Jon

Jon flung open the flywire door and stormed across the porch. The wind howled, twisting his cloak behind him into a living, dancing shadow. Ghost stalked him through the doorway. The others were gathered in the gravel lot, watching the dust clouds. The billowing walls of brown dust followed the vehicles down the windy, gravel road. Someone was dead. Or bitten. Mayhaps more than one.

Hershel held Beth’s hand as he whispered with a taught, trembling smile. T-Dog and Dale sat side by side on the porch’s steps, chatting. Carol fidgeted with her bare ring finger. Andrea flipped a knife in her hand again and again. Sam leaned on his sledgehammer, arms crossed, scowling.

A voice whispered in the back of Jon’s head. Mayhaps, everything is fine.

The other Culvers whispered amongst each other behind Sam’s back; except Randall. He – when he wasn’t staring at his shoes – spared the dust clouds a glance. 

They got the medicine and are rushing to get it back as quickly as possible.

Lori held Carl so he stood in front of her, arms crossed over the lad’s chest. Carl craned his neck, trying to see past Andrea and Carol. 

Daryl is only rushing ahead for the sake of the girl. 

Shane lounged in one of the porch chairs, arms behind his head, feet up on a rickety table. Jenner wasn’t present, as he spent every waking hour with the girl. Bloodbeak flew circles high above everyone.

The voice Jon heard was the voice of a boy, of course, so he ignored it.

Rick ran up to Jon’s side at the top of the stairs. His footsteps echoed around the hollow interior of the porch like a drum, drawing every single pair of eyes in their direction.

Lori hurried to them, dragging Carl by the wrist. “What’s wrong?” she asked, barely above a whisper. “What’s going-”

“Everyone stand back!” Rick shouted. “Give them room! NOW! MOVE!”

“Move! Move! Move!” Bloodbeak screeched.

Those in the gravel lot gawked for a moment, then scrambled to obey.

Rick made to descend the stairs, but Lori snatched his arm. “You tell me what’s going on, right now.”

Rick gave her a pained look and glanced at Carl.

“Someone’s dead,” Jon said.

That drew every pair of eyes to him. Questions burned in them, bubbling just beneath the surface. Jon looked past them all, at the rows of tents, at her tent. 

His stomach dropped. With one ally dead, the vote would tie. Without the girl, the vote favoured Rick. Without the girl, they were doomed. 

Julie had been on death’s door for two days without medicine. Sophia had gotten medicine before one day. Everything depended on a miracle. Miracles don’t happen.

May was smirking at him. He could kill her, easy as that. Draw Needle. Aim. Pull the trigger. It’d take less than a second.

Less than a second and the alliance would be shattered. The Culvers – Sam included – would try to kill him. The others would defend him, they’d hate him, but they’d defend him. It’d vilify him forever. Seven hells, they might even exile him for it; a death sentence in all but name.

Could he pay that price again? Could he feel the cold embrace to ensure the lives of the others, to do his duty? But, it wouldn’t ensure their lives. Rick would still be in charge. They’d still be too weak to do what is needed later on.

Jon’s hand hovered over Needle. His fingers itched. May’s eyes went to them, and the arrogance bled from her face. They need me. Damn it all, they need me to survive.

Jon muttered a curse under his breath and moved his hand away. May spat. She looked like she'd conquered the world.

Daryl charged the gravel lot atop his motorcycle. Its engine roared with the fury of a hundred storms. A gust of dust and a hail of tiny rocks washed over Jon and the others as Daryl skidded to a halt. He leapt from the seat, swung a pack off his shoulder, and thrust it into Hershel’s arms. 

“It’s all there,” he barked. “Take it to her!” Daryl ripped off the bandanna around his mouth, tore off his goggles, and threw his helmet to the ground. He made to leave for his tent.

Hershel caught Daryl's arm with his good hand. Daryl looked like he might kill him, but Hershel held his ground. “What happened, son?” he asked, voice wavering.

That question opened the floodgates. A dozen different questions from a dozen different voices went to battle to be heard. The others crowded around Daryl, shouting over one another. Even Shane descended the stairs and pushed his way through the small crowd. The fury vanished from Daryl, suddenly perplexed.

“QUIET!” Rick shouted. His voice carried over all of them, shattering the racket. “Is someone dead, Daryl?”

Daryl scowled and dodged his eyes. “Not yet. Bowen – fat bastard – he got himself scratched.”

The tension of the crowd drained away. Hershel let go of Daryl.

Shane scoffed. “Good riddance.”

Daryl punched him hard between the eyes. Shane's head snapped back. He hit the gravel like a sack of flour. Everyone backed off. Most gawked at Daryl as he stormed away; May burst out laughing; Hershel knelt and put his ear to Shane’s mouth.

Rick sighed. “He breathin’?”

“He is.” Hershel tossed the backpack full of medicine to Beth. She caught it. “Take this to Doctor Jenner. Help him with whatever he needs.”

“M- Me?” Beth stammered. “What about you?”

“I’ve got other patients.” Hershel looked around at everyone. “Don’t everyone jump in and help at once now. He ain’t sleepin’, you know. A concussion, at best. He needs rest. In a bed. Not the gravel.”

Those surrounding Hershel glanced at one another, as if expecting someone else to respond for them. T-Dog stepped forward and knelt beside Shane, across from Hershel.

“Can you carry him inside?” Hershel asked.

“Sure.” T-Dog scooped Shane up like a baby.

“Take him to his tent,” Rick said.

“He needs a bed,” Hershel said.

T-Dog paused and looked between Rick and Hershel.

“A tent will do,” Rick said.

Hershel struggled to his feet, scowling. “I ain’t got time to argue with you, darnit. I need to prep the guest room for surgery. T-Dog, take him to my bed.” Hershel sounded like he’d come right off the battlefield.

That kind of voice had an effect on men. T-Dog hurried to obey, avoiding Rick’s eyes as he ducked past him, carrying Shane. Beth hurried off too, towards Jenner’s tent.

“The hell are you prepping the guest room for?” Andrea asked.

Hershel blinked. “Bowen.”

May doubled over, howling with laughter. Sam clouted the back of her head and she shut her mouth.

“You can’t be serious…” Andrea said. “Hershel, he’s dead.”

“Is he?” Hershel stood tall, even as a dozen disbelieving stares bore down on him.

“Of course he is! He’s scratched!”

“Dead! Dead! Dead!” Bloodbeak screeched.

“A scratch ain’t a bite. And who’s to say a bite always turns you? We don’t know anything about this disease. Only what we’ve pieced together from observation, and what little Jenner has told us. We ain’t scientists. And Jenner is only one. There’s no studies on this, no peer reviews, no papers, no teams of researchers, no experiments; nothing. Y’all assume this virus always kills, but you don’t know. You can’t know. And until I’m shown otherwise, I ain’t givin’ up on a man who could very well live.”

Bloodbeak landed on the handles of Daryl’s bike, muttering a chuckle deep in his throat. “Live… Live… Live…”

Jon opened and closed his sword hand as he watched the pickup truck and Range Rover race down the gravel road.

We know nothing, it’s true. The air stunk of rot. However, an absence of knowledge does not prove the existence of hope. The air tasted of it too. It would be nice if Hershel is right. The roar of the engines drew closer. Just as it would be nice if the world were right, if the dead didn’t walk, if I hadn’t died. Jon felt them in his bones. To prepare for what is nice, is a fool’s errand. The stairs creaked beneath his feet. Men of reason prepare for the white winds, for winter, and the long night. Jon left the fools to their hope and followed after Daryl, to prepare. We prepare for the worst.

Bowen

Bowen sat on a couch, waiting and listening.

He had given up on seeing; wiping the blood from his eyes was more trouble than it was worth. The blood also clogged his nose. Apparently, he had shattered it. The blood trickled down his throat. Everything tasted of steel: the air he struggled to breathe, the water he’d been made to drink, the food forced upon him. 

Bowen didn’t feel like eating or drinking. Bowen didn’t feel like waiting. Bowen hardly felt like breathing. But, the surgeon and the doctor insisted he did, so he did.

“Do you understand?” The man they called Jenner asked. It wasn’t his real name, just his surname. Although, as far as Bowen could tell the man wasn’t highborn. Is Jenner a bastard’s name? A life of medicine would be suitable for a bastard after all; that, or a second or third son. “Bowen, do you understand?"

“What point is there explaining it to me? I don’t understand the words, let alone the concept.”

Jenner’s talk of mother agents, father agents, and biochemical bonds made about as much sense as the harsh tongue of the giants. At least the giants spoke foreign words. The words Jenner spoke were Westerosi – they shared a shape and texture – which made it all the more frustrating that they meant nothing.

Jenner sighed. “Your blood is different. You get that?”

“Aye.”

“And the virus travels through the blood.”

“That’s obvious. Even peasants and whores know of the effects of bad blood.”

“Well, we never figured out how much of the virus is required to make the blood… bad. It could be a few micrograms, or nanograms even. Or it could be more, it could be-”

“As I said, don’t bother explaining it, Maester.”

“Doctor.”

“Doctor…”

“Just… just please tell me you understand this. That, Hershel isn’t wrong to believe he can save you. For all we know, you could be completely immune, let alone have a resistance.”

“Or, it could be worse for me. Kill me quicker.” If The Stranger be willing.

“Yes. That too.” Jenner shuffled in his seat – Bowen could tell by the way the action shifted the cushions. “But, Bowen, where there’s life there’s hope.”

“Aye, but that has naught to do with me.”

“It has everything to do with you.”

“The slim chance that I may live brings me no solace, Doctor. If life were all I had, I would live a life of grief. Perhaps I should; it’s less than I deserve. But I shan’t, for I have Julie. That I may give that girl life – that sweet innocent girl – that is where I find solace. Whether the gods see fit to take my life again or not, I find peace in knowing that she shall live whatever life remains to her in this dying world.”

“If you live, you can protect her. Isn’t that worth hoping for?”

“Blind, and fat besides? I don’t think I’ll be protecting anyone ever again, even if the gods see fit to spare me. No, she has her father, and Chris, and the rest of you. She’ll be fine without me. I only hope that she awakens before I pass… so that I might…”

Jenner shuffled again. “Should I bring him in?”

“Please.”

The cushions shifted and Bowen sank a little deeper. Jenner’s footsteps crossed in front of him, and abandoned him. Voices murmured somewhere in the all-encompassing darkness. They sounded like they came from all directions at once, but Bowen knew they couldn’t. It wasn’t possible. It was a trick of the dark, that’s all – a trick of the dark.

Footsteps approached rapidly. The cushions heaved.

“It’s okay, lad,” Bowen said. He got no response. “You are Chris, aye?”

“Yeah… it’s me…” Chris sounded thin and raspy. He’d been crying.

“Jenner tells me Julie is going to make it,” Bowen said.

“Apparently.”

“Be there when she wakes. She’ll want to see you.”

“I…” Chris’s voice wavered. “I will.”

“Good lad.”

Chris began to sob. Bowen had heard such sobs before. They were sobs made from a strained throat and clenched jaw. He’d made them before. After he’d killed Jon. When his black brothers had come for revenge. The night before they hung him. As they hung him. The scar around Bowen’s neck itched, but he could not bring himself to scratch it.

He cried during his first night at Castle Black; his first night away from home. They were the sobs of a boy getting quite angry at himself for sobbing. Which, of course, only made him cry all the more.

Bowen reached for Chris’s shoulder, but found the side of his face. Chris guided his hand to his shoulder.

“There there, lad. There’s no need for that. It’ll all be okay.”

“N- No it won’t.”

“They say I might live.”

“I know. It’s what everyone keeps telling me, but they’re wrong. They’re lying to us because they think it’ll make us feel better. People… People don’t live through this kind of thing, Bowen. If they did, the world wouldn’t have fallen apart.”

“Aye… Mayhaps.”

“Not maybe. It’s the truth. Whether we like it or not, no one survives this. No one. Not… Oh God, Bowen. Why did it have to be you? Why does everyone around me keep dying?”

“I wish I could tell you, lad. But, this death isn’t so bad. I’ll die so Julie can live. You won’t be alone.”

“But I won’t have you.” Chris’s voice gained a bitter edge. “You should have waited on the roof. You should have listened to me.”

“Mayhaps…”

“Not maybe!” As Chris stood, Bowen sank into the cushions. “You should have never gone down there! It was stupid and selfish and… and… fuck you for throwing your life away! I don’t care what you did in your past life! It doesn’t matter, and this doesn’t make up for it! You’re not going to die for Julie, because you didn’t do anything! Maggie got the medicine. Glenn led us out. Tyreese and Daryl fought back the dead! All we did was slow them down, and all you did was die for no fucking reason!”

“Son, let’s get you some fresh air,” Rick said. His voice made Bowen start. When did he get here?

Chris didn’t give him a response. Two sets of footsteps crossed the room and abandoned him. A door closed. Muffled sobs came from all directions, as if the walls were full of hundreds of sobbing Chrises. The weight of them pushed Bowen further into the cushions. He tried to wipe his eyes, to free himself of the darkness if even for a moment, but found that the blood had turned to a crusty paste. It’d glued his eyes shut. No matter how hard he scrubbed, the darkness would not retreat.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Tyreese said. “It’ll make it worse, probably.”

Bowen let his hands fall into his lap. “I don’t think it can get much worse.”

“It can always get worse.”

A silence lingered, and Tyreese didn’t sit. Bowen couldn’t tell if he was in front of him, beside him, or on the other side of the room. A part of him wasn’t even sure if he was there at all.

“You’re not going to die,” Tyreese said. He spoke in that voice again. A voice of absolutism, of unwavering conviction that spoke as if it commanded the will of gods. “Whatever brought you here didn’t do so, so you could save my daughter one time. There’s something greater in store for you. There has to be.”

“Didn’t you hear him? I didn’t save Julie. You did.”

“You tried. You were there. That’s more than most would have done.”

“Chris was there. Do you suddenly love him now? Will you stop trying to keep him and Julie apart?” Bowen made fists, taking handfuls of his trousers. The rage returned, the rage that saved him. It allowed him to, finally, speak his mind around the foolish man. It wasn't nearly as sweet.

“Chris saved her life,” Tyreese conceded. “We all did. And she’ll want to thank us; all of us.”

“He’s a good lad. Aye, he’s prone to weeping, and aye, he’s no warrior. But he’s got a good heart, and by the gods she loves him, you fool. It’s no passing fancy neither. It’s a true love, stronger than you, too strong to be denied. The more you try, the stronger it gets and… when I’m gone he’ll only have her and you. And you don’t have to love the boy, but please, Tyreese, don’t condemn him to be alone in this world. He needs a father, he needs… he needs something, someone. He-”

Tyreese’s huge hands grasped Bowen’s shoulders. “I won’t let him die. After everything, it’s the least I owe you.”

The rage drained out of Bowen, and he felt like a little boy all over again, cowering beneath the quilt of many colours as a storm rolled over the marshes. “Y- You? Owe me?”

“We would have never made it this far without you.”

“Don’t lie for my sake.”

“I’m not. She’d have gone crazy if she were stuck with only me out there. She… She could barely stand a weekend with me, let alone all those months.”

“Chris-”

“Is a teenage boy. They’re all idiots. I should know, I was one. He’s a distraction for her. You, she could talk to you in a way she can’t with me… won’t with me.”

“Talk? All I did was listen to her. It was all I could do. She hardly left room for anything else.”

“She gets that from her mother. I… I couldn’t hear Dana either. That’s why you won’t die. God, your gods – whatever – they put you here for her as penance. You’re her guardian angel, Bowen. You are.”

“I’m no angel. I’m a man, and a piss poor one at that.”

Tyreese spoke slowly. “You are here for a reason.” His hands left Bowen’s shoulders. His footsteps crossed the room, and abandoned Bowen to the dark again.

Door hinges creaked. Two sets of footsteps approached from the opposite direction. A small hand touched his shoulder, light as a feather. “We’re ready for you,” Maggie said, her voice all twanged and clipped by her strange accent.

“Is there a chance? Do not lie to me. I’ll have the truth from you, no… no matter how hard it is.”

“There’s always a chance,” Hershel said. “So long as we draw breath, we are graced by the love of The Lord.”

“And when we die?”

“We’ll spend eternity by his side. We’ll reunite with all that is good and righteous, with loved ones, and with ancestors.”

“And yet, here I am. Will I go to eternity? Or will I awaken again in some other forsaken world, doomed to die again and again?”

Hershel and Maggie had no words for him after that. They led him through the darkness in silence.

Jon

“Let me talk to him first,” Carol said. She walked by Jon’s side, following him to Daryl’s tent on the outskirts of the farm.

Ghost padded between them as if he were walking on clouds rather than baked dirt and dried grass.

“Am I to take this means you’re onboard?” Jon asked.

Carol regarded Jon with her damnable, unreadable face. “Take it to mean that I’m not going to tell Rick.”

“Then you’ll wait outside while I talk to him.”

“And you think that’ll work?”

“He’ll hardly need convincing. I doubt the thought hasn’t crossed his mind.”

“You think he won’t need to be convinced to kill children?”

“Not these children.”

Carol scoffed. “Then you don’t know him at all.”

Jon stopped walking and Carol sauntered out in front of him, placing herself between him and Daryl’s tent. She smiled. An unreadable smile. It made Jon’s sword hand itch. “He hates them,” Jon said, sounding more confident than he felt.

“Yes. Do you know why?”

Jon set his jaw. “Will you tell me?”

“No.”

Jon stared long and hard into Carol’s eyes. They were eyes that spoke of bold stallions and immortal mountains. Whether that was the truth of them or simply what Carol wanted him to see, he hadn’t a clue. He opened and closed his sword hand, scratching the itch against the inside of his glove. “You’ll talk to him.”

“I’ll talk to him.” Carol's smile turned unmistakably false. She patted his arm. “I’ll butter him up for you.” With that, she headed off across the field and left Jon alone with Ghost.

Lord Snow, Commander of the Night’s Watch, wouldn’t have let some widow walk all over him and outmanoeuvre him like that. That man was dead, however. He needed to reforge himself, not into Lord Snow, but something new. Something better. For the good of everyone else. Even if it means dooming myself.

Jon found a not-too-uncomfortable boulder, sat on it, and pondered Daryl’s hate.

It was too strong. Yes, everyone hated the Culvers – it seemed that their way of thinking wasn’t a popular one in this land – but Daryl loathed them intimately. He recognised their tattoos, possessed a rich understanding of their beliefs, and saw them as the threats they were immediately. That sort of knowledge and confidence can only come from an intimate understanding. Daryl was no scholar so… he used to be them. Or still was. No, his hate is bitter; they remind him of what he used to be. Or of…

Merle. 

Merle must have been one. The revelation was obvious in hindsight. Jon cursed himself a fool for not making the connection sooner. And then once again – as he realized he was no closer to an answer – he cursed himself again. If he hates them so much, why would Carol believe he’d hesitate to kill them?

Jon tried several tactics to get his brain working. He watched the patterns the wind made in the grass – he’d often watched the patterns the wind made in the snow back home. Grass should be a workable substitute. It wasn’t.

The obvious answer was that Carol was wrong, but that answer felt… too easy.

He tried running his fingers through Ghost’s fur, first with his glove on, then off. When that didn’t work, he unsheathed Longclaw and practised his forms. All that accomplished was to leave him drenched in sweat. Breathless, he sat back down on his boulder.

The boulder gave him a view of the house. And of Andrea as she approached him. Behind her, three conversations were happening on the porch.

Lori and Carl talked on the bottom step. Lori had her arm around the lad. An uneasy smile tensed the corners of her mouth. Carl stared off into space, chin resting on his hands, nodding along to whatever it was she was saying.

Rick and Shane talked with set jaws on the right-hand side of the porch. They stood at a significant distance apart. Rick had his arms crossed, a scowl on his face. A bruise covered the left side of Shane’s face, obscuring his expressions. Shane’s hands moved as he talked, sharp and choked movements, as if he were struggling to keep them under control. For once, the men weren’t speaking to each other by shouting, so Jon couldn’t hear what they were saying. Whatever the conversation was about, it ended with Shane throwing his hands up in the air and storming off. He stopped, spun around, and said something while pointing at the house. Rick’s scowl festered as he retreated inside.

On the porch's bench, Dale and Sam sat either side of Glenn, taking turns speaking. Glenn held his head in his hands. Occasionally, his shoulders shook and Dale rubbed his back. Sam avoided looking at him when that happened.

Andrea blocked his view of the house. She loomed over him, arms crossed, eyebrow arched. “Shouldn’t you be down there?”

“Why is Glenn crying?”

Andrea looked at him as if he were stupid. “Because someone he was in charge of just died.”

“Marsh died? Already?”

“May as well be dead. He’s scratched. You should head down there. Say goodbye before Hershel puts him under. Can’t imagine he’s gonna wake up.”

“What does he plan to do? Cut the scratch out of him?”

“Pretty much. He’s gonna strip away the rotten skin, or something. I don’t know. Didn’t stick around to hear the rest of it.”

Jon tightened his grip on Longclaw. “And Rick is all for it, I assume?”

“Won’t hear anything to the contrary. I tried to tell him, but…” Andrea clicked her tongue. “He doesn’t want to hear the truth, just what’s easy. He won’t even let anybody start digging a grave or anything. Chris blew up at him over it.”

“Chris? The boy yelled at him?”

“Yelled? The kid probably would have taken a swing at him if Tyreese hadn’t dragged him off to another room.”

“We can use that.”

“Yeah… We’re pretty screwed aren’t we?”

“Only if Julie dies.”

“You’re calling her by her name now?”

“May as well.”

Andrea began to say something, but the distinct slam of the fly-wire door interrupted her.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Andrea spun around, giving Jon a view of the house again. Every set of eyes on the porch followed Chris as he stormed down the stairs, scrubbing his eyes and blinking furiously. His glasses were gone. How far can see without them?

Rick watched Chris from the doorway, arm crossed, shoulders slumped. All the eyes that had followed Chris turned to Rick. They sought answers, an assurance that all was okay. Rick showed them his back, retreated inside again, and closed the door. Carl made to follow him, but Lori stopped him, said something with a tight smile, and led him away to the tents.

“There is something you must learn if you’re going to lead them,” Jon said.

Andrea raised an eyebrow.

“Let go of your humanity.”

“Right…”

“To be in a position to rule, you must let go of the child within you. You've done that. But it isn’t enough. To rule is to pass judgment on the lives you lead. You will be forced to weigh them against one another as if they are wares at a market.” Jon turned Longclaw against the sunlight so it caught the ripples in the valyrian steel. “It is soulless work – soulless and thankless – but important.”

Andrea sat. “I’m strong enough. You don’t have to worry.”

“It’s not a matter of strength. The lowliest of cowards can shed themselves of their humanity. No, it’s a matter of will. The will to not lose yourself to it. Be aware of the danger, of how close we skirt the line between duty and cruelty. Resist their calls, and become a master of both.”

Andrea made fists in her lap. “What the hell happened to you, Jon?”

“I died.”

Suddenly, Andrea stood. Jon looked over his shoulder. Carol approached from the direction of Daryl’s tent, trailed by the man himself. Jon didn’t stand. He allowed them to round the boulder to face him, and to loom over him.

Carol seemed pleased with herself.

Daryl crouched before him. Squinted eyes flanked by bunny lines and crow's feet. They bore into Jon. “You so much as spoken a word to that boy?”

Jon met his eyes. “I have.”

“And?”

“He’s a product of his sister’s foolishness. Without her, he’d be no different than Chris.”

“He deserve to die for that?”

“He’ll die with or without her, no matter what we do.”

“Why?”

“Because he’ll try to kill me. And I won’t let him.”

Daryl sighed and hung his head. He sat, lowering his eyes below Jon’s.

“Will you do what must be done?” Jon asked.

“Yeah.”

“He won’t be yours to kill. She will take on that burden.” Jon nodded at Andrea.

Daryl perked up and whipped around to face Andrea. “You will? Why?”

“Because…” Andrea glanced at Jon. “Because I can.”

“Let’s decide who kills who after we have the numbers we need,” Carol said.

“Aye.” Jon stood and sheathed Longclaw. “But not today. There’s no need to rush. We have until the end of the week before the horde arrives. Go about your regular duties. Tomorrow, we meet here and discuss our next step.”

“Which is?” Daryl asked.

“Convince Maggie to convince Glenn.”

Bowen

Sunlight filtered through The Skinny Window, tearing Bowen from his dreams.

He’d dreamt odd dreams last night, of being a man grown, of walking corpses, strange magic, and strange people. 

Groaning, he rolled over, pulled The Quilt of Many Colours up to his chin, and closed his eyes. No good. He saw the sunlight through his eyelids, burnt orange and rose red. You couldn’t sleep before something so beautiful.

Bowen sat up in bed, and The Quilt of Many Colours pooled in his lap. Its many mismatched patches competed for dominance, vying for his attention. 

The Reds and The Blues – ancient enemies – waged war. The Oranges and The Yellows allied themselves with The Reds, for they hated The Purples and their many cousins: The Violets, The Mauves, and The Pinks. Long ago, The Pinks betrayed The Reds for The Blues, and the betrayal had never been forgiven. One colour stood alone, family to all, loved by none. Greens danced along the battle lines, weaving between the fury. They pleaded for peace and were met with deaf ears.

Why do they fight? Silly colours. Don’t they know I love them all equally? If one were to win, his quilt of many colours would be a quilt of only a few colours, and then it wouldn’t be his quilt any longer.

The Quilt of Many Colours was the only thing he owned that had not once belonged to Alden. Mother had sewn it for him when he was in the womb, Father always told him. Father once said, “We are not some high house, Bowen, who can afford to waste on extravagance. You will love your quilt, for it is a luxury your mother gifted you from the goodness of her heart.” And so he did, because Father knows best.

After all, extravagance didn’t belong in The Marshes. It–

No.

That wasn’t right.

He shouldn’t know what the word extravagance meant. It was a word Father used, adults used. Bowen was but a boy, almost eight name days old – which was almost a man, mind you – but a boy nonetheless. The word was just a word. It didn’t mean a lack of restraint in the spending of money or resources. The word was just a word that meant something important.

Something was wrong. Father; yes, Father would know what to do.

Bowen reached to pull The Quilt of Many Colours from his legs. He froze. His hands had wrinkles, and hair, calluses, scars, moles, and even a liver spot on the webbing between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. He had a man’s belly in place of a boy’s flat stomach. His hair grew past his shoulders, stiff like wire and tangled. Bowen felt his face. He had eyes… but of course he did, he could see. He could see.

This is a dream, isn’t it? No one answered his question, but he knew the answer regardless. This is a fever dream, the kind that sets men to raving nonsense and thrashing about like mad men.

As a young man, he’d assisted Maester Aemon in tying men to their beds. It was to stop them from hurting themselves, Aemon had told him, but Bowen knew there was another reason. They tied the men so they could die with a shred of dignity. 

Had they tied him down too, or were they content to let him thrash? They don’t love him. Most like, they’d let him die shamefully. It’s less than I deserve.

Bowen took in the sight of his childhood room with an uneasy nostalgia. None of it was real, but by the gods, it was perfect. The Mossy Walls were clogged with moss, green paths that ran between the grey slabs like the streets of a city. Lichen huddled in the corners of The Too-Low Ceiling, disrupting the uniform grey with muted, pale patterns. The Skinny Window – an arrow slit – provided only a sliver of dull light. The Square Rug was matted and mouldy. The Too-Small Door had rusted hinges and was ever so slightly too small for the frame.

Yes, it looked the same, if slightly smaller than he remembered. Bowen took a whiff of the air and smelled nothing. Tasted nothing. No must. No sulphur. No dust. The air didn’t cling to his skin or turn his hair to ropes. The Quilt of Many Colours didn’t scratch his fingertips. No smells, no tastes, no sensations. Only sound. Only sight.

The Too-Small Door flew open, hinges screeching. Alden ran into the room. He wore a nightgown of muted cloth that came down to his ankles.

“Little Bow! Father says- What are you doing still in bed? Don’t you know, sleep too long, and you will get sick in the head?”

Alden looked just as Bowen remembered him, slim as a twig, with a face like a heart, eyes like the sky, and hair like the sun that tumbled past his ears in ringlets and tangles. Only… he was shorter than Bowen instead of taller. Because he is a boy and I am a man.

“You’re not real,” Bowen whispered.

“Of course not.”

“You- You can hear me?”

“I won’t take you that far again. Mother would have our hides.”

My hide. “You can’t hear me… you’re hearing what I said.”

“Yes yes, Father said we can. That’s what I came to tell you.”

“It’s that day, isn’t it?”

“Who cares what Mother says? We’ve already got a yes from Father. Never try for two yeses, Little Bow. Know when to give up while you’re ahead. That’s my first lesson of the day. The second will be teaching you how to smile.” Alden hooked his fingers into his mouth and pulled the corners into a smile.

Bowen got out of bed, and Alden’s eyes followed him. They shouldn’t. On that day, Alden had to drag him out of bed.

Alden unhooked his mouth and rolled his eyes. “I know.”

The top of Alden’s head came up to the bottom of Bowen’s chest. Bowen loomed over his older brother, the boy who had been larger than life.

“Yes, I know. Father says it’s fine so long as we’re back before it comes.”

Bowen went to one knee and, for the first time, looked into Alden’s eyes without having to look up. He touched his shoulder. Nothing. It was like touching solid air; it resisted, but it felt like nothing.

“Of course, I’ll know when it’s coming.”

“Don’t go. Stay inside where it’s warm and safe,” Bowen whispered.

“The clouds, Little Bow. They tend to be dark when a storm comes. Didn’t you know?” Alden grinned. “What? What rhyme? I didn’t hear a rhyme. That’s what happens when you sleep too long, you start hearing things.”

Alden laughed. “Come on! Bah! We’re dressed enough to visit the garden, Little Bow. Besides, I’ve already spent all morning waiting for your sleepy head. I won’t wait a moment more!”

Bowen grasped Alden's arm. “Please. Please just stay inside, please.”

“No, the morning ends when the sun stops being orange or red. Everyone knows that … Yes they do … Nope, it’s true … Why do I know why the rain falls, Little Bow? It just does.” Alden ran out of the room. It felt surreal to watch him do so from the side. In his memories, Bowen always saw his back as he ran off.

Alden stuck his head back in.

No, that wasn’t right. Unless… had the memory warped with time?

Alden looked right at him. “Don’t just stand there. Come on!”

“No. You’ll… You’ll…”

“Don’t just stand there. Come on!” Alden stressed the exact same syllables as before, and stared at Bowen with a frozen grin.

“Gods… why? Is this my penance?”

“Don’t just stand there. Come on!”

“I know I’m a coward. I know I’m a traitor. Please, don’t make me do this again.”

“Don’t just stand there. Come on!”

“Please… Please…” Tears fuzzed Bowen’s vision, but he could not feel them on his cheeks.

“Don’t just stand there. Come on!”

Bowen bowed his head and trudged after the memory of his only true friend.

The Windy Stairs were just as he remembered them as well. They were the artery of the Craggy Tower, connecting to every room as they wound their way to the battlements. Like everything else, they were grey and worn. Cracks splintered off, away from the sagging middle of each step. Moss filled the cracks, green on grey; the only colours afforded to them in the tower, apart from The Quilt of Many Colours. And their standard – ten frogs, 4-3-2-1, green on yellow – of course. Father didn’t believe in art. Colour was an extravagance for high houses, not House Marsh.

Like everything in The Marshes, the stairs were slick from humidity. Alden ran down them two at a time. Despite all of it being a dream, Bowen took the stairs as cautiously as he had as a boy. He would have called to Alden to tell him to do the same, but it hadn’t worked when his brother could hear him. What point was there when he couldn’t?

“Now, what do you think you’re doing?” A woman’s voice said from down the stairs. Her voice. It bounced off the walls, attacking from all directions.

Bowen’s legs stiffened. His palms clammed. His stomach hurt. The pain made him start, as it was the first sensation he’d felt since waking.

On stiff legs, Bowen rounded the corner. Mother stood over a sheepish Alden, a foreign smile on her face. She mussed his golden locks with her slender hand and shook her head, causing her golden hair to shift about her shoulders. Her eyes happened upon Bowen. It appeared; the scowl. It pinched her mouth and set her jaw.

Bowen averted his eyes. No, damn you, you’re a man grown. He met her eyes, slate grey, the same as his. Now that he was a man, she didn’t seem so large. She was a head shorter than him, with slim shoulders and spindly arms. She couldn’t hurt him.

“Run along, Alden dear.”

Bowen averted his eyes. The voice cut right through him. It wasn’t even directed at him, and it cut his courage to ribbons.

Alden glanced at Bowen. “But, Mother we-”

“Yes yes, you’ll still be able to play. Your brother and I need to have a word is all.”

“Oh, okay.” Alden smiled and ran off, two steps at a time.

“Don’t run, Alden! How many times must I remind you?”

Her shout made Bowen cringe. He tried to fight it, to feel large. That only made him feel smaller.

Mother sighed. “Come here, boy.”

Bowen made his way down the stairs.

“Quickly!” Mother hissed.

When Bowen arrived on the same step as her, she snatched his arm. Nails dug into numb flesh. “You will watch over your brother at all times. If anything happens to him, anything, you’ll be in big trouble. Do you understand?”

Staring at his feet, Bowen didn’t fight her grip. “Yes, Mother.”

“Oh for goodness sake, stand up straight boy! And you will look into a person’s eyes when they speak to you. What if Lord Tully came to visit? Don’t you ever think?”

Mother always spoke about visits from Lord Tully as if they were a regular occurrence. He never visited, and never would, but Bowen didn’t dare tell her that. He looked down into her eyes. “Sorry, Mother.”

“Hurry up, Bowen!” Alden’s voice echoed off the walls.

“And don’t think I don’t know that this was your idea. Don’t deny it. Running about right before a storm is exactly the kind of horrible thing you’d like, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mother. Sorry.”

Mother huffed and let go, seeming satisfied. She left, but Bowen remained where he was. Only when he couldn’t hear her footsteps any longer, did he continue down The Windy Stairs.

Jon

Jon didn’t partake in Dale and Carl’s idle talk. It was a distraction. He didn’t focus too hard on his work either, on cleaning the stable’s hay, scrubbing the walls, shovelling the manure, changing the feedbags, brushing the coats of the horses: the weathered workhorse, the stocky mule, the sleek mare, and Nelly so proud and fearsome. They were distractions too.

He needed to think. Over the past few days, it had been decided that three of them would approach Maggie. Carol would play the part of the soft-hearted widow, forcing herself to do what was needed. Jon would mirror her, resolved where she was reluctant, detached where she was involved. Jon would lead. Carol would cushion the impact of the cruel truth. Andrea would watch and say as little as possible.

Carol had wanted it to just be the two of them, so as to not crowd Maggie. A fair argument. They didn’t want to make her feel as if she were being intimidated into a decision, but Jon had insisted on a third anyway. 

To appear strong and united, he had argued. In truth, Andrea needed experience, and to be seen. If Jon did all the work, they’d want him to lead. He couldn’t. Lord Snow died, stabbed and betrayed. Let him rest. Build someone new.

Jon scrubbed the walls of Nessy’s stable with a wire brush, both hands, an up and down motion. Suds and grime streaked down the wood. Brown foam pooled where wall met floor. They ran down his arms.

Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. A simple, repetitive motion that carried him off into a private world. There, the prattle of his wandering mind focused into cool, calm logic. It was a place of truth where the haze of emotion cleared to reveal the facts as they were, no matter how unpleasant. Problems died there.

The cleaner Jon made the wall, the closer he got to an answer.

How to approach Maggie? She would not be as simple as Carol and Daryl, who had been all too eager to participate, no matter how much they tried to hide it. Maggie possessed a certain strength of mind. When they’d voted on Randall’s life, she’d been among the few willing to execute him. She’d accepted the extermination of the barn walkers quickly, and held no grudge. After a lifetime of enduring her father’s influence, she’d retained a clear mind. That alone spoke of strength.

The premise of what they asked – killing dangerous fools for the good of others – wouldn’t be the problem. No, it would be the betrayal of her father. Yes, she’d defied him before, but to resist his influence for years was a passive defiance. Speaking against him in a vote was an indirect defiance. To kill the Culvers was an active and direct defiance. It would be a spit in the face. A declaration that she opposed the very core of his beliefs. An end to their relationship. How do you convince someone that the love of their father is worth less than the lives of strangers?

The question was a wall in Jon’s mind with no way over, under, or around. He scrubbed the wall harder and began a siege. New questions assembled, and formed an orderly rank and file in opposition to the wall.

What else does she hold dear? The wire brush ate through a greasy film of grime. Where does her desire to do what is right start and where does her love for her father end? Wire against wood scratched a steady marching beat. What does she consider to be right and wrong? The beat ran up Jon’s arms and thumped his chest. How much does she love her father? The thumping of a heart at war. How much does she love Glenn? Remorseless and seemingly without end.

Jon scrubbed harder. Suds and grime stuck to his sleeves, to his skin, pooling around his elbows. The rhythm of wire against wood grew louder, quicker, more insistent.

Glenn. Maggie spent every waking hour she could with Glenn, and some of the resting hours too. On the other hand, she only spent time with her father when at meals, during work or meetings. Even then, they spoke little more than a handful of words to each other. It could be that the relationship is already dead, pursued by one part party only, and that Maggie wouldn’t need as big of a push as it seemed. Unlikely. A strained relationship isn’t necessarily a dead one. But in any case, her relationship with Glenn was definitely a happier one.

Mayhaps I could frame the decision as the choice between preserving a happy relationship and letting go of a dying one? I could convince her that she stands no chance at repairing her relationship with Hershel, that it is dead already.

Jon stopped scrubbing.

A lie then. A ghastly lie. Is that what is needed, more lies? Secret meetings? Coups? Daggers in the night? Can a cause be just if it must pave its path with deceit and treachery?

Jon’s forces lay waste to the wall in his mind. Battlements fell. Brick and mortar shattered. Foundations crumbled. The truth – their prize – revealed itself as hard, ugly, and bitter.

The how of it doesn’t matter. The outcome is all that matters.

Jon shook the suds off his hands, rolled up his sodden sleeves, and fell back into his rhythm. It was a distraction. A distraction from another question, not a wall, but an enemy force that sought to shatter his lines and send his forces into disarray. It advanced at a crawl, slowly but surely; inevitable.

What would father think if he could see you now?

“Father is dead,” Jon whispered. But, that did nothing to stop the advance.

Just as he settled back into the rhythm, the flutter of feathered wings approached rapidly from behind. Bloodbeak landed on his shoulder. Gods, the bird was heavy, like a small boulder perched on his shoulder.

“What?” Jon asked.

“What? What? What?” Bloodbeak muttered, deep in his throat.

“Bah, I don’t have time for you. Go bother someone else.”

Bloodbeak did not go bother someone else. He remained perched, but silent. A silent boulder is better than a noisy one, I suppose. Jon weathered the nuisance until the sun began to set. When he set off to meet with Carol and Andrea, Bloodbeak came with him, perched and silent.

***

“So, we lie then,” Andrea said.

She sat beside Jon with her back up against the boulder, the place where Daryl agreed to join their cause, the meeting spot for their group over the past several days. They watched the comings and goings of the farm, speaking without looking at each other. Bloodbeak hopped about their feet, pecking at the sunbaked dirt, like a child who was pretending to play rather than eavesdrop.

“We’re about to do a whole lot worse than lie,” Andrea continued. “Whatever it takes, Jon, to see those fuckers dead. For our future.”

“Aye, for our future.”

She was right, of course. And in being right, she proved him right too. She was strong enough to lead, to make the necessary choices, to let go of her humanity. She could do it with graceful ease.

“And I do mean the future. We’re not fighting to return to the past,” Andrea said. “The world we… I come from is gone. Forever. We’re fighting for something worse, Jon. It’ll be shitty, but it’ll be a future. What we’re about to do will be good for the others. It’s about time they woke up.”

“They won’t be as quick to wake as you hope. For most, this won’t be enough.”

“It’ll have to be.”

“Do you intend to force them?”

“Yes.”

“You say that as if it is simple and straightforward.”

“It is. They can either live in the real world or leave.”

“And if they all leave?”

“They won’t.”

“Aye. They’re smart enough to know that means death, even if they are fools elsewise.”

“No, they’ll stay because they’re afraid.”

Jon’s hand searched Ghost’s head; he couldn’t think with idle hands. Of course, his hand found nothing. Ghost had taken to following Julie about as of late. He’d come to Jon at night and sleep by his side, but the day was for Julie.

There was always Bloodbeak… A rather poor substitute. And where would scratching the bird get him? Convince the creature that it was welcome, most like. Jon fidgeted instead, but that did no good.

Currently, Ghost lay beside Julie on the porch, on the side of her bandaged stump. His blood-red eyes followed anyone who walked by or approached. Except Chris. He never spared the boy so much as a second glance.

Chris and Julie spoke excitedly about something. Well, Julie spoke and Chris listened. She waved her hand and stump about, eyes alight, a smile pinching her dark brown cheeks. Chris said a single word – Jon could not hear it due to the distance – and spurred Julie on even more.

“–KNOW RIGHT! I–” As Julie’s shout faded, Chris laughed. An odd sound. Out of place. It drew eyes from all across the farm.

“You’d never know that a man is dying in there,” Andrea said.

Jon scanned the tents. Still, nothing. “They should have been here by now,” Jon said.

“You should see him, Jon. Even if it’s so you can remind what a piece of shit he is. It won’t feel right to say it to a corpse. The dead aren’t meant to be spoken to.”

“I have nothing to say to him.”

Blissfully, Carol emerged from Maggie’s tent, putting an end to the conversation. Maggie emerged after her. They exchanged a few words before heading towards the meeting place. Carol wore a false smile as she led a conversation with Maggie. A one-sided conversation. Maggie appraised Jon and Andrea as she crossed the farm, jaw set, eyes firm.

“That’s not the look we wanted,” Andrea muttered, getting to her feet.

“Sit down. Let her loom, it’ll make her feel like she’s in control.”

Andrea sat. “I still don’t like doing this out here. I get it makes it feel less shadowy or whatever, but Rick’s not a total idiot. He’s going to notice that we keep meeting like this.”

“He’ll notice what considerate young people we are, using our time after work to entertain a lonely widow.”

“I guess…”

“Let Carol and I take the lead.”

“What? Aren’t I meant to be appearing proactive?”

“You’re here to be present, to be involved, but this is delicate work and you’re too direct.”

“Direct. Nice way to say scary.”

“More like a nice way to say inexperienced. Watch. Learn.”

“Okay…” Andrea settled back against the rock, arms crossed.

They’d have to work on her posture. Intimidation wouldn’t help persuade someone stubborn like Maggie. But they were out of time.

Maggie opted to sit opposite Andrea. Carol, as planned, sat beside Maggie, which placed her opposite Jon. They didn’t crowd her, or sit as one unified front. It shouldn’t feel like a confrontation. Maggie was like an ungelded stallion off its rope. Box her in and she’d kick. She needed to be coaxed with calm words and a lure.

Maggie sat with the sole of her right boot flat against the ground, her left leg tucked under the arch, and crossed arms rested on her knee. She said nothing and raised an eyebrow at Jon. “You wanted to talk about Glenn?”

“We noticed the Culvers were hanging around him this morning. Were they giving him trouble?” Jon asked.

“Yeah, they were giving him shit for crying last night. I don’t even know how they heard him all the way over their way.”

In the dead of night, sound carries over the fields. The whole farm had heard him.

“That’s awful,” Carol said.

“They’re sick bastards, that bitch and her trio of idiots. They smell weakness and pounce.”

Carol lay a hand on Maggie’s arm. “I hope Glenn was okay.”

“He was. Glenn’s strong. Stronger than most men. It takes guts to cry.”

Good. Maggie was practically leading the charge herself.

“Where was Sam?” Jon asked, keeping his voice level. “He’s meant to keep them under control.”

“I wouldn’t trust Sam to keep toddlers under control. The man thinks the solution to every problem is hitting it, and when that doesn’t work, he hits it harder. Always been that way. Y’all wouldn’t know, but he’s a renowned wife-beater. Nobody ever caught him, so of course the cops didn’t do shit. But the screamin’ and shoutin’ that came from his trailer at night, the amount of times his wife ‘took a fall’, the way she’d slink about like a kicked dog, well… it speaks for itself.”

Carol wiped her eyes. By the gods, she’d actually made herself cry. Feigning embarrassment, she turned from the group.

Maggie’s face dropped. “Carol? I’m sorry, what did I-”

“Her husband was a lot like Sam,” Andrea said. She got up, knelt beside Carol, and rubbed her back.

“Oh god. I’m sorry, Carol. I didn’t mean… shit, I’m sorry.”

Carol spared a weak smile. “N- No, dear. It’s okay.” She took a long, shaky breath. “That was another life.”

Maggie shuffled into a cross-legged posture, and stared at her lap, fidgeting with a ring on her pinkie.

“He’s no different than the rest of them, is he?” Jon asked.

“No,” Maggie said. “He’s just better at hidin’ it. Fuckin’ bastard.”

Carol touched Maggie’s arm again. “Maggie… we believe – us and Daryl too – that Rick’s decision to let the Culvers stay here was a mistake.”

Maggie looked between Jon and Andrea.

“Aye, a mistake.”

“A big fucking mistake,” Andrea said. A touch too sinister.

“And y’all are only realising this now?” Maggie asked. “We should have left them at the school. Trade with them, or somethin’. I don’t know. Anything but let them live here.”

“Would that have been any better, sharing the town with them?” Jon asked.

Maggie shrugged. “Wouldn’t have to see ‘em.”

“Until we do. Eventually, we’d expand back into the town, and end up here again, sharing with monsters.”

“God… why did them, of all people, gotta be the ones to survive this shit? So many good people lived in this town. Honest, hardworking, kind people. And they're the ones who died! While the real monsters get to live! It’s such bullshit.”

Mayhaps this won’t be as hard as I thought. Still, best to ease into it. “Simply being nuisances won’t satiate them for long.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Maggie said. “That bastard James picked on me from elementary school to high school. For a while, I kidded myself. ‘He’ll grow up,’ I told myself. ‘Next year for sure.’ And every year, he got meaner and meaner.”

“You kick his ass?” Andrea asked.

Maggie smirked. “Gave him a black eye in the eighth grade.” She made a fist. “I’ll never forget how good that felt, even if it didn’t really work.”

“Huh… worked for me. Broke this girl Jessica Strongsen’s – a big mean bitch – I broke her nose. After that, she didn’t so much as look at me.”

“Don’t get me wrong, he stopped pulling my hair and knocking the books out of my hands and shit, but he never let up with the names. No, he turned the worst of it onto other kids who wouldn’t fight back.”

“Like T-Dog,” Jon said.

“T-Dog? He wasn’t- oh. Oh…”

“Bullying won’t satiate them either. One day, they will try and kill him. Him, or Tyreese or Julie. Or Glenn.”

Maggie stared into her lap again, hunkered down, as if weathering a storm. Thoughts danced on her face: darting eyes, a creased brow, a chewed lip. Jon waited on her, and Carol had the sense to do the same – thankfully, Andrea was able to read the room, and kept her mouth shut as well. Maggie heard the implication. No need to press it.

“Have…” Maggie glanced at Carol. “Have you brought this to Rick?”

“No,” Carol said.

Maggie nodded. “Okay… Okay, well we should.”

“No, dear. We shouldn’t,” Carol said.

“What? Why?”

“Would you bring it to your father?” Jon asked.

“Hell no. He’d never listen, but Rick-”

“Is hardly any better.”

“But if he knew people were going to die, surely he’d do somethin’! He’s sensible. When Shane brought this up he didn't… I mean, y’all saw the way Rick handled the war we almost had. Sure, lettin’ the Culvers live here was a mistake, but everything else he did better than any of us could. Better than I could, for sure. I could’ve never stood to be in a room with that wife-beatin’ bastard more than a couple minutes. And Rick managed to talk him down."

Carol shuffled closer to Maggie so that their legs touched. “You don’t know him like we do, dear. Rick’s more sensible than most, yes – he kept us alive out there for weeks after all – but, he’s got shortcomings like anybody else. At his core, he’s a father, and bless him for it, but it stops him from doing what needs to be done sometimes.”

“And he can be as stubborn as a mule when he thinks he’s right,” Jon said.

Maggie slumped. “Dad’s the same… damn it if he isn’t. I should have seen it.”

“Rick likes easy solutions,” Jon continued. “There isn’t one this time. We can’t kick the Culvers out after promising them a place here, and we can’t simply give them another farm either. All roads lead back to this. To having to share a space with them.”

“Except one,” Carol said. She pursed her lips and cast her eyes down. “It isn’t one we should have to even consider, but we don’t have much of a choice.”

“Kill them?” Maggie whispered.

Carol nodded, wiping her eyes.

Maggie held her head in her hands. “What y’all are talkin’ about. This… this is more than just killin’, ain’t it?”

“They’ll hate us,” Jon said.

“They won’t understand,” Carol said.

Andrea knelt before Maggie. “But it doesn’t matter, because there are more of us than them.”

“Dad will never understand. Never. He’ll… he’ll never forgive this.”

Jon drew a deep, steadying breath. “Times such as these demand sacrifices, Maggie. You must ask yourself: will you let the man you love be murdered so that you can cling to a dying relationship with a father who barely knows you?”

Tears streamed down Maggie’s cheeks. Jon let Carol take it from there. She guided Maggie with kind, comforting nudges in the right direction. They told her of the vote and the numbers they needed. She agreed. They told her of the plan to kill the Culvers at night, all at once. She agreed. They told her that she stood the best chance of convincing Glenn. She agreed.

She told them that she should do it alone. They agreed.

After all was said and done, they were one step closer. Only a few days remained. At the week’s end, the horde would arrive, and once the horde was gone the Culvers must die. A few days, more than enough time to convince Tyreese. Now to see if he’s quite as amiable.

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Next chapter, Jon struggles to recruit Julie, Bowen dances with death, and the horde arrives.