Chapter Text
And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?
His arrival at the wall comes without fanfare, without proclamation. But then that's rather fitting, for the disgraced son of a Lannister, thrown out on cruel words. Or rather, sent to the wall on a doomed mission, a lion with his claws clipped, punished for daring to suggest anything but his father's way.
"You think you know best?" his father had asked, "You think you can rule the realm better than I?"
And Enjolras had looked at the medallion pinned to his chest, the hand that symbolised so much, and thought about a bastard king on the throne who had no right to be there, but who was backed by the greatest family in the realm, and so who could complain?
"I think the people are smarter than you give them credit for," he had replied, stubbornness making him bold, "And I don't think they will settle for this much longer. The Starks— "
"The Starks have been removed." Valjean beheaded, Enjolras's father taking his place, the Stark ward betrothed to the king. "Justice, loyalty, honour, it all disappears in the face of good coin."
"But there are still some who follow," Enjolras argued. In his mind's eye he stands strong against his father's disapproval, unmoving, in reality he wonders if he did not just look like a petulant child. "Some who would seek to be the next King in the North. The Brotherhood without Banners still evades you.The Tyrells can't be trusted—"
"And you think we should make peace with them? These families who failed to do to us what we have done to them?" his father asked, the proud line of his back belying his contempt.
"Whose fault is that?" Enjolras demanded, "We're busy fighting all of these stupid wars, stabbing each other in the back whilst the realm suffers. Word came from Castle Black again, the wildlings—"
"I do not care about the wildlings!"
"But you should!" Enjolras had yelled back, slamming his hands down on the desk, "If they cross the Wall who knows what will come with them? There are reports of other things — you think the dead care who sits on a throne made of melted swords?"
"I think you overstep yourself," his father had replied, curt. Something had shifted in his gaze, a gulf between them he was unwilling to cross/ "I have had enough of this nonsense, Enjolras. You will do as I say or you will see yourself disowned. Take up the black yourself, if you think they are so important to our survival."
"Maybe I will," Enjolras had snarled, "And when the realm comes crashing down around your ears, remember that I warned you of this."
It was the one time he had ever seen his father caught out, genuine shock in his eyes. It had gone in an instant, that flash of vulnerability, replaced by the cold disdain he was known for, but Enjolras had seen it.
He hadn't stopped Enjolras when he had stormed out.
Enjolras's outburst hadn't had the far-ranging and disastrous consequences he had expected. He hadn't woken to a knife pressed to his throat or a sudden marriage proposal to tie him to the capital. Instead, his father had gone suddenly, intensely silent on the matter, had taken great pains to never be in the same room with him, gave Enjolras no chance to reconcile. Then, one evening, whilst the rest of King's Landing slept, a meeting of the small council revealed he was sending his firstborn son to the Wall, still under Lannister colours, still with his name, but without any of the kingdom's support.
It was a banishment, Enjolras knew, a reprimand. His father was punishing him under the guise of giving him exactly what he wanted. Because he wasn't being sent to the Wall as an equal, a brother, someone who could genuinely help the men of Night's Watch, who they might actually listen to. He was being sent as a Lannister, a legacy that stretched back all the way to Castamere, and he knew very well what the Northerners thought of his name, what ideas they would already have of him, when he turned up with an order from the King to say he was to be the new Lord Commander.
Enjolras remembers the suddenness of his departure from King's Landing under cover of darkness, no time to say goodbye, no time to plan, as he sits astride his horse at the entrance to Castle Black. The grounds are deserted, no one awaits his arrival.
Snow falls from all directions, caught and blown across the yard by the wind. The Wall towers above him, impossible, daunting, seen only once before when he was a boy, on a trip with his mother to see the far reaches of the land. It would be easy to see the place as soft around the edges, blanketed as it is in a white layer of snow, but Enjolras knows better: he sees the crumbling foundations, the black mould, the rotting wood. Sharp edges and shadows.
He takes a breath and guides his horse further into the yard, dismounts when he reaches the stables. In the cold Northern air her breath clouds, she stamps her hooves and makes a displeased noise.
"I know," he murmurs, running a hand down her flank, "It's cold."
It's an understatement, but then, Patria had been brought up in the warmth of the South, learned to run across the expansive grounds at Casterly Rock. Ordinarily she would be seen to by the best groomsmen of the country, kept warm in the best stables, though Enjolras had always snuck in when he could, spent time learning how to take care of her. If the common folk could do it then so could he. It was a way to get to know them, to understand how they thought. But still it rankles, that no one is here to greet him, not even a page.
He grits his teeth against the insult and finds an empty stall for her. He spends some time settling her down, away from the cold. The other horses are rangy, hair lank and bones showing. Enjolras makes a mental note to find out who the stablemaster is. He will need to have words with them, a man's worth can be seen by how he treats those under him, even more so the animals. (He does not yet know what he is walking into.)
When he emerges from the stall there's a boy stood in the entrance to the stables watching him, dressed all in black with a dagger clasped tight in his hand. Enjolras pauses for a moment - he's so young - then strides forwards, extending a hand. "Greetings, I am—"
"I know who you are," the kid says. He looks down at Enjolras's hand and then back up, not relinquishing the dagger. "You're that Lannister guy. Been sent to collect you by the Lord Commander."
Enjolras opens his mouth, immediately ready to contest the idea that someone else is Lord Commander, then presses his lips together, firm. They do not yet know, they haven't had time to read the royal appointment he has in his pocket.
So he nods once, and follows the impossible boy back through the courtyard, keeping one eye on the dagger as he twirls it around, throw and catch, the metal glinting in the moonlight.
Enjolras expects to be taken to the shieldhall, a place he has read about in the tomes kept in the great library, but is lead instead to the common hall, where the smallfolk dine. A test, no doubt, one he is going to call the boy on, until he pushes open the door and warmth seeps through his skin.
The common hall is full, both with the men of the Night's Watch and their staff, everyone eating together as if class and rank don't matter. Enjolras halts on the threshold, unprepared for such a blatant disregard for the proper order. It is as he had always wanted in the South, but actually seeing it in practice stuns him, sets him back a step.
The boy disappears inside, slipping between tables like a shadow until he reaches a man sat with all the others, indistinguishable amongst the rows of black, though his grizzled beard puts him years above most. The boy leans down to speak to him, murmuring something close to his ear, and then the man nods, looks up and across at where Enjolras still stands.
Their eyes meet and the man downs what is left in his tankard, drainimg the dregs before setting it on the table again. He still does not rise to greet him, just jerks his head to the side. Enjolras gets the message: come here. A muscle twitches in Enjolras's jaw, unused to anyone but his father making demands.
As he walks through the hall between the tables, he feels men stop and turn to look at him: at the bright shine to his armour, newly bought from the armoury before coming here; at the longsword with the red hilt and a lion's head crest; at the way he has let his hair grow long, like a woman's, tied it back with a simple band.
The grizzled man doesn't stand up when Enjolras reaches him. The impossible boy has disappeared. The man's armour is old, the sheen has faded. His black cloak is worn thin with age. He does not look like a Lord Commander. Enjolras has time to think, Things are worse than I thought — and then their eyes meet. The Lord Commander has the look of Enjolras's father, that ability to see straight through him, to assess him and find him wanting.
Enjolras's hackles rise, the proud stubbornness he has always been known for. These men should be showing him respect as their new Lord Commander. He will teach them proper courtesy if he is to help prepare them for what is to come, if he is to protect the realm from what lies beyond.
"I am Ser Enjolras Lannister," he introduces himself, "I come at the behest of the king. I am—"
"Aye," says another man at the table, "We know who you are."
Enjolras falters, and then frowns. "And is this how you usually greet your Lord Commander?"
The man at the table snorts. "There's only one Lord Commander I voted for, and you ain't him."
Enjolras rankles, and the grizzled man says, "Peace, Bahorel. Ser Enjolras is new to the Night's Watch. He is not aware of our customs."
"So send him back," says the man sat next to Bahorel, "Before he gets frostbite and freezes his dainty little digits off."
"Enough." The grizzled man's voice carries, subdues the muted buzz of conversation that had started with Enjolras's words. As one everyone in the hall turns silent, respecting him instantly. It's the same reaction Enjolras has seen his father get, many a time, but this man wears no sigil, no house colours to proclaim his source of power.
"I am Lamarque, the current Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," he introduces himself, finally rising to his feet. He is taller than Enjolras thought, there is a gravitas and blunt brutality to how he holds himself. A wry smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, "Until my men see fit for it to be otherwise."
Enjolras feels like an idiot, like he's made some huge misstep without realising. He's heard of Lamarque before, of course, who hasn't? Anyone who picks up a copy of the most recent history of the Night's Watch sees his name there.
But he had also heard that the Lord Commander was old, that he was aging. That his control of the Night's Watch wasn't as good as it had been, that he had let everything fall recently into rack and ruin. That the Wall is a place filled with men who have no loyalty, liars and thieves and rapists. Whilst it's true Castle Black is not what it once was, that there are cracks in the foundations which wind whistles through, Enjolras can see that it doesn't matter. That this man holds the loyalty of his men, and knows that in this world, that means far more than any stone walls.
This whole place, the Night's Watch, it is nothing like the things he has read. The men are not the degenerates he was told about, in stories whispered by maids and ladies alike. There is not chaos and a total lack of order. Things are different to how they would be at King's Landing but — not wrong.
He starts to wonder if there are other things he does not know, other things he has studied and been lied to about. He wants to help the realm, has always wanted what is best for the people, but standing here in the middle of the Night's Watch, he is starting to wonder if the people want him.
Lamarque is watching him. Enjolras draws himself up to his full height, back straight. Whilst he is known for being proud - what Lannister isn't? - Enjolras also knows when to step back, when he has made a mistake.
"My apologies, Lord Commander," he says, extending a hand. "My mistake. I had heard rumours - unfounded, it turns out. I am here to offer my services, however you see fit."
Lamarque glances down at his hand, then back up to his eyes. Enjolras has the curious sensation he's being measured. Against what standards, he doesn't know. He has always failed his father's high ones, has never quite fit into the great families' views of what he should be. He does not know what Lamarque looks for, here in the far reaches of the North, where they are isolated from all others, relying only on a man's worth to survive.
He thinks about what will happen if he is denied, if Lamarque sends him back South, and realises that his is what his father wants, for him to return from the Wall with his tail between his legs. For the proud son to be cowed.
But Lamarque is not his father.
He takes his hand, grips it tight and says, "Welcome to the Night's Watch, Ser Enjolras."