A Wraith in Winter

Leathers slumped down against the ice wall once the door was pulled shut, clasping a gloved hand over his stomach. Blood oozed between his fingers, and his pockmarked face twisted in a feral grimace.

“I’m done for,” he bit out to Satin.

Satin dropped his crossbow and crouched down next to the former wildling. In the dim light provided by the torches, the ice cells looked more like a tomb than a prison. Carved deep into the Wall, the cells were bitterly cold, and the walls wept next to the torches and lamps.

Satin glanced at the blood-soaked glove. “Keep applying pressure,” he urged. “He didn’t get to your guts.”

“I can’t go on.” Leathers propped himself up with Longclaw and stuck the hilt out. “Take it, boy,” the old wildling snapped. “Give me your crossbow.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. You must. That Red Witch and those Kneelers have the Lord Commander, but you’ll have his blade. It’s old, strong steel.” Leathers thrust the hilt towards Satin and let go. Satin grabbed the pommel on reflex. “Is your crossbow ready?” Satin stood and nudged it over to the slumped man with his boot.

Leathers tucked the stock under his arm and propped himself up against the wall. “I’ll kill the first man that enters,” he rasped. “The rest is up to you.”

Leathers was a wildling, one of the thousands that followed the King Beyond-the-Wall, Mance Rayder, to attack Castle Black. He surrendered when Mance was crushed by Stannis Baratheon’s war host. Jon showed mercy to the wildlings when Stannis burned their king. Leathers took a black cloak, forsook his culture, and trained the boys in the yard that hated his people. He worked with Jon, even after Jon betrayed Mance’s trust and fled to warn the Night’s Watch of the attack.

Satin stood and looked down at the dying man. He had never truly trusted the wildling until tonight. For a moment, he felt guilty, but then he grabbed the hilt of the bastard sword with both hands and stepped down the tunnel. His gloved fingers ran over the snarling wolf's head carved into the weirwood hilt. The Night’s Watch only survived long enough for Stannis to arrive because of Jon Snow. The Bastard of Winterfell and the son of Eddard Stark led the defense of the Wall when no other man could. Satin stood beside the boy the other men called ‘Lord Snow’ mockingly. He helped set the stairs ablaze and save Castle Black. Jon was as young as him, but no other man took the challenge to defend the Wall.

He deserved to be Lord Commander. He was the best of us. Satin was a whore from Gulltown, born in a brothel and raised to be nothing but a pretty face. Satin took to the role wholeheartedly, even in the Night’s Watch. He kept his fair, black hair curled and his new-grown beard perfumed. He strutted in the leather mail and fur cloaks, and wore the looks from the older men as a thorny armor against the cold of the North.

But Jon didn’t see him as a whore; he saw him as a friend. Jon named Satin steward and squire, charged him with serving wine and learning his letters. Satin claimed to be older, but in truth, they were both sixteen. The older men of the Night’s Watch, the highborn men, rankled with the young Lord Commander’s choices. They saw the Wildlings as the enemy, not the great threat in the lands beyond the Wall. They held their cups away from Satin when he moved to fill them, and their eyes danced with hatred and, sometimes, bitter lust. Satin was used to the looks.

Those older men, men like Bowen Marsh and Othell Yarwyck, had betrayed their rightful Lord Commander. When Jon announced he would go south to fight Ramsay Bolton, they departed the Shieldhall and grabbed their daggers. While the wildlings and the good men of the Night’s Watch volunteered to follow their Lord Commander, they sharpened their knives in the dark and plotted.

They found Jon in the yard later that night. Ser Patrek, one of the Queen’s Men, attempted to fight Wun-Wun for the Wildling Princess’ hand in marriage. The giant crushed him, splattering his blood over his banner and throwing his body across the yard. Jon was attempting to regain control of the madness when the traitors rushed him.

Satin wasn’t there. He was in Jon’s quarters, cleaning up after an earlier meeting. Ghost, Jon’s direwolf, howled and snarled, then broke down the door and rushed through the halls. Satin followed the wolf, knowing in his gut that something was wrong, and emerged into a courtyard washed in blood and dying men. Ghost charged towards the body and disappeared into the fighting.

Castle Black had fallen, not to the Wildlings or the White Walkers, but to itself. The madness consumed every man, and Black Brother fought Black Brother in the falling snow. Queen Selyse, Stannis' wife, screamed hoarsely for her fanatical knights to defend her tower. Satin was equally guilty of the madness, but he took pride in that. The ruddy-faced Bowen Marsh claimed Longclaw for himself, stripping it from Jon's body and leading his clique of men into the Shieldhall.

“We have done a good thing,” he proclaimed to his band of twenty men. “Snow meant to destroy all that we have stood for.” Satin had slipped in, overlooked as a whore’s son, with a crossbow hidden in his cloak. Bowen raised a cup, ignoring the fighting outside. “For the Watch,” Marsh intoned solemnly, and Satin loosed his crossbow from the shadows. The bolt caught the old man in the throat, and he fell back onto the high table. Tormund Giantsbane led his wildings into the hall at the signal, and the fight grew savage as stone axes clashed against steel. Satin crawled between benches and under long tables, slipping in blood, all the way across the hall to Bowen Marsh.

Marsh, the tough old pomegranate, had tried to crawl away, but only managed two feet. Satin stood and kicked the old man over. “For the Watch,” he echoed, and stomped his boot down of the quarrel sticking from the old man’s neck. He retrieved the Valyrian steel sword, Jon's sword, and hacked his way to Tormund.

“Har!” Tormund shouted with his white beard flecked with the blood of three Black Brothers. “You did good, crow, but those mailed kneelers dragged Jon to the ice cells!”

“What?”

“The Witch!” Tormund shouted and slammed his axes against a shield. “She was there with the wolf!”

“I’ll stop her,” Satin promised. He had no other plan. There is no plan. That died with Jon.

Satin found Leathers stabbing Othell Yarwyck to death atop a table. Leathers grabbed Longclaw and hacked Yarwyck’s head off with one savage swing, then they went into the courtyard together to fight their way to the ice cells. Wun-Wun still protected Val, the Wildling Princess in the tower, but there were no clear sides in the fighting anymore. Jon had held them all together. One of the southron knights, with heraldry on his shield that Satin didn’t recognize, blocked the doors.

Despite it being a two-on-one fight, the knight was armored in thick plate. Leathers raised Longclaw and slashed the Valyrian blade across the knight's arms, cutting the steel like butter, but the knight swore and kicked the man back, thrusting his short sword towards the stomach. Leather leapt back, but not quick enough, and the blade found purchase in the leather armor. Satin stood with his crossbow, waiting for the knight to expose his unarmored neck, but the knight raised his shield in time to block the quarrel. He bashed Leathers with his shield and knocked him down, then advanced on Satin.

Satin did not have time to reload. He dropped the crossbow and drew his own sword. The knight disarmed him easily with three swings and knocked him to the ground. The knight raised his bloody arm to hack down on the boy, then a white arrow punched into his neck with a spurt of blood. Satin looked to the tower, where Val leaned out a window with her weirwood bow. She shouted down something, but her words were lost in the wind. Satin helped Leathers up and entered the ice cells.

And now, he was alone, facing who knows how many men. For Jon. Satin pulled his gloves tight and followed the echoes of conversation down the tunnels to a cell buried deep in the wall. Another of the Queen’s Men blocked the cell. Satin recognized him as Ser Malegorn of Redpool. The knight hated Satin, and refused his offer to escort Queen Selyse during the wedding of Alys and Sigorn. “How’d you get down here?” he asked with confusion.

“Killed your man at the door,” Satin responded and readied Longclaw.

The knight unsheathed his blade. “Whore.”

The knight was armored, but the hallway was narrow. He had a fair chance.

“Enough,” a strong voice intoned from the cell. Satin knew it as well. “Ser Malegorn, sheathe your blade and allow him to pass.”

The knight’s hatred warred with his obedience, but he sheathed his sword and stepped aside. “I don’t need my blade to gut you, whoreson,” he promised.

Satin stepped past him into the cell and froze.

The Red Woman, Melisandre, stood above Jon Snow. Ghost sat at her side, looking down at the body. Jon had been stripped of his clothes, laying naked atop the ice. The red wounds ran down his chest, smeared with frozen blood. His brown eyes stared up at the ceiling, unblinking and faded. Melisandre surveyed the candles arranged around the floor; her red robes swirled around her body and her ruby necklace glittered in the flickering light.

Satin pointed the sword at the witch. “What are you doing to him?”

“Saving him,” she responded simply. “I warned him of the daggers in the dark, but he did not listen.”

“You told him of his sister, of Hardhome, of Stannis. All of it was wrong.”

“I was not wrong about this.” Melisandre pointed a finger down to Jon. “I have made mistakes, I have admitted as much, but the boy cannot die now.”

“Jon is dead,” Satin admitted for the first time.

“Not yet,” Melisandre answered. “I have seen his face in the fires. He still has a part to play.” Her crimson eyes looked at the sword, eyeing the swirls in the metal. “You have brought his sword.”

“It belongs with him.”

Melisandre held out a thin hand tipped with red fingernails. “He is the only one that can quell the madness outside. I will return your friend and Lord Commander. I must. Give me the sword.”

Satin hesitated. Ser Malegorn cleared his throat behind him.

“Do not force him,” Melisandre commanded. Satin heard muffled grumbling and the knight moved away again. He looked at Ghost and offered her the hilt with one gloved hand. Melisandre took the bastard sword delicately with both hands. She held it above the candles and looked at the blood. “Whose blood is on the blade?”

“Othell Yarwyck.”

“The blood of a traitor, taken.” Melisandre intoned. She stared at Satin, ruby lips pursed in thought. “Are you prepared to die for your Lord Commander?” she asked neutrally. “Will you do anything to save him?”

Satin didn’t have to think about it. “Yes.” He stood straight and bared his neck.

The Red Woman smiled, and her teeth shone brilliantly in the light. “Remove your glove. I do not need your life.” Satin pulled the glove off his left hand and Melisandre lightly poked his palm with the tip of Longclaw. The cold steel broke the skin without effort, and blood welled down the blade. “The blood of the innocent, offered,” she remarked.

Her eyes flicked over Satin’s shoulder, and he felt mailed hands seize his shoulders. “Do not hurt him.” Melisandre stepped towards Ghost. The white direwolf stared down at Jon’s body, then looked up as she stopped before him. “A life for a life,” Melisandre said, and swept Longclaw across Ghost’s throat. He dropped on top of Jon without a sound and his blood soaked the ice.

“No!” Satin roared and struggled against the knight’s grip. Ser Malegorn pulled him back and away from the cell, throwing him into the hallway. Melisandre laid Longclaw atop the two bodies and knelt. Her voice echoed in the room as she began to chant in High Valyrian.

“You bitch!” Satin screamed with tears in his eyes and rushed the knight. A fist caught him in the stomach and he fell back, gasping for air.

“Whoreson,” Ser Malegorn growled.

The chant grew in volume. Satin looked between the knight’s legs as Melisandre straddled the bodies and leaned down to kiss Jon on the lips. He looked back up as Ser Malegorn drew his blade. “Your Lord Commander isn’t here to save you now, bastard.” Satin scrambled back against the ice. The chanting reached a fever pitch in the room behind them. The torches in the hallway guttered out. A cold wind blew past them. All the air in the hallway was sucked into the cell and the candles dimmed; Satin felt the breath leave his lungs and the chant cut off in a long, strangled syllable. Ser Malegorn turned around to look.

The room exploded with light and heat. Satin closed his eyes, but the light burned through his eyelids. Blinded, he crawled down the hallway, feeling the walls and floor weep water. The chant picked up again, one long syllable stretching into infinity with a voice high and unfamiliar. The knight screamed raggedly as the heat engulfed him. Satin only lived because Ser Malegorn stood in the way, but he felt his perfumed beard catch fire. He pawed at it and smashed his face against the melting floor as he crawled, feeling the heat and fire roar over his head. Once he was certain he would burn, another cold wind blew again down the hall, and the heat retreated into the room.

Melisandre had fallen silent. Satin blinked rapidly, and the hallway slowly faded back into sight. The torches had all gone out, but a soft glow came from the ice cell. Ser Malegorn had fallen to his knees, unmoving. Satin crawled forward until he reached him. The knight had been fused with his armor. Smoke wafted from the melted steel and metal. His helmet had the visor up, and his face was completely burned away. Satin retched at the smell of burning meat and stumbled to his feet. His own hair was nearly singed away as well. Satin brushed against the weeping wall to get past the knight into the ice cell.

Satin took in the room, slumped against the wall, and wept. The candles had melted into puddles of wax, but the wax glowed white. Everything else had been burned away. Longclaw, Ghost, Jon, even the Red Woman, all of it was gone. Satin’s bloody hand fell into a puddle of water as he stared forward blankly. Nothing’s left, not even ash.

He paused. Valyrian steel was forged in dragonfire, made with the magic of Old Valyria, before the Doom. It couldn’t burn. It couldn't. He looked for Longclaw in the wax and water, but it was gone as well. He felt hope surge into his chest. They hadn’t burned. They were just gone. Satin held that desperate, foolish hope in his heart and waited.