black, tradition decreed that he set aside his former arms and take up the plain black shield of the
brotherhood. The shields thus discarded would hang in the Shieldhall.
Hundreds of knights meant hundreds of shields. Hawks and eagles, dragons and griffins, suns
and stags, wolves and wyverns, manticores, bulls, trees and flowers, harps, spears, crabs and krakens,
red lions and golden lions and chequy lions, owls, lambs, maids and mermen, stallions, stars, buckets
and buckles, flayed men and hanged men and burning men, axes, longswords, turtles, unicorns, bears,
quills, spiders and snakes and scorpions, and a hundred other heraldic charges had adorned the
Shieldhall walls, blazoned in more colors than any rainbow ever dreamed of.
But when a knight died, his shield was taken down, that it might go with him to his pyre or his
tomb, and over the years and centuries fewer and fewer knights had taken the black. A day came when
it no longer made sense for the knights of Castle Black to dine apart. The Shieldhall was abandoned. In
the last hundred years, it had been used only infrequently. As a dining hall, it left much to be desired—it
was dark, dirty, drafty, and hard to heat in winter, its cellars infested with rats, its massive wooden
rafters worm-eaten and festooned with cobwebs.
But it was large and long enough to seat two hundred, and half again that many if they crowded
close. When Jon and Tormund entered, a sound went through the hall, like wasps stirring in a nest. The
wildlings outnumbered the crows by five to one, judging by how little black he saw. Fewer than a dozen
shields remained, sad grey things with faded paint and long cracks in the wood. But fresh torches
burned in the iron sconces along the walls, and Jon had ordered benches and tables brought in. Men
with comfortable seats were more inclined to listen, Maester Aemon had once told him; standing men
were more inclined to shout.
At the top of the hall a sagging platform stood. Jon mounted it, with Tormund Giantsbane at his
side, and raised his hands for quiet. The wasps only buzzed the louder. Then Tormund put his warhorn
to his lips and blew a blast. The sound filled the hall, echoing off the rafters overhead. Silence fell.
“I summoned you to make plans for the relief of Hardhome,” Jon Snow began. “Thousands of
the free folk are gathered there, trapped and starving, and we have had reports of dead things in the
wood.” To his left he saw Marsh and Yarwyck. Othell was surrounded by his builders, whilst Bowen had
Wick Whittlestick, Left Hand Lew, and Alf of Runnymudd beside him. To his right, Soren Shieldbreaker
sat with his arms crossed against his chest. Farther back, Jon saw Gavin the Trader and Harle the
Handsome whispering together. Ygon Oldfather sat amongst his wives, Howd Wanderer alone. Borroq
leaned against a wall in a dark corner. Mercifully, his boar was nowhere in evidence. “The ships I sent to
take off Mother Mole and her people have been wracked by storms. We must send what help we can by
land or let them die.” Two of Queen Selyse’s knights had come as well, Jon saw. Ser Narbert and Ser
Benethon stood near the door at the foot of the hall. But the rest of the queen’s men were conspicuous
in their absence. “I had hoped to lead the ranging myself and bring back as many of the free folk as
could survive the journey.” A flash of red in the back of the hall caught Jon’s eye. Lady Melisandre had
arrived. “But now I find I cannot go to Hardhome. The ranging will be led by Tormund Giantsbane,
known to you all. I have promised him as many men as he requires.”