"The whole realm denies it, from Dorne to the Wall," Renly Baratheon, a man known for his dramatics in this same stretch of land, translates for his elder brother, Stannis, who stares coldly upon Renly like he's always done. "Old men deny it with their death rattle and unborn children deny it in their mother's wombs. No one wants you for their king. You never wanted any friends, brother. But a man without friends is a man without power."
Stannis does not cringe in consequence of Renly's words, despite the brother's greatest attempts, for certainly this elder brother does not trust the younger with such things as rumors, his dramatic tongue having been a facet since his youth. Instead, he simply stares at Renly with cold contempt and some feeling of pity, responding, "For the sake of the mother who bore us, I will give you this one night to reconsider. Strike your banners, come to me before dawn, and I will grant you your old seat in the Council. I'll even name you my heir until a son is born to me. Otherwise I shall destroy you."
The younger grins, sweeping his arm out from aback his horse to prompt Stannis's notice of his massive army. Stannis does not care. "Look across those fields, brother. Can you see all those banners?"
"You think a few bolts of cloth will make you king?"
"No," Renly responds, humour gone from his facade and replaced with honest dislike, "The men holding those bolts of cloth will make me king."
"We shall see, Renly. Come the dawn, we shall see," Stannis offers with a solemn and characteristic farewell, steering his horse about and back towards the sea, the others of his retinue following behind.
And yet, the Red Woman, Melisandre, lingers with her stiff blue eyes staring deep into Renly's soul, and he shivers. "Look to your sins, Lord Renly. The night is dark and full of terrors."
The young brother's escort watch as the collection of inherited enemies ride out towards their ships, all mingled in the fear of the Red Women and the unknown powers she possesses. Renly finds himself struggling with this change--to see his brother so inherently against him and leading a wicked witch--eyes lost to their once conviction as he softly questions to the Lady Stark, "Would you believe I loved him once?"
No, she wouldn't.
///////////////////////////////////////
Tyrion Lannister revels in his power when the sun sets on the day. But with each morning, those joys and emotions are all enclosed deep within his subconscious as he deals with the mounting struggles of the Seven Kingdoms, and plays his way around the insane king, the protective Queen Regent, and crafty spymasters who owe no allegiance. Indeed, with each day, the job becomes all the less entertaining and far more stressful, but nothing too much for Tyrion to handle. And it's rare times like these, watching Lancel Lannister cower in fear of a man he once spat upon, that Tyrion so loves...like a gift of his youthful dreams.
"Smile, cousin. My sister is a beautiful woman, and it's all for the good of the realm," he offers the coward whom is far too easy to manipulate given his connection to Cersei. Honestly, Tyrion is a bit surprised by the ease of which he is gaining intelligence from the Queen Regent, as if she's lost some of her sense. And yet, he would not doubt it, given her inherent desperation to return Jaime to the capital and her loss of power over Joffrey. But--again--he'd rather not have this new spy lost to Cersei's cracking madness, "Go back and tell her that I beg her forgiveness, that I want no more conflict between us and that, henceforth, I shall do nothing without her consent."
Lancel quivers with fear, "But her demands?"
"Oh, I'll give her Pycelle."
"You will?" Lancel is shocked and unable to see the manipulations behind this game, revealing his true lack of intelligence and reasons for his easy manipulation.
Tyrion shrugs with a nonchalance that does not describe his true glee at getting his way, after all, "Yes, I'll release him in the morning. Cersei can keep him as a pet, if she wants, but I will not have him on the Council. Lady Baelish will have his spot. I could swear that I had not harmed a single hair on his head, but that would not, strictly speaking, be true."
//////////////////////////////////////////////
Gabrielle Baelish shoves Sansa Stark roughly to the floor of her chambers, the pretty red hair spilling across the ground as she narrowly avoids hitting her head against ruthless stone. Eyes gazing up in shock of this woman's gall--honestly, she'd just entered the room only to shove Sansa down--Sansa is not surprised to see the woman's straight mask upon her face, eyes shining with a hidden mischief as she postures herself comfortably in the girl's presence.
"Now, Sansa, you've fallen in the throne room after being hit by Ser Meryn. What do you say to get Joffrey to stop?" Gabrielle asks, and Sansa suddenly makes sense of the situation being created. Watching stiffly from the floor with her back still aching with bruises, Sansa is almost humoured to see Gabrielle sit upon the chair in the corner of her room, laxed in her posture and arms wide in a perfect copy of how Joffrey sits on the Iron Throne.
But instead of reveling in the accurate performance, Sansa focuses on the lesson, her mind moving a mile-a-minute as she tries to create a story...and then the false hysteria of an innocent and beaten animal. Gabrielle is just about to hurry the girl's performance when Sansa suddenly sits straight, pointing behind the Mock Queen's head with wild and widened eyes, "My King, did you see it just there? A shadow like a man—my grace, it was a Courier ghost! My brother's made a deal with the devil—I plead for you to escape. Go! Before it gets you!"
The hysteria in Sansa's voice is a perfect copy of that tone used upon her wolf's death sentence, and her eyes lay wide and emotional like when Joffrey had her father executed. Had Gabrielle not known the truth of this matter, she would have almost fallen prey to such a good performance, grinning widely as she tries to find comfort in Joffrey's typical posture upon the throne. No, she does not like this at all.
So, instead she stands, stepping over to Sansa with a hand and a wide smile, only meant for Sansa's eyes and ears, "You learn fast, Sansa Stark. Soon, we'll have Joffrey fearing the White Walkers and wetting his pants over ghosts."
And though it is a small promise and almost a joke, Sansa cannot help her hopeful smile that blooms across her face, at getting her sweet revenge against the monster who destroyed her family, once and for all.
////////////////////////////////////////////
Cersei sits across from Tyrion within her own personal quarters, a drink in both of their hands and inherent dislike for one another in their green eyes. And yet, it's proving to be worth her time and effort to appease this hated brother, eyebrows furrowed casually as she learns of the traitorous Baratheon--Renly's--death. She asks, "Killed? By whom?"
"Accounts differ," Tyrion responds, leaning back into his chair as his eyes wander observantly about her quarters, finding nothing of remarkable news, "Most seem to implicate Catelyn Stark in some way."
Cersei snorts in apparent disbelief and beginning intoxication, "Really? Who'd have thought?"
"Some say it was one of his own kingsguard, while still others say it was Stannis himself who did it after negotiations went sour."
"Whomever did it, I say well done," the Queen Regent grins and takes another long drink of wine, Tyrion watching with disagreement at her shortsightedness and rash tendencies.
"It's not what Varys says," Tyrion responds, worriedly as he tries to understand whether Cersei's truly unconcerned about the threat of the only surviving Baratheon brother, "He says Renly's army is flocking to support Stannis, which would give Stannis superiority over us on both land and sea."
The Queen Regent shrugs, and Tyrion is more certain that his sister is hiding something as she offers, "Littlefinger says we can outspend him three to one."
"And I say Father raised you to have too much respect for money. Even Lady Baelish isn't as bad as you," the younger brother responds, taking a drink of his own wine and watching amusedly as Cersei snarls at the mention of the other woman. "Stannis Baratheon is coming for us, sooner rather than later."
"Aren't there other things you should be doing, like sealing my daughter in a crate so you can ship her away?"
Yes, she's definitely hiding something regarding Stannis. And yet, the newest avoidance is another of Tyrion's growing list of worries, though it may be solved as he half-heartedly attempts to console Cersei, "She'll be safer in Dorne."
"Yes, I know how concerned you are for her safety," the Queen Regent spats, and Tyrion is again reminded of a mother lion protecting her cubs. But she should not act like I do not care.
"It so happens that I am. Myrcella is a sweet, innocent girl and I don't blame her at all for you."
Cersei Lannister snarls at his words, so blindly believing Tyrion to be false in all his attempts as she thinks the continual worst of Tyrion, "So clever. Aren't you always so clever with your schemes and your plots? Or is that Lady Baelish in your ear?"
Tyrion will not deny that he's spent an increasing amount of time with Lady Baelish in the previous month, for they both know Cersei's spies linger everywhere. But unlike how most suppose, Tyrion is not so easily manipulated by the cunning blonde who's far more intelligent than the Queen Regent and fitting of the term 'Mock Queen.' Rather, the woman is a better version of her father--brilliant, strategic, and manipulative--with the accompanying aspects of femininity--compassion. And Tyrion would far rather deal with Gabrielle on finances and secrets than suffer the company of Petyr Baelish, a necessary evil.
"Schemes and plots are the same thing. She'd tell you the same," he finally replies, taking his final drink of his then empty glass and sitting up straight with urgency, "They are going to attack us. We need to be ready."
"No need to concern yourself over it. The king is taking personal charge of siege preparations." Aha, so she was hiding her secrets, and a drink is truly effective in finding the truth. Tyrion wants to smile at this innate flaw of a mother, though his growing irritation at her and Joffrey's plotting overwhelms that feeling all together.
He growls, "May I ask specifically what the king has in mind?"
"You may, specifically, or you may ask vaguely. The answer will be the same."
"It's important that we talk about this," Tyrion says, sighing deeply and loudly as he once again questions the sanity of both the Queen Regent and the current king. This is the job of the Hand, not the king. And yet, Joffrey has never--even as a child--abided by the rules set upon him by tradition, and with this new power-trip, Tyrion doubts he is about to start now.
And Cersei validates that, replying with a stubborn streak, "It's the king's royal prerogative to withhold sensitive information from his councilors."
Tyrion wants to kill them both, for they will kill everyone if they handle the war preparations. Honestly, a woman and a coward who's never seen battle...planning the defense of a capital city? Sure, Tyrion Lannister has never been one for warfare, but even he has seen the battlefield and partaken in war councils. It's becoming clear that if any of them are to survive Stannis, Tyrion will need to work harder and longer to both discover Joffrey's plots and create a plan to save the city.
///////////////////////////////////////
And that plan of Tyrion Lannister is not quite as easy as one might assume...something he really should have expected if patterns are considered. Looking at Lancel Lannister in his cowardly apparel, Tyrion wants to both rejoice in the information he's finally received, and murder him for the greater mystery being spun by an inept ruler. Sighing haggardly--something he's been doing a lot of recently--Tyrion just swats his hand at his cousin with the command, "Just get out. Oh, Lancel, tell my friend Bronn to please kill you if anything should happen to me."
Somehow, Lancel manages to fall out of the small cart and onto the feet of Gabrielle Baelish, not nearly far enough to look up her skirts, but witness her scowling expression at his sudden appearance. Rolling haphazardly away from the fear-evoking female, the Lannister's eyes then fall upon the smirking Bronn whose sword glints in its sheath, a threat in those blue eyes.
Tonelessly, the cousin of Tyrion commands Bronn, "Please kill me if anything should happen to Lord Tyrion."
"It will be my pleasure," Bronn grins with widening promise and Lancel scurries away in the endless attempts to avoid danger--something that seems to lurk around all Lannister children. And as Lancel's footsteps fall into deafness, Tyrion pokes his head out of the cart, equally startled to see Gabrielle Baelish looking down at him, though he does suppose they are close to the brothel now.
"Shame I won't get the pleasure of that," she remarks after Lancel, a slight snarl on her lips at the given dislike she holds for idiotic humanity.
But Tyrion just looks at her, the new duties piling onto his growing list and shrinking time with ever increasing urgency, "Are you here for a reason? It seems I now have to hunt out a pyromancer."
"Try city center—behind the southwest-corner stall there's a door—follow it down, not up," Gabrielle offers, and Tyrion is suddenly all the more grateful for this woman's knowledge about all of King's Landing, not just that of the Red Keep. Her eyes meet his with sincerity, "Never up."
And Tyrion grins, suddenly curious about the cause of her lacking mischief, "Now I'm tempted to go up. What's there?"
"I don't know, but I try to follow directions for fear of what I may find if I don't."
"Lessons of growing-up in a whorehouse, I suppose." Gabrielle just shrugs, apparently wishing not to speak on it, something Tyrion will try to understand. "Now, your purpose here?"
She looks at him straight again, though her green eyes twinkle wickedly with that natural expression of thought, "You intend for me to cover two places on the small council, but I have yet to be invited to any sessions."
"Haven't had any—I've been busy."
And she understands that. Indeed, having to overtake her father's duties as well as her own has become a struggle in itself, especially with Stannis bringing a war to the capital shortly and Tyrion's growing reliance upon her. Turning stark, she nods in understanding of his situation and turns to leave, "Well, I shouldn't keep you then."
"Lady Baelish," Tyrion interrupts her dismissal, her eyes turning back to him with a quirked brow, though it falls as she sees his serious expression, "I've trusted you thus far. Was I wrong to? Where do your loyalties lie?"
"Now?" she asks, trying to determine her loyalty to a point of reference, or so Tyrion assumes as he nods, "It lies with the good of the realm. I stand with the people that are mine."
But that leads to the better question, "And before?"
"What I've done in the past cannot be forgiven," Gabrielle Baelish offers what Tyrion knows to be true, though he is struck by the terror that flashes quickly through her eyes as she spies the commoners about his carriage. But looking back at him, she's again firm with her convictions, honestly relaying, "but I now work to better Westeros."
Tyrion looks at the woman who's suddenly creating a depth of character about herself--not just a perfect picture of innocence and manipulation--as he asks, "Why the change?"
"I was suffering under the delusions of power, but someone decided to bring me back to reality," Gabrielle offers shortly, apparently done with her revelation as she bows her head with a "My Lord," before taking leave and turning about the corner, disappearing altogether.
"Pretty face, but what the hell'd she mean?" Bronn asks, and Tyrion meets his eye with a similar misunderstanding of her words but surprisingly greater knowledge of her character. How she managed to both confuse him and make him understand, Tyrion will never know.
But Tyrion just shrugs, "I don't think she meant for us to know. And we likely never will."
/////////////////////////////////////////
Returning from the pyromancer, Tyrion is not more illuminated on how to win this battle than he had been days prior. An entirely pointless trip...if other than revealing the truth of Jaime's tales and the Mad King's genocidal tendencies. Thousands and thousands of barrels of wildfire. Tyrion shivers at the mass destruction this weapon could create, and Cersei's ongoing knowledge of the weaponry. That's not good at all. But there is little Tyrion can do to erase her mind. Shame.
So no, the trip had done little to ease Tyrion's mind of the oncoming battle or Joffrey's preparations for such a mess. Instead, it's sown the seeds of increasing hopelessness in his endeavors and wish to be successful as Hand of the King. Around him, the commoners of King's Landing swirl in vivid and worn clothes, barely registered in the mind of Tyrion other than reminding him of all he has to lose. Scoffing loudly, Tyrion asks Bronn, "Stannis has more infantry, more ships, more horses. What do we have?"
"There's that mind of yours you keep going on about," Bronn shrugs, and though he has a valid point, Tyrion is doubtful of such abilities, saying as much.
"Well, I've never actually been able to kill people with it."
"Good thing. I'd be out of a job," Bronn responds, offering another option, "What about your father? "
"He hasn't sent a raven in weeks. He's very busy. Being repeatedly humiliated by Robb Stark is time-consuming." Bronn chuckles at the imp's rather unfortunate sense of humour, even in trying times like these for the little man. Turning into the market, Tyrion and Bronn come to witness a preacher proclaiming the news of the oncoming siege or battle, whatever Stannis so decides. And--knowing these people are the innocent he needs to protect--Tyrion stops their progress to listen in subtle curiosity at the preacher's words.
"We are swollen, bloated, foul. Brother fornicates with sister in the bed of kings and we're surprised when the fruit of their incest is rotten? Yes, a rotten king!"
Tyrion quirks his eyebrow at these entirely truthful rumours, humour dancing across his face despite his deep connection to both siblings and nephew in this man's rebuttal, "It's hard to argue with his assessment."
Bronn agrees, scoffing "Not after what he did to your birthday present."
"The king is a lost cause," Tyrion concludes, shaking his head at the increasing factors of hopelessness that he's balancing with hopeful anticipation of understanding the solution. "It's the rest of us I'm worried about now."
"A dancing king, prancing down his bloodstained halls to the tune of a twisted demon monkey," the pastor continues to rant, and Tyrion's fully amused by the entirely accurate depiction of the court at the Red Keep.
"You have to admire his imagination," Tyrion praises.
"He's talking about you."
Tyrion's head whips around to eye Bronn with both surprise and dislike, "What? Demon monkey? "
"People think you're pulling the king's strings. They blame you for the city's ills," Gabrielle Baelish suddenly offers, and Tyrion is forced to wonder if she follows him around in order to make these points. Looking towards the source of her voice, he notices the female is uniquely accompanied by the Hound on this day, the massive brothel belonging to Petyr Baelish just down the road. Alright, so apparently he's just snooping around her home.
But that's not the point, instead looking at the woman who knows the songs that these commoners sing. He shouts in dispute, "Blame me? I'm trying to save them!"
"You don't need to convince us," Bronn smartly responds, listening with open ears at the pastor's wicked tongue that he misses from behind the walls of the Red Keep.
"Demon monkey," the Hound laughs in a rare instance of actually speaking, his eyes surveying the scowling form of Tyrion Lannister before remarking, "It makes you sound taller."
But Tyrion's not so easily impressed--yet equally offended--parrying with, "Shouldn't you be protecting the king not fucking your lady?"
"The runt's with his mother," the Hound snarls, not out of offense but simply in the displaying of his natural character. Tyrion is again forced to question why Gabrielle Baelish puts up with such a man, though he does grant her great courage for doing as much. But as of now, she's more focused on the conversation, and again returning Tyrion's attention to the Hound's words.
"Typical," Tyrion responds to the Hound, before looking off again at the effervescent pastor, grunting, "Demon monkey. Yeah, come on."
The strange collection of four make their way back to the Red Keep, ears accompanied by the endless tales of fornicating siblings, a dancing king, and a demon monkey.
///////////////////////////////////////////
Arya stares down the mysterious criminal, now turned soldier, who calls himself Jaqen, ladle of water long forgotten by this interesting conversation following her rebuttal of him.
"The Red God takes what is his, lovely girl. And only death may pay for life," the man tells her with wisdom and many stories playing through his light eyes, "You saved me and the two I was with. You stole three deaths from the Red God. We have to give them back. Speak three names and the man will do the rest. Three lives I will give you, no more, no less, and we're done. Like the girl before you."
Arya stares in awe at the chance this man's afforded her, not feeling grateful at all, but deserving of this revenge, "I can name anyone and you'll kill him?"
"A man has said."
She doesn't think, just spouts, "The one who tortures everyone."
"A man needs a name."
"I don't know his name," she growls like the true wolf she is, hidden or not, "They call him the Tickler."
"That is enough," the man smirks, before his eyes dart knowingly away and to the water, "Go now, girl. Your master is thirsty."
/////////////////////////////////////////////////
The woman is dressed with the seduction of man beneath her fingers, although a mask of geometric wealth decorates her face in one of the most eccentric designs Jorah Mormont has ever seen. Indeed, her words are little worth to him prior to learning that she knows him, thinking this--at first--nothing more than another greeting from those of Qarth. But no, this woman knows of him, knows of his sins.
"Do I know you?" he roughly voices, attempting to see beneath that ornate and delicate mask, though no such power would give him this ability.
The woman of no name replies with the only obvious answer she possesses, "I know you. Jorah Mormont of Bear Island."
"Who are you?"
"I'm no one." But, of course, he does not know the significance of that. The woman's eyes then turn lazily to Daenerys nearby, the pretty girl talking vividly with another of the Qarth lords, sowing uneasiness in his chest. The woman meets Jorah's eyes in validation of that feeling, "But she is the Mother of Dragons. She needs true protectors, now more than ever. They shall come day and night to see the wonder born into the world again. And when they see, they shall lust, for dragons are fire made flesh. And fire is power. But two will come—at first—and wisdom they will bring."
///////////////////////////////////
G—
We've moved on from Craster's, much to my relief and Sam's guilt. I think he cares for one of Craster's daughters, Gilly they call her. And it's not like the care I hold for you—he wanted to have me rush her away to safety. It's made me wish for your company all the more, as you seem to understand that logic is a strength.
You forget that I am a man of the Night's Watch who shall take no woman. And though I do not shame myself for caring for you and my family, I will not outright break my vows. I am honorable, like my father. And as for the pretty boy comment, I find that ironic coming from the prettiest women in the world. You could have the Dothraki on their knees if you truly wished.
As much as Sansa's abuse saddens and angers me, I am more gladdened by your help of her—she was made better off because of your help. Thank you, truly. And as for Joffrey's sudden fear of ghosts, I anxiously look forward to the news of him wetting his bed. Do tell him some stories of the White Walkers for me and the Night's Watch.
I currently write from the top of the Fist of the First Men—we've been digging it out for days and await the return of our Rangers. It overlooks the entire North; we can see everything, but I feel like, instead, we are the ones being watched. It's eerie. I don't think this place was abandoned, but overrun. I cannot be sure, but you told me to trust my gut...And now that I think about my gut, it's rumbling with hunger. You truly bring the best out in me.
No need to remind me to stay safe—I'm on my guard out here in the open. Look after yourself, and I look forward to your next message.
If Valyrion is Rhaegal Targaryen, would that make you Rhaenys or Elia? You are his leading lady, after all.
J
///////////////////////////////////////
"You have courage," Brienne of Tarth relates as her eyes glimmer with a new understanding at the sight of Catelyn Stark's strength and convictions in this era of warfare and tragedy, "Not battle courage, perhaps, but, I don't know, a woman's kind of courage. And I think that when the time comes, you will not hold me back. Promise me that you will not hold me back from Stannis."
The Lady of Winterfell nods solemnly with a promise deep in her eyes, "When the time comes, I will not hold you back."
"Then I am yours, my lady," Brienne replies, kneeling in the thicket of branches and dead wood as she offers her sword to the strangely fortunate Lady Stark, "I will shield your back and give my life for yours, if it comes to that. I swear it by the Old Gods and the new."
And Catelyn takes her own promise, "I vow that you shall always have a place in my home and at my table and that I shall ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the new."
The ribbon of loyalty between lady and knight ties itself between the two women as Brienne rises. And though Brienne does not know it at the time, this vow will be the one to haunt her in the years to come. This vow will drive her to dishonor, force her to fall in love with a murderer, deliver her revenge, and protect a woman whose innocence was lost under her distant care.
//////////////////////////////////////////
Osha's worried eyes bore into those of Brandon Stark, the boys previous stubbornness almost forgotten with the trials of his current leadership over the Winterfell keep. And yet, Osha doubts that this is the true cause of this boy's sudden maturity, if his dreams are anything to go by in these past few months. It's what drove her to inquire after them--after the Three Eyed Raven of legend--and it's the maturity that now bridles Bran's chest that has him relating the truth of his last dream:
"I dreamt that the sea came to Winterfell. I saw waves crashing against the gates and the water came flowing over the walls. It flooded the castle. Drowned men were floating here, in the yard. Ser Rodrik was one of them."
Osha furrows her eyebrows at that, refusing to believe such a work of prophecy like this, "The sea is hundreds of miles away."
"I know. It's just a stupid dream."
Silence spans between them as Osha is half tempted to believe Bran's dreams to tell something of truth, and yet she refuses to do as much for his own sake and her new caution. Standing to her feet, Osha grabs the basket of her collected food, offering, "I've got to get these potatoes to the kitchen. Otherwise they'll put me in chains again."
She begins to walk away with the heavy load before Bran calls her back, " Osha. The Three-Eyed Raven, what do they say about it north of the Wall?"
"They say all sorts of crazy things north of the Wall," Osha says after a moment of hesitation, her eyes warily eying the boy in Bran Stark before walking away. She does not wish for him to see the fear in her eyes...at the amount of truth those crazy stories hold. Mammoths. Giants. The Three-Eyed Raven. The Children of the Forest. The White Walkers.
No, it's best he doesn't know the truth of it all.
///////////////////////////////////
"There," Qhorin Halfhand points into the distant landscape that appears to be nothing more than an array of white, blue, grey, and black, all piled upon each other and smeared by a painter without much care for this piece.
Sam squints, seeing nothing, "Where?"
"On that mountain." He points again to the same location of many different mountains, all appearing the near same.
Sam shakes his head in dismissal, "I don't see very well."
"A fire. There's a fire," Jon finally offers, suddenly grateful for his inherited eyesight if only for his ability to impress the Halfhand who nods in agreement with Jon's judgement.
"The people sitting around it have better eyes than yours or mine. When they see us coming, that fire becomes a signal. Gives Mance Rayder plenty of time to throw a party in our honor."
Jeor Mormont looks inquiringly after his ranger, "How many wildlings have joined him?"
"From what we can tell, all of them," Qhorin responds, a subtle gasp making its way from one of the brother's mouths though none will ever claim it. "Mance has gathered them all like deer against the wolves. They're almost ready to make their move,"
"Where?"
"Somewhere safe. Somewhere south. Can't just march into their midst. And we can't wait for them here with nothing but a pile of stones to protect us."
Jeor furrows his eyebrows at that, his pride speaking loudly in his words, "You saying we should fall back to the Wall?"
"Mance was one of us once. Now he's one of them. He's going to teach them our way of doing things. They'll hit us in force and they won't run away when we hit back. They're gonna be more organized than before, more disciplined, more like us. So we need to be more like them, do things their way. Sneak in, kill Mance, and scatter them to the winds before they can march on the Wall. And to do that. We need to get rid of those lookouts. It's not a job for 400 men. I need to move fast and silent," the Halfhand makes his intentions clear, turning and gesturing at a collection of three rangers behind him, "Harker, Stonesnake, Borba."
The three gather around Qhorin with light baggage upon their back, Jon seeing this suddenly as his chance to help the Night's Watch, rather than just sitting by with ale in one hand and food in another. Turning to the Lord Commander as he tries to hide his begging spirit, "Lord Commander, I'd like to join Lord Qhorin."
But the Halfhand laughs before Jeor can respond, his eyes dancing across the silly boy and his lord-like manners, "I've been called lots of things, but that might be my first Lord Qhorin."
"You're a steward, Snow," Jeor grunts unhappily at this continued stint of conversation, "not a ranger."
"I've fought and killed a wight. How many rangers can say that?" Jon practically boasts--and had he been any more noble, he would've hated himself for it.
But Qhorin Halfhand takes that news as something promising, looking to the uncertain Lord Commander with the question, "He's the one?"
"Aye," Jeor Mormont barks the affirmative, before turning to Jon with a sudden dismissal of his haughtiness he ought to forget, "You killed a wight. You also let an old man beat you bloody and take your sword."
"Craster? In the boy's defense, that's a tough old goat," Qhorin responds, amused by this display between the Lord Commander and his noble steward.
Softly, Sam takes his chance to help Jon in these trials, stepping forward with the offer, "I could take up Jon's duties while he's gone, my lord. It would be no trouble."
Jeor Mormont sighs loudly in the brisk air of the northern landscape, eyeing Jon again with a disdain for his wishes and the truth of this matter...that Jon's more than capable of being a ranger. Maybe once he sees the horrors of the wildlings, he'll forget his wishes to be north of the Wall. So, Jeor Mormont relents to Jon Snow, "Well, I hope you make a better ranger than you do a steward. Go on."
Jon grins and nods his head in thanks to the Lord Commander, grabbing up his parcel and bidding his friends farewell as he practically skips off with the other rangers, a new adventure in sight and finally delivered to the impatient bastard.