[Arthur's POV]
As the days passed, he felt better physically and regained his strength. His mind refused to remain idle, however, as he found himself studying books and seeing how he might improve his penwork. The White Book only deserved his finest, after all.
"Your recovery is swift, Ser." Grand Maester Gormon observed with curiosity. "So very swift, indeed. It is reminiscent of His Grace."
"If only I could be struck by lightning." Arthur jested, recalling how Edric rose each time. "Or, in this case, burned. Would I regain my strength?"
"It could be arranged, of course. Though - I would not recommend it. The greater mysteries of this world are a fickle thing with little understanding."
"It likely wouldn't have the desired result." Arthur nodded.
"Your way of burning through armour is a curious thing, indeed… but our King is a magical wonder of his own who might stand even greater than the dragons of Valyria. I could not blame the men who preach him to be a god. At times, he truly seems indomitable."
"Everyone wants to believe in something," Arthur remarked, speaking his own thoughts. "It's far easier to put faith in something you see with your own eyes - someone who hears your prayers and acts upon them."
"And that is why he is the chosen son, I suppose. A prophet for the Gods." Gormon did not sound like he believed what he said. "It would be unfitting for the Gods to do any more than that when it comes to interfering with mortal affairs. Faith would come all too easy, no? Or so the septons say."
Out of character, more like.
The Gods ignore prayers like drops of rain to an ocean.
Arthur kept his thoughts to himself.
"How long until I can fight?"
"The young are always so eager." Gormon chuckled. "If you want to be at your best, it may take a moon or two. As for the current you…well, you should be well enough to walk and participate in less straining activities."
"That's enough for me." Arthur left his bed. "I do not wish to be idle any more than necessary."
"Very well, though it might delay your overall recovery."
"I should be fine."
Since Edric left King's Landing, he had sprung a few plans into action. Asha Greyjoy was sent off to the Stepstones to settle some pirates who had made trading difficult; Rhaerra had been appointed as the Master of Coin's advisor, and Edric left his green troops for me to train. He specified that he wanted them to master the bow above all else... which had not been Arthur's strong suit - ever.
For that matter, he was worse with the bow than any other standard weapon. He considered it a less honourable weapon, which was a sentiment a great majority of nobles shared. However, he realised its strength and utility as time went on through Edric. It won him countless battles, decisively and with little losses.
If he commanded a unit of elite archers who were even a quarter as good...
Arthur saw Edric's vision, deciding to do what he could to help realise it.
He began with recruiting the best archers in King's Landing, starting at the top.
...
Though Rhaerra now worked with Alester Florent, she'd still find the time to attend to her myriad of passions. He found it hard to believe that she could jump from one thing to the next at a whim and remain ever so focused. At this time, she stood in her rented space and painted under the moonlight.
Valaegor lazily nested in the flowers, yawning.
He makes for an awful guard, Arthur noted.
"Pardon me for disturbing your painting." Arthur approached with courtesy. "I wish to have a moment of your time."
"Is that who I think it is?" Valaegor's eyes flashed open as he leapt up from the ground up to his feet. He proceeded to point directly at Arthur. "Hah, it's you! I see that you're well enough to stand. That is good, very good. How about a rematch - right here, right now?"
"..." Arthur raised an eyebrow. His flame hadn't dimmed in defeat at all.
"Don't be so craven, now-"
"I have better things to do than entertain that." Arthur turned to Rhaerra, who paused. "I was wondering if you could spare some time helping train Edric's men. With the bow, specifically. I am certain that Edric would be grateful for it."
"Tsk, don't waste my lady's time with such fruitless notions." Valaegor scoffed. "Those men are greener than spring grass. They couldn't even fire a proper bow."
"They'll learn." Arthur shrugged. "Did you come out of your mother's womb knowing how to wield your poleaxe?"
"How did you know?" Valaegor grinned.
"Hm... the King's gratitude." Rhaerra mused for a short while. "I suppose I should show my appreciation for his trust. Very well, you can have the services of any of my men should you need it. I believe Taelor would be best suited in this regard."
"I... had hoped that it would be you instead," Arthur admitted. "You did win the archery competition, after all."
"You want a tumble too?" Valaegor scoffed.
"I'm a sworn brother of the Kingsguard." Arthur found the suggestion insulting.
"Hey, I wouldn't blame you." Valaegor chuckled, shrugging. "Rhaerra is quite the beauty. I assure you that men have forgotten their honour and vows for less."
"It's a small wonder why Edric didn't even want you." Rhaerra put down her brush and turned to them. "Why don't you prove that you are worth the hassle, Val? If you can aid with shaping those boys into men, he might reconsider his decision."
"..." Valaegor frowned before looking confident once more. "It's not as if I have much more to do in this city..."
She has a similar gift as Edric, Arthur noted to himself. The golden tongue that can convince anyone to see their way and act accordingly.
"As for me, I'll assist when I can and give advice where fitting." Rhaerra looked at Arthur. "Will that suffice, Ser?"
"I am most thankful, my lady." Arthur nodded solemnly before smiling. "I will disturb you no further."
"Hardly the disruption." She shook her head. "You are a most charming knight, indeed."
"..." Arthur did not look flustered. "I thank you for the compliment."
~
[Jon Snow's POV]
Escaping from Styr, Jon gave warning of his attack on Mole's Town and Castle Black. Given Bowen Marsh's command to take all the fighting men, they were left with old men, cripples, boys as green as grass and the villagers who had fled from Mole's Town. Still, Donal Noye managed to make use of every man and woman in one way or another.
Jon himself, who need crutches to walk due to the arrow shaft he endured in his leg, insisted on joining the fighting. He had been given a longbow and stationed at the King's Tower alongside eight brothers. Six of them were made of straw, cloaks, and leather. Scarecrows. There were ten of them for every living brother, in towers and windows, some even wielding spears or crossbows. It had been Maester Aemon's notion, to give the freefolk the idea that they were more fortified than in truth.
It would not deter them.
Night came, and shadows began to lurk. Castle Black's name was somewhat deceiving. It was a castle without walls, comprised of only towers. In preparation for the attack, a ten-foot tall barricade crescent- shaped had been swiftly made up of logs, crates, basks of nails, caskets of grain... anything that they could get their hands on. It stood before the gate which led up to the Wall, defending the two things of most paramount importance—the gate to the north and the switchback stairs that led to the top of the Wall.
The day before, word had come that his brother, Lord Stark, would be arriving with thousands of men, and several more thousand after... but they couldn't rely on him now.
The Wall was theirs to defend, Jon knew.
He prepared his first arrow shaft, taking the time to be accurate. He waited as they ran, observing, waiting...
He let go, and the first of three shadows slumped backwards in a low grunt. There were only two of them now, moving faster than before. Jon hurried the next shot, missing. They were gone by the time he would've taken his third. He looked for his next target, finding several more lurking around the undefended Lord Commander's Keep.
His next arrow would pierce a thenn's shield, the fourth a throat.
"I got one!" He heard the boy beside him, Satin, cry out.
"Get another," Jon called.
Before long, he would not need to look for targets anymore - only choose them. He shot down a wildling archer and then sent a shaft to an axeman hacking at Hardin's Tower. He missed that time, though his arrow made the wildling reconsider. As he turned away in a hurry, old Mully put an arrow through his leg from the roof of the Flint Barracks.
Down below, he saw a mop of thick red hair.
Kissed by fire, he thought, lucky.
He brought his bow up but his fingers would not part and she was gone as soon as she had come.
Soon enough, the tides of battle would change. Much of Castle Black would be turned to flame, a warhorn would blast the air, and fifty Thenns would come marching down the Kingsroad. In turn, Jon led his two brothers to the north parapet of the King's Tower.
It couldn't have been an easier shot as the Thenns had their backs turned to the King's Tower as they charged the crescent-shaped makeshift barricade, spilling corn and blood alike with reckless abandon. At the same time, arrows and crossbow quarrels rained down upon them by Donal Noye's stationed archers atop the towers.
Suddenly, as Jon moved back to fill his empty quiver, the trapdoor was forced open and a wildling helm presented himself. Jon didn't think twice, dropping his longbow and drawing Longclaw. He caved Valyrian Steel through the wildling's skull, pushing it down and drawing out the blood-soaked blade. The bronze helm the wildling had worn did him no favours, breaking to the vastly superior Valyrian Steel.
The wildling fell down to wherever he came from, though Jon could hear that there were more of them down below.
"The oil." Jon said and Satin nodded.
Together, they poured down the heavy kettle of boiling oil onto the wildlings below the trapdoor. Terrible shrieks came down from below, no better than any sound he had heard before. Jon kicked the trapdoor shut and set the heavy kettle on top of it, making sure that entry is not near as easy as before.
Satin looked like he wanted to thorugh up the little food he had eaten but Jon gave his face a heavy shake.
"Retch later," Jon said. "Come."
They had not been gone long, but everything had changed below. Only a little over a dozen men stood behind the barricade while the wildlings kept relentlessly swarming. One of the men from Mole Town turned and fled. Before long, all of them would follow - dropping their weapons and abandonding the barricade. The few black brothers who remained were too few defend from the surging wildlings.
They tried to form a line of spears but were swarmed, falling back not too far behind the villagers.
Donal Noye had stationed spearmen on the first two flight of stairs but they soon would crumble too, racing up to the higher flights. Archers and crossbowmen on higher landings would fire down on the wildlings but they kept advancing - drunk on victory.
Jon and Satin kept firing, but there were only two of them and at least seventy Thenns.
All that remains is the last resort...
Jon thought, loading another arrow.
Then he heard a gallop... louder and louder. Closer. Closer and closer.
Jon turned away from the battle, to the south. Seconds later, he began to see it through the veil of the knight. They covered the horizon, mounted northmen all. As they came closer, they rode even faster. The banners came into view...
Stark loomed taller than all the rest, proud and fierce. Umber's roaring giant, Karstark's white sunburst, House Bolton's red flayed man, House Glover's silver first, House Manderly's merman and many more...
They had all come in defence of the Wall.
His brother, Robb... now Lord Stark was chief amongst them.
The wildlings knew what awaited them soon enough, turning back to see hundreds of riders. The black brothers regained their courage as the wildlings trembled more than the earth did. They turned to flee from the approaching cavalry.
The northmen stormed Castle Black's every exit and surrounded the wildlings. Jon saw his brother cut down two of them in succession, while the men around him put down several more.
The Thenns were crumbling swifter than the moles had been only a short while ago.
Jon managed a smile, the first in a while.
Though, as the happiness of the coming victory faded, his mind thought of Ygritte. A strong fear had overcome him.
Jon put down his longbow and had his brothers help him down the tower. He held his crutch one hand and Longclaw in the other. Though, as mounted men stormed the grounds, he could not pass. Only pray that she had not been there, that she hid... that she lived.
His prayer was answered as he saw that same hair in the distance, running into the Lord Commander's keep. Jon followed as best as he could, falling to the ground once as he rushed too hard. He rose up and willed himself after her.
Though, he would not be first. Two black brothers had charged after her, far faster than he did. They had come for blood.
"Yield." Jon insisted, shouting with the loudest voice he could muster. "The battle is over. You don't have to fight anymore."
Ygritte had drawn an arrow and the two brothers hesitated.
"Yield!" Jon insisted once more, more desperate in his tone. "No harm will come to you, Ygritte, I swear it."
He could see them scowling at him. Defending her would not make him look any better than the turncloak they already believed him to be. Even so, in that moment, he cared little for it. He wanted to see her live.
She hesitated, stepping back to the wall.
"You know nothing, Jon Snow."
"I know... you won't fire on me."
Jon would continue forward with his crutch, dropping Longclaw to the ground. His wounded leg burned with pain as he forced himself forward... but he kept on. Closer and closer.
It looked as if she meant to fire another shaft upon him, but he showed no hesitation.
He had been right... she did let loose.
Before long he was within arm's reach and came even closer, falling into her. Her arrow fell to the ground, the bow coming not short after while he wrapped his arms around the woman he had come to live.
"No one will hurt you," Jon promised in a whisper. "Not unless they mean to kill me first."
It was the best he could manage as he was...
"I knew it... that bastard. He's with the wildling!"
They would come upon him, Jon knew.
Before he could explain, he turned and saw his brother alongside a dozen men fill the keep. Robb looked at him with a conflicted expression when he realised who he was. They shared stares, and Jon felt as if a hundred years had passed since they last met. So much had happened in so little time...
"Lower your spears; the battle is done," Robb spoke, and the voice of Lord Stark, one not unlike their father, came out. The black brothers obeyed. "Jon Snow, walk away from that wildling. She will be taken prisoner until further notice."
Jon would ease Ygritte into it, letting her go. She was carried away while Robb walked up to him. He had grown taller, more confident and stern. The wars down south had hardened him. The boy he once knew was dead, Jon realised.
Jon leaned against the wall, holding his crutch in preparation for his judgment.
Robb surprised him with a tight embrace.
"It has been some time, Snow."
Robb managed a smile as he withdrew.
"You have much to explain."
"Yes..." Jon felt the tension in his heart fade. He had misjudged Robb, if only slightly. His brother would not abandon him.
"That I do."