped across the yard to confront Jon at the stables. "My lord, I wish you would reconsider. The new men can take their vows in the sept as easily."
Update: pomegranate still unhappy.
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"The Weeping Man may still be out there, watching."
"The grove is no more than two hours' ride, even with the snow. We should be back by midnight."
George R. R. Martin would like me to believe there isn't a single weirwood south of the Wall within two hours. Okay, sure.
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The others were good men too. Good men in a fight, at least, and loyal to their brothers. Jon could not speak for what they might have been before they reached the Wall, but he did not doubt that most had pasts as black as their cloaks. Up here, they were the sort of men he wanted at his back. Their hoods were raised against the biting wind, and some had scarves wrapped about their faces, hiding their features. Jon knew them, though. Every name was graven on his heart. They were his men, his brothers.
Big shift from AGOT Jon.
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Leathers and Jax were older men, well past forty, sons of the haunted forest, with sons and grandsons of their own. They had been two of the sixty-three wildlings who had followed Jon Snow back to the Wall the day he made his appeal, so far the only two to decide they wanted a black cloak.
I only want to highlight Leathers, the new wildling recruit.
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"Talk is there was some trouble at Harlot's Tower last night," the master-at-arms said.
"Hardin's Tower." Of the sixty-three who had come back with him from Mole's Town, nineteen had been women and girls. Jon had housed them in the same abandoned tower where he had once slept when he had been new to the Wall. Twelve were spearwives, more than capable of defending both themselves and the younger girls from the unwanted attentions of black brothers. It was some of the men they'd turned away who'd given Hardin's Tower its new, inflammatory name. Jon was not about to condone the mockery. "Three drunken fools mistook Hardin's for a brothel, that's all. They are in the ice cells now, contemplating their mistake."
[...]
Bowen Marsh had not been all wrong. Hardin's Tower was tinder waiting for a spark. "I mean to open three more castles," Jon said. "Deep Lake, Sable Hall, and the Long Barrow. All garrisoned with free folk, under the command of our own officers. The Long Barrow will be all women, aside from the commander and chief steward." There would be some mingling, he did not doubt, but the distances were great enough to make that difficult, at least.
"And what poor fool will get that choice command?"
"I am riding beside him."
The look of mingled horror and delight that passed across Iron Emmett's face was worth more than a sack of gold. "What have I done to make you hate me so, my lord?"
Jon laughed. "Have no fear, you won't be alone. I mean to give you Dolorous Edd as your second and your steward."
There goes Dolorous Edd and Iron Emmett, two good men.
Does anything ever happen with this tinder waiting to spark? I forget.
Edit: yes. lol.
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Do not confuse the Thenns with free folk. Magnar means lord in the Old Tongue, I am told, but Styr was closer to a god to his people, and his son is cut from the same skin. I do not require men to kneel, but they do need to obey.
Sounds like something a King Jon Stark might say.
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Jon smelled Tom Barleycorn before he saw him. Or was it Ghost who smelled him? Of late, Jon Snow sometimes felt as if he and the direwolf were one, even awake. The great white wolf appeared first, shaking off the snow.
Stop.
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A few moments later Tom was there. "Wildlings," he told Jon, softly. "In the grove."
[...]
Jon was not of a mind to fall back to the Wall, however. If the wildlings are still alive, it may be we can bring them in. And if they are dead, well … a corpse or two could be of use.
Dot, dot, dot.
I bet a corpse or two could be of use.
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Ahead he glimpsed a pale white trunk that could only be a weirwood, crowned with a head of dark red leaves.
King Bran or Queen Sansa foreshadowing. Tree boy had the previous chapter, while Sansa always gets the weirwood treatment. I'll let you decide.
Will they lay Sansa down naked beneath the Iron Throne after they have killed her? Will her skin seem as white, her blood as red? - Catelyn III, ASOS
x
Soldier pines were everywhere, drawn up in solemn ranks. In their midst was a pale stranger; a slender young weirwood with a trunk as white as a cloistered maid. Dark red leaves sprouted from its reaching branches. Beyond was the emptiness of sky and sea where the wall had collapsed . . . - Brienne IV, AFFC
x
Lysa's apartments opened over a small garden, a circle of dirt and grass planted with blue flowers and ringed on all sides by tall white towers. The builders had intended it as a godswood, but the Eyrie rested on the hard stone of the mountain, and no matter how much soil was hauled up from the Vale, they could not get a weirwood to take root here. - Catelyn VII, AGOT
x
Dawn, she thought. Another day. Another new day. It was the old days she hungered for. Prayed for. But who could she pray to? The garden had been meant for a godswood once, she knew, but the soil was too thin and stony for a weirwood to take root. A godswood without gods, as empty as me. - Sansa VII, ASOS
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The weirwoods rose in a circle around the edges of the clearing. There were nine, all roughly of the same age and size. Each one had a face carved into it, and no two faces were alike. Some were smiling, some were screaming, some were shouting at him. In the deepening glow their eyes looked black, but in daylight they would be blood-red, Jon knew. Eyes like Ghost's.
Weirwoods always look like the lords of the castle. What do these faces represent? Humans that were sacrificed? Greenseers?
At the center of the grove an ancient weirwood brooded over a small pool where the waters were black and cold. "The heart tree," Ned called it. The weirwood's bark was white as bone, its leaves dark red, like a thousand bloodstained hands. A face had been carved in the trunk of the great tree, its features long and melancholy, the deep-cut eyes red with dried sap and strangely watchful. - Catelyn I, AGOT
x
They crossed the castle's godswood, where the heart tree had grown so huge and tangled that it had choked out all the oaks and elms and birch and sent its thick, pale limbs crashing through the walls and windows that looked down on it. Its roots were as thick around as a man's waist, its trunk so wide that the face carved into it looked fat and angry. - Davos IV, ADWD
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The giant was the last to notice them. He had been asleep, curled up by the fire, but something woke him—the child's cry, the sound of snow crunching beneath black boots, a sudden indrawn breath. When he stirred it was as if a boulder had come to life. He heaved himself into a sitting position with a snort, pawing at his eyes with hands as big as hams to rub the sleep away … until he saw Iron Emmett, his sword shining in his hand. Roaring, he came leaping to his feet, and one of those huge hands closed around a maul and jerked it up.
Ghost showed his teeth in answer. Jon grabbed the wolf by the scruff of the neck. "We want no battle here." His men could bring the giant down, he knew, but not without cost. Once blood was shed, the wildlings would join the fray. Most or all would die here, and some of his own brothers too. "This is a holy place. Yield, and we—"
[...]
Jon Snow was about to reach for Longclaw when Leathers spoke, from the far side of the grove. His words sounded gruff and guttural, but Jon heard the music in it and recognized the Old Tongue. Leathers spoke for a long while. When he was done, the giant answered. It sounded like growling, interspersed with grunts, and Jon could not understand a word of it. But Leathers pointed at the trees and said something else, and the giant pointed at the trees, ground his teeth, and dropped his maul.
Good job Leathers! Looks like having wildlings in the Watch has a few benefits.
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"It's done," said Leathers. "They want no fight."
"Well done. What did you tell him?"
"That they were our gods too. That we came to pray."
"We shall. Put away your steel, all of you. We will have no blood shed here tonight."
A bunch of greenseers just missed out on dinner.
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"The Wall is only a few hours south of here," said Jon. "Why not seek shelter there? Others yielded. Even Mance."
The wildlings exchanged looks. Finally one said, "We heard stories. The crows burned all them that yielded."
"Even Mance hisself," the woman added.
Melisandre, Jon thought, you and your red god have much and more to answer for.
Burned after yielding. What show storyline does that remind you of?
Of course she's next.
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"Night gathers, and now my watch begins," they said, as thousands had said before them. Satin's voice was sweet as song, Horse's hoarse and halting, Arron's a nervous squeak. "It shall not end until my death."
May those deaths be long in coming.
The bad news is it won't be. The good news is you can go home.
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Jon Snow sank to one knee in the snow. Gods of my fathers, protect these men. And Arya too, my little sister, wherever she might be. I pray you, let Mance find her and bring her safe to me.
"I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children," the recruits promised, in voices that echoed back through years and centuries. "I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post."
Gods of the wood, grant me the strength to do the same, Jon Snow prayed silently. Give me the wisdom to know what must be done and the courage to do it.
This kind of reminds me of something.
Catelyn put her heels to her horse and rode off, leaving her son to ponder her words. It would not do to make him feel as if his mother were usurping his place. Did you teach him wisdom as well as valor, Ned? she wondered. Did you teach him how to kneel? The graveyards of the Seven Kingdoms were full of brave men who had never learned that lesson. - Catelyn IX, AGOT
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They did the same with the two corpses, to the puzzlement of Iron Emmett. "They will only slow us, my lord," he said to Jon. "We should chop them up and burn them."
"No," said Jon. "Bring them. I have a use for them."
Later:
The corpses he consigned to the ice cells.
Jon's going to keep two corpses in the ice cells. Hmmm. That could be useful. . . having chained up dead things.
I'm starting to think this was bullshit!
And this was bullshit.
And this was bullshit.
And this was bullshit.
And this was bullshit.
And this was bullshit.
And this was bullshit.
That's shocking.
I swear it seems like every Jon and Daenerys storyline isn't real!
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Jon glimpsed the red wanderer above, watching them through the leafless branches of great trees as they made their way beneath. The Thief, the free folk called it. The best time to steal a woman was when the Thief was in the Moonmaid, Ygritte had always claimed. She never mentioned the best time to steal a giant. Or two dead men.
Watch me become an astrologist the second I get TWOW.
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When Edd caught sight of the ragged band of wildlings, he pursed his lips and gave the giant a long look. "Might need some butter to slide that one through the tunnel, m'lord. Shall I send someone to the larder?"
"Oh, I think he'll fit. Unbuttered."
So he did … on hands and knees, crawling. A big boy, this one. Fourteen feet, at least. Even bigger than Mag the Mighty. Mag had died beneath this very ice, locked in mortal struggle with Donal Noye. A good man. The Watch has lost too many good men.
Stop.
There's a giant south of the Wall. Let's feed him Boltons.
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Stannis. Jon cracked the hardened wax, flattened the roll of parchment, read. A maester's hand, but the king's words.
Stannis had taken Deepwood Motte, and the mountain clans had joined him. Flint, Norrey, Wull, Liddle, all.
And we had other help, unexpected but most welcome, from a daughter of Bear Island. Alysane Mormont, whose men name her the She-Bear, hid fighters inside a gaggle of fishing sloops and took the ironmen unawares where they lay off the strand. Greyjoy's longships are burned or taken, her crews slain or surrendered. The captains, knights, notable warriors, and others of high birth we shall ransom or make other use of, the rest I mean to hang …
[...]
… more northmen coming in as word spreads of our victory. Fisherfolk, freeriders, hillmen, crofters from the deep of the wolfswood and villagers who fled their homes along the stony shore to escape the ironmen, survivors from the battle outside the gates of Winterfell, men once sworn to the Hornwoods, the Cerwyns, and the Tallharts. We are five thousand strong as I write, our numbers swelling every day. And word has come to us that Roose Bolton moves toward Winterfell with all his power, there to wed his bastard to your half sister. He must not be allowed to restore the castle to its former strength. We march against him. Arnolf Karstark and Mors Umber will join us. I will save your sister if I can, and find a better match for her than Ramsay Snow. You and your brothers must hold the Wall until I can return.
Did I say Asha Greyjoy has four longships? I meant zero.
Stannis has five thousand men. Do you like how confident he sounds in this letter? Pray for the northmen.
You and your brothers must hold the Wall until I can return.
And hide Shireen.
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He was not at all sure how he felt about what he had just read. Battles had been fought at Winterfell before, but never one without a Stark on one side or the other. "The castle is a shell," he said, "not Winterfell, but the ghost of Winterfell." It was painful just to think of it, much less say the words aloud. And still …
I don't know, that could be telling us something.
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He wondered how many men old Crowfood would bring to the fray, and how many swords Arnolf Karstark would be able to conjure up. Half the Umbers would be across the field with Whoresbane, fighting beneath the flayed man of the Dreadfort, and the greater part of the strength of both houses had gone south with Robb, never to return.
Have we concluded this is actually Karstark foreshadowing?
I see no reason to worry about Whoresbane, Mors, or Greatjon fighting for Team Bolton.
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Robert Baratheon would have seen that at once and moved swiftly to secure the castle, with the forced marches and midnight rides for which he had been famous. Would his brother be as bold?
Not likely. Stannis was a deliberate commander, and his host was a half-digested stew of clansmen, southron knights, king's men and queen's men, salted with a few northern lords. He should move on Winterfell swiftly, or not at all, Jon thought. It was not his place to advise the king, but …
Love how this green boy is an infinitely better battle commander than the great Stannis Baratheon.
It could not be more obvious Stannis is fucked.
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What if Bolton never had his sister? This wedding could well be just some ruse to lure Stannis into a trap. Eddard Stark had never had any reason to complain of the Lord of the Dreadfort, so far as Jon knew, but even so he had never trusted him, with his whispery voice and his pale, pale eyes.
Mounting evidence Stannis will walk into a trap set by Roose.
Obviously Arya won't be the lure.
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A grey girl on a dying horse, fleeing from her marriage. On the strength of those words he had loosed Mance Rayder and six spearwives on the north. "Young ones, and pretty," Mance had said. The unburnt king supplied some names, and Dolorous Edd had done the rest, smuggling them from Mole's Town. It seemed like madness now. He might have done better to strike down Mance the moment he revealed himself. Jon had a certain grudging admiration for the late King-Beyond-the-Wall, but the man was an oathbreaker and a turncloak. He had even less trust in Melisandre. Yet somehow here he was, pinning his hopes on them.
Oy, Jon has been spot on so far.
Edit: Mance Rayder, the unburnt king. . .
They had been Drogo's people, but they were hers now. The Unburnt, they called her, and Mother of Dragons. Her word was their law. - Daenerys I, ACOK
That is the last thing you want to see. I'm losing my faith in Mance Rayder.
Great catch, @decadelongsummer.
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When Jon had been a boy at Winterfell, his hero had been the Young Dragon, the boy king who had conquered Dorne at the age of fourteen. Despite his bastard birth, or perhaps because of it, Jon Snow had dreamed of leading men to glory just as King Daeron had, of growing up to be a conqueror. Now he was a man grown and the Wall was his, yet all he had were doubts. He could not even seem to conquer those.
He died, Jon.
Final thoughts:
Is it groundhog day?
Jon does not act like a Lord Commander. Jon angers Bowen Marsh. Jon integrates more wildlings. Jon sends his friends and supporters away. Jon and Ghost are one.
How can someone complain about Brienne's chapters when Jon's are an endless cycle of the exact same thing?
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