The King-Beyond-the-Wall studied Jon's face carefully.
"Who was in command here? Tell the truth. Ryk? Smallwood? Willas? No, he's too soft… Whose tent is this?"
I've already said too much.
"You didn't find his body?" Jon asked.
Harma gave a contemptuous snort. "Stupid crow!"
Yeah, I'm an idiot. Of course there wouldn't be a body left after the wights attacked.
Jon swallowed hard.
"Answer me with another question and I'll hand you over to Rattleshirt and Orell," Mance warned as he stepped closer.
"Who was in command?"
One more step…
Under the crushing pressure, a sudden destructive urge flared inside Jon.
One more step and maybe I can take him with me.
His hand drifted toward Longclaw's hilt.
"Draw that sword and I'll have your bastard head on the ground before it clears the scabbard," Mance said. "I'm losing patience with you, Jon Snow."
"Tell him," Ygritte urged anxiously. "Whoever it was is already dead anyway."
The cold wind scattered Jon's dark impulse. His brow furrowed and the wound on his cheek split open again.
This is too hard, Jon thought in despair.
But how can you play the turncloak without becoming one?
"It was the Old Bear!" he finally blurted out.
"The Old Bear himself?" Harma didn't believe it. "Really? Then who's holding Castle Black?"
"Bowen Marsh."
This time Jon answered without hesitation.
Whatever they tell you to do, do it. No arguments.
Mance burst out laughing.
"If that's true, then we've already won without a fight. Bowen's better at counting swords than swinging them."
"The Old Bear was here in person," Jon said. "The position was already strong and he made it stronger—dug pits, planted stakes, all to deal with…"
"…me?" Mance finished for him.
"Hmph. He was dreaming. If I were stupid enough to charge a defended position held by rangers, I'd lose at least five men for every one of theirs—if I was lucky."
He pressed his lips together.
"But when the dead walk, ringwalls, pits, stakes, and swords all become useless. You can't fight the dead, Jon Snow. No one knows that better than I do."
He looked up at the darkening sky.
"These crows seem to have done us a favor without meaning to. I kept wondering why we hadn't been attacked yet.
We still have a hundred leagues to the Wall and the weather's getting colder every day.
Varamyr, send your wolves to sniff around. Track any wights so they don't catch us by surprise.
Rattleshirt, double the patrols and make sure every man has a torch and flint.
Jarl, tell all the raiders we're moving out at first light."
"Mance," Rattleshirt said coldly, "I want this crow's bones."
Ygritte stepped in front of Jon.
"He was only protecting his old brothers. You can't kill him for that."
"I think he still considers them his brothers."
"No, he doesn't," Ygritte insisted. "He didn't obey Halfhand's order to kill me. He almost killed Halfhand instead—everyone knows it."
She glanced at Qhorin, who stood unsteadily beside Lynn.
Jon's breath frosted in the air.
He looked straight into Mance Rayder's eyes and flexed the fingers of his sword hand.
"I'm wearing the cloak you gave me, Your Grace."
"A sheepskin cloak!" Ygritte added. "And every night we dance under it!"
Jarl grinned. Harma Dogshead laughed too.
"Is that true, Jon Snow?"
Mance was in a good mood now that he had the information he wanted. His tone softened.
"You and her?"
Hearing that, Lynn suddenly remembered what Mance had said the day Jon was captured—that the boy reminded him of himself.
It seemed the shared experience of falling for a wildling woman had created some kind of bond between them.
Jon no longer knew where honor ended and shame began, where right became wrong.
Father, forgive me.
"Yes," he said.
Mance nodded, satisfied.
"Good. Then tomorrow you two will ride with Jarl on the raid. I won't separate two hearts that beat as one."
It should have been a decent ending. The Night's Watch's elite force had been slaughtered by wights, the Wall's defenses were even thinner now, and victory was almost within reach.
But a voice suddenly cut through the rising excitement.
"Jon Snow."
Qhorin's voice was weak, but it still carried.
Ygritte immediately looked at him warily.
"Come here. Your task is over."
Jon looked like he'd been struck by lightning.
Lynn spoke up at the right moment.
"Qhorin Halfhand has surrendered to me. Jon Snow was acting under his orders, pretending to join the Free Folk to gather information.
One of the conditions of Halfhand's surrender was that I spare Jon Snow. I gave him my word."
The camp fell silent for a heartbeat—then the sound of steel being drawn shattered it.
Longclaw flashed into Jon's hand.
He looked like a young wolf surrounded by hounds—face full of disbelief. He ignored Lynn's promise of pardon and prepared to fight to the death.
Mance, Harma, Jarl, and Rattleshirt drew their blades as well. The clansmen butchering horses nearby sensed the trouble and closed in.
Ygritte was the most emotional of all.
"Are you going to kill me, Jon Snow?"
She gripped her bone dagger, tears streaming down her face as she advanced on the stunned Jon. She pressed her chest against the tip of Longclaw, forcing him backward step by step until his back hit the stone wall. There was nowhere left to go.
"You lying crow! You bastard!"
She cursed fiercely and stabbed the dagger toward his throat, but her tears blurred her vision and Jon managed to dodge.
Still, he looked utterly miserable—helpless and torn.
"I said Jon Snow has been pardoned," Lynn repeated firmly.
"Bind him, but don't hurt him. Mance, let's talk inside the tent."
Lynn walked into one of the few tents still standing. Qhorin limped after him.
Mance sheathed his sword and held the tent flap open for his old brother, grinning.
"Old friend, looks like we'll be fighting side by side again. The Thenns have a good craftsman—he can make you a fine wooden leg."
Behind him, the nimble Jarl kicked Jon in the back of the knee while he was still dazed. Jon lost his balance. Several raiders piled on and pinned him down.
"If the Son of the Stars hadn't spared your worthless life, I'd skin you alive and use your hide for a sleeping mat," Rattleshirt snarled, driving a fist into Jon's ribs and knocking the wind out of him.
By the time the commotion outside died down, Lynn had righted the overturned table and set out three small camp stools.
Qhorin sat without a word. Fresh blood was seeping through all his bandages.
"You'll need fresh wrappings, Halfhand," Mance said lightly, clearly enjoying talking to his former black brother.