[He thinks to tell her to hold, but the words don't reach his lips. They will come to it, and he will not have to. And when she thinks on it, she will understand anyway. He doesn't wear Night's Watch blacks. He had been riding for Dragonstone. He had led an army against the Lord of Winterfell. Nothing the Lord Commander ought to be doing, though who would be taking his head for it? Only the Lord Commander or the Warden of the North, or the King on the Iron Throne. There's nothing funny about it.
Still, while his expression remains very inward, he gives a shaky nod, pats her hand.]
The Wall holds -- for now. But the Army of the Dead, the Night King -- they will find a way past it. I went to Hardhome, it's a village up north of Eastwatch, to treat with the Free Folk, the Wildlings. I had little choice. Any man of theirs who dies is another dead man we must fight, and they are harder than a living man to kill. Only fire kills them, or dragonglass -- obsidian -- or Valyrian steel. And they move faster than a living man, much faster in a fight. The Army of the Dead had been hunting the Free Folk in their villages, and they had gathered at Hardhome because they had lost a battle to cross the Wall.
Well, it came down on them there, slaughtered most of them and raised them up again as wights. I saw him do it; he did it as a taunt. Now the Night King's army numbers -- one hundred thousand strong, I would say.
So what Free Folk we were able to save, we made an alliance with them, and they were given passage through the Wall. It was a choice between that and fighting them as dead men. They are only people like you and me; they have not betrayed us. Those, at least, add to the Watch's strength.
[But he says it darkly.]
You can well imagine that some of the men did not like it. It is why they mutinied. Lured me out into the yard with some false story that someone had seen Uncle Benjen, then named me traitor. They had not gone to Hardhome. They had not seen one hundred thousand dead men, walking and killing.
[What he does not think to concern himself with, so much, is whether or not she has the strength to hear this story. He knows she does. He knows what she has endured, and he knows that she has heard it before. And he knows that it is a relief to her to know that Bolton is dead -- that she has that to carry her through it, at least, that it had been her to give him to the hungry dogs. Much of the rest of this tale is better than what he is telling her now, though if things had been just a little different, she might have arrived at Castle Black only to be returned to Bolton by Alliser Thorne. He doesn't know what would have become of Brienne of Tarth and her squire. The thought is cold in his belly; he imagines it will be cold in Sansa's, too.]
no subject
Still, while his expression remains very inward, he gives a shaky nod, pats her hand.]
The Wall holds -- for now. But the Army of the Dead, the Night King -- they will find a way past it. I went to Hardhome, it's a village up north of Eastwatch, to treat with the Free Folk, the Wildlings. I had little choice. Any man of theirs who dies is another dead man we must fight, and they are harder than a living man to kill. Only fire kills them, or dragonglass -- obsidian -- or Valyrian steel. And they move faster than a living man, much faster in a fight. The Army of the Dead had been hunting the Free Folk in their villages, and they had gathered at Hardhome because they had lost a battle to cross the Wall.
Well, it came down on them there, slaughtered most of them and raised them up again as wights. I saw him do it; he did it as a taunt. Now the Night King's army numbers -- one hundred thousand strong, I would say.
So what Free Folk we were able to save, we made an alliance with them, and they were given passage through the Wall. It was a choice between that and fighting them as dead men. They are only people like you and me; they have not betrayed us. Those, at least, add to the Watch's strength.
[But he says it darkly.]
You can well imagine that some of the men did not like it. It is why they mutinied. Lured me out into the yard with some false story that someone had seen Uncle Benjen, then named me traitor. They had not gone to Hardhome. They had not seen one hundred thousand dead men, walking and killing.
[What he does not think to concern himself with, so much, is whether or not she has the strength to hear this story. He knows she does. He knows what she has endured, and he knows that she has heard it before. And he knows that it is a relief to her to know that Bolton is dead -- that she has that to carry her through it, at least, that it had been her to give him to the hungry dogs. Much of the rest of this tale is better than what he is telling her now, though if things had been just a little different, she might have arrived at Castle Black only to be returned to Bolton by Alliser Thorne. He doesn't know what would have become of Brienne of Tarth and her squire. The thought is cold in his belly; he imagines it will be cold in Sansa's, too.]