At first there was a commotion in the courtyard and then chaos raged over Black Castle like a storm. She could hear the princess crying while trying to
hide behind her mother, who was as much afraid and hysterical as her daughter. Fools, the whole lot of them.
The red priestess lighted her fire. If only the boy had listened to me. But he never heard to a single word she said, not after her crucial mistake about a
grey girl on a dying horse. The little sister that never came. Arya Stark was Melissandre’s gravest mistake, Jon Snow’s doom and if no one took the Wall
and got the wildling under control, soon she would be the end of the Night’s Watch itself.
Tormund had gutted Bowen Marsh with his own hands and soon all of his men were clashing swords against dark shields. They never understood a word about the
wildling, despite the Lord Commander’s best efforts, nor even Melissandre and her fires. He was right about something. They would never kneel to a king, or
a cause, unless they could respect it. They never kneel to King Stannis, to the Night’s Watch or even to the Lord Commander. They kneel to a clever and
cunning boy named Jon Snow, and now that the boy was dead there was about four thousand wilding warriors at the Wall and none of them had much love for the
men in black or the Southern King.
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