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Chapter Text

JON

Winterfell,291 AL

A winter rose sat perched in a small crack on a wall of ice, snow flakes flurrying around it. The petals were covered with spiky white frost as sharp as the thorns on its stem. The darkling sky was full off ravens, and dead men stirred in the trees below. Jon could only stare at it, his heart full of fear.The dead was clawing to get inside and he was the only one guarding the wall from them. Although it was snowing, he felt neither the cold nor the biting winds which howled around him. He watched still as the petals go crimson red, staining the wall with blood. It was driving the dead things under the wall mad, they were frantically trying to get inside now, to get to him. While red stains kept growing until it covered the snow in the ground completely. The blood started to pool on his feet. The last thing he heard before the blood drowned him was a woman’s face , filled with panic and desperation.

The maid was one of the most beautiful woman he ever saw in his life. Her face lookrd vaguely familiar, resembling his baby sister, Arya. There was a winter rose on her hair, just like the one perched on the ice wall and her eyes were full of tears,though not of fear nor sadness. But like a plea for someone to come and save her.

Jon woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in his bed, skin drenched in a sheen of cold sweat. His heart hammered away in his chest, just as it had in his dream. Like thunderdrum. There was pain in his chest. Like someone tried to drive daggers into them. It took quite a while for him to think straight, with his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled for breath.

Ever Since Jon became Nine he was being plagued by dreams of walls and dead man. They weren’t always the same ones, but they had some similarities. But never before he saw a bleeding rose before, nor a maid like that.

Realization caught Jon's heart like a mouse caught in a trap. He knew that woman. That’s why she looked so familiar to him.

It was his mother. And she was dead.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

NED

Eddark Stark,Lord Of winterfell and Warden of The North, was sitting in his solar writing out orders for the men finishing the work on the new Keep he gave order to built. The main builder had written to him and told him that they would probably be finished by the next two years, so he was writing out the paperwork for the withdrawal of coin from the vault needed to pay the workers. However, the numbers and coins was giving him a constant headache. As work as the Lord of Winterfell grew in number in the last couple of years. Ever since he tried to continue some of his father's old works.

His father, Rickard Stark had started to rebuild other holds through the North before he had died. When Ned had taken up the Lordship he had halted the construction on the majority of them in order to focus on expanding Winterfell and it surrounding, redirecting the funds used for the other holds straight into Winterfell's coffers.

However, after the Grejoys rebelled against the crown he started to work to build a keep and a port at Sea Dragon Point. The Greyjoy rebellion was clear proof how much of a threat the Krakens posed. They raided the entire west part of Westeros at that time, from Arbor to Bear Island. Without a fleet The North was completely vulnerable from the sea. Sea Dragon Point was in the west coast of North, a natural harbor, perfect for building a port. This new port would contain warships to keep the North safe as well as increasing trade. The location chosen for the keep was perfect already, mainly because of its position, semi fertile lands and the fact that it was where ancient stronghold of Warg King once stood.

Fortunately the Keep wasn't extremely large. Builders were ordered to use the foundation of the old keep to lay the new one and use stones from Stony Shore for the walls. The harbor was to be made of granite while wooden palisade would protect the keep. Strong oak and pine trees would make the other buildings. Wolfswood would provide all the timbers that needed to build the ships.

There were plenty of wildlife too. Otters in the lakes, salmon in the river and colonies of seals along the shore. Ambers and furs were available for trading. The locals reported the land contained nearly a hundred coves, perfect for shipbuilding’s and ambushing emery fleet. A natural stronghold of the first men if maintained properly. His plan was to give the keep to one of his sons when they came of age. The lord of the keep would hold lordship over the villages in the Peninsula and fishing villages of Stony Shore. Where the port would in direct control of Winterfell increasing its authority and coffer through ships and trade. House Cerwyn,Tallharts and Glovers all would profit to have a port nearby.He also planned to use the local population to create a town near the port.

Finally after finishing letters and giving it to Maester Luwin, Ned left his solar and walked amongst the castle of Winterfell. Catelyn, the Lady of Winterfell was currently watching over his two little girls and their lessons. Whilst Sir Roderick was training the boys in the yard. He walked across the walkway near the yard giving him a good sight of the sparring and practice.

"Lord Stark!" bellowed Sir Roderick finally seeing him in plain sight. "Do you wish to see their progress?" he shouted making his voice carry across the yard as loud as a war cry.
Ned smiled a bit seeing the looks of pride from his boys. They each have been working incredibly hard with melee and archery. Jon more so than anyone.
"If it pleases I wouldn't mind seeing how far they've come along Sir!" he called out.

Hearing the Lord of Winterfell interest in their skills seemed to bring the boys more energy as they immediately grabbed their blunted blades and waited on their drills to be given. Theon, his ward whom he brought back home after the Greyjoy rebellion and Robb, his son and heir was ready go at it. But not Jon, his bastard Son. Ned noticed with a frown in his eyes. He was sulking at a corner with a bored expression.

Ned wasn't sure what was the issue with Jon. Ever since he became nine, his brooding and sulking increased more than ever. He developed a habit of spending much of his time in the goodswood alone. Even as baby he was a quiet one. While baby Robb would cry loudly at a slight cause, baby Jon would merely open his big grey eyes and searched for the noise. He grew bigger than Robb in the last two year. The baby fat was almost gone from his face. Jon looked more like a ten and five rather than ten and one. Ned knew the servants talked about this too. How bastards grew faster than trueborn sons. But none had courage enough to say something like that to his face. His lady wife, was annoyed at the this and was more harsh to the boy as usual, much to Ned's dismay.

He was about to call out to Jon to give attention properly when Ser Rodrick paired him with Theon to spar. Still absent minded, Jon stood his ground. Though after parrying a few swings ,Theon managed to knock Jon right off his feet on the dirt.

"The Bastard has his head in the clouds today" sneered Theon mockingly.

Rodrick giving Theon a hard look proceeded to give Jon a hand to pull him up to his feet. But surprising Ned Jon got up by himself with a cold look at his face,the faraway look gone.

He calmly walked over to the weapon table and picked up a light axe. Turning to Theon, he ringed his sword and axe together, saying "Again" with determined voice.
Both Rodrick and Ned was surprised at this new stance. He knew Rodrick was yet to teach them how to handle two weapons at once but his Master at Arms, gave them the nod anyway.

Jon seeing the approve immediately started circling Theon ,searching for a opening .As soon as Theon tried to attack, Jon caught the sword with the axe and pummeled him in the face with the sword guard and slipped behind him to hit him with the axe at his back. Theon kneeled at the ground in pain with blood filling up his nose."Yield" Jon commanded coldly. Theon was barely able to speak in pain as he slipped the sword out of his finger. Ned winced at the sight. The face of his ward was a bloody mess.

Seeing Theon needs to go to the maester,Rodrick told the boys the practice is over and to put their equipments in place. He hurriedly led the boy to in the keep.

As his sons were collecting their armor paddings Ned felt a slight of pain at how much resemblance Jon had with his uncles and grandfather. He had Rickard Stark's solemn nature, Brandon’s wild energy and his own quiet, watchful eyes. The wolf-blood was growing strong in the child most said, and Ned, as much as he would like, could not disagree with them. While he was trying to give Jon the same education as his natural son Robb, what with letting him sit in on Robb's lessons on numbers, letters and the like, Jon seemed to only be at home on the back of a horse or with a sword. Unless Jon was out riding (with or without permission) he would most often be found in the practice yard, and it showed in his skills.

At least Robb and Jon liked one another, treating each other as brothers as much as they could. Robb never lorded his trueborn status with Jon and Jon was constant in supporting whatever mischief Robb could dug out to, silently watching over the process.

Lost at his thoughts, He was surprised when he saw Jon was making his way to him.

"You left the dining hall rather abruptly in the morning, son.” Ned commented lightly. “Is something the matter?”

Genuinely surprised at the statement and happy at the attention given to him the boy let out a smile.
“You noticed?”
“Of course I did, Jon. You are my son.”

Ned could not help but be surprised the flash of bitterness that swept across Jon's face. He put a hand on his son’s shoulder, asking "What's the matter?"

"I saw my mother last night" Jon said bluntly.
Hearing the words Ned felt shocked."There is no way he knows the secret he tried to bury all this years. He has no way to know".

"In a dream" Jon added."She was lying in a bed of blue rose with blood pooling at the ground. She's dead. Isn't she"?
"Yes" Ned somehow managed to let out the word, still not recovering from the shock. That was exactly how he found his sister in that accursed tower in Dorne. Lying in a pool of blood. And blue rose was a favorite to her. Their mother often compared her to it.
"Who was she"? Jon asked with grief filling his voice. His fist was clenched at the thought. Many times he asked his father about his mother, but never got a clear answer. Now he was hearing she's dead.

" Come tonight at my solar, son". That was all Ned managed to say."We will talk about your mother then".

XxxxxxxxxxxxX

JON

At night, Jon followed his father from dinner into his solar for the explanation he'd been promised. Taking a seat in front of his father's desk he waited for his father to start his explanation while he was pacing around the room

Wiping his eyes Jon was surprised to discover that tears filled them. To tell the truth, ever since understanding Lady Stark wasn't his mother, he had always held out hope that perhaps someplace out there his own mother was alive, and mayhap even waiting for him to show up at her door someday, but at the same time he had always known that it was probably just a hollow dream: a fervent hope from a young boy who wanted a mother due to his own father's wife spurning him at every turn. Well, only dreams he had now were full of snow, death and bloody roses now.

Looking at his father, Jon noted Lord Eddard Stark seemed conflicted .He took his time to formulate his words."Tell me more of your dreams, Son" he said with pain in his voice.

With his father sat in front of him, and Jon took a deep breath to calm himself before starting, "At first it was just snippets. Images of seemingly random things. But then they started getting specific. Sometimes they were about me hunting in the woods like animals, like tasting blood in my mouth. I dreamt I was standing in front of an icy wall, with a winter rose perched in a crack. There was faces like the Old gods in the godswood. Dead man were trying to get inside the wall. And suddenly it started to bleed. The wall and the roses both. They have been going on for months."

Jon was kept quiet for a while before starting again."Then last night,I saw the roses again. With a maid covered in blood. I didn't see her ever before but she looked so familiar. She was trying to stay alive for someone but it felt like she knew she was dying”. There were tears in his eyes now."Is the dreams true? Was it really my mother?".

His father was quiet for a long time before answering."Yes. That was your mother. She died giving birth to you"

The words nearly shrank Jon into his chair. He felt like he was five again, crying for his father in a thunderstorm. Seeing Jon about to break down his father held up a hand to forestall him. "Your mother loved you from the day she felt you quickening in her womb. Even as your birth doomed her she loved you till her last breath, never think otherwise."

"I just want to know who she was," Jon said with a hollow voice.

"I will tell you all about her someday, Son". Father promised." But not now, hearing about your mother’s family will only give you more pain".

They both sat quietly in the solar for a while. Lost in their thoughts. Ned heard about these types of dreams before. From old nan and his loyal friend,Howland Reed. "Greenseeing and Warging", they called it. He always waved them off as superstitions. He wasn't so sure anymore. And dreams about the walls and dead men weren't comforting either.

"I have decided something. These dreams aren't normal, Son. We need to consult with someone who knows about them more than me" His father said suddenly.
"I'm not going mad father" Jon said worriedly. "I can assure you."

"I don't think so either" his father said tiredly."I'm going to send you to the Neck, to my friend, Howland Reed. The Reeds are the only one in the North from whom I’ve heard such tales of dreams before. He will understand what these actually means"

"And how much time I'll be spending there?" asked Jon. "That's not mine to tell" came the reply.

"Father" said Jon with a angered voice. Are you telling me you're going to send me to waste my life in the bogs and swamps of the Neck? Just because of my dreams? What I'm supposed to do in the future. Hunting frogs and rolling in mud?"

Surprised at the sudden outburst, Ned said "Well what do you want to do then?"

"You always talked about raising new lords and settling them in the abandoned holdfasts in the New Gift and I believed that, had winter come and gone more quickly, I might have been chosen to hold one of the settlements your name." Jon said."Robb will be Lord of Winterfell one day and baby Bran his bannerman.I can do the same father. I promise!"

Watching his son quietly for a time the Lord of Winterfell rised from his chair. "Very well" he said in his commanding voice. "You will hold a keep. But not in the Gift. I need a new Lord in Moat Cailin. The fortress is a ruin but it is very important for North. You will go to the moat and take up the Lordship there.The people there needs a lord as well. You will continue your lessons under the Howland Reed and restore the Castle as your best. If you prove worthy I'll ask the king to legitimize you so you can start you own house".

Jon's mouth opened and closed on its own account, no words coming forth. Jon was quick to recover and kneeled quickly. "Thank you father, you have no idea how much this means to me" he said hurriedly.
"It depends how you will prove yourself,Son. A lordship isn't besting people in practice fights" his father said.
Before Jon was leaving, his father called to him."Don't mention any of your dreams to anyone else here, Jon. They won't understand it. And promise me you will keep this a secret.”

Nodding in agreement, Jon left his father's solar to wait in the balcony of the hall for a while, thinking about what just happened. The sky was looking grey with clouds. And the winds was howling loudly around the walls. "There's a storm coming" he thought to himself."And my life is about to change."

Chapter Text

Map of The North.Territory  under Winrerfell in grey, Territory under the new port town in green and the Territory given to Jon marked in blue.

Jon

The horses were on a cliff. Overlooking the shadow The Moat, an ancient stronghold of the first men. One of the most important in the north, though most of it now remained in ruins. Only three of the original twenty towers remained standing, commanding the narrow causeway, only safe path to travel through the swamps of the Neck. Jon knew all about those towers now. For near four months he dreamed about the place, walking among the ruins of once mighty castle in his sleep, which now belonged to him. He felt a sense of pride looking at the sight. The ruin bore a mark of millennia, of Old kings Of Winter. They were cold and hard man, and styled themselves as kings in the North, swearing allegiance to no man.

Jory pulled up beside him. Early in his thirties he was already a veteran of two wars. Strong and loyal, he was one of the most trusted men of the Starks. Father named him his master at Arms here at the Moat. Jon was grateful for it. Out of all the men of his father, it was Jory he and his siblings liked the most. He was like an uncle to them.

“The castle is nearly three miles from here" he said, pointing at north. "If we ride hard, we’ll reach there before dark"

Jon thought about it for a moment. The warmth of a Castle would be a pleasure for their Party. But there was little of it left in the Moat. It would also take a long time to prepare the beds and lights in a unknown place. They needed to eat as well. Better wait for the morning. "Nah" he reasoned."It will be hard to do anything in the night. Let’s stop at the nearby village. We'll visit the Castle tomorrow. We've been riding hard for too long.The men will like the extra rest". Truth to be told, from what he have seen from his visions, spending time around the Castle in dark didn't seem thrilling to him. No matter how impressive it looked Moat was a dark and foreboding place.

Nodding, Jory left to give the order. No doubt pleased at the order of early halt.

Jon looked at their party. They had been riding together for two months now. Lord Stark gave him fifty men to serve as his guard at the moat. Though, only twenty of them were castle guards. Rests were peasant levies, little trained and sent to work in the fields. Some of them had their wives and children with them. With the wagons filled with tools and grains from home, their Party wasn't a small one.

 "These men look up to Jory”. Jon thought darkly. They were respectful enough, but it wouldn't take a clever man to understand what the small-folks were thinking. With him being only ten and one, they were seeing him as only a lordling, too young to travel by himself. Let alone lead."Well. I just have to change their mind" thinking to himself, Jon urged his horse forward. Ghost, his wolf pup followed closely, trying to keep up.

He found the albino pup near Cerwyn lands, on the riverbank north of the road. It was nearly run over by a wagon when Jon noticed it. He immediately got off from his horse, bringing the party to an abrupt halt.

"Look, Jorry. Someone left a puppy at the road!” He said excitedly. The pup was beautiful, covered in white fur, with red eyes. It nuzzled against him, searching for food, making a tired whimpery sound.

 By then Jory also dismounted. He took up the pup by the neck, looking at it closely. "It's not a puppy Jon" he informed. "It's a wolf pup. Although a weird looking one" he added while eyeing the large head and long frontal legs. "Runt of the litter by the looks of it. Probably was driven away by the older siblings."

Jon felt a bit of sympathy for the pup. At least no one tried drove him away from his home. Except Catelyn Tully maybe. He took the pup from Jory and placed in the wagon with one of the families. "We won't have a kennel or hounds in the new place. Better we start with a wolf" he said with a smile.

"A wolf isn't a dog Jon. It won't slight away from a kick or beg for a treat when it grows up" Jory frowned. "It will kill prey for food. And it might not even survive"

"Guess we have to take our chances then"

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

The party stopped the small village near the kings road. Jon was disappointed by the look of it. He was expecting a village like those he saw in his father's land. Poor no doubt, but had no shortage in space or hay to make beds. This one only had poorly built house, likely to fall down at slight wind and Muddy Street. His village now, he reminded himself.

"Don't expect much here Jon" Jorry told him kindly, seeing his disappointment. "Most of these man lives from hand to mouth. They hunt and gather in the nearby marshes and forests. It's surprising that they have built villages here. They weren't here when we went to fight in the rebellion."

Jon's master at arms forced him to spend the night in a better house in the village. Rather than kicking out the poor farmer out his house Jon went to the barn, gathered some hay and prepared bed for himself. Ghost also liked these arrangements. There was enough mice for him to chase around.

 Lying in his bedroll, He thinks how hard it was for him to leave Winterfell.  Standing on the battlements of the Castle it felt like sun would never set on the horizon. Now the sun has set already and his nights won't give him any rest.

Lady Stark was the only person who seemed genuinely happy at the fact that Jon was leaving Winterfell. Her previous attempts at sending him away to foster failed badly. "Stupid Hag" Jon thought bitterly. There was a time when he was afraid of his father’s wife; Once he wanted her to be his mother. Now he simply detested the woman.

Robb was happy for him, also sad to see his brother go. He embraced him tightly, telling next time they would see each other Jon would be a proper lord.

Sansa, the little perfect lady in the making was excited at the news that Jon was going south. She demanded tales and letters from him, of Knights and maidens. It felt bitter when Lady Stark tried to keep her precious daughter away from her bastard brother. Though she didn't have enough success in it. True that Sansa followed her mother in every way possible, but Jon was the brother who let slip all his lemoncakes to her, who was never mean to her as Theon was and always let her join in his and Robb's games when she was little. He thanked all the gods that Sansa didn't understand what being a bastard actually meant yet.

Bran the baby, was only four years old. He didn't understand what was happening, but demanded sweets from Jon when he came back all the same.

But it was hardest to leave Arya. His only sibling that looked like him. She was crying her eyes out when Jon was leaving through the gate. He was always more close to her than rest of his siblings. Making her braid and playing with her dolls. He had to promise her swords and bows before leaving. It was a comfort that Robb promised to look after her the way he did.

Tearing his thoughts from home. ,Jon turned at his side. The scents and noises around him were changing with time. He could see in dim light,Ghost running around in the barn without effort and smell the slaughtered cattle, which was probably from months earlier. His senses were getting sharper. A sign that the gods were calling to him to join in their halls. Surrounded by the untamed lands of the Neck, the gods were much stronger here than they had been at home. And way more demanding.

"It's time to fly again" he thought to himself. “Just need to be careful not to travel to far away to come back in time" and closed his eyes.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Jory

Careful on the stairs, Captain" Orys ,one of the guards said. "They don't feel very stable"

Jory couldn't help but agree with him. The age old wooden stairs were doing a poor job to replace the stone.

They have been staying at Moat for two days now. Their Party, counting eighty and two found residence in the remaining towers. The women and children were at the Drunkards tower, the men at the Children's tower. The gatehouse tower, only one in good condition were chosen as the Lord's chambers. The large and tall building was squat and wide. Only one which still stands straight, even retaining some of the walls around it.

 The towers look definitely better than the last time he saw them. No doubt curtseys of the work lord Rickard Started. Terrace of the Children's tower was partly fixed, preventing air and rain to get inside them. Previously it looked like someone slashed the top with a sword. Even The lean drunkard tower had stone columns around it, an attempt to fix the structure.

Currently he was going at the gatehouse tower. The tower had it walls and rooms fixed. The holes on the walls were fixed with mortared stones. "Only thing that had some resemblance with lordship" Jory thought. Jon Snow, The new lord of the castle had called a meeting inside the keep. His two sergeants, Haldur and Rogvild joined him.

As he reached the stairs, he found the wolf creeping from nearby bushes, its muzzle red with the blood of a kill. There was something unusual about the pup. Like those red eyes understood too much. Jon named it, Ghost. As it never made a sound. Suitable name for a predator. There was something unusual going with Jon as well. His new Lord was a good lad, he brooded always but a good boy nonetheless. "He got bigger in size in the last two years. His habits and nature changed as well. He is different now." Jory noticed. "His eyes were always restless, always noticing every details." like the wolf he chose as his pet. They only had been in the Moat for two days. And Jon was so fluid and confident in his walks and decisions like he has been here a thousand times before.

He found Jon in a great open room with a great stone table in the middle. Arney, the current steward was in the room with a old man in poorly arranged clothes. Jon invited the elder of the village in the meeting. Though, the poor man looked unsure about his place in there.

Jon was wearing his riding tunic and breeches. And had a sword strapped to his thigh along with a knife. "Friends" he started. "We have reached our destination. My Lord father gave me an order to rebuild the place as best of my capabilities. That means we all have our orders .Now it’s time to settle our duties."

Turning to his captain, Jon asked "Has all the men settled in?” "Yes" Jory replied. As best it was possible in this damned place. They lacked proper food in here, not even good drinking water was available.

"Good" said Jon, not bothered by the tired tone. "Send two men with horses in the villages near Saltspear to mark our borders as father planned in the map." "Our village elder, Kalf here will help with directions", the old man nodded nervously. "Also I want to know about the crops you produce in the village"

"They don't grow many crops here in here." Arney,the steward interrupted. "Barley, oats and rye. Crops that your grandfather gave them to plant when he was rebuilding this place"

"Yes. M'lord." Kalf added. " But crops don't grow well in these lands. We live from hand to mouth here. Most folk leaves for fishing and gathering in the morn. Return with whatever game they can find. Few man toil the fields. Though due to these crops i might say our village was built."

"Give these details to the steward” Jon ordered. Turning to Jory, he added "prepare the wagons. We're going to White Harbor "

Jory couldn't be but surprised at this. Lord Stark had gave him different orders. "But we were supposed to go to Greywater Watch. Lord Reed would wait for us there.”

Jon dismissed him with a wave. "Father isn't here. And we’ve a lot of work to do. A shipment is waiting for us in White Harbor. We need it to start our work".

“Lord Stark didn't tell me about a shipment. He ordered me to get you to Greywater after we reach the Moat." Jory pressed the young lord. “And you can't just keep Lord Howland waiting. It would be an insult to him. Your father won't take it slightly. "

"Lord Reed won't be waiting. Father hadn't sent a raven as it won't be able to find the watch. And we’re the only riders from Winterfell in here" Jon said as he stood, signaling the meeting is over. "Prepare the horses, captain. We leave tomorrow."

Sighing Jory got up, preparing to give the orders. The Moat was a hard place to serve. And he missed his time at Winterfell. He was with his family there, His uncle and young cousins. He had his own chambers too. Now a decent night’s sleep or a bed was hard to found. He was quite annoyed when he had heard that he was to go the Neck.

But Lord Stark gave him an order. He took him personally to his Chamber and told that he was entrusting his boy to him, asking Jory to look after him. And he respected his lord above everything. He followed Eddard Stark, the lord of Winterfell into two wars. Fought side by side with him. He didn't fail him at the battles. And he wasn't going to fail him now.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Jon

The dreams he was having wasn't so consistent when they were on the road. But for the last few days it felt like they returned with a vengeance. They changed in their contents too. He was constantly seeing the barrows of the Neck now. Well, only one in particular. A burial tomb near a huge Weirwood grove. The barrow had pillars of stone around it. Ancient runes were drawn around it too keep the evil away. The lands in the Neck were filled with graves of the first men, no doubt from the constant battles that once took place in the area, reaching as far as up to Barrowlands. People living there gave them usually a huge arch. “Dead and worse things lived in there, coming to life at night,” they said.

Jon however recognized the Weirwood grove when their party was traveling through the Kings road. It was the only carved Weirwood in the area, the local people usually steered clear of the place, believing it to be haunted.

After Giving Jory the order to ready the wagons for their trip to White Harbor, He left by himself to visit the barrow. Curious to figure out why the gods wanted him to visit the place. He took his saddlebag, a horse and armed himself with his sword and axe, ready to set out on the northern road. Jory would surely want him to bring guards with him, but he was too busy to arrange the journey. "This is much better" Jon thought to himself. It would be hard to explain to the guards why he was visiting barrows that were known to be haunted. Whistling Ghost to follow, he kicked up his horse.

When he found the barrow he was tired and sore for the ride. He had to backtrack their trails up to the godswood, and follow what little memory from his dreams he had, to find the barrow. It was tiring work. Still Jon couldn't help but be surprised when he found the barrow. It had long impressive stone arches and stairs to climb up to the main gate, with huge wide halls like crypts of Winterfell. Signaling  that most of its structure was underground.

The gate of the tomb was open, a cracked shell of an entrance. Jon nearly jumped when he put his feet on a skeleton. It had a shattered skull and a ugly smile, waiting to welcome to eager visitors. No doubt a reminder why this place was deserted. Ghost was suspicious at the ruin, sniffing around and baring his teeth at the shadows. But followed his master inside nonetheless.

More skeletons were laid here and there. Some with burial urns beside them. They started to make Jon uneasy. The first men took great care when they laid their dead to rest. They shouldn't be fallen like scattered leaves in the floor. "Unless they somehow......"  He decided to put a halt to his thoughts there.

A spiral staircase took him deeper inside the tomb. He came up to another hidden entrance, but this one had oil lamps and torches on the wall. "What sorcery is this?” He wondered. The dusts on the floor clearly indicated that no one stepped a foot here for a long time. However, another corpse in the room caught his interest. The withered thing had a golden artifact in his hands. Jon pulled it from its fingers and inspected. It had the shaping of a claw, with markings of a direwolf, raven and a wierwood tree. "A fine craft. A lord would pay a good price for this" he thought, as he pocketed the claw.

At the end of the hall, however there was another stone door with the same markings on them. Only arranged differently. With the symbols marked on the claw, it didn't took him long to figure out the puzzle. Placing the markers of the door in the right place according the claw’s, he put the it's fingers in the hole and turned. The door cracked and opened.

As he got inside, Jon's mouth full open. The chamber inside was lighted with torches, like the others and decorated like a kings hall. It had chests overflowing with gold pieces, bars of silvers and ornaments adorned with gems. "A hoard" he thought. "And buried with a king" after noticing the altar in the middle. There was a skeleton lying on it. With a giant broadsword on his chests. The rusted bronze crown on his head declared him as a king of winter. "But which one? All of my ancestors are buried in the crypts." Jon remembered. "Why would they bury a Stark here? “

After moments of inspecting the hoard, Jon found his answer. There were many golden seven pointed stars and coins with dragons on them. The wealth wasn't from North. It was brought from the Valyrian strongholds. Probably as plundered loot.

That cleared the situation for him. "Only one Stark crossed into the Andals territory” he remembered his lessons from Maester Luwin. "So the king in the altar must be Theon Stark, The Hungry Wolf"

After Killing Argos Sevenstar, the cursed zealot as Northmen called him, Theon Stark sailed to Andal homeland. He destroyed towns, massacred villages and burned the septs. "Apparently took his plunder as well. He probably died defending the Moat from south. And was buried here with his hoard" he thought sadly. "And his man raised his resting place in honor". 

There was a longsword amongst it too. Light as a dagger, sharp as a freshly stoned sword. He picked up the sword in the light as he inspected. There were ripples all along the length. The metal was dark blue. It shared some similarities with the Valyrian blade of his father but the markings looked more Northern.

Jon slung the blade across his back and started filling his bag with the gold pieces. "The gods have granted me a gift." he thought with a smile. With this huge amount of gold, he could easily repair the Moat as he wanted and build himself an army. Dreams sent by the gods weren't so useless like he thought.

Dead men don't walk and certainly the Wall was fine as well.

 However, as he walked outside the room with the claw and saddlebag full of gold, Jon noticed something different. It ran a shiver down to his spine. "Fuck" he cursed in a mutter as he reached for his new sword in the back. Ghost got ready to jump too as he bared his fangs.

The body he took the golden claw from, that accursed dead………Was Gone.

Chapter Text

Jon

Jon had never seen White Harbor before. His first sight was of New Castle rising over the landscape, while seagulls cawed and the smell of salt was thick in the air. The city was all white stone and straight streets, with steeply pitched slate roofs tilting downwards towards the coast of the White Knife. Even from a distance, He could see the harbor heaving with sails, ships attended by ant-like figures.

His men were awed. Most of them never saw a city this large before. Jon grimaced in pain trying to share a smile with them. He had a cut from his forehead to under his eye. Still fresh and raw.  Every time he tried he tried to blink or move his eye it hurt badly.

The cut came from a swing of axe in from the dead corpse in the goodswood barrow. Jon was scared out of his wits when he first saw the corpse walking, with gleaming blue eyes and milk white skin. Even Ghost backed up in a corner. Despite Its scary appearance, it was quite slow in movement. Suppressing his fear, he avoided the charge and managed to drive his sword straight into Its belly and dropped his guard, sure that he killed it. But the corpse just freed its hands and started choking him against the wall. He got free by barely hitting it the head with a torch from the wall as ghost distracted it with a bite in the leg. It fell in the ground thrashing and screeching as flame covered it.

He ran like hell from the barrow then, not looking back till he charged his horse into the nearest village. Thanking the gods that he didn't grab Theon Stark's sword. It would probably crumble the whole barrow on his head. At least he still managed to hold to the golds he took.

Currently they were on the white knife. Trying to ferry across the river to the port of White harbor. They left their wagons at the village, to fill with the cargo they would bring. They got down at the harbor and started making their ways new Castle, the seat of House Manderly.

By the time they started the approach up the pale staircase leading to New Castle, guards with silver tridents came to receive them. With men parting their ways seeing the direwolf banner. "This way, my lord" Ser Bartimus grumbed. He was a One legged knight, in the service of Manderleys, castellan of Wolf’s Dane.

Jon and his party were led into the handsomely furnished pale castle. Silver and green ordained the walls, along with broken shields and rusted swords from ancient victories, and wooden figureheads from the prows of ships. The doors to the Merman’s Court opened, leading into a great hall of wooden planks decorated with all the creatures of the sea. A large cushioned throne of weathered oak rested at the far end, in front of a painted wall showing a kraken and grey leviathan locked in battle.

The first time Jon lay eyes on Lord Wyman Manderly, he couldn't help but wonder how this man moves around. He was the fattest man he ever saw, weighing at least thirty stones. And bellowed like a Whale.

"Jon Snow, new lord of ,Moat Cailin ” Ser Bartimus announced before him, hopping on his wooden leg all the way. “Coming before Lord Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor, Warden of the White Knife, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed and Lord Marshal of the Mander, Knight of the Order of the Green Hand.” "

"Greetings, my lord" said lord Manderly politely. He sounded a bit impressed of the Jon's title and age. "I was expecting a party from Winterfell. However, I didn't expect Lord Stark to send his son"

It feels strange to stand in a lords hall after these months, as much as hearing one calling him a lord. "The orders were from Winterfell, my lord. But the shipment was ordered for me.” Jon said.

"Ah. Please follow me to my Chamber" The fat lord rose with great difficulty.

"I did as your father asked me in the letters." he said after everyone had taken their seats. Jon had Jory and his steward follow him. Rests of the guards were taken to the barracks for rest and refreshments.  "Arranged seeds for crops to plant. All the Equipments you need to plough the fields. Also hired a team of builders." Lord Manderly paused for a little.  "But there was another raven. Had instructions to get a shipment of strange crops from Yi Ti"

Jon leaned forward, feeling a bit excited. "Has it arrived?”

"Yes. Replied lord Manderly. "Also there was a man in the crew. He claims to be a shipwright, but he has some experience with farming and also with our lands. He will stay here to help growing the crops. For a price"

Jon was undoubtedly happy. He speeded hours in Winterfell’s library with Maester Luwin. Trying to find out which crops would fare better in the wet soil of the neck. The solution came to him by pure accident. While eyeing a work the maester was copying, he went through a couple of pages of Jade Compendium. A book about the lands of Yi Ti. They cultivate a crop called rice there, on the low lying and marsh lands. Perfect for the Neck,if it can withstand the cold. Luwin also suggested him different tactics to plough and plant the crops better.

"Thank you, Lord Wyman.” Jon said. "If your men would show my captain the cargo we can began the work of unloading them. He waited After Jory left. His father gave him a chest of silver, but he had little idea about how much it would cost him. He sent the last letter by himself, using his father's seal when he wasn't in his chamber. "There's still a question for payment I believe"

Lord Manderly nodded "The cost for all this was nearly three thousand stags. Winterfell would pay for this I presume. Or would you like to take a loan?”

"No actually. My father gave me silver to pay for the goods. “Jon replied, As Arney the steward handed him the the chest of silver. Jon added half the golds he took from the tombs in there. “My steward will attend the counting .And if you would be so kind, my Lord, please see that the remaining gold is changed into lesser currency,copper and silver.”

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After finishing his business with Lord Manderly, Jon attended his man at the port who was loading the goods from the ship into boats. The boats were small for accessing into narrow waterways around the villages. The man from Yi Ti was there too. He was a strange looking man, with a deep black braid and beady little eyes. "Zhing Shi Chang, at your service, my Lord” he said with a bow. Zhing, as Jon thought off calling him was quite resourceful. He had been in Westeros before, sailed to Bravos and Dragonstone port. The man was a captain of a ship, before losing it in a storm. He had to take up farming to see himself through the days.

As Jon walked through the port, a thin pale hand grabbed his cloak. "Spare a coin for the poor, m'lord" a shaky voice underneath a rag spoke. He felt a bit of pity for the man. Clearly he was starving for days.

Jon tried to dig out some pennies for the beggar from his purse but stopped as he noticed his hands. He had burnt marks all over. Like the marks of Mikken, Winterfell’s smith. "Do you have a trade" he asked, kneeling in one knee in front of the man.

"I had. Once. When I had a home." the man said bitterly.

His tale was also bitter. The man was a smith in Bravos once. Before he discovered his lawful wife in bed with another man. He killed the man in a duel and strangled his wife to death. But the man's family sought retribution and forced him to leave Bravos in a hurry without any of his wealth. Ternesio he claimed, his name was."And now I'm fated to die alone and hungry in this frozen land"

“A smith has better use than a dying man" Jon said with a smile. He told Jory to take the man and feed him properly. "I could use a smith in Moat" he thought. They had enough swords and armor for their current garrison. But none for the new recruits.

By the time the workers were done, the boats were full of sacks from haul to radar. Jon had to hire three more boats to fill up his men. He squished himself in a place between the sacks, trying to get a comfortable nap.

Jory was quite happy seeing all the seed crops. "A good plan" he said."If we could grow them, we could surely feed all the men in our lands. No one would grow hungry anymore."

"You know a lot of people tell stories how great cities will rise in the North one day. Rivaling  King's landing and The Reach." Arney the steward told the people around him. “ And great kings Of Winter would fly on Griffins, fighting with the Dragon Lords of Valyria"

"Lots of cunts." replied Jon, not opening his eye. The men around them gave a laugh. Even Jory was amused. "If we somehow had a population same as the Reach we wouldn't be in North anymore. Might as well cut down the goodswoods and start kneeling in front of stone statues. No, we only have Our frost and snows, iron and bronze, rocks and pine-cones, fish and trade,long winters and short summers. We can't hope to rival the Reach in riches or in crops.We must prosper with what we have. “he said in a determined voice. "It's our struggle that keeps us strong, not silly dreams of summer." And prayers that will make the Gods bless the new crops .

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It was nearly afternoon when their party reached the lands of the Moat. The men began unloading the cargo from boats into the wagon as Jon decided to take a ride to clear his head.

Now the business was finished with white harbor the matter of meeting Lord Howland still remained. Truth to be told he wasn't really excited about the meet. While staying in Winterfell, He tried to focus on south of the Neck in one of his dreams, trying to find Greywater watch. Only thing he saw was a boy of green mossy eyes, same as the age of Bran. His age didn't cover the fact in the eyes of the gods that the boy had  greenseer powers in his bloods. Though he  still had a long time to bloom. Jon didn’t like that one bit.

Winterfells library had old rusty tomes on greenseer and wargs. Greenseers had the greensight and were wargs as well, the book said. The First Men believed that they were responsible for carving faces into weirwoods, creating heart trees. The greenseers were said to be able to see through the faces of their weirwoods, influencing animal and plant life, and possibly seeing into the past and future.

Most of these Jon was able to do. He could see the world in the eyes of the gods in his dreams and take over Ghost's skin for a time. And it made him feel powerful. Like he was choosen to rule over earth and animals. The fact that there were boys in the Neck who have same powers irritated him. He bore no ill will to the boy; still he was somehow angry about the fact.

After a short time, he had ridden on down the kingsroad, putting the thoughts of greenseers and wargs in the back of his mind to ponder another time. He had been plodding along the road for a good amount of time when he heard the noise.

Cautiously, he brought his horse to a stop, listening for signs of another. When another round of screams came, he dismounted, hand going for his sword at the belt. It sounded like a woman's screams. And accompanying those, to his revolt, was laughter. Sick and raunchy.

 "Oh hold still, s'not nearly as fun with you squirmin'," he heard a man's voice say. Rounding the bend in the road, Jon crouched behind some bushes and peered through the leaves to get a view of the scene before him.

His stomach turned uncomfortably when he recognized what he saw. Three men had surrounded a young girl who couldn't have been much older than ten and four. Two of them were keeping her pinned down while the third was grabbing at her cloth, in an obvious attempt at raping her.

Anger flared in Jon at the sight, his heart pounding in his rib cage like a war drum.

"Please don't, I beg you!" The girl cried, voice high and wet with tears.

"Did ya 'ear that lads?" The man with holding the girl sneered as he got himself ready to mount her. "This cunt thinks we'll listen. Almos' funny in'it?" The other two men laughed with him, the sound just as ugly as their behavior. That was when Jon snapped, unable to just sit and strategize anymore.

Hey!" He called, standing up and unsheathing his blade. The sound of steel rang through the air almost musically, making the men stop and look. Mustering up as much strength as he could, he addressed the rapers. "Let go of her. Now! "

His words though, however impressive, just made the three burst into gaudy laughter.

The lad thinks he's a lord," one of them coughed out. "Little far from yer castle, are we?" He taunted. "Get rid of him" ordered the first one.  Jon just bared his teethes in return, gripping his sword tighter in his hand.

Two of them drew their weapons. "Let's make this quick" one of the would be rapers said.

"Agreed” replied Jon. And charged.

The sound of steel on iron clanged in the air as Jon's weapon met theirs. It was quickly followed by his own side step and parry before blocking one of the axes. They were large and obviously strong. But Jon was quick, and he used that to his advantage.

Ducking under a blow, he hit his cross guard against one of their noses, his favourite move. The sound of bone breaking soon followed by shouts and swearing. He had to dodge another blow after that, side-stepping before regaining his balance and swinging at the attacker. He felt steel meet flesh and watched as blood spurted from the man's leg. Immediately he swung his own axe on the kneeling man with as much strength he could master, nearly taking the man's head off. 

The second one tried to jump at him at the same time. But Jon sidestepped and kicked both of his legs out, and drove his sword through the man's throat.

It seemed as though his last attacker was not so enraptured, as he felt a body barrel into his, sending him crashing into the dirt. He squirmed around desperately beneath the large man, straining to free his sword hand, which was pinned beneath him. He felt a fist collide with his jaw, and the iron taste of blood quickly pooling in his mouth.

He fumbled his axe hand on the ground next to him, hoping  to hit the man. But he never got the chance, as there was a sudden THUNK, followed by his attacker screaming in pain as an arrow pierced his shoulder. Jon grabbed his axe with both hands and drove it though the man's face. He landed on him, pushing the breath out of Jon's chest, before rolling off, unconscious. Not before bleeding all over Jon's hair.

Haldur, one of sergeant have followed him. Surely on Jory's orders.

"Thank you" Jon offered Haldur. Picking his sword of the ground. "Are you alright, my lady?" He asked, looking at the girl over for any injuries besides the growing bruises on her arms and face. The girl offered a tentative nod, still shaking and looking like a deer ready to flee. Jon noticed this with a frown.

"Lyn," she said, giving her name. "And yes, I think so." Her voice was small and shaky, unsurprising given the circumstances.

"Is there somewhere we can take you, Lyn?" He asked. "Is your home nearby?"

She nodded mutely, pointing down the kingsroad to the south. "It's village near the river. I was gathering greens for my family."

"Haldur, escort the girl to the village " he ordered, as he started checking the dead bodies for signs indicating who they might be.

"There was four.” the girl spoke out. “An ugly looking looking one with hounds. He reeked like a pig. He was leading them.”

By the time  Jory and the his men arrived at the scene, Jon had went through all of the corpses belongings. "There's no house sigil or token, sign of where they came from " he told them as they dismounted. "Just some coins. Apparently there was another one. But he escaped"

Jory ignored him as he started searching Jon for wounds. "You're bleeding badly" he exclaimed. Mistaking the blood on Jon's hair and face as his own.

Jon moved his hand away. "Not my blood" he replied. The men around him gave him astounded looks, no doubt surprised at the fact that Jon was able to kill three full grown man at this young age  "Any one from the village know about these men or wherever they form" he asked the group. 

"No,m'lord. " replied a villager. "But we've heard tales from barrowlands. Peasant girls are sometimes found there. Their body disfigured from animal bites and raped"

"They must be man at arms of some lord or knight. These are decent steels" Jory said after looking at the weapons.

"Send some man to track their steps" Jon ordered."We need to find out the fourth man and where they came from. Hand their coins to the girls family. And hang the bodies in the goodswood." he added.

"But they are already dead, my lord" Haldur asked. "What's the point of hanging them?"

"Give them to the gods" Jon told him simply as he turned his horse for the moat. He was tired as hell. Hopefully the blood offerings would give the gods some peace. I could use some peace and quiet after last two days.

Chapter Text

Jon

Jon had been on edge all day, pacing in his tower searching for the source of his discomfort. It should have been a happy day, he reasoned. Nearly four months have passed since the visit to White Harbor. The cultivation went extremely well, the process of restoring the walls of the Moat started and a feast was arranged to celebrate their first harvest. Before starting to cultivate the new crop, paddy as Zhing Shi Chang, the Yi Ti'sh shipmaster called it, Jon decided to to test the crop in the Moat first. The lands near the village under the castle were ploughed and planted under Zhing's instruction. The harvest was more than enough for Jon to decide to send the seeds to the other villages in his domain. The villagers were in high spirit due to the success. They even decided to name their village as Snowfall to honor Jon.

As he was sitting in his chair, Arney the steward was handing him the letters and numbers to needed to be signed. "We've spent a great amount of our silver to fix the walls m'lord. " He said worriedly. "And will need a lot more to continue the work" Jon waved away his worry. "Coin isn't a problem".

Actually he visited the barrow twice more. Visiting that dreaded place wasn't something he usually looked forward too but it was necessary to look over the works he started. The amount of coins going in the construction was exhausting. He needed to establish their trade system soon. Some option related to bronze and timber was in his mind.

Zhing, in his leisure built some ships to travel through the small inlets of swamps. "The land is too wet to travel on horses.” he constantly complained to Jon. So whenever he had free time from setting up drainage system or dig out crop rows, he set the man up to fell trees to build ships. All the small sized ships were slow and prone to capsizing in rough seas, appropriate for short trips that hugged the shore. However, according to his homeland style, he thought of the keel. This simple addition was a great nautical breakthrough in long-ship building. Not only did it stabilize the ship, making it ocean-worthy, but it provided a base to anchor the mast. A massive sail, some as large as eight hundred square feet, could now be added as the major source of propulsion. The women were set to work hard on it. The impact was immediate and stunning. In a time when few of  their fishermen ventured far from land, the ships were said to be able to criss-crossed the seas with cargoes of timber, animals, and crossing distances of nearly thousands of miles.Dragon headed prows were added in front of ships according to Yi-tish tradition. When Jon asked what with the dragons,Zhing said that they represented retribution,knowledge and regeneration.

As for building, stones and strong tress were available enough in the swamps to build the structures. The head builder advised Jon to use the old bases and remaining stones of the towers to build the new wall. After he and Jory went through the plan, it was decided that instead of original Twenty Towers they will build 6 towers around the fort. Four around the corner and two in the side walls. The workforce and time it would take to finish the complete structures were massive. Jon planned to hire more builders’ team from the riverlands to speed up the process.

"Some riders have c'me in the fort,m'lord". Orys, his door guard suddenly picked in his head. "A trading party from the looks of it"
"Are we expecting someone?” Jon asked as he rose from his chair.
"Not that I know of, my lord" Arney followed suit.
As they stepped outside of the tower, several riders carrying Bear marked shields and banner filled in. They had several wagons with them, all looked to be bustling with goods.
"Lord Snow" a girl almost as tall as Jory said with a nod of appreciation . 'You've grown quite a lot I see".

"Dacey Mormont" Jon returned the nod with a smile. "A pleasant surprise to see you here. Let me welcome you to my hearth and home" He waved at the stable boys to unload the wagons and take care of the horses.
Dacey had visited Winterfell a few times,few years his senior. Jon and Robb used to team up together against Cley Cerwen and her. I'm happy to see her. Jon thought to himself.

As the servants started to unload the carts, Jon inspected them with Dacey. She was offered rests and bath, but she wanted to see the Moat she had heard of so much.
"That's a lot of fur. Where are you taking them? “He inquired after opening up a cart.

"In the riverlands. Will go through the Twins to sell them around the towns. They pay good coins for thick furs there. At least that's what Mother told me". Bear islands, the land of Mormonts was poor in crops and coin. But rich in furs and ambers.

"You have starred a lot of work around here,” Dacey said after touring the grounds.
Jon gave her a shrug. "Thought of preparing for winter early."

In the Children's Tower Jory was training some new recruits. As he screamed "shield wall", the recruits responded by put their oval oaken shields overlapping each other, ready to hack with their weapons. They were armed with new axes and sparring armor made by the castles new smith. Jory wanted to train them in swords first, but swords were costly and they didn't have enough steel. So Ternesio, the new smith started hammering out ax heads. He was a resourceful man after all. He introduced a new method of building armor with banding bronze with iron to built scales and plates. The armor was cheap in the making bur just as much as efficient as plate armor. Jon himself used a half-helm and scaled armor fashioned by him.

Near the training ground, he was hammering the steel. The song of steel on steel woke a hunger in Jon. It reminded him of warmer,simpler days, when he had been a boy at Winterfell matching blades with Robb.

"Care for a spar" he said to Dacey, watching her eyeing new type of armors.
Dacey gave a loud laugh. "Haven't you learned your lessons, Snow? "You need to grow some fur yourself before you can take me.

"You flatter yourself, Bear " Jon returned the laugh with a cocky grin. "I'm not the little boy from Winterfell anymore. I will flatten you in few moments."

However, after seeing Dacey clad in armor head to toe he reconsidered if his decision was a bit immature or not. She was nearly a foot taller than Jon and had twenty pounds more on him. Instead of a Training sword, she choose an two-headed ax, swinging it air with a slash.

"Come here Snow. I mean to shed some of the newly grown furs of yours. "

Jon took a step forward and met the double ax with his shield, easily turning it sideways to slash with his sword. The easily flow clearly surprised Dacey as she staggered backward to regain her balance.

“ Well, don’t go soft on me now, Mormont” he taunted the heir of Bear Island. “I mean to break a sweat”.

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Sven

The summer sun crawls lazily across the horizon, flooding a small coastal valley with the light of the early morning. Svensholm is a small Nordic homestead, near the village of Kattegat, with a central hall and a few outbuildings. The longhouse had thick walls which keep it cool in summer and prevents freezing in winter. The family Of Sven slept in the main hall around the fire pit along with some of the farm stock. On the top of an outbuilding a cockerel crowed, rousing the farm to life. Putting aside all the plans of the daily chore, the first thought, came to Sven's mind is breakfast.

Whilst Ingrid, the farmer's wife, coaxed the embers of yesterdays fire back to life, Sven the farmer helped himself to some of yesterdays left-over stew. It had been left in an iron cauldron. The stew itself also looked rather unpalatable; a thin crust of fat has formed over a brown liquid made up of boiled lamb bones, beans, peas, carrots and turnips. Sven breaked off a hunk of bread, dipping it into the stew. A rather stale crusty flat loaf, this bread was baked last week. He wasn’t a wealthy person by any chance but his farm sure was somewhat successful one.

"I'll need the boy's help today “he said to his wife. Fortified with a breakfast of bread and buttermilk, Tostig, his son would help his father in the fields. His daughter, Thora would help her mother in house hold chores. The remainder of the harvest has to be gathered in and a lamb needs to be slaughtered. After today’s final work of the harvest, they would have a small feast to celebrated their successful harvest. It was going to be a long day.

Sven used an iron sickle to cut the corn, whilst Tostig used a wooden rake to gather the cut corn into sheaths. Later these would be threshed to release the grains of wheat, rye and barley.

They got the new seeds from their new lord, who recently took up residence in the Moat. "Bless the boy “he thought to himself while working.

Before the arrival of the new lord, he and his wife had to fight a long, silent battle with the mud, that rains, endlessly washing and drying the horses’ legs and feet, trying to defeat the mudfever. Moving horses from field to field, trying to keep the drainage clear enough to keep the land from becoming a swamp under the cutting hooves. Coming in worn out and soaked time and again, with the fading light. But with the new crops and drainage system the farming was whole lot easier. A veteran of Roberts Rebellion, Sven was no stranger to hardship. But he always wanted to leave a little more than a useless piece of land to his son, unlike his father.

After finishing the day’s work , standing outside the house after sunset, Sven could see no light anywhere in the long, shadowed valley stretching away below him. There was only the firelight that showed in the cracks of the shuttered windows behind him to break the absolute darkness of the cloudy night. He could hear no human voice. It was as if the busy world of men and light had gone away, leaving only the little long house and him outside it, alone in the dark with the wind blowing. It felt like a ominous whisper was in the winds. He turned and went inside ignoring it. There was a feast and his family waiting for him.

That night, Ingrid's brother Rigsson and his family were invited at the farm. He was a fisherman and had brought fish for his sister’s family. He helped Sven to slaughter a lamb for the feast.

While the lamb was slowly being turned over fire, he looked at the scene in front of him.

His wife and sister in law were chatting about the new families that were coming with the improvement of the moat, planning the best way to welcome them. The children were mesmerized by the tales their uncle was weaving for them.

Between the sweet smell of the lamb roasting and sound of crackle of the wood at the fireplace, for a moment, Sven felt an overwhelming love for life and thought Himself to be the happiest man.

His merriment was suddenly interrupted by howling screams. The raiders came out of nowhere, hiding in the fog of swampland. Like demons, they began to destroy the once peaceful home.

Rigsson was the first to act. He tried to run for the axe near the fireplace. Before Sven could barely understand what was going on, his brother in law was rewarded with an arrow in his eye. And he was met with the blow of something blunt.

The Iron-born were there for the gold and the gore. They crossed the Blazewater Bay to raid deep in the Moat.

In the middle of the chaos he still had some of his sense, feeling most helpless, unable to do anything for saving his family. His wife and sister in law were trying to shield their daughters from the sea -devils. But a raider put a knife in the heart of his sister-in-law. His wife screamed and tried to grab both of the girls and run behind in the corner. But another merciless Iron-born caught her and slit her throat. . He screamed when the heathen pushed her lifeless body in   the cold ground.

Thora was trying to hide in the corner, and a Raider took advantage of his heavy body to pin her small figure against the ground, preventing her from running. He was much stronger than Thora and her fight only infuriated him, until he punched her. Sven tried to get up to stop him to save his daughter with his remaining strength, but someone stabbed him from behind, to put him away for good.

As he collapsed on the floor, meeting the lifeless eyes of his wife, he said a voiceless prayer to whatever Gods were listening to save the life of his children’s.

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Dacey

Dacey breathed heavily as she dropped her, axe e to the ground. She was a good fighter—already well-known for her abilities in battle against the wildings. She had been trained to fight since she was old enough to pick up a sword. Her mother saw to it that she would live up to the legacy of Women of Bear Islands.

"Nice try, Jon. Maybe next time I will let you win," the female warrior joked as she worked to catch her breath.

 Jon let out a small chuckle and wiped the sweat off his brow.

 They spent a great deal of time out under the Children's Tower training with each other. Like they used to back in Winterfell, whenever her mother visited the Capital of North. After they had finished, they would visit the godswood to to visit the hot springs

 Jon had been one of Dacey's friend ever since she met the Stark bastard-born child. As a young girl, she had been raised around the warriors, always preferring it to girlish activities. And Jon had the same of warrior spark in him.  Robb Stark was always doted on by the female members of other houses, but she always preferred the sullen -quite boy. 

 Dacey collapsed on the ground. Her heart still raced from the training that she and Jon had just finished. She closed her eyes as she felt him take a seat next to her.

"So How does it feel to leave your home?" She knew this was a subject that she should tread lightly on. Jon was very enthusiastic in the training, but she could easily see the sadness in his eyes. 

 The boy grunted and shrugged his shoulders. " I miss Winterfell. My family too."

 "And are you going visit it soon?" she asked. Jon's reply did not surprise her.

 "No. Not until I'm finished created a name for myself.” Jon replied shortly.

 She decided to drop the conversation. She could tell that he did not want to talk about his home.

"Ask me a question," he spouted out of nowhere.

Dacey grinned and looked over at the dark-haired boy. Every time they sat down to have these talks, Jon would request that she ask him a question. Regardless of the fact how much he already told her  about himself.

 "Tell me about the work you have been doing in here. Especially how you got that new sword of yours" 

Jon let out a laugh. And took a more comfortable lying position.  It took a lot of time for Jon to tell her about the Moat and his future plans for it.

Through the corner of her eye, Dacey could see Jon pausing every few moments to think about something before starting again. As much as she knew about him, she had a feeling that Jon wasn't telling her everything.

The two laid together again in silence after he finished.

"I have not a single doubt that your father is proud of you, Jon." She spoke up, reading his mind. "You have held yourself amazingly."

 For the first time since she had laid down, she turned her head to look at Jon. She could tell by the expression on his face that he was deep in thought.

 "May I tell you a secret?" Dacey smirked. Jon's eyes met with hers and he nodded his head. "Out of all of Eddard Stark's sons, I must say that you are the best."

 Jon chuckled pulling his friend close for a hug. "That is no competition," he chuckled as her head rested in the crook of his neck. She laughed at his joke and closed her eyes as she relaxed against him. In the split of a second, he brought his fist around to the side of her head, and began rubbing it into her hair rapidly, knotting it up.

 He burst out laughing as she rose from her position on his shoulder and smacked him hard on the chest.

 "Why do you do that," she fussed as she used her fingers to try to take out the knots that Jon had just put in her hair.

 Still laughing, he replied "It looks good that way"

 "We must go," she stated as she finally quit detangling her hair, hoping she had gotten all the large tangles, and that her hair was laying down the way it was supposed to.

 Jon still laying in his position, looked up at her. A chunk of her knotted hair was shaped like a wing on the top of her head. He smirked at her as he rose to a sitting position.

 The friends talked as they walked through the woods—discussing the feast that would be held tonight to celebrate the harvest.

XxxxxxxxxxxxX

Dacey sat beside Jon as the feast was served. Being the heir of bear Island, she was given the place of high honor right beside the Lord’s Table. Jory, the master at Arms and his sergeants were seated there too.

 As she sat there, she could not help but stare at Jon. She felt like she was looking at one of the carved faces of old gods itself. The boy was way too matured for his age. His sad eyes scanned the room as though he wanted to be anywhere else at the moment. When his eyes met hers, her heart stopped dead in her chest. He stared at her for what seemed like eternity—as though he was looking deep inside her soul and navigating through all of her wildest dreams and darkest fears.

 And then his eyes dropped to the table as he reached for his drink.  Ghost, his massive pet wolf sprawled by the fireside, looked up from gnawing on a bone, as he scratched behind Its ear. Chills ran down her spine as her eyes rushed around the room, searching for anything to look at—besides Jon Snow.

The women began to bring out the dishes, an onion soup flavoured with Fish and vegetables. Boiled rice was the main dish and was served in plenty. Not a lordly fare, but it was warming and filling. Plus the bounties of the swamp land were in full display. Catfish, claws of mud-crab, Bass, Perch was stacked on the tables. And an elk was being carved.

Wine from White Harbor, was there too. A delicacy for the Northerner's. They were careful in filling their cups, not to spill any of it. None of them had much of it up in these marshes....

Between the courses, Jory had led her out on to the floor to dance. Jon was pressured by his men to Join, he outright refused. Claiming he might injure someone in the process. Dacey couldn't help but laugh at him. She knew how much Jon hated dancing.

Haldur, one of the sergeants was all grace. He grabbed a serving girl, Lyn she thought the girl's name was, spinning her on the floor. The poor girl was all red on embarrassment, clearly never had a chance of dancing before.

 Several of the men were playing pipes and drums. Making the atmosphere as merry as possible. A feast with a chance of full belly dinner and wine was as rare as a Dragon in Moat. No doubt the people are happy here today.

As Dacey was washing down the roasted elk with some of wine, a man came rushing in to the table from outside, all covered in mud, his chest heaving up and down.

He immediately went to Jon's table, started to slip word's in his ear with a urgent tone. She followed Jory and his men there.

"They came in several groups, m'lord. In three Ships ". Dacey heard the man saying. “They attacked Kattegat but were driven off by the villagers. But several farms were raided.Many were slaughtered"

"How many did they kill?". Jon's voice was dangerously low, eyes burning like embers.

"Quite a few. But some of the villagers said that they took a lot of the Children with them. No doubt to serve as thralls.”

"Fucking Iron-borns" Dacey thought to herself. Village of Kattegat was in the mouth of Blazewater. Jon told her of his plans to build a trading port there. No doubt he is pissed. She was no stranger to these raiders as well. Bear Island was a warzone whenever the ice melted from the sea. Bringing down the raiders from west.

She jumped from her thoughts as the sound of Jon's fists meeting the table nearly shook the whole room. There was total pin drop silence around him.

"Prepare the men" he ordered Jory in a calm voice. "The new recruits too."

"My Lord, they are surely half way to Iron Islands now ". Jory tried to reason, clearly worried about the rushed action. “We’ve no means to pursue them."

Jon silenced him with a glare. "We will take the long-ships. The Men,Captain. Now."

Jory and the sergeants left immediately.

"Me and My men will join you” Dacey said, as she signaled them to get ready to join the Jon's guards.

"This is not your fight, Dacey” Jon told her. “I can't ask you or your men to join me in my fights and die”

"If It’s with the Iron-born, Its my fight as well.  They have killed enough of my people. Let's go kill some fucking iron-borns." she announced, drawing her axe.

Chapter Text

Jon

The sun was setting over the western horizon. The last light of the day giving way to the cold of night. Down in the village the villagers and soldiers were preparing the ships with masts and sail. Filling them with water and ration for the journey ahead. The smallfolk were  worried about the idea of crossing the sea to attack the Iron-borns in their own territory but they all agreed that the barbarians must pay for their heinous crimes.

Back in the main hall of the village, Jon was feeling sick to his stomach at the scene in him. He had killed men before, but those interactions were short and quick. Still the faces of those men haunted him from time to time. They managed to catch an injured Iron-born who was abandoned by his war-band during the raid.

Sobbing filled the air as a young man of probably twenty years grabbed his arm. Bruises, dark and angry, covered the skin along the limb as well as a strange bump near the elbow that seemed a bit too sharp to be a minor injury. "Please, please, please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, let me go.....please.” The cry escaped the man's lips before he could quiet himself from the hard blow he received and met with cold grey eyes.

"I'll let you go" Jon told him in a emotionless voice, suppressing his repulsions. "If only you tell me who sent you. Where are you from? "

The prisoner sobbed some more before spilling his secrets. His company was from Blacktyde, northernmost part of Iron Islands. The lord of the house, Baelor Blacktyde thought of the newly forming villages of Moat as fertile ground for reaping. Jon had a sudden thought of splitting that fools head with his axe; perhaps it would enlighten him a bit about the consequences.

Sighing, Jory got up from the mess in front of them. "If we want to catch them unaware, we need to leave now. We've wasted too much time as it is"

Jon nodded in agreement. "Lead the men in to the ships. I'll grab some healers equipment and join you at the dock." They had near a hundred men from the Castle and the village. Some cangromen who came to trade at the markets also joined them. "Take this man with us, He can help us with the navigation."  

Kattegat was located in the shores of a Fjord in Blazewater. The village had its market place in the center and the houses built around it. Not a large place but Jon was having trouble, finding his way to the healer’s house.

After Wondering a while, through the muddy streets He thought of asking someone about the direction. He was startled when he heard the footsteps nearby. Ghost wasn't anywhere near at the moment but his senses were sharp enough to detect the faint noise. It took a while for her to catch up with him. Jon waited until she came into full view. The girl was about his age, carrying a basket of peaches. Strands of silver hair were flashing through her hood. White Hair?. That’s strange. That was the that first thought came to his mind.

"My lady" he addressed the girl politely, not wanting to scare her of a stranger.”Can you show me the way to the house of Kattegat's healer? "

"Oh hello there" the girl said wearily. "Are you here to kill me?” There was no fear in her voice, just weariness. But her eyes seemed like she wasn't joking at all.

 “No!" Jon cried. Why would she even think that? He surely didn't look like a raider.  

"My name is Jon Snow. I'm the lord of this village. No harm is going to come to you, Lady" He  introduced himself, thinking that would probably calm the lady. "I'm just looking for the healer's house."

"Oh. That's alright then." The girl's voice sounded tiny and unsure. "This all seems like it has happened before. Long ago...." She seemed snapped of her ramblings suddenly. Rhae, she said her name was. 

 The healer lived just behind a large oak tree. The house had large antlers of elks and skins of various animals on outer wall, making it more like a wood-witch's cave rather than a house. "Be careful of him." Rhae warned him. "Everyone calls him all-father. And he looks scary."

 "But he always has been nice to me. Only person after mama. Everyone else just didn't notice or didn't care." She seemed sad then. Jon wanted to ask what happened to her or if he could help in some way. But Rhae just waved and went to her way.

 After entering the house, Jon's eyes slowly managed to focus. He was in a small room, with a hearth fire burning less than a few feet away from him. The air smelled of oil and old herbs, and the walls of the room were adorned in bones of various animals. A man in black was standing over him, features inscrutable under a dark hood. The figure was wearing nothing but black; black furs, black boots, black hood.He looked a brother of the Nights watch when they used to visit Winterfell.

There was a rustle of feathers and cawing. All around the room, Jon could saw figures of half a dozen ravens rustling around him. They flapped everywhere, two of them landing on the figure’s shoulder. He did nothing to brush the birds off.

Jon could smell something else too, a pungent tone filled the air. Fresh blood and slaughter. It was coming from the strange man.

He tried to speak. But felt his words suddenly stuck up in his throat.

"Come” the stranger commanded him. Too long I've kept an eye for you in the shadows, Jon snow. He waved his hand at the fireplace. "Don't be afraid."

"You know who I am? " Jon was stunned for a moment, before he could think of what to say... "I believe we've never met”

 "No" the man in black agreed. "Not in this lifetime anyway.”He handed him a horn of ale. "But I know you, as I did your father, as his father before him."

This was going nowhere. "I am in sort of a hurry, healer. I take it you know of what happened in the village today. “Jon told him in a low voice as he accepted the ale. "If you would show me your accessories. I need some healing herbs and bandages" 

"Oh Yes. Starks and their eager thirst." the man beckoned him closer. "Come closer, lad"

Jon was shocked to see the man's face up close. He was missing an eye. That empty hole reminded him endless darkness and of death. He was of medium height, sharp face, slender, one remaining eye that was blue like the frost. There was no crown on his head, no golden arm rings, no jewels, not even a gleam of silver. Yet he radiated authority like one of the old kings of Winter. His black cloak seemed like and shadow, taking appearance of Heart-tress and giant serpents in blink of an eye, or Was he just seeing things.

The man raised Jon's chin with one finger. "Listen to the ice, my child. It speaks to you. It's in your blood. My blood. For you are a Nord. And they will hate you all the more because of it. "

"Who will...." the man stopped Jon before he could finish his sentence.

"You will face some of them soon. When your blood boils in battle, feed on the righteous rage burning inside you. Use it to destroy your enemies. Be bold, my son. Be merciless, Be a Nord"

He gestured at the back of room with one hand in front of confused Jon. "You will find your medicines at the back”

By the time he got back gathering bandages and Kingsfoil by the handfull, the room was empty. The Erie atmosphere was gone too. It seemed like just any other poorly made houses in village.

Dacey nearly ran over him when he got out of the house. With an old man in her tow. "Here, I have found the man. Let's get what we need and get out of here”

"I got them” Jon informed her. "The healer gave them to me already."

"Beg your pardon, my lord. I'm the only healer in this village “the old man protested.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The world was grey darkness, smelling of salt and rotten moss and cold. Pale mists rose from the black sea as they rowed their way to the Castle Blacktyde, down toward the welcoming fires strewn like jewels across the beach. There were lots of fires than Jon could count, separating the stronghold from the houses of the town.  The fingers of his sword hand opened and closed in anticipation of the upcoming combat.

 The ships were silent in the water, as well the men on it. They had nearly a hundred men on them. All of the fifty castle guards were present. Armed with swords and axes, with scaled armor and half-helms on. Jon kept checking and double checking if his own arms were in place, putting his helm on and off, trying to ease off the nervousness.  The rest of men were local recruits who joined the guard recently, Bear Islanders and the cangromen archers. Each of them had fear in their eyes, as Jon looked at the men around him. Only one inch of hard wood was protecting them from the freezing water of the western sea. Even the high waves and shakings of the ships were terrifying enough to make all of them forget the upcoming battle. Tonight We all are right to be afraid.

The sky changed from Dark to dawn, then again dark when they reached the island. The night was black, filled with the rushing sound of the weeping water. It was a pleasant sound that covered the noise of their disembark from the ships. The long-ships were truly living up to their reputation as Zhing said they would; they were able to sail up just a few yards away from the shore.

They stayed away from the main roads, creeping around the sand shrubs to get closer to the castle. The people in it was probably still drunk and asleep from celebration of a successful raid as there were no sound of life at all, making the atmosphere around like a graveyard.

The cangroman, a man from House Fenn leading the party suddenly stopped and held up a hand. A hand movement brought Jon to him, as he pointed out what he had seen, smoke coming out from the castles and two lone sentries patrolling the battlements.

"You and the men stay here, my lord while we go take a look" the short statured man said. Jon nodded and signaled his captains and Dacey to move closer.

 "Once we get rid of the sentries Dacey and I will climb the wall to open the main gate." he whispered in a low voice.

 "Haldur", the sergeant crouched in. "you will take ten man and the cangromen to light the Town houses on fire, cutting off any reinforcement possible. Stay out of sight and be careful. Jory will lead the main party as soon as the gates are open."

The leaders nodded in agreement and went to give instructions to their own man after Jon laid out the plan. After a few moments passed, what felt like hours, the mudmen crouched their way forward.

"There's no one else between us and the castle. The town is fast asleep" he spoke.

"So, we managed to finally catch the bastards unaware” Jon replied in the same low tone, relieved. Ironborns never battled strong people who were ready to defend their homes and possessions, instead choosing the defenseless. They were about the get their own way to pay the Iron-price.

 He signaled everyone to get ready. The men didn't need to be told twice, as checked their weapons and armor. Jon picked up the climbing spikes, as he shared a smile with Dacey. In a while, he was surrounded with men armed with Castle forged short swords, round shields, axes and steel-tipped bows.

Haldur and his Party left immediately for the town. Discarding their heavy armor and tipping their arrows with oil covered rags.

Jon waited twenty heartbeats before telling his men to nock their arrows, moving as close as possible to the Castle without alerting the sentries, as the rest fanned out behind.

"Draw”. Haldur should be close to the town by now. He mumbled to himself. The men-at-arms from Winterfell kept thier aim steady. "Aim for the sentries. And.....loose!"

It worked perfectly. Nothing but the faint sound of arrows flying disturbed the night. The guards were hit multiple times in their head and bodies as they went down.

Jon ran for the gate as fast as could with Dacey trailing behind then. They swung their spikes hard across the wall to get a solid hold and started climbing.

The interior was poorly built, with the outbuildings surrounding a dim lighted main keep. All of them were quite far away from the gate. No one seemed to be near the gates either. Jon noticed all this in a single glance, before going down to open the gate. Dacey kept watch from the ramparts in case any iron-born spoiled their plan.

After lifting the heavy bars, the He grabbed a lit scone from the gate and signaled for the waiting men outside that they have been successful.

The war-band on the other side got up from their crouched position and took off a slow pace toward the now open gate. They charged under cover of the night, careful not to wake up any alarm.......... Just yet.

A woman was the first one to see them. Probably it was wide open gate, sound of a hundred man marching nearby or just their bad luck. She gave a scream before Dacey shut her up with a throwing axe. But it was enough to alarm the other sentries on the walls and towers. 

 The iron-borns didn’t immediately catch on the facts that they were under attack. A few of them near the gates came out from the buildings to inspect the scream.  As they got closer, Jon and Dacey had no option but to charge them. Quickly the place was filled with screams of commoners as the rest flees away.

 The other sentries quickly sounds the horns. Hearing the screams outside and the horn, half naked warriors without armor start to pool in from different direction to fight the intruders.

Bear Islanders are the first to make it inside the castle for the Northmen followed suit by Rogvild and some of the Moat guards. Jon charged forward at a enemy soldiers at the front line. With quick reflexes he dodged the axe then promptly hacked the man's arm off, finishing off with a cut on the back. Dacey joined him as they tried to cut their way to the main keep but more iron-born warriors kept pouring in.

"There's too many of them" Dacey shouts amid the heaviest fighting, her body already covered in blood. "Where's Jory!!"

 "He's trying to keep the new recruits in line behind us" Rogvild replied from the other flank.

There was no answer from Jon as he is preoccupied not getting skewered by a spear. He puts his sword through a soldier's eye. He quickly turned and stabbed another enemy in the gut. A blunt blow was deflected by his shield and he punched the offender first then knocked him out with the butt of his sword before dispatching another soldier with a slash.

 Then their army got in through the gate. “Finally” Jon thought and then saw the rest of their lagging infantry arriving, hot on the heels of the charge.

 Seeing the rest of the Northern army only made the Iron-born more desperate. They tried to flank the arriving men, charging around a house near the gate.  Sensing the Group would be outflanked, Jon ordered Rogvild to take his men from the front row to intercept them. But he himself ended up getting exposed all by himself to the enemy.

"Fuck" he cursed as a heap of Iron-born charged at him, trying to get through the now free space. The words from the strange man in Kattegat came to his mind. Be Bold. That's what he said. He decided to stand his ground then. He was a wolf. And wolves don't flee in face of danger.

 He avoided the charge and cut through an enemy soldier. His sword glistening with blood as he swung again to cut a spear in half and then an arm. An arrow grazed his shoulder then hits one of his men behind.

Behind him Jorry gave a shout to fall back.. Which is met with cheers from the Iron-born. But quickly dies down. "They are not retreating!!. They are regrouping!" yells a captain. "Form a shield wall, scums. Push them back. "

Jon somehow managed to get back to his own men, as the Iron-born were trying to form up a wall to push out their enemies. But he had other plan. "Throw the spears!" he ordered the soldiers. The hail of missiles quickly took down the ravagers who had the shields, disorganizing them again.

Northerners quickly put their shields forward as Jory called for the shield wall. Jon discarded his battered shield and drew his axe. It was time for one final charge. 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

The sight ahead of him was brutal, full of blood and gore. He himself had several minor cuts and bruises all over. And his face and head were so full of blood that it looked like he just made a fresh kill with his teeth. All around,the street was full of Iron-born, dead or dying. They seemed almost naked without their armor on. Some probably just came running from their drunken sleeps. Dacey was busy helping one of her men to stand up. That one had a nasty gash to his forehead. The friends made eye contact across the place as Jon gave her a nod of appreciation.

Jory and his own men  were searching through the dead bodies, occasionally stopping to put wounded enemies out of their misery. When they reached him, he gave the order for them to follow up to the living quarters of the castle, where all those who didn't take part in the battle were probably was.

Behind them the town was burning. The scouts did a wonderful job lighting the fires. Even from a distance the faint shape of people running to and fro was recognizable.

 "Kill everyone who is still breathing in the castle and buildings" he grabbed Jory's arm, much to the shock to his captain.  "Up to every single man. We can't take risk of them finding out and charging us with unprovoked assault on one of the lords of the realm." It was a cruel decision. To kill defenceless servants and maids. But necessary to protect his own people. He had to do it.....he had to be merciless.

 "They will know all the same Jon". Even the illiterate iron-borns weren't dull enough not to recognize their foe.

Not now though. Not here. They couldn't take any chance risking a full blown war with Iron-Islanders. "All the same Jory, we don't take any prisoners here or leave anyone alive ,so that they can't come back to raid us even greater numbers."

 Turning to the mass gathered around him, he shouted. "Take everything that is not nailed down." much to the cheer of the soldiers in promise of wealth and plunder. "Find the children who were taken if they are in the dungeons. And Burn the castle to the ground!!"

Amidst the cheer, one old soldier drew his sword and came forward. Jon recognized him as one of those who lost kin to the raid. "Lord Bloodhair!" he thundered pointing the sword at Jon. At first, Jon was confused of the title. But it cleared as he felt his head,smeared with blood of those who he had sent to afterlife tonight. All around him, the man took up the cry one by one, drawing their swords and shouting: This was the moment when they recognized him as a Nord.

"Bloodhair!"

"Bloodhair!"

"BLOODHAIR! "

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sansa

Six moons had passed since Sansa had last seen her half brother Jon. Her mother and the septa would probably scold her for even thinking of the bastard, but Jon had always been the nicest brother to her in their little family. While she and her other siblings shared the red hues of House Tully along with their bluish eyes, Jon had father's dark hair and shades of grey belonging to House Stark and his kindness. He also seemed to care for her in a way the rest of the family didn’t seem too. So his leaving had hit her hard, way more than she let on in fear of disappointment from her mother. Her and Arya both.

Currently she was walking to the orphanage of Winterfell on her own. Some deliveries of special treats and clothes made by her mother and her company needed to be delivered to the poor children. Bran and Arya had a slight fever so their mother was keeping them home and Beth and Jeyne were still on their sewing lessons. So she was on her own. Well, sort of. She still had one of the guards and her nurse with her who were carrying the bundles, as her father wouldn’t let her wander on her own.

When she was younger, a family of three of a cobbler came to Winterfell once. Who lost all their possessions due to some accidental fire. Cold and half starved, they even caught some skin disease. Father arranged for them to stay at a guard’s house for the night before he could find them a permanent solution. But the guard’s wife didn't want the dirty beggars in her house. So she gave them some blankets and told them to sleep outside. Both of the parents of that family perished that night due to cold. Leaving only the child miraculously alive somehow.

That incident hurt her father beyond anything Sansa her ever seen. She didn't understood what was the issue. So he explained: how can he look after all the North when he failed to save only two people. A lord was like a father with hundreds of children. It was his duty to look after his children and he failed at it.

So with the expansion of Winterfell and the Wintertown, the Orphanage and public tavern was built with special care. Now it held over a hundred poor children who lost their parents due to one reason or another. All being brought up at the expense of Winterfell's coffer. And any poor hungry man could now get a plain but hearty meal for free if they couldn't fend for themselves.

 That was her father. Eddard of House Stark. Honorable and strong. As his eldest daughter, she hadn’t inherited much from him, in terms of physical characteristics. But, she had learned his lessons of duty well that day.

 As she got close to the orphanage, Several other children yelling her name and pulling her into their play greeted her. She tried to happily run towards them, before her nurse stopped her. Reminding her that she took her bath already and her lady mother won't be happy finding her dress covered in mud. Sansa tried not to make a face at her as it was unexpected for a lady. So she just settled in for distributing the things she bought from Winterfell, enjoying the look of joy from the children.

Time passed by far too quickly as it always did when she was enjoying herself. The matron had called the other children in to prepare for dinner and her guard was motioning her to get on her own path home. As they walked towards Winterfell she chatted happily with her nurse, telling her all about the things the children had shared, even though she was right beside her. The nurse, Helen knew better not to interrupt the princess of Winterfell, just shared her smile and nodded. 

"My lady Stark" The sudden call had her guard spinning on his heal, pushing Sansa behind him, hand on his sword, but got on ease at the next moment.

 Sansa, ever so curious simply popped her head out from behind her guard to see who had spoken. It was a man, not too tall by the looks of it, his face rather worn and tired from a long journey. She recognized the man as Orys, one the past guards of Winterfell who went to south with Jon. He was on a wagon with two other men.

 "Orys" her guard greeted warmly. "Didn't expect you back so soon."

"Neither did I, my friend." Orys had a serious expression now. "Have urgent news from the Moat for Lord Stark , sent by the young Jon . And some gifts as well I might add. "

"I'll take them” Sansa interrupted, still curious about the news of South and the gifts too.

 The guards simply bowed their head, reserved only for the princess of Winterfell. She was too old now for games of Knights and Maidens but the gesture still pleased her. The other guards cleared the seat for her in the wagon,as Orys whistled the horses to move forward.

She found her father in his chamber, going through a book as he paced around the room. He was wearing a long cloak of leather with a black doublet. His face broke into a smile reserved for only his family when he saw his eldest daughter. "Come in. Did you need something my child?"

"Jon sent a letter from the south father. And a wagon full of gifts for all of us." she handed him the letter.

However, as her father opened the seal and went through the letter his face started to change ending up forming an O. If it was someone else, Sansa would have thought it was rather comical.

"Is something wrong father" she questioned.

"Oh, no. No. Jon has sent gifts for all of us” He replied. “Go find your sister and brother and open them. There are silk dresses from White Harbor for you girls" he tried to sound cheerful. "Go"

As she gave her father a nod happily to go find her promised gifts, father stopped her. "Sansa" he said in a strangely quiet voice. "Would you please tell the Guard outside to fetch Robb, Ser Rodrick and the Maester? I need quick a word with them. "

New Sigil of House Snow

Chapter Text

Jon

The white wolf raced through the dark forest, paws crunching in fresh fallen snow. The stars were fading in the sky, but the night was still alive. Alive with a thousand scents, with pine and dirt and prey burrowed in the ground.

The wolf followed this last trail, followed fur and claws and a tiny beating heart, and brought his teeth down with a snap. Hot blood poured into his mouth, and the wolf was satisfied as he lay on the ground and tore apart his kill.

A twig snapped and the wolf turned. He found a familiar scent on the air. A scent that pushed the wolf back to four paws.

A very faint sound of hooves beating upon the ground in a thumping gait and dark leaves whipping in the air was audible after waiting a few moment. The moon shone menacingly overhead overhead as a low snarl accompanied silent paws flashing through the undergrowth. Prey. Hunt. Kill.

The wolf bounded across the thick snow with practiced ease. The scent was getting thicker now. It was heading further north, further up through the mountains and towards a large glacier. He could see the white icy spikes in the distance. The air was cold even under thick fur, but the wolf hungered. It would be a large elk - probably weakened and hungry itself. It would be good prey, worth the hunt.

The landscape cracked into rolling valleys and frozen rivers across the rocky, snow covered ground. The glacier was thick in the distance, looming over the world like a blue and black wall of solid, serrated ice. Only the toughest soldier pines trees stood amidst this mountainous ground. The elk’s smell became sharper, more vivid on the fierce wind. The scent was stronger than expected. It wasn't a weakened elk; it smelt more like a young buck. A strong beast, one hardy enough to survive the cold. It would be a more difficult hunt, then, but still a worthwhile one.

The wolf approached the glacier slowly. The temperature dropped further. That caused the wolf to pause. The air was thick with an unnatural cold. The wolf hesitated. His every hair was suddenly on edge.

The wolf felt the warning in the wind. The wind howled through the canyons, a low shriek emanating through the world.It felt the darkness in the air before it smelt the scent. The scent of death. Without warning, the wolf turned and ran.

The direwolf wasn't easily scared, but it was afraid now.

The cold was creeping over the mountains. It was heading south.

The smell of death followed.

The sound of howling whistled in the echoing over the mountains.
The situation was overturned in a flash. The predator was the prey now.

The wolf burst from a under bush,growing, it's powerful jaws snapping ferociously.

South. Need to go to south.

The chase stopped after a while. A new scent was in the air. Smoke and blood. The wolf was no stranger to it. Smoke meant fire. Fire was protection.

It nearly stumbled in front of the small fire, the long legs couldn't take much of pounding. There was a man attending the flames. The man rolled back his hood and turned his head,grey eyes gazing curiously. He had a long single braid, his head shaved on both sides. Runes of first men were carved around the shaved spaces. A sword was slung on his back.

Around them the cold stopped. And the scent of death began to turn into dark shadows. Probing at the blanket of warmth emerging from the fire. Looking for a way in.

The man got back up from his crouched position, drawing his sword. The sword was fire itself. Radiating heat and light, it was drawing power from the earth. The flames began to change their shape. Dragons and Direwolves, Bears and Giants, Moose and Mermen with tridents. And many more. He brought the flaming down as they all charged together at the shadows.

Thousand of leagues South Jon Snow roused suddenly to his ragged breath. He slowly opened his laden eyes, trying to get up.

The snout of his wolf collided right with his head. Ghost.

The wolf was staring right into eyes. He could still feel the phantom sensation of snow under his paws, the memory of hunting and being hunted. Freedom and Fear together.

Several moment passed quietly, before the wolf started licking at his face like it was totally normal. Nope. That won't do.

"Don't do that". Jon shoved his wolf off him, turning in his bed to get back to sleep after the crazy dream. Just one of few hundreds. It was nothing new.

Though the dream was different. It felt more like a memory rather than a warg dream. And the message was clear. North. The Gods wanted him to go North.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Jon read his letters, while eating his breakfast silently in his long-hall. The stew was delicious. Made of bone broth, and boiled small shrimps, clams, wild greens with rare spices imported from White harbour. But his father's instruction was preventing his merriment. I am tired of hearing his little instructions to be a good little boy playing with a Lordship.

He almost burned the parchment in annoyance. Instead he took a sip of mead,brewed right in Snowfall for trading with other houses. I have to do something. Lord Stark wanted him to give up some of his responsibilities to Jory and continue his lessons under the new maester who would arrive from Oldtown. "Like hell I will." he thought. The Moat belonged to me. I'm not giving up my right to anyone .

It was a relief when Arney,his steward opened the door to tell him that the men from House Reed have arrived. Jon sent the letters aside. "Tell them to come in." He was tad nervous about the trade deal he was going to make with them. "Gather the guests in the hall. I will join them after this. "

"They're already in the hall, my Lord. Everybody is happy about the wedding and drinking,but none wants to move their butts to do the works." He walked off muttering about unnecessary feasts and slobs. Haldur and Lyn was getting married under the blessings of Jon in his new hall in Snowfall. Unfortunately for Arney, he was the Castle steward and arranging the whole affair landed on his head. Literally.

The men took a bow as they entered the room. Both men were dressed in primitive fibre woven clothes,animal skin cloaks draped over them. "Lord Reed sends his greetings, my lord." One of them spoke up who introduced himself as Brother of Lady Jeyne Reed. "What he can do for a mainlander lord,pray tell? "

"As you will " Jon began,sensing that they wanted him to take lead. "You know what happened on our raid to Iron Islands, I take it?. It was necessary to make the Islanders realise that they are not welcome in our shores. That purpose was successful for us to say the least. But it left our western neighbours very unhappy." Iron-borns were not just unhappy,they were literally out for blood and vengance. They increased their raiding lot more as a response. Not all of the raids were successful, but those were successful left  bloody corpses and burned buildings behind, seemingly gone in the blink of an eye.

"Why my lord have chosen us on this matter? " The taller of the two men took a more leaning approach. "We're not off a noble house by any chance. Even our own countrymen look down upon us, calling us mud-men and bog-devils."

Those facts were true though. The battle tactics of cangromen were infamous. Hiding behind the thick foliage of the Neck and picking up their enemies one at a time with poisonous arrows. Effective no doubt, but it also earned them a title of cowardice given by their enemies.

"I need scouts to guard my shores. And more men to fight in my name if the Iron-borns raid in greater numbers. A military alliance to be frank" Jon laid out his plans in front of them. "In return, I will give you crops suitable for your lands. All the iron forged weapons you need. Also the markets of my land will be open for trade. "

Hyet, the brother of Lady Reed waited a while before agreeing to the pact. It made sense for the House Reed,providing good opportunity for them to be recognised as a proper lordly house. Jon poured wine for them to strengthen the treaty, taking a glass for himself. One more step to secure the safety of the people. Now need to secure my hold over my lands.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

A cheer went up as Haldur took his bride into his arms. The young pair, bit mismatched in age, led all those assembled to the small feasting hall.

House Dustin provided the tables, a present to please Jon far more the groom. At the table of honor, Jon sat alone. Around him the notable members of his household, Jory, Rogvild and envoys from the other houses were seated. Most of the guests who made the journey was present on account of business. Members from Houses Reed came because of an invitation to make military pacts. Clans from Flint's Finger had to come because their lands were suffering from increased Iron-born raids. They offered mutual protection treaty in exchange of iron ores from the mountains to supply the forges of the Moat and land for those who wished to farm. House Rysell and Dustin invited themselves in because they needed to get access to the trade of Kattegat for less tax. The port was quickly growing to become a large trading center, commanding the flow of goods between North to Riverlands.

The guards and people of Snowfall filled the other two tables. Jon built his long-hall in the village because the continuous construction noises in the castle were becoming too much for him to bear. The hall could bear no more, even if anyone else had been inclined to attend.

Soup of turnips, onions, salsify root, and barleycorn; a main course of brazed venison and loaves of spelt-grain bread, boiled rice and a dessert of cranberry pie was modest fare, but nothing to feel poorly about. Most of the food brought by the guests went to the Haldur's new farm that Jon gifted him. Other lordly guests might have taken insult at that, but Jory merely jested that Jon had obviously not forgotten his father’s words in saving this boon for winter. No one appeared put out.

During the feast, Haldur acted more refined than Jon expected. He demurely assisted his young bride with the meal, cutting her meat off the bone and even feeding her at times. Lyn blushed at the attention, but her smile never wavered.

After the meal, the guests stacked the tables against the wall to make room for dancing. Both the bride and groom were too bashful to begin the revelry, but a jubilant Jory and a wine-besotted Rogvild took the young couple's place by locking elbows and swinging each other about. The attendees supplied their own songs, half singing and half shouting, while stomping out a rhythm on the wooden floor.

He found himself thinking of Winterfell. A dark shadow had hung over the growing peace and prosperity of his people. Jon stayed reserve more than anyone.Father isn't here. Neither are my sisters or brothers. And I sacrificed my home to gain a castle. Would it be better if he stayed back, burying his ambition to overcome the bastard tag. It wouldn't certainly be this lonely. 

He shook his mind free of old happy memories of loved ones. Turning his attention back to the celebration at hand, Jon smiled inwardly as Jory found himself without a dancing partner at the change; Haldur refused to switch when everyone else did. Lyn gave him a apologetic look

Roar of laughter and thumping of table ensued as proper appreciation to the dance routine were showed. But Jon stayed sober. Touching the drinks placed in front of him,not getting into them. He was a Lord, a Shepherd of men. He needed act like one. A lord must know his men well, from a distance. The wise words of Eddard Stark.

“The celebration is almost complete,” he said, after a while. “But there is just one more thing.”

The crowd laughed and started to surge forward only stayed by Jon raising his hand.

“Actually, there are two matters I wanted to resolve. I was going to do this later but now would seem to be the time." Jon repeated, addressing the bridal table.

“Haldur and Lyn. You both come from fine families. Families that have demonstrated their loyalty to my House. Without good people such as you we could not have hoped to prevail against the forces opposed to us.” The bride blushed at the flattery and looked down in embarrassment at the table. To Lyn’s side her brother and father glowed with the praise.

"My men from Winterfell." He turned to the men from home. "You've fought and bled with me side by side. As the gods as my witness, I say this. No one can ask for better companions."

Jon turned to face the hall while raising his goblet, shouting the newly selected words of his house. "For our people!!!"

The audience responded merrily, loudly repeating "For our people!!!" and took a drink from their own cups.

"I want to announce Haldur as the master-at-arms here at the Moat. And the duty of the Captain of the guards will be continued by Rogvild". He said in a determined voice.

Around the new appointed officers their friends cheered and shouted. But sitting just under his table Jory looked shocked. He clearly had no idea why Jon would replace him.

"And for Jory Cassel, a man all of us present here look up to and respect " Jon added quickly. " I declare him as the Lord of Kattegat. He and his heirs would hold this title from this day to the end of days."

If Jory was shocked a while ago, it looked like he just had saw a living dragon in front of him. Jon couldn't blame him. He just elevated House Cassel from a sworn house to a lordly status. Given the booming prosperity of Kattegat, their power and wealth would only grow. To ensure his own power over them however, the land grant only gave Jory the rule over the town. The port and all the income from it would go to Jon like before. House Cassel could have their own ships and collect the taxes.

The men overcoming this sudden news, all gathered around him, lifting Jory on their shoulders. Parading and cheering around the hall.

Jon sat back in his chair, letting his men to go at it. It would be sad to see Jory leave. He was like family. And losing family so far from home was a rough blow. But it was necessary to secure his power over his own land. Now with Jory having to mind in his own land, father or anyone else wouldn't be able to question his authority.

Later in the day, long into the ceremony and after the second singing of The Bear and the Maiden Fair, the men shouted, “The Wolves and the Maiden Fair!” and the bedding ceremony began. With the crowd short on women and long on men, Haldur was pushed to the stairs partially clothed, while Lyn was carried overhead and down to her smallclothes before she was out of the hall. The rest of the men followed after them, crowding the rotunda in the middle of the spiraling stairs. Most yelled bawdy jests upward, while Jon and the brides parents shouted for caution, watching her held much higher than the railings.

It was a tiring day.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Robb

Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell and The North gave out a sigh of content as he, Theon, Heirs of House Cerwyn and Tallhart finally reached their destination after staying at the road for two weeks. It was his first command of men without any supervision from elders and he was sure of doing a pretty good job at it. He had to force his father quite hard to let him led the survey of Sea Dragon Point. When Lord Stark said he was too young for this job, he argued that Jon Snow, his brother, was of the same age and doing a wonderful job at managing his own land. Not wanting this comparison to reach up to his wife's ears, his father quickly gave up.

Robb understood the point clearly where he was coming from. If Catelyn Stark heard of her husband's bastard son surpassing her own children, it would mean catastrophe. When his mother heard the absurd rumors of Jon Snow invading Iron Islands and killing thousands of people, she ran to his father's solar foaming at the mouth, demanding Jon to be brought back at once and be punished as harshly as possible, fearing the start of another full blown war. Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrick tried to withstand the fury for a few moments, then retread quickly. Personally, he couldn't understand what the issue was, if a few Iron-born were killed while trying to raid the North. They clearly deserved it. Also the secret party that was going on in the Guardhouse as a celebration of North's victory, was far more inviting, so he bailed as well. Leaving his father alone to deal with the raging storm.

When Robb first saw the Castle of Sea Dragon point, he was amazed. He had never been this far west before and he had to admit, it was a sight to see. The area was thinly populated and was filled with hills and bogs. On the highest hills stood weirdwood circles, and some ruins of ancient strongholds dotted the landscape. They weren't big but Father had said that they were used for laying the foundations of the new Keep and surrounding buildings.

The castle was on top of the largest hill, where another Keep had once stood. The construction for the keep were already done, and the moat already dug out, all that he had to do was widen the moat and start the survey work.

Men from all around the Stony Shore was starting to pool in the under the lands of the keep, claiming small patches of land for their houses in the town. Wolfs-wood men were bringing woods, stone masons from the Mountain clans were bringing supply wagons filled with stone and many more from all over. There were hundreds of men looking for small pay for their trade and more coming every day.

Setting his party up in the keep, Robb sent Cley Cerwyn to find Warrick Manderly, a distant member of House Manderly who was serving as the Castellan of the Keep and ship-master. The young Knight introduced him to the ledger and the construction map and he was up to the task. Fortified with the help of Maester's apprentices,all the name of the people coming to live in town were being noted down, exports from the land was being stored and new recruits were being trained as guardsmen. Cley Cerwyn and Benfred Tallhart were busy managing the business of their own houses,setting the route of trading caravans and helping with the building process. Theon was in the docks under Ser Warrick, learning about ships as much as he could,befitting a Seamen.

To gain the respect of the men, Robb worked close to the workers. As first he struggled to keep up with the grown men, but they helped their young lord get through. By the end of it, he could proudly say the the men were eyeing him with a new sense of respect and he was helping in creating something that would last long after his lifetime.

While working near the wall one day, he was called by a guardsmen to the port, informing a ship was seen coming to the port and Ser Manderly requested his presence . Putting on his cloak quickly, he reached the nearby tower. All the young lords were present as well, excited about the first ship coming to the port.

After a few moments however, Theon started to clinch his fists on and off.

"What's wrong with you now? " He asked Theon. Surprised at his attitude.

"Look at that fucking sail" Theon replied. "Look carefully. "

The sea was a bit misty. But the overall sigil could be seen. Over a long-ship with a dragon prow, a large sail was set, flying Twin Axe crossed over a round Shield banner.

"I still don't recognise it " Robb admitted, a bit ashamed. He finished his lessons on the sigils and the words of the Noble houses a long time ago.

"It's the sigil of Bloodhair." It was Warrick who spoke up this time. "Your brother,Lord Robb. Of Jon Snow."

Chapter Text

"Wake Early If You Want Aanother Man's Life or Land. No Land For The Lazy Wolf. No Battles Won in Bed."
- Sayinngs Of Rickon The Red, A Collection of The Old Gods.

Just off the west coast of present-day Westerlands, lies the small island of Iona, a grassy promontory with white sandy beaches, rising up out of the Western Sea. Today it is a place of quiet contemplation, relatively undisturbed by the tour groups or visiting school children wandering among its enchanted ruins. Even for those who know, it is easy to forget that twelve centuries ago, these idyllic shores were the scenes of unimaginable violence. 
The monastery of Iona was the symbolic heart of Faith Of The Seven, one of the oldest and most important religious centers in Western Westeros. 

In the early centuries, the brothers came to seek seclusion among the ‘desert’ of the Western Ocean, and built simple beehive-shaped stone huts where they could concentrate on their prayers and vows of poverty and obedience. Over time, however, the small community became a major pilgrimage site, and a great medieval center of learning. It developed into a training school for septons with special rooms for the copying of manuscripts called scriptoriums that produced works of art famous throughout Westeros.

In 299, however, a ripple of fear penetrated the tranquility. Rumors reached the monks of terrible raids to the east, sister monasteries devastated by strange northern heathens. Early the next year, while the brothers were celebrating a holy day, ships with prows carved to resemble serpents and dragons slipped onto the beach below the main abbey. 

Leaping onto the white sand of a shoreline, which would later bear the name ‘Martyr’s Bay’ in memory of the slain, the raiders headed for the buildings, cutting down the septons they found along the way. Smashing open the doors, they killed anyone who tried to resist, drenching the stone floors of the chapel with blood. Anything that looked valuable was seized, including rich vestments which were ripped off of the bodies of the dead or dying. 

As the surviving septons fled in all directions, the attackers set fire to the great abbey and then raced down to the beach with their considerable loot. Seemingly in the blink of an eye they were gone. Left behind were bloody corpses, burning buildings, and a shattered community. 

The raids on the Westerlands were only the beginning of a great hammer blow that fell on an unprepared Westorosi Kingdom. The broken bodies and the blackened shells of buildings in places like Iona would be all too common in the centuries to come. 

The suddenness of the violence left many occupants of Westeros disoriented and anxious. The shock and despair can still be felt in the words of Alcuin, an Reachman septon writing from King Joffery’s capital of King's Landing after one of the first raids.  

“…never before in Westeros has such a terror appeared as this we have now suffered at the hands of the heathen.” 

The fact that the word ‘Viking’ still conjures up that image of black-haired barbarians leaping off of dragon ships to plunder a sept – is a testament to the trauma inflicted on Western Faith Of Seven during the three hundred years of the Viking Age. It is burned into our collective memory. 

There is, even now, something alien about those northern warriors. The origin of the word ‘viking’ itself is unknown. Contemporary third century records call the raiders ‘Northmen’, ‘Norse’, or ‘Heathen’. The Westlandars and Reachmen, frequent targets of their attacks, did have a word ‘wicing’ which meant ‘sea-raider’, but it first appears only in the seventh century. A better explanation comes from the Vikings themselves. In Old Norse vic meant inlet or bay and the Vic district near the Moat Cailin Fjord was a main source of iron used in sword production. The word ‘Viking’ probably started off as a reference to men from the Vic district and gradually came to include all Northern raiders.

Endless speculation has centered on the question of why the Vikings suddenly erupted from their lands in the third century. Theories have ranged from overpopulation and political pressure to climate change and technological innovation.

The stories reflect a much older oral tradition, and they allow us to hear the spirit, if not the exact words, of the tales that Viking poets told to pass the long northern nights. They illustrate the Viking mindset in the same way that the Ballads illuminates that of the ancient Targaryens: a true warrior went out, gained riches, built great halls and handsomely rewarded his loyal followers. Glory – and kingships – could only be won on the battlefield.  

Fired by this mindset, young Northern men sailed out to the glittering lands to the south and east of The North to win everlasting fame. A measure of their success can be found in the anxious prayers that soon echoed from Westerosi Sept.

The abbey of St. Vaast on the northern coast of Sunspear included in its daily chants the phrase “Deliver us, God, from the savage race of Northmen which lays waste our realms.” It was a sentiment that many would soon share, from Oldtown in the east to the New Found Land's in the West.

Chapter Text

Robb

Robb spotted the man before the ship made it to the docks. He was standing high on the prow, singing an old rowing hymn. 

"Þat kann ek it ellifta:
ef ek skal til orrostu leiða langvini,
und randir ek gel,
en þeir með ríki fara
heilir hildar til, heilir hildi frá,
koma þeir heilir hvaðan." 

The crew rowing were repeating slowly, as if echoing each lines. 

"If needs I must lead
To the fight my long-loved friends;
I sing in the shields, | and in strength they go
Whole to the field of fight,
Whole from the field of fight,
And whole they come thence home." 

Robb recognised a few lines in the old tongue, from the lessons the took from Maester Luwin. 

He was taller than him but nowhere near the height of their Father. Was of lean build and had dark locks that fell to his shoulders. But the thing that he noticed the most was the man's piercing black eyes, it was if their gaze was piercing straight through him, shinning in the shadows of the hood. 

The man was wearing a long cloak with what looked to be simple black leather doublet underneath accompanied by simple trousers and riding boots. Pinned to the breast of the doublet was a silver brooch; it looked familiar but he couldn't place where he had seen it before.

Around his waist was a belt that held a sheath in which, what looked to be a longsword. He couldn't see the hilt but the sheath itself looked to be expensive and of high quality.

Judging by his clothes and possessions, he knew that this man had to be either highborn or and extremely wealthy smallfolk. The sword sheath alone looked like it would cost quite a few gold dragons, and most of the small folk went all their lives without ever seeing a single gold dragon. Therefore he had to be highborn, but he wasn't wearing any visible crests or signs of which house he could belong to, so normal people would not have any idea who he was or where he was from. 

The long-ship slowly made it's way to the harbor. Workers moved forward to help securing the ropes to the ships sides,making sure it didn't float off. Robb Kept looking as the soldiers disembarked, as the hooded man led them to the watchtower. 

He didn’t look like Robb's brother. The was no similarity to the boy exported from Winterfell to the man standing in front of him now. He could feel his friends surprised responses all around him. Even Theon was so surprised that he forgot to jest. 

A few tensed moments passed before the the man screamed "Brother!!!", startled him and gave him a bear hug. Robb barley managed to return it. 

"What is wrong with you, Robb?" Jon asked him, as he was still trying to overcome his surprise. "Last time we saw each other was only over a year ago. And you act like you've forgot who I am!" 

"You tell me, brother" he replied, finally finding his tongue. Punching him slightly in the stomach like they used to when they were kids. Jon buckled a bit to match the pressure. 

"You look so different. You never write. Barely send words.  And How the hell you managed that scar on your face." 

"Leave him be, Robb", Cley and Benfred move forward, elbowing to move Theon along the way. " Allow us to meet the great Lord Bloodhair!!". 

Robb took a step back allowing his friends to greet his brother. They immediately started to roughen Jon up but took a step back suddenly. A large shadow stalked forward and gave the Cerwyn heir a heavy headbutt to the stomach. It had enough force behind it to knock him to the ground. Before Robb knew it the creature was standing over Cley, muzzle above his face. Just as he was about to call for the men to kill the animal he noticed he's brother laughing.  

What the fuck is that thing!?" Theon said beside him. "Look at the size of it. It's a freak."

Before any of the men could make a move Jon stuck is hand in the air and told the, not to move and ordered no one to shoot the animal.

"He's mine" Jon called out. "Calm down people." 

First Robb thought that it's a giant of a dog. But it was not. Looking more closely he saw that It's legs were longer and head larger than a dog, its muzzle was also longer and more pronounced. A Wolf. His brother had a pet wolf. 

Jon slowly pulled the wolf away and gave the leash to his lead man. By then, all his warriors has left the ship, carrying their belongings and weapons in hands, happy to touch their feet on the soil again. He recognised some of them. Guards and serfs who used to live in Winterfell. 

Robb had questions, many of them. On Jon's adventures, on how did he tame a wolf, most of all on how he is. But still allowed the Castellan to show the men to the keep to get their rests.

He was somewhat relieved when Jon touched him on the shoulder while passing. "I know you have many question." his brother tells him. "I'll come find you after I'm done setting my men up."

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

During the night all the men gathered in the dining of the keep to take their dinner. Robb tried to talk with Jon but he was too busy talking with Warrick Manderly, noting down routes on the map, speaking terms on which he had no idea. Eventually he grew tired of just sitting on the high table and went outside towards the training center. 

He stayed in the same spot slashing at the training dummy for about half an hour before he heard footsteps entering the yard. Turning around he saw Jon standing there watching as he worked the sword against the training dummy. Jon gaze seemed to hold a questioning look as if to ask if he would be willing to talk. 

Nodding his head and beckoning his brother over, Robb returned to his training. Jon was standing behind him when he first spoke. "You know, its easier to get more power behind your slash if you widen you stance. Place you leading hand above your other and twist your body as you bring the sword down."

Doing as his brother suggested, Robb found he was able to slash harder than before.

"I'm sorry for ignoring you." Jon said in an apologetic tone.

Nodding his head in consent, Robb placed the training sword back in one of the barrels by the armoury and made to follow his brother.

He lead them out of the courtyard and towards the Godswood. Once inside the three acre woods he led them straight towards centre where the goodswood stood. Sitting down on the rock next to the tree, Robb motioned for Jon to join him.

"Better start speaking Snow. Or I'll knock your little bloody ass to the ground."

So Jon told him. From how he got Ghost, his wolf pup to the raid he lead on Iron Islands, why now he is here. There were little pauses here and there but he decided to ignore that for now. They stayed in silence for a while after Jon was done.He listened as the birds sang and the leaves ruffled. A Stark, even a bastard one,alone in the world was terrible. After a few moments of silence Robb spoke.

"Father was scared you know. He immediately wanted to leave for the Moat to get you back but Ser Rodrick held him. Said to have more faith on you."

The acknowledgement of their father's love made Jon smile. "How's our brother and sister's?" 

At that, Robb also smiled. Home. He already started to miss it. "Bran has found a new hobby. Climbing the walls of the building. And our sisters miss you. Sansa won't say it. But I know she does too." 

The news from home made his brother happy too. He could see the actual light in his eyes now. From the boy with whom he used to play in Winterfell. "And what about Arya?" 

Robb grimaced. Arya was not happy at all that Mother confiscated the gold-hilted dagger that Jon gave him. He took it for himself then and let her play with it when their mother wasn’t around. "Mother was very angry at the fact that you gave her such a gift. She threw it away."

Jon waited a while before answering. "I love you brother. And always will. But I Don't give two shits on what your mother thinks." 

They both sat quietly, not speaking the unpleasant things trying to come out from their mouth.


"Let's go back." Jon said, after getting up. "I've quite a few surprises for you in the coming days."

Jon

The boat swayed with the motion of the oars—forward and back, forward and back. The rocking could never match the exhilaration of being tossed on the open ocean, but it was comforting in its predictability. Jon stared out towards shore, watching the countryside of Bay Of Ice drift by. Beyond the next ridge, a few wisps of smoke coalesced into a pale column. Ulfric, his lead man was quick to point it out, as if Jon had no eyes of his own. “There, a village?”

Jon shrugged apathetically. “Probably.”

The warrior huffed the way he did when he thought his lord was being slow. “Well? Shall we disembark?”

The lord shook his head. “Not here. We aren’t far enough out yet.”

“We passed the last Nothern village days ago.”

“You don’t know that. There a lot more villages inside these mountains.”

“What are we here for, if not to go down and set up a base?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “What is the point of setting up a base in our own lands? If there is any resource worth collecting someone is already there. We need to expand." 

Ulfric was not happy. "Setting up camp in the wildling territory  is suicide, my lord." 

Jon rolled his shoulders. “Perhaps. All the same, we’re not going to that village.” He turned and leaned against the hull, looking out over his men and the other two long-boats beyond them. If Ulfric had had his way, they would still be in Sea Dragon Point. Gathering furs and timbers to be exported in the Riverlands. But Ulfric had little idea about coins and ships. Trafficking goods from one port to another would bring very little gold to his coffers. They would need a more cheaper, plentier  source of imports. And the lands beyond the wall offered a perfect one. Also not all of his men were warriors. Good hunters and sailors perhaps. But not warriors to fight bloody battles. To match the iron-born threat he needed time harden them up. Time to make them seasoned warriors before he could set them up to protect his lands. 

His was not a popular opinion, even among his closest allies.

His eyes sought out Robb, perhaps looking for someone more likely to take his side. He found only more frustration. His brother was, thus far, not precisely enjoying his first voyage. He sat curled near the prow, looking—and likely feeling—quite useless. He tried rowing, but was hastily relieved of the duty when he kept fouling the oars. Now, he sat with a whetstone, sharpening an axe that had never tasted blood and certainly didn’t need honing. Same was with Cerwyn and Tallhart. All three of them got sea-sick after the first day. Theon on the other hand was doing much better but decided to stay in one of the other ships. 

"Lord", Zhing, the Yi-Tish ship-master pointed out from the steering oar at the noon. They were sailing around the Frozen Shore by then. A massive galley was docked a few yards from what it looked like a primitive village near the sea. Large heap of smoke was visible  from in the horizon. 

Jon gave Ulfric a kick to wake him up who decided it was a good time to take a nap. " What's that doing so far up North." 

Zhing was already inspecting it with his spy-glass. "It's a slaver galley Lord. Though I don't recognise the sail." He passed steer to another man to get near Jon. "What to do?" 

He waited a while before answering. An already made camp and good chance to seize it. Opportunities like this are hard to come by. "Slavery is illegal in Westeros.Take her to the shore."

Turing to other ships he shouted " Men!! On alert!! Follow the lead." It didn’t took a second shout to alert the others. Captains of the ships, both veterans immediately started to give orders to men to get their armors and weapons." 

It took a few moments to understand what was going on for Robb. He scrambled his way to Jon demanding explanations. Jon instead handed him a bow and quiver full of arrows. "Get in your armor, brother. And Stay behind the men." Cley and Benfred followed suit. 

By the time, they made to the shore, a wind had risen in the western sky. His men rowed with everything they had to keep from being battered by the water. There were screams of wildlings from their poorly made huts as they were being dragged by brown skinned foreigners and put in shackles. Fortunately, the village seemed bigger than it looked and all the slavers were busy hunting down as many slave as they could, leaving no lookouts. Jon noticed all these in a single glance and ordered a skirmish tactic. 

The younger men, with Robb,Cley and Benfred were given javelins, arrows and were ordered to stay behind. While Jon himself, Theon and Ulfric would be on the front line with rest of the men. All three of them tried to protest but were pushed back to the line. 

The battle was short and bloody as the slavers weren't aware of their presence before they got hit by a volley of missiles. Jon fought with his new favourite weapon, a four and half feet long thin lipped axe which he used like a pole-arm . 

The field was exciting and they tore through the ranks with whip speed, his hand getting bloodier and bloodier. He got struck hard on his head by a shield and got knocked to the ground, but kicked out with his legs and managed to take the man down also. Before he could get up, Jon was on the man stabbing his with his sword. A few feet away Theon got also taken down and he wasn’t so lucky. His foe nearly finished him off but Jon threw his sword at him, hitting him in the back. For once, the squid had a look of gratitude on his face, not of arrogance. 

As the battle cooled, he took a look around him. There were a still a few scattered  skirmishes. "Hlaoa Hann allr" he screamed, ordering to kill all of the slavers. And took a step down to look around. The number of their enemies dead outnumbered those still alive. 

Kneeling down, he smeared the blood on his hands on his Hair. A ritual he enjoyed on the heat of battle, which gave him his nickname. 

"Feels good, doesn't it?" a voice spoke from behind, startling him. He nearly grabbed his axe but instead his jaw dropped as he looked behind. The girl from Kattegat he met, many months ago were there. 

"Rhae, how did you get here!!" He inquired, overcoming his surprise. "Were you in one of the ships?" 

"I go wherever the gods goes." Instead the girl took a seat beside him. She looked much better and lively since their last meet."They're watching you now." 

"The man from the healer's house." Jon remembered. "Is he one of the old gods?"

"No. All-father is much older than the spirits of the forest. He was a god of the first men before they came to this land.A god of War and Wisdom." 

Jon wanted to know more but Robb called his name and limped his way to him. Turing his head he saw that Rhae was gone. Like the flight of a raven. 

So he went forward to check on his brother. Robb's face was completely pale. No doubt from the shock of his first battle. The brother's embraced as Robb spoke. " Can you see them,Jon?" 

"See what" he was even more confused now. 

"The ravens around us." Robb whispered."Look at the sky! I asked Benfred but he told me I was just seeing things." 

When Jon looked up he could see them too then. Hundreds of ravens were flying above their head. Thunder rumbled across the sky. Around the flashes it looked like the birds were dragging the soul of the fallen warriors from their body. 

"The gods are here" he whispered back.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Varamyr

Varamyr crouched low, bow at the ready.

The mountain goat herd was unaware, digging through the fresh fallen snow to find the last autumn grass. The largest of them was three time his size. He knew if he could bring it down, he and his thralls would eat well for a day. He was often fed by his animals, it was only natural that he would return the favour sometimes. Stalking a beautiful maid was tiring job for them after all. 

Normally whenever he desired a woman he sent his shadow cat to stalk her, and whatever girl he’d cast his eye upon would follow meekly to his bed. Some came weeping, aye, but still they came. Varamyr gave them his seed, took a hank of their hair to remember them by, and sent them back.From time to time, some village hero would come with spear in hand to slay the beastling and save a sister or a lover or a daughter. Those he killed, but he never harmed the women. But this bitch was different. Val was not just any free folk women. She was the daughter of Hakon. The old fool was the chief of a village and had his men following him around like a fucking kneeler. And Hakon might be old himself but he was still a formidable warrior by his own right. Men from all around the Antler river paid heeds to his words,sought advice from him in case of quarrels. A word from him and the great Varamyr Fiveskin would find himself being hunted by an entire village. 

He himself had been a lord of sorts. He lived alone in a hall of moss and mud and hewn logs that had once been his mentor's, attended by his beasts. A dozen villages did him homage in bread and salt and cider, offering him fruit from their orchards and vegetables from their gardens. In return, he kept their land safe from other raiders and horn-foot men. But he wouldn’t count himself be joined by them in case of a fight. Especially in one over some girl. 

Varamyr shifted, aiming his arrow at the largest goat's heart. It just needed to move a little bit closer... a bit more.....There! 

The arrow burried  itself in the beast's leg. The animal let out a bellow of pain and the herd scattered, their injured fellow struggling to stagger off after them. 

The next one hit home; hitting the animal's side and sending the goat crashing to the ground. He emerged from his hiding place, making his way to the dying beast. It's blood painting the snow in red. He took a bone knife and slit the throat. Then knelt down to cut a large piece from himself and the shadow-cat. Leaving the rest for the wolves. His snow-bear liked to hunt for his own meat. 

He dragged the leg piece to the make-shift lookout he built for the day to return to his watch. Val entered in there in the morning and hadn’t left yet. 

The meat he cut in little pieces, to put them in the copper pot. The bones were hard to break but he managed with his stone-axe. Putting all of them in the pot, he mixed some roots and a bit of ale. The smoke of pine branches were intoxicating as he increased the fuel in the fire. In the smoke, he could almost see the victory he would gain soon enough. Oh he plans he had for the girl. He wouldn’t kill her just yet. He would wait to use her to break her father first. Maybe then. Or perhaps she would give her a child worthy of passing his gifts. 

First time he saw Val was in a celebration fire near her father's village, just over a year ago. The girl was different than the others he bedded over the years. Bitch had a body like a goddesses, thick soft curls framed in a braid, tan face, red lips leaving his head dizzy and his mind confused. A bit young for his taste, but reached womenhood far earlier than her age. He knew he had to had her. 

So he went to her father and made his introduction. Instead of just bedding the girl like he would with any other women, he wanted to get her hand for himself. When Hakon heard his intention, he went mad. Claiming he was very aware Of Varamyr's reputation. Then, words changed to threat and he found the men all around the fire getting up, grabbing arms in their hands. So he had to leave. But not before promised all the present folk that this would end in blood for them. For someone of his reputation wouldn’t be insulted by an old man. 

Varamyr had the closest things wargs had for a king. Once, when he was ten, Haggon, his mentor had taken him to a gathering of such. The wargs were the most numerous in that company, but the boy had found the others stranger and more fascinating. Borroq looked so much like his boar that all he lacked was tusks, Orell had his eagle, Briar her shadowcat (the moment he saw them, he wanted a shadow-cat of his own), the goat woman Grisella …None of them had been as strong as Varamyr Fiveskins, though, not even Haggon, tall and grim with his hands as hard as stone. The hunter died weeping after Varamyr took Greyskin from him, driving him out to claim the beast for his own. No second life for you,old man. Most would say it murder, but he saw only mercy. 

Years later he had tried to find his parents, to tell them that their puny son had become the great Varamyr, the son they discarded but both of them were dead and burned. Gone into the trees and streams, gone into the rocks and earth. Gone to dirt and ashes. That was what the woods witch told his mother, the day  his brother died. Lump did not want to be a clod of earth. The boy had dreamed of a day when bards would sing of his deeds and pretty girls would kiss him. When I am grown I will be the King-Beyond-the-Wall, he had promised himself. He never had, but he had come close. His name was one men feared. He rode to battle on the back of a snow bear thirteen feet tall, kept three wolves and a shadow-cat in thrall. A King in all but name. 

He was so busy reminiscing  the past that he didn’t even notice the massive galley sailing right up to the beach. Strange figures existed from it, began to seizing the man and women, using blunt weapons. Fucking Slavers form the South. The free folk didn’t stand a chance. Even the large red-haired chieftain  and his sons were being rounded up. "Fuck" he thought. Varamyr had half a mind to storm the village using his beasts to find the girl but those Southerners were too many in number. His dreams of bedding the most beautiful girl was vaporizing right before his eyes. 

But then three new ships arrived and joined the fight against the slavers. The boy leading these men were of lands just south of the wall, he noticed as he looked through the shadow-cats eye. Maybe he still had a chance.  

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Jon

"They were indeed a wild-looking people" Jon decided. Mostly dark-haired like him. Nearly all of them shared very similar looks to each other. Indeed, a stranger would have found difficulty in distinguishing them apart except by their ages. 

The men looked coarse faced and crushed looking as they were being unchained from their shackles. Wildlings were hardy people. But they lost families in the hand of the slavers. Many of the men who tried to resist were killed. And the rest were severely beaten by iron clubs. 

Jon sat down behind a chained women to free her. "It's alright. I'm just going to set you free", he assured. He had to use a hatchet to break the chain. Instead of thanking him, she ran away as soon as he was done.  

Sighing he got up, hoping to go to another direction to find some calm, while his men were busy with the task of freeing the wildlings. Instead loud screams of threats took his ear. 

" Calm down. You crazy fuck!" Ulfric swore while holding a small hatchet intended for breaking the chains. "I'm only trying to set you free." 

Walking forward Jon glanced on the situation ahead of him. Robb, Theon and company were surrounding several red haired man and a women. All but one of them were seating with their hands bound behind their back and the exception had a spear on his hand which he was swinging wildly. "Stop! You fooking Southerners. Devils! C'me no closer." 

"Look like we found the chieftain." Theon informed dryly. "Don't see why we took the trouble of saving this savage." 

"Father" a man almost as tall as giant spoke tiredly. "They're only trying to help us. They saved us for fucks sake!" 

The man continued his dance with the spear,with the shackles attached to his hands and foot. "Don't believe them boy!. They're here to kill us or take your brother's or sister away." 

Jon was tired. They just saved these people and their leader was being a madmen. "I don't give a shit about your sons and daughters you idiot" he shouted. Finally the large man stopped. "We'll set you all free. And then you can fuck off in any direction you want. But I'll want to speak to you before that. 

"Robb! Come with me." He stopped and turned. "Let's go and take a look at the Galley." 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

By the time they were done, it was night. The wildlings retreated to their home. They mourned their dead and left them on a pyre to be burned tomorrow. Most of their own men dragged their long-ships on the beach and set up camps. 

Jon marched toward the center of the village accompanied by Robb. Ulfric joined from the soldiers with them. A  large hall more neatly constructed 
than most, of fir poles from the wood tied together at the top, square-shaped and covered with untanned skins laid over a roof of dried ferns and seaweed, arranged so as to keep out the cold. 

He shoved the door to get inside. The place within was quite spacious, fifty feet long, perhaps, by about thirty in 
breadth.In the center of it, on a hearth of clay, burned a wood fire, the smoke of which escaped through a hole in the roof, though, the night being still, much hung about, making the air thick and pungent, but this Jon, being accustomed to it, did not notice.

On the farther side of the fire, attending to the grilling of strips of flesh set upon pointed sticks, stood Hassmyra, Tormund's wife, clothed in a kirtle of sealskins fastened beneath her breast, for here, the place being warm, she wore no cloak. She was a finely built woman of about thirty years of age, with masses of black hair that hung to her middle, clean and well-kept hair arranged in four tresses, each of which was tied at the end with fibers of grass or sinew. Her skin was whiter than that of most of the people. 

"Greetings, lady" Jon showed the chief's wife proper courtesy. Robb and Ulfric followed suit. 

Hassmyra threw a curious, searching glance at him, as though to read his mind, then smiled in rather a forced fashion and drew forward a block of wood. 

"C'me take a seat, lads" the large redhead spoke from the other side of the fire. An exact copy of his was beside him,only a foot taller.  " Yer have my thanks for saving my people and family I guess. Law of hospitality is yours". He offered a piece of brown bread a salt in a plate. "You’ve met my woman. And this here is my eldest, Torryg." 

Jon accepted the offered salt and bread. Perhaps the man wasn’t to crazy after all. "What is your name, may I ask?"   

The man laughed."Very well. Before you sits Tormund Giantsbane, Tall-Talker, Horn blower and Breaker of Ice. Also I'm Thunderfist, Mead King of this hall and father of hosts." 

"Hmm" he nodded. This guy surely loves his titles. "My name is Jon Snow. But my people call me Bloodhair." Motioning to Robb and Ulfric, he introduced. "This is my brother, Robb Of House Stark and my Housecarl, Ulfric." 

Tormund nodded in return, eyeing his blood soaked hair that hasn’t been washed yet. "I 'ave never seen a southerner doing anything out of the goodness in 'is heart. Still I thank you. But since you are still here you must've want something in return." he paused. "What is it?" 

Clever man. Not so wild either . "You're right. I came beyond the Wall with a purpose. But since I'm here now I want to offer you something. "

"And we're not Southerners." Robb spoke for the first time since entering  the hall. "My family has ruled The North since the dawn of time." 

"Not the real North, lordling." Tormund replied. "No one rules us but ourselves." Turning his eyes from a bristling Robb on whom Jon had to place a hand to keep him saying some harsh thing he asked, "What is this offer you speak off?" 

By then a young comely maid and boy of red hair entered, carrying food items with them. 

Lumps of sun dried stockfish,  fried meat on stick and some prawn were presented along with cups of mead. Jon accepted the food as a sign of protection.  While trying to make a mark the stone like fish, he replied. "A trade deal to be clear." 

Tormund looked suspicious. "You are the Lords here. Sons of The Great Starks of Winterfell. And yet yer asking me for trade? " 

"Why not? " Jon smiled a bit. "You have goods that I need. I have goods that you need. Cloths, proper food, medicines, tools. What's stopping us from making honest deals like honest man?" 

"The free folk raids for the things we need." Torryg the Tall seemed uninterested. "We don't need any Lord's help for that. Also Many of our people will see this "deal" as a betrayal. "

"Bad news for the raiders then." Ulfric put in sarcastically. "We're not the only ships you’ll see in the coming days. Northern Navy will start patroling our Western coast very soon. Raiders crossing the sea to go Bear-Islands or further inlands won't get a chance to come back. And it seems like climbing the Wall is a tough job." 

"Bold Words for three lordlings who are still half a boy." 

"In case you didn’t notice." Jon retorted back. "The other halves are very dangerous men." 

Tormund got redder in his face if it was possible. "What do you assholes want in return anyway? We certainty don't have golds or silks lying around the corners." 

"On the contrary. I don't need gold or silks from you. I want timber, high quality ambers, falcons, furs, walrus ivory, silver or iron ores. Your lands are teaming with wealth. You'll be fool if you don't use it to build a better future for yourself."  Jon tried to make it sound as tempting as possible. 

Tormund hummed. Thinking it around But Torryg again acted a bit angry. " If it's trade we are talking about then we need weapons. Swords and Spears of steel." 

"When my father hears we are trading weapons with the people who might try to use it against our own, he will hang us, and you from the walls of Winterfell" Robb shut him down. "Don't mistake the kindness of Eddard Stark for weakness." 

Not if they make their own weapon though. "If you swear before a heart-tree that you, Tormund Giantsbane won't raid into the lands of The North, we can show you how to work on Bronze properly. Then you can have your protection. " 

"You can mock the old gods without our help. "

Ghost decided it was a good time to make an entry then. He was locked in the boat during the battle and afterwords. Poor boy. 

Tormunds eye reach over his hairline seeing Ghost and immediately went for the weapons. He was even more surprised when the wolf simply sat down beside Jon. "That's a fooking Direwolf!" 

Everyone even Jon himself was surprised. Till then he thought Ghost was just a really fast growing wolf. But the thought of him being a  Direwolf didn’t come to his mind. Stupid, he berated himself. 

Tormund waited a few moments eyeing Ghost. And eyeing his bond with me. He knows I'm a warg. "You certainly don't mock the old gods" He said finally. "For that reason I agree to your deal, Lord Bloodhair." 

They waited the next day before sailing. Jon worked out the details of the deal and promised to come back two months later while Tormund would reach out to other villages to gather the goods. He gave the wildlings all the food that were found in the slavers galley. It could feed the village for months. Along with all the weapons. Hopefully that will make them little less wild  and bitter. He kept all the gold found in the ship and Robb kept the ship for the fleet of Sea Dragon Point. "Father will be happy when he hears about this or he will be really mortified", Robb joked. "Pay a bard to create a song of this adventure when you go back. That will be the final nail" Jon added as the brothers laughed together. 

However half a day after in the journey Zhing blasted a horn from the galley to catch his attention . He quickly climbed a rope ladder to get to the deck from his long-ship. "It appears we didn't search the galley all to well Lord." Zhing informed meekly. Jon couldn't agree more. 

Because right in front of him lying was  a very injured maid of blonde hair who apparently was broken out of a secret compartment of the lower level. 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Gwyn Whitehill

Gwyn walked silently through the Haunted Forest, a hand on the hilt of her dagger as her only security. The sun was setting over the trees, making the sky light up in a mixture of orange and pink clouds. Gwyn smiled up at it, admiring it in the cool breeze and silence of the forest. She saw some bushes move not far off, and gasped in surprise, her dagger out and at the ready should anyone—or anything—attack her.

“Who are ye? Show yourself!” Gwyn called out, hoping with all her heart that it wasn’t one of her father’s guards, come to take her back to Highpoint.

More rustling met her words. All of a sudden a hand landed on her shoulder and she whipped around, screeching in surprise. She lost her balance and fell into the bushes behind her. She glanced up to see Asher standing over her, laughing hysterically. Gwyn pouted, but she was honestly relieved to see Asher standing there before her. It was just another one of his silly games and she might as well play along.

“That’s not funny!” She exclaimed but she was smiling as she brushed sticks and dirt from her gray gown.

“You should have seen your face! It was extremely funny!” Asher replied, chuckling as he helped Gwyn to her feet. “Gods, it’s good to see you.” Asher told her, his green eyes soft as he gazed at her.

“It’s great to see you too.” Gwyn replied, smiling. She sighed inwardly, dreading what she was about to do. This was going to be harder than she thought.

“We took a great risk coming here.” She informed him grimly, although she was sure he already knew that.

“I don’t care. I had to see you.” Asher responded, gently taking her hand in his. “I love you Gwyn. I don’t care what anyone says, I want to be with you.”

Gwyn looked longingly at him. He was the love of her life and yet…

“Asher I love you too but—sneaking around like this…it’s…” Gwyn tried to find the right word to use so she wouldn’t upset him but the look Asher gave her told her she already had. His green eyes were full of hurt.

“It’s what? It’s wrong?” Asher spat out the word and Gwyn’s heart stung when he said it like that.

“No, no that’s not what I meant. Asher please—” Gwyn tried.

“Why is it wrong to be with someone I love just because our houses are feuding? Who bloody cares?”

Gwyn could tell he’d been drinking a bit. She approached Asher slowly.

“I know your father doesn’t give you the attention you deserve but this…this sneaking out, purposefully disobeying his direct orders isn’t going to change anything Asher.” She said softly.

Asher seemed to think that over for a moment.

“I don’t give two shits what my father thinks.” Asher blurted. “I only care what you think. My family doesn’t care about me.”

Gwyn’s blue eyes softened at Asher’s words. She moved toward Asher so her front was almost touching his and placed a hand on his shoulder firmly, comfortingly. Asher looked at her hand and placed one of his on top of it, rubbing her knuckles with his fingers. If it were anyone else, Asher would have flinched away and retreated back a few steps, but he had always had a soft spot for Gwyn.

“I’m sure that’s not true Asher. What about Rodrik? Ethan? Talia? I’m sure they—”

“‘Regal Rodrik’ is the ‘Lord in training’. We battle side by side and see each other at meals but he never has time for me these days. We used to have battle practice every day before supper but not anymore. And Ethan and Talia, well…they just think I’m a bloody reckless fool. And they’re not wrong, either. I knew it was a big risk coming here, but I still wanted to go and I don’t regret it for a second but…keeping secrets from the twins is hard. I’m a piece of shit big brother to them.” Asher shut his eyes, trying his hardest not to shed a tear. Gwyn listened to Asher while he talked and when he finally stopped she found her voice.

“That’s not true. Rodrik tries to make time for you I’m sure and Talia and you are very close right? You convinced Ser Royland to teach her how to fight if I’m not mistaken? I’m positive she appreciated that. As for Ethan—didn’t you teach him how to shoot his first crossbow yesterday?” Gwyn replied, trying to cheer him up.

“So? Talia kept asking me why the sword was so heavy and if she could use a smaller one. And Ethan couldn’t aim worn a wildling’s ass. I’m a terrible teacher.”

“They just need patience and practice Asher. None of us are perfect. Everything takes time…”She trailed off, thinking.

“Do you think time will stop the feud between our families?” Asher asked the very question that was on her mind, a question she had asked herself many times before.

“Gods I hope so.” She sighed, looking toward the ground, her pale blue eyes filled with sorrow.

“Hey,” Asher prompted her. “It’ll be alright, Gwyn. We’ll get through this together.”

Gwyn smiled at him. He was always good at reassuring her. He grabbed her chin in his fingers and leaned in, placing a gentle but passionate kiss on her lips. Then he pulled back and smiled at her and she smiled back at him. Suddenly there was more rustling in the bushes. No. Anything but this.

Forresters came out of one side of the woods, Whitehills came out on the other, surrounding the two of them.

Gwyn’s greatest fear was coming true. They had finally been caught

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Asher

Asher stared at his target, gingerly holding the string in his fingertips. The target was far ahead of him, already pegged with a few arrows. Taking his time, Asher wondered what he should do. He could go for a bull’s-eye, to get extra credit for his skills, but that seemed risky. The Crannogmen present in the competition had already done some pretty impressive shots. He had to do more to get the win.

He could try to split an arrow, he mused. That seemed like a very hard target. But it would definitely earn him solid position in the drawn ranks. He adjusted his grasp carefully, trying to remember precisely what his previous shot had felt like. Maybe the wind wasn't the same way.

Frowning slightly, Asher adjusted his grip, lifting his aim slightly. Then it seemed too high, so he let it drop; that seemed right. Satisfied with his aim, he drew the knock right to his ear for extra force and let the arrow loose. The bow itself pitched forward while it span until the string was on the opposite side of his hand from him.

A moment later, the arrow landed in the target, slightly sideways of one of her previous shots, but still a bull’s-eye.

The crowd cheered loudly but Asher groaned. That shot could've secured him the prize leaving no doubt. He sat his bow down as the competition masters went to inspect all the shots.

Grenn patted his back. "That was not so bad. You might win after all"

He was quite shocked when they announced that it was him that scored the best shots. Six Of his shots landed in the third circle or deeper in the Bull's Eye.

Asher went up to the small wooden stage where the Lord and his guards sat to receive his prize as the people clapped on. Jon Snow looked him up and down which seemed a bit strange to him but he didn't say anything.

He didn't have time to do anything else after getting down as the mob of people dragged him to the town's mead-house.

The room was packed with people to the last brim. All of them whom he had seen for the first time and probably the last, and deafening with chatter, laughter, clinking of tankards and occasional fight breaking out. He was greeted with a large tankard of mead slammed down In front of him.

"First round on me!" Grenn laughed and Asher chuckled, raising it in appreciation and rolling his eyes. He knew the tankard wasn’t truly on him, since their purses were almost empty. Till they received their wage for driving the cattle anyway.

But Grenn was already gone. "And so, that was How I, single handed I might add, escaped with both the pig and the innkeepers daughter! " he boasted proudly, Smacking his hands down on the new Oak table for effect. The various drinkers pitched around the benches all shook their heads in disbelief. Some loudly chuckled to themselves at Grenn's nonsense, others slapped him on the back.

It took Asher one more round of sweet brew to free his mind from the troubles brewing back at home. He might never see his home and Gwen again. So What! Fuck everything.

"That's nothing on me, listen ye brothers !"Asher yelled in a singsong voice,jumping on a table swinging a tankard on each hand.This attracted the merry  attention of everyone present which only got more fixated as he weaved exaggerated tales of his deeds.

Soon his drink started flowing more generously. His head was buzzing and he left Grenn face down on the table, snoring loudly. Sleep came for him as well, as somewhere back in his mind the voice keep reminding him to find a lodging for the night, slowly faded away.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Asher woke up with a few people standing around him and a massive headache. He tried to get comfortable by turning to the side before discovering he was actually out on the mud, not in the tavern.

"Is he still sleeping?" one voice asked.

"No. Looks like he is dead." another deep voice replied. "Use the bucket."

Before he could protest a bucket of ice cold water was poured on him. Asher jumped immediately due to extreme cold and swung for the nearest man's face. But had to also immediately seat back due to the headache and his hand collided with a helmet, giving him another round of pain.

"Looks like you had a lot of fun last night.", the leader of the group, a tall and huge man told him. All three of the man were wearing Round shield and twin axed crest on their chests. Guards Of The Moat. Oh Shit.

The man continued grimly. " The lord wants to see You. Get up."

There were little time left to dwindle. The men offered Asher his satchel of possessions which they recovered from the mead-house. He was assured to see that the establishment hasn’t been plundered unlike the times back in Ironrath.

"May I ask what this about?" Asher tried to feebly ask about why he summoned to the Lord while walking. Afraid that he made a mess of the situation in a unknown place.

The leader kept silent. But one of the other guards assured him. "No need to worry much. It's probably cause you were part of the party that brought Lord Jon his cattle. ".

Soon they arrived in front of a large decorated wooden hall at the middle of the village. It was ornamented outside with the same sigil he had seen outside along the Direwolf banner. They pushed the large door to get in as Asher had to surrender his weapons outside to be present in front of the Lord.

Jon Snow was seated in at a small throne at the front of the room. With a massive wolf lying at his feet. Two guards carrying huge axes were standing beside the throne. His travelling companions were already in the room conversing with the Lord as he was motioned to wait in the corner. Emmet the leader of their company were taking the lead.

"Please give Lord Umber my regards." Snow continued. " I've given you the payment He was supposed  to receive. My men will escort you through the White Knife River." He motioned the large guard forward. "This Is Ulfric, Of House Stormcloak. His family manages the ferries of the river. With his help, you will be able to get in the Long Lake in a few weeks. Then you can manage your way to the Last Hearth."

While Snow continued to converse with them, he noticed that Grenn was not in the party. Rather he was standing in the corner with him.

"Why You are not with them?" Asher asked.

Grenn who had recovered far better than him, seemed to be in a good mood." I'm not returning with them, that's why."

"What?"

"Before you woke up, I went to take a walk in the town. Locals told me they were recruiting new guards for the town. So I found the Master-At-Arms and he said I can join as a recruit. They'll even pay me a few coppers for starters."

Asher was surprised. "You'll leave your home to be a guard here?"

"I don't have a home. I grew up in a farmhouse where my father abandoned me. " Grenn didn't seemed bitter about it. "And I left a sweet girl back at that farm. Maybe now someday I'll be able to go back and marry her. "

He was pleased to hear Grenn's goal. At least his friend had a chance to do something with his life now.

After a while the wait was over. Emmet, Hugh, Jasper left with Ulfric and they were summoned forward.

Asher was surprised when Jon Snow offered them breakfast first. "Please help yourself with some food and drink." he said. " Your friend is welcome too."

 The maids served honeyed bread, roasted meat with various spices and mulled wine. He took a few bites as he was hungry and not quite sure not to think of this. Grenn on the other hand, was surprised that he was offered to dine with a lord but started gobbling anyway.

A few moments passed in silence before Jon Snow spoke. "You are Asher Forrester. Am I right?"

"How do you know?" he tried not to be too surprised. Obviously there was something more to this .

Snow continued to take sips of wine. "Because I've seen you before. At Winterfell. You were with your father, brother and Lord Glover. "

Asher relaxed a bit. He had indeed been at Winterfell during a harvest feast. Snow he hadn’t seen but didn't feel like bringing in the subject.

"Do you have any special reason for coming to the end of The North or you are just travelling?"

Asher wasn’t bothered much. True it was bit strange of him to hide his family name while travelling. But as far he was concerned, he was free to do as he pleased.

"Not really," he said with a smile. "I was banished by my father for loving a woman I shouldn’t. So I'm travelling to the Free cities to check my luck."

If Jon Snow was surprised to hear this he didn't let anything out. Grenn coughed loudly at the sudden development of situation, finding out that Asher is a son of lord and he's banished from home but didn't say anything either in favour of the best meal of his life.

"I'm sorry to hear this," Jon said. "But I hope you understand I've to ask my father about this situation. To make sure there was no foul play involved. Since It's a issue with a woman."

Asher wasn’t bothered. "Feel free to ask. Better send the raven to Lord Glover if you want to know the full situation. Surely You'll find his word free of any preference."

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Jon

Jon woke up early, before the first light of dawn. There was a lordship to run, he thought tiredly. I Don't get the luxury of sleep.

While reading his letters and doing his sums of the trade ledger, an idea crossed into his mind about his newest archery champion. He recognised Asher Forrester when he saw him up close but he didn't think much about it. He sent Ulfric anyway to bring him in for a talk. But he certainly didn't hope the situation to be developed in this way.

He offered to Asher to stay at the hall to recover the headache he got from drinking excessive mead. But he insisted a walk will fix him up. So he was showing the Forrester around Snowfall.

"I'm surprised that you don't stay at your Castle, my lord." Asher said while eyeing up the mighty shadow of The Moat. "It looks grand."

Jon was busy greeting the townsfolk and various merchants who were crowding the streets of Snowfall. "It is. But unfortunately It's not in very hospitable shape. Only my guards live there now. I've hired builders teams to work on repairing it day and night. So that we can have a shelter during the Winter."

The men parted ways for Jon as they walked into the market of Snowfall. Jon grabbed some cranberries from a basket and popped them into his mouth, offering Asher some. "One of the major goods that my people export. It grows plenty in the marshland. Fresh fruit is always welcome and it can used to make red dye."

"It's sour", Asher's face twisted at the taste.

Jon had to laugh. " It's an acquired taste."

They visited the dye factory as well. Water hyacinth flowers and cranberries were piled up in front of house to dry up to bring out the colours. Jon enjoyed explaining how hyacinth flowers were used to make violet and blue dye which had a high price both in the Riverlands and free cities. The plant was also used as vegetables by the people.

"I'm surprised that you have told the Umber men to travel by the river instead of the road" Asher noted as they took a breather to check out the largest building of the town, the smithy.

"You can travel much faster by the river. It takes several months to travel from Last Hearth to Moat, but only a few weeks in ferry. If you know the tides and turns that is. House Stormcloak does that for me." Jon opened up the large door with a bit of help as hot air brushed all over them. "And here is the smithy."

Over a dozen people were working inside. Heating ores of iron, making bronze from copper and tin, overseeing by the Bravoosi Ternesio.

Jon patted his trusted smith as he checked the ledger. Lord Manderly, His father, some Riverlords had ordered dozens of new styled armor for their houses. Ternesio and all his apprentices were working night and day to make up the time.

The smithy was one of the major source of coin for him. Jon took a note in his mind to appoint more men to speed up the production.

Asher was eyeing up the busy street. When Jon finished his work with the number, he asked "Are all these your men? I've never thought the swamp land will be so crowded. "

"Most of them are. But the crannogmen and clansmen always come here to trade. I've an alliance with them. " Jon replied while swinging a sword to check It's balance. "You can call Snowfall The Capital of our borderlands. House Reed, Flint, Dustin, Rysell all use the markets.And all the merchants passing through the Moat pays me a tax. 

Asher was more curious. "How many man you’ve got?"

Jon thought a while before answering. "Sixteen hundred. Give or take. Two thousand if I pull all of them, greenboys and greybeards."

 Forrester was amazed. "That's four times the men we have." Remembering his home left a dark shadow on his face.

"How much you know about Ironwood?" It was Jon's turn to ask the questions as they started walking back to the hall.

"All there is to know really. All my life I've worked on Ironwood. "

Back at the hall, Jon nodded to a maid who produced two cups of mead. He offered Asher to sit down with him. "I don't think you're too happy about leaving your home. " I wasn’t even though it was my decision.

"No. I am not."  He sat down opposite to the heavy oak table. "It was even harder to leave the girl I loved."

"It doesn't seem like that you have to leave The North though." Jon said smoothly. "Your father banished you from Ironrath. But he can't banish you from North."

He could tell that Forrester was curious. Staying in The North meant staying close to his love. "What are you suggesting?" he asked.

Jon felt a bit guilty about it. Like he was abusing the situation . But he went with it nonetheless. "I'm expecting huge shipments of Ironwood from beyond the  wall. My men are as good they are with saws and axe's, I can't expect they will be able to make proper things from it as a Forrester would. They'll waste more than they'll build. But with your help, I can easily solved that problem. "

Asher's smile waned. " The secret of the Forrester craft belongs to my family. I can't share it with anyone. "

Jon raised an eyebrow. "You are banished from your family. "

That hurt the Forrester even more. So Jon leaned on the table. "The market for Ironwood shield is huge. It's almost worth It's weight in silver. You help my workers on it and I'll make sure your family has access to the merchants too. Imagine the wealth they'll make."

Asher sunk back to his seat with the cup in his hand. After a while, he drained it in a single gulp and said, "I accept."

Chapter Text

Eddard

"Again!" 

The voice was hard and seemingly unforgiving but for Sansa Stark, it was a daily occurrence. Opening her hand and then circling it in a sweeping motion, she did the steps the septa ordered of her. Her hand ached, her face was sweating and her arm was ready to fall off but she did the maneuver none the less. 

"Your hand is shaking Sansa and your movement is weak. Remember to flick the wrist in a snapping motion. A lady must be poised but ready for any sudden steps", the Septa said. 

Sansa was tired, and her arms about to drop by their own but she Once Again tried the same snapping motion she was told to do. Her hand came out from the side of her body and she slowly brought it back near her chest. 

"Much Better" appreciated Septa Mordane.  

Eddard applauded from the corner, much to the surprise of the occupants of the room. Arya's eyes lit up while everyone else became straight on their seats to see The Lord Of Winterfell. 

Ned smiled kindly for her eldest daughter. The poor child was going through so much pressure at such an early age. "You're doing wonderful Sansa but I must interrupt. Today I have something different planned. " 

Both of the girls were pleased. One can only do the same step for hundreds of times. Eddard knew. He had to go through the same trials at his youth. But the septa was confused. 

"They're supposed to learn new steps today, my lord," She said. "Lady Catelyn's order." 

"I know, Septa. But I need to spend time with my daughters so they can learn from me as well." They bid the septa and other children goodbye and started their way towards New Keep. 

Arya was almost practicing her new moves on the way. He had to hold her hand to keep her steady. "Can I ride a horse father?" she asked excitedly. 

"No. It's a few day's journey. You girls will use a carriage. " Ned walked them to the building and kneed down. "Go to Your rooms and prepare carefully. I've instructed the nurses. Pack heavy cloaks, pillows, and extra clothes." 

As the girls went to their chambers, he walked up to the balcony from where he used to watch the boys practice. Now the ring of steel was replaced by the chaos of bustling activity. Outside of the keep, merchants, traders, and farmers were pouring in. Asking for trade rights, paying their taxes, storing Winterfell's share of crops in the winter stores. Poole, the steward and Maester Luwin would have hard days ahead to manage without him. The capital of The North was in the middle of a great change. Ned kept waiting for his wife in silent, eyeing the courtyard silently. He knew she would find him, it was inevitable. 

Soon enough she did. Watching her walking towards him slowly did bring a smile on his face. Catelyn was four months pregnant with their fifth child. She was still watching over the household activities. The Maester gave her one more month to move freely. Then she would be confined to her chambers. 

But she was here now. Wearing a frown on her face. "Where are the girls going, my love?" 

Ned wrapped a hand around her instead, calming her down. "Nothing to worry, Cat. I'm just taking the girls to show our new farmlands near the White Knife." 

"They are not the boys, Ned. Robb should've been doing it," she said worriedly from his chest. 

Ned sighed. "I know, love. Sewing and dancing lessons are good. But they're not everything. Our daughters will be wives to great Lords of the realm one day." Catelyn smiled hearing that. "Sansa and Arya need to know much more than running a household if they're to do that." 

His wife didn't protest anymore. Instead, she leaned on him. Ned wrapped his cloak around them.

Catelyn had taken the leave of Robb a bit hard. Robb had left for Sea Dragons Point months ago and chose not to return yet. Too much to do, he has been claiming. The port was open for trade now. But the route would need lighthouses, signal fires, patrol vessels to direct the ships to the port. The fleet would need watching over, the town would need leadership, farmers would need instructions for Their crops. The work was endless. 

All these work got Robb significant recognition all throughout The North and Winterfell's lands. The merchants, traders, and wealthy smallfolk were praising him greatly since they had an easier way to sell their goods in Dragon Point. The port would become the largest in the world for fur, timber, and amber, they kept saying. Which made Catelyn very proud and happy. 

At the same time, peasants, serfs, and poor people were hailing Jon Snow and praying to gods to keep him safe in his travels. As for him, they had more food on their tables and their children wouldn't perish due to hunger anymore. Lands near lakes and tributary rivers were being plowed to plant the new crop, boosting food production. 

Catelyn detested Jon's popularity amongst the commoners. She was unkind at best towards the boy in her circle of ladies, to say politely. But her words had been failing to steer listeners.  Most of them were wives or daughters of Winterfell's immediate vassals and their houses recently received lands around the White knife to settle, farm, and gather rent for House Stark. All of these were possible for Jon's careful plan. Few ladies were willing to spit on their good luck. That frustrated his wife even more. 

They left after enjoying the quiet times as the girls would need Their lady mother's instruction and the party leaving would need of The Lord's. 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

The carriage was a trading wagon at first, but Ned had stripped and rebuilt it to be fit for his wife and daughter's comfort. Now it was being pulled through the open country by six horses, carrying his daughters and their two nurses. Arya wanted to ride beside him but the road was too long for her to stay on the saddle. 

They had passed Wintertown on the road. The town was boarding thousands of people now, almost two-thirds full of emigrants who had moved in and merchants and traders from the free cities and other Kingdoms. The market was flowing with goods due to this. He bought two amber pieces from a traveling merchant of House Tallhart for his daughters. Sansa was ecstatic to have the blue jewel and wanted to have a necklace made. Arya on the other hand somehow managed to smuggle out her dagger and asked him if they could put her's on the hilt of it. 

Fields, farms, holdfasts were scattered around both sides of King's road. Ned was overseeing the changes, taking notes in his mind. Occasional riders and patrols were on road, saluting the ruler of The North's party as they cleared the road for them. It was past midday when they reached their destination, a tributary of the White Knife which was being newly settled under House Poole. Rodrik rode ahead of the party to scout the actual reason for their journey. 

A small farmstead was near where they chose as camp. The patriarch of the household came running to meet him. He had her own little daughter with him. Arya was more than happy to climb out of the carriage and start playing with her. But Sansa stayed in. 

"You can join them you know," Ned told her daughter while dismounting from his horse. 

"Mother doesn't like me playing in the dirt anymore," she replied gloomily. "It's unlike a lady. And it ruins dresses." 

"Your lady mother means well. But She's not always in the right. And you have many dresses. Go on. Play with your sister. You won't get a chance like this for a while." 

Soon the homesteader was brought before him. The man had a familiar face. He had seen the man somewhere before. 

"It's good to see you again, m'lord." Ned recognized the man, a son of a farmer living near Winterfell. Martyn, he was called. 

"Likewise, my good man." Martyn had left his father's farm with his wife and child to settle near the river. "I had two older brothers and they had their own family. With little or nothing to provide for mine," he told Ned. "But I have a small piece of land my own now. I can work hard to earn an honest living. My wife and daughter are healthy," he continued. "All thanks to you and your sons m'lord. May the blessings of the old gods be on all of you."  

Ned nodded while sharing ale with the man. This is what he visioned for his people. Northerners working hard to earn their livelihood. 

By afternoon, his daughters had returned with their nurses and guards. The tents had been set up and their dinner was being cooked. Both of them were disappointed by its looks. 

He had purchased some sweet corn from the farmer. It was boiling in a large pot with some pieces of beef added to it. "It's bland," Sansa complained. "I was hoping for some butter-fried fish and soup. " 

Arya was more tolerable and accepted her bowl and spoon. "We're not in Winterfell, " he explained. "Out here in the wilderness, food is scarce." They actually had better provisions but this was meant to be a lesson for the girls. 

"How does it taste?", he asked after they had taken few spoonfuls. " It's good," Sansa nodded. The corn was sweet and the beef was flavourful. After a long day, such filling food was a blessing. 

The night had set in by the time Rodrik returned and he had their guest with him.

"Listen girls", he instructed his daughters. " You both seat at the fire and listen carefully. Watch and learn. Remember the manners your mother taught you." Both of them nodded. 

The man who entered the camp was of the size of a bear, with a head full of grey hair. "Beron Frost", Rodrick announced. " First Sword and Master of the Wolf Pack." 

Hundred of years ago, during the Dance of The Dragon, a few members of Cregan Stark's party split to form the Mercenary company. Still today, the Northmen who braved the water of the Free Cities often joined the company in honor of their home.   

"I trust you enjoyed your journey, Master Frost" 

Frost laughed with the manners of a mercenary. "Bogs, forests, and fields. Hardly the towns you see on the other side of Narrow Sea. But still, It's I who need your help, not the other way around. So I'm here." 

"Why don’t you tell us the details?", Ned urged him, pulling Arya to his embrace. The air was getting chilly as the night went on. " All of us will be able to understand then." 

"My company had not been doing very well in recent years," the grizzled veteran told them. "Some of the last contracts ended up in disasters, lost some men. We were defeated in a battle due to the treachery of a spy who supplied information to our enemies. We will be broken if this situation continues. But trade ships started coming from home to Pentos and Braavos, speaking of the bounty of home. So many of the lads wanted to come back to their fatherland. " He sighed deeply.

It was exactly as Ned learned from the foreign merchants. That's why Wolf Pack leaders had taken his offer so quickly. They were in a desperate situation. "We do have uninhabited lands in the far North. Good lands for farming and living." 

Frost grimaced. "I hope you are not talking about the Gift. Yes, I do know some of The North. The savages have been raiding that part for millennia." 

"The land is troubled alright. We have Night's Watch to keep the Wildlings away. But I'm talking about The New Gift. Three hundred increased miles from the original gift to the Night's Watch." 

"My men know little of farming, Lord Eddard", the mercenary's spirit seemed somewhat low. " What we are to do with the land?" 

Their glasses were filled with warm ale by the servants. Ned himself finished a few. "There are many abandoned holdfasts in the region. I'd have you rebuild and fortify them for now. Even though many of the people had fled South, some still remain. And I've started to collect the farmers to return. Around two hundred men and their families who had been refugees in other holds. They can show you how to work the land if you can provide security. " 

"We would still need coin." Frost was a hard man to satisfy. "Lads have some wealth from their contracts and plunder. But It's not enough. I've three hundred men under me. About half has a woman or a family. How they will establish households in a new land?" 

Besides their lives, coins were the only thing a sellsword loves. Ned wasn’t a stranger to it. And he had thought of this before. "I can arrange a loan of ten thousand silver coins from Bank Of Pentos for you. I'd pay the interest it creates but you’d have to pay the sum back by next summer. Besides rebuilding, you would do well to invest in livestock from Free Cities. They're easier to handle than crops." 

"Why Pentos father? " Sansa had started her lessons on Essos already and she was curious to know about the free cities. "Wouldn’t the Iron Bank be easier?" 

"They are our trade allies child. And the Interest the Iron Bank wants is hideous. I'd prefer not to consult them." The Pentosi Masters were asking for more than trade to be honest. They had considerable ambition and The North was a strong option for military allies as well. But that was not the issue right now. He turned to the mercenary. "What say you, Frost? Is this good enough for you?" 

"I accept on my behalf," Frost replied. "I'd go and speak with my colleagues to ensure the treaty. A hundred thanks to you Lord Stark. " He took off to meet the members of his company. 

Rodrik had kept quiet till then. As soon as Forst left the campsite he spoke. "Can we trust him, my lord?" 

Ned was more optimistic. "They don't have much of a choice other than that. I believe they will take this opportunity." But House Stark would need to watch over them as well. A marriage pact would be perfect for it. So he asked his old friend. "I've heard the First Sword has a young boy. Would your daughter Beth be considered as a bride for the Future Lord of New Gift? Provided the boy is worthy of that position? " 

Cassel was more than happy to hear it. Jory had already married Hilda Flint as the Lord of Kattegat. If Beth gets married to the Lord of The Gift, it would ensure the survival of both Branch of House Cassel. 

The night brought comfort to Eddard Stark at last. This was his place, here in untamed lands of The North. He looked at the faces of happy people around him, his daughters, friends, and Castle guards he had known for ages. Surely Winter was Coming. But by the old god's grace, they will be ready for it.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Val

Clang! Clang! Clang!  

The sound of the steel meeting steel was ringing all throughout the practice yard. Dozens of people were swinging swords, slashing with axes, and blocking with shields. Only two from dozens were girls. 

"Keep Your guard up Meera!", Val called out while dancing all around her opponent. She was happier than she had been for ages. Finally, her injures had healed and she had been able to hold all the fascinating weapons southerners had. She quite liked this southern practice of mock fighting. The round yard was her most favorite place in Snowfall now. 

"I do not like this." Meera put away her shield, stepping down. It was larger than her upper body. "My people fight with bows, javelins, and darts. Not these heavy weapons. And You're messing up your new dress." 

Normally Val wouldn’t care much for dresses. But now she felt bad about it. It was a beautiful blue tunic, sewn with thin fibers. She had put on a leather jerkin-armor made for her over it, lined with light mail. Right now it had mud all over. Snow had gifted it to her. How wealthy a man had to be if he can give away such a beautiful piece, she didn’t even want to imagine. 

"Well, I like it. Look how beautifully It's made. Light but strong at the same time. You need more practice with it." 

Meera was even more annoyed. "Shut up Val. I need to rest." She sat down on a bench. 

Rather than risking of annoying her only sparring partner more, Val sat down beside her. Meera was very young to be fighting, Only nine and a half. But at her age, Val's father had already been training her with bows and daggers. He didn’t have a son to and Dalla never cared much for fighting. So Val was his Only way to pass on his skills. 

More people were practicing around them. The champion of archery and a muscled soldier was just a few feet away from them. 

"I'm telling you there's something unusual about that wolf," said the muscled one. 

"It's a Direwolf of the size of a horse lying in the middle of a town." replied the champion sarcastically. "Of course it is unusual, genius. " 

"That's not what I meant, homeless," the muscled one replied in the same mocking tone. "I mean like it can understand everything we're saying. Seems like It's keeping an eye on us and will tell Lord Jon if we do something wrong. " 

"Hey! stop messing with Ghost," Meera shouted from beside her. "A fool from House Dustin tried to shoo him with a stick once. If it wasn’t for me we would have to send him back in a coin purse. Still, that one hadn’t been able to leave the infirmary in a month." 

Both men gave them a mocking bow. But kept quiet. 

After a while a horn was blown from the main hall, putting everyone in the yard on attention. Nobody was panicking but they waited patiently. Soon enough, Snow came out of the hall escorted by his housecarls.  

He started giving instructions to the men and most of them left soon, hurrying to the armory. Snow was already in his armor so he settled on sitting on a bench. 

Val didn't know what was going on but couldn't give away the opportunity of poking the "Great Lord" a bit. "Care for a spar, my lord? " she said prettily with a matching bow that she learned from the great halls petitioners. 

"Uhh...I would rather not, my lady," Snow replied with an annoying hint of stammering. Like he was a lady himself. 

"C'mon Snow. I've been hearing all these things about you. Surely you aren’t afraid? I promise I'll go easy on you." 

That managed to change the smile on his face but turned it into a rather ominous one. He took off the heavy riding cloak, handing it to the giant of a man, Ulfric beside him. "Let me know if the tide rises," he commanded and joined in. 

Turned out the spar was a hopeless one for her. Val charged him with impressive speed but Snow was able to avoid her easily. She kept her swings and cuts and Jon kept dodging them like a snake. Soon she was too tired to lift her sword properly. Snow just tripped her from the side. Val fell face fast on the ground. 

She wasn’t just about to give up though. It was too humiliating.  Shooting for his legs from the ground, Val took him down unexpectedly, punching and scratching, and Jon rather than receiving, started to give it back. As far as they were concerned the fight was still on. 

Rolling on the ground, they stopped at the feet of Ulfric who looked down on them with a dour face. "Something seems to be rising all right, and It's not the tide." 

Every spectator busted out laughing. Highly embarrassed, as there was truth to the statement and something more in her case, they both tried to get up at the same time, delaying the process even more. By the time it was done, Snow left hurriedly to get on his horse and she herself went quietly to the corner to Meara. 

Meera had been gathering information all these time about what was going on. Apparently, some steel-born or similarly named people tried to attack a coastal town but ended up getting trapped on the Fever River. Jon Snow was leading his men to capture it. 

"Let us go then," Val said excitedly. "I want to see how people fight on ships." 

"Are you mad!", Meera was having none of it. "My uncle, Hyet serves Jon as a housecarl. If my father hears about me sneaking off from Snowfall to watch a battle, he would kill me." 

It took her half an hour to convince Meera. By the time, the Lord's party had been left on horseback, they managed to get two for them as well and followed suit. 

Chapter Text

Val

The battle turned into a clusterfuck right in front of her eyes. It took only a single mistake. The Northerners rushed to capture the beached iron-born ship which got stuck on the shallow shore. The pirates rather than being cornered by superior numbers decided to meet them head-on. To both of the parties folly, they got stuck in riverbanks black sticky mud, which made it really hard to push through. Instead of a line battle, it had turned into a slugfest of throwing axes, arrows, and occasional one on one duel. 

Val observed all of it from a distance with Meera. They followed the battle party from all the way to Snowfall to the river. But narrowly missed the initial order to charge. She would've joined in if she was present, but now she wasn’t so sure. The mud looked disgusting. Thick and sticky and coarse. The thought of getting stuck into a pile of that didn't seem so thrilling. Beside her, Meera was squirming more and more. No doubt thinking of joining into the fray herself. 

First, the shields clashed with incredible force like a galloping horse. Then the axes and javelins started to fly. Soon it became knives, sticks, spears, rocks more axes, splinters of shields, sweat, and blood engulfed by the mud. Even from a distance, she could feel the raw hatred of the two clashing groups. It wasn’t a raid, not for wealth or food like her people were used to. Instead, it was just a primal show of hate between two different nations, who despised each other's guts. 

After the initial failed charge, Snow tried to regroup his warriors. "For Our People!", he shouted the warcry. Warriors rallied and pushed onto the ranks. Being the youngest and the lightest, he could move much freely than any other combatant. The fool. He was a skilled warrior no doubt. Watching him fight was like seeing a paint being drawn using blood. But he was too eager for victory. From the high ground, Val could easily see that he would overextend himself after a few moments and get separated from his own line. 

"That's it," She told Meera, pushing her horse to move forward. "I'm going to join the battle, you stay back here. " 

"Seven hells, no. I'm not letting you go all by yourself," Meera replied, moving her own mount forward to follow. "You are in no condition for such a fight." 

They both moved into the second rank from where the ranged unit was providing cover for the fighting warriors form a distance. Meera's uncle, Hyet and Asher The Champion were leading the men there. Hyet was enraged to see her. "What in seven hells You're doing here! ", he demanded from them. Val paid him no mind. Instead, she just got off her horse, strapped in her shield, and grabbed Asher's helm before he could protest. Meera tried to follow. But her uncle stopped her. 

" Absolutely not!", he firmly told her niece, grabbing her jerkin from behind.  "If the wildling wants to go, It's her choice. You're staying here. " 

Val smiled at her. It was probably for the best. Meera at such a young age had no cause to be in this mess. "Cover me from here with Your bow," she told the little crannog-girl and ran. 

She lost her focus of the initial rush just after going a few steps on the mud. Somehow she managed to drag herself through. She was young and lean, weighed far less than the clashing warriors, and managed to reached Snow after a struggle. Val had to step on the littered bodies to get the proper grip on the soil.

Snow was hacking away at the warriors in front of him with his huge long-ax. He stopped a sword with the longer reach and buried the ax deep into the hulking pirate's skull, right through the helm. But when he tried to pull it out, it got stuck. Another Ironborn seized the chance, trying to hack from the side. Val somehow intercepted it with her shield and drove her sword through the unprotected shoulder guard. 

Jon was too occupied to be surprised to see her beside him, but there was gratitude on his face. He drew his sword instead. "To the deck, that's the target. Stay behind me." 

Val didn't listen to him of course. Together, with the archers support, they moved forward while cutting their opponents and watching each others back. The iron-borns fought bravely but at the end with a constant barrage of missiles, their line buckled. In the end, Snow managed to corner the ship's captain and killed him in single combat. 

All the warriors cheered for their Lord. But counting their own dead wiped the smiles soon after. Almost a dozen of Northmen died, fighting the skilled ironborn who were known for their ferocity in water. She saw Snow's eyes harden at the dead being dragged to the shore. "They died a good death, fighting for their home and with weapons in their arms. Don't shed tears for them.", she tried to console.

"There's no good death," Snow replied while closing corp's eyes. "I knew every one of them. Some ever since I was a boy. What I'm going to tell their families?", he demanded. "That they died with honor? Will that bring them back?" 

Val had no answer for that. 

When they saw Meera, Snow's anger erupted even further. She somehow sneaked from the archer's rank to shoot further and took a shallow wound on her forehead in the skirmish. Her uncle was helping to bandage it with an angry frown on his face. 

"What is she doing here?", Snow asked her angrily. 

"She wanted to help you.", Val replied, annoyed at Snow's misplaced anger. " It was her choice. " 

"What it was is irresponsibility.", he cut her off sharply. " Do you have any idea what it would be if something happened to her, gods forbid. Not only, you half-healed from Your Own wounds came to fight, you also dragged a ten-year-old with you. " 

Meera tried to defend her feebly but she was too dazed. 

"Take both of them back to Snowfall.", Snow ordered Hyet, walking away from her. 'I've had enough nonsense for a day." 

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

They rode to Snowfall without silently. The cost of the dead laying heavy on everyone. Val rather than staying in the longhouse left immediately after relieving her horse in the stable. She needed a bath to wash off all the grimes of her and she was in no mood to wait for the maids to prepare her a wooden barrel of hot water. 

Walking out of the town, She settled for a covered tree path near the cattle corral. There was a pond nearby Where the cattle would drink from and enough shade to have a decent bath. She dug a hole near the pond, for drawing out fresh water without the dirt. As the hole slowly began to fill up, she thought of the battle while taking off her armor and jerkin. 

What a dumb bastard. Val thought with an angry glare on her face. I tried to save his life and he accused me of irresponsibility. Though Meera getting hurt made her as much as worried as Snow, he couldn't have been more of an ass about it. A cut was Only a cut, nothing serious had happened. 

With only her thin shift on, Val started to pour the water on herself, washing her upper body carefully. The water was naturally warm, providing her with much-needed comfort. Suddenly she caught a glimpse of someone with the corner of her eye, startling her. 

Snow quickly turned from the treeline, his face red with embarrassment. Val had to suppress a smile at that. She knew she had that effect on people. Is that how all these people react to tits? 

By the time, she finished her bath and put on her jerkin, Snow was still near the corral. He was feeding the huge bull auroch small pieces of bread. "I was looking for a place to find some calm, my lady. I apologize for the interruption, " He told her. 

"It was just me bathing, Snow." Val rolled her eyes. "Not two people rutting on all four. Are all you people so upright? " 

Snow was obviously uncomfortable at her words. Since she was also irritated at him, Val didn't say anything else on that. Turning to the animals Val pointed out, "Why you got so much cattle locked up in a pen?" All of the cattle were cows, except the bull auroch, which was now licking Snow's hand like a puppy. She had never seen a half-wild auroch do that. 

Warg. She thought silently. Normally, wargs took after their beasts more than their own personality. But with Snow it was different. There was no animalistic wildness in his grey eyes. Rather he being like the animal, it was like the animal was taking after him. Like his Direwolf being silent and somber. 

Snow was obviously relieved that the talk turned from tits. He turned from the bull to the cows, explaining her the reason. "My lands to the North are mostly plains. People do farming with irrigation but It's doesn't produce enough yields. So, that's what the cattle are for. No reason to leave fertile grassland unattended." 

Huh. The lord wants Everything properly organized and pretty.

Val began to walk back to the town when he called her back. 

"Val. ", He said quietly. " I'm sorry about my words earlier today. I was too angry about what happened and took my anger out on you. "

She understood the situation. Losing men on raid and counter raids was always heavy on her father was well. Still, an apology was better than nothing. "Here I thought you always just had a stick up your ass. ", she joked. 

Snow laughed at that. "I suppose you can call my burden of lordship the same." 

Before leaving him to his thoughts, Val remembered a thought that was bugging her for a while now. Her family and home. "I need to go back to family Snow. The sooner the better. My father has a feud with a very dangerous man. I will not leave him alone in case of a confrontation. " 

Snow simply nodded. "My ships are ready. We'll leave in a fortnight. " 

Jon

The journey proved to be a great source of headaches for Jon. His ships, one galley, and four long-ships reached Sea Dragon Point just in time, but he ran into trouble right after making it to the port. 

Gryff Whitehill and his men were surrounding a party of Forresters. Threats were flying from both sides. Seeing Asher in front of them was just the melting point. When Jon tried to stop the threats becoming sword strikes, the hotheaded Whitehill pointed his sword at him. "And who the fuck are you?", he demanded. 

"Someone who is going to knock some sense into Your head if you don't show respect." Ulfric appeared right by Jon's side holding his massive two-bladed axe. Now, if Jon's words didn't have any effect on the Whitehills, the sight of Ghost and Ulfric standing seven feet tall of the ground side by side did the magic trick. They backed away immediately, offering apologies. 

Then it was the older Forrester, Rodrick Jon reckoned and Asher went at it. "What the hell You're still doing in the North? ", he asked Asher. " Aren't you done with putting our house in trouble? " 

Jon had to intervene again. "Asher is in my service Rodrick," he reminded him sharply. "You have something to say, say it to me." 

Rodrick was more respectful to Jon than the Whitehills. No doubt from hearing of his deeds from the townsfolk. "You send the raven to bring Ironwood to the market, my lord? I had no idea my brother was still in The North. No less with you." 

"That doesn't matter. I've brought merchants from free cities with me. They'll buy your ironwoods. I hope trade is more important to you than old family feuds." 

Rodrick still hesitated. The animosity between these two houses ran deep. And the presence of Asher complicated it further. Jon didn't think Whitehills will be here too, otherwise, he wouldn't have brought Asher with him. 

"I'll speak to Lord Whitehill," Jon assured him to close the matter. "Make sure it doesn't go to blood." 

After that, it was the Mormomts. Dacey came to the port with her sister Alysane. They had sold their pouch of amber for a small chest of silver. None of them were impressed hearing of the trade arrangement with the wildlings, less to see Val. 

"I hope you know what You're doing Jon," Dacey warned him. "Consorting with those lot Won't lead to any good." 

Jon had to send Val to her quarter in the galley after that. The summer snow was light on the ground, making it slightly muddy, hard to keep up. "I had hoped the Mormonts of all people would support us the most in this matter." 

"Mormonts are grateful to you" Dacey replied, in a lot calmer tone. "We have a small fleet now. Four iron-born galleys,  eight longships. Thanks to you. But still It's hard to make peace when the trail of blood goes so long. " Jon held out her hand to support as she reached for the side of her ship to embark. "I will speak to my mother, but I can't promise more." 

By the time, Robb and Theon appeared  it was evening. Jon threw his cup of mead at their head. "Where were you all day?" 

Both of them were all wet, shivering in mail and leather, for their excuse. "Relax, Snow. No need to set your tails on fire," Theon smirked as he poured one for him. 

"Went out to deal with wildling raiding parties," Robb answered, hugging him back. "Bastards have balls crossing the bay in those makeshift rafts, you have to give them that." 

Damn. Jon at least hoped raids will stop after their treaty with Tormund. But independent war bands had no respect for that. "How many? " 

"A dozen till now," Robb continued, slammed down his cup. "Pathetic really. We've sunk all of those boats. Not even a survivor managed to wash up." 

Theon Couldn't be bothered less. "Only thing they're good for is target practice. I'm getting good at handling the small catapults. Never missed a target yet." 

Nothing can be done at that. If the wildlings still tried to raid, they would've to do it at their own peril facing The Nothern Navy. Robb and Theon both were reliving of their mail, getting warm by the fire. The guest hall of the Amber Keep, now the castle was being called was filled with members of all houses of the North. Glover, Cerwyn, Karstark Tallhart men, even one or two Umber crests as well. Jon made sure Asher was in ranks deep in his own men, right beside Ulfric, less he starts another fight.  "Who handles all these men, " he inquired after a while. 

"Marrick does," Robb grunted. "I have to talk to father to give him a more important position than the castellan, perhaps of a bannerman. He almost goes crazy due to the pressue. Have you looked at the town?" 

Aye. He did. It was teaming with people. Both townsfolk and traders. Merchants from Free Cities had followed the White Knife, some of those Jon had arranged himself. The other traders were from Westerlands, Riverlands, or The Reach. All eager to buy the main four trades of Sea Dragon Point in bulk. Fur, Timber, wild honey, and of course, amber stones. All were available in plenty, courtesy of the Wolfswood. But managing them, prevent smuggling and poaching was a rough struggle. If not for Robb, Jon was sure it would be a disaster. 

But there was also good news. Robb's eyes lit up before informing Jon. "Mother's pregnant, " he told excitedly, but voice dropped at the next moment. "And guess what, father will arrange a tournament after the baby is born. " 

"Father hates tourneys. " Jon was surprised. That was a well-known fact throughout North. "Why would he arrange one now?" 

"A tournament," Robb corrected him. "Not a tourney. It will the likes of old kings in The North used to hold. With wrestling, horse riding, and archery. A tourney will happen, of course. But that's more to appease our allies in the Free Cities. " 

Huh. That's certainly news. A ceremony like that would be a good occasion for sure. To bring all the North together. So that was the plan. Father also had some announcements to make for sure. "Is it just a celebration or does father have something to announce something as well?" 

Robb's smile almost reached his ears. He threw his cup of mead at Jon, taking revenge for earlier. "Of curse, he has, brother. And It's a surprise for you!" 

Chapter Text

Jon

Tormund Giantsbane was not a tall man, the gods have given him a massive belly and a broad chest instead. In a good mood, his laughter was probably enough to drive snows away from the peak of trees, if not mountain tops.

Today he was laughing loudly and often, seeing the supply ships making to the rough docks of Ruddy Hall. Many of his men gathered on the beach with him. Some weary, most quite happy. Galleys wouldn't be able to float near the jetty, so they were anchored in the sea. Northmen got down to the longships, while the crew handed down sacks of grain, piles of clothes, iron tools for building or mining to be carried to the beach.

Jon threw a rope for Tormund to catch, for binding the boat with a wooden trunk. He caught an offered hand to climb on the dock when the red-bearded chieftain whispered in his ear, "I'm happy that You're here at last, wish it were sooner. Some of the bastards I invited were getting very agitated." 

Jon Snow didn't reply. There were a lot more men than he thought would be. How many villages have been emptied to gather here? "You should've said there would be so many. I brought enough only for a few hundred. This must be one thousand at least." 

"I was never good at counting."

Jon hoped his capability for controlling the crowd was better than the ability to count heads. "You prepared a storage house where we will barter for the goods at least?", Jon asked while offering Val a hand to safely jump aboard. Theon and Robb would be staying in the galleys for a while in case the wildlings had some wild plans to capture and ransom the heir to The North. 

She refused and almost would've slipped through the other side of the dock if he didn't catch her around the waist. 

Val ignored Jon as if that's what she had intended. " Ah! It's good to breathe in the open cold air again. The smell of pig shit is too strong in the South." 

He ignored the usual jibe, muttering "You wish you lived in South" under his breath. Ulfric, Asher, and others had arrived on the other ships by then. "Carry everything to the big house ", he ordered as Toregg The Tall led them away. 

"Stole Yourself a fine Free Folk lass, did you?" Tormund gaped a toothy smile. 

"Rescued would be a better term." Jon was not in the mood for small talk. "There will be problems. Few grains for too many people. How come you gathered so many? I thought you were the chieftain of only this village." 

Tormund shrugged. "I live in Ruddy Hall. But all the people of Frostfang Forest Tribe honor me with tribute. Fruit from their orchards, a goat or sheep sometimes, bread and ale. In exchange for protection from other raiders and clans. He laughed loudly again, this time putting a warrior's edge with it. " My Warband is fearsome." 

Wildlings stared at him while they walked. Those he rescued from slavers with a warm smile, the newcomers with suspicion. Some pace ahead, Val was talking with two ragged children, the small maybe three years old, the older around eight. 

"Please spare us some food.", the older one had his hand outstretched in the middle of the snow-covered road. " Me 'n my sister haven’t eaten in days." 

Val didn't have food though. So he had to fish out a piece of chicken and an apple from his bag to give them. Both of the kids were good-looking and well cared once, even the starvation and gauntness couldn't hide it. Starving children, a terrible sight. "Who are they?" 

"Two of the children whose parents died in the slaver raid," Tormund grimaced. "They won't die if that's what you are worrying about. People will give them scrapes from their hearth or a place to sleep from time to time." 

The kids ate the food standing. They would've asked for more but noticed Ghost catching up to Jon and backed off. The little girl hid behind Val. 

"It's alright." Val took her up in her arms. "He won't hurt you." The boy looked like he was about to throw something at Ghost to protect his sister. Hali and Asa , their names were. 

Jon decided to intervene. "That's no way for children to live. My Lord Father looks after the orphans of his land. Can I put them in your hall before figuring out what to do?" 

"Do what you will. Meet me in the storage when You are done. We have a lot to do." Tormund left them to check up on storing. 

Ruddy Hall was the same as Jon remembered. Big, wide, and smokey. Inside Tormund's wife and daughter were cooking porridge in a large cooking pot formerly of the salvers ship. "I brought what you asked for. Silk, combs, sewing needles," he told Munda before she could say anything. That put a smile on the young girl's face. 

He gave Hassmyra a bow, which she returned with a kind smile. "Who's this?" she asked, looking at Val. 

"Val, Daughter of Hakon. One of Your own. Not ours." Lady of Ruddy Hall gave Val a long look, in her leather and mail, over a beautifully sewn tunic. "Well, don't just stand there. Help out in the cooking. Free Folk, Southerners whatever. As long as You're staying under this roof, you must do your share. " 

At least Val didn't mind. She was at home with the hearth as she was with blades. A Lady and A warrior both. Jon thought. A good bride for any man. Well if her tongue was less sharp maybe only then. But that was pointless. She soon would be on her way home. 

Val bought the kids hot bowls of porridge. Crushed oats, mixed with milk, flavored with honey and pine nuts, it was the type of food that would see a man through a hard day of work. He would've fancied himself one. But his hard day of work was ahead and he had no time for a second meal.

************************

Location of Ruddy Hall

His men had set up camp in a large, hastily made house. Walls were made with crude chunks of pine or spruce, the gaps in between mended with wicker branches. It wouldn't stop the cold but was wide enough to store the large amount of grains, woolen or linen cloths, iron tools for house building or mining, some sheep and goats, and five shaggy garrons. Everything Free Folk asked for. 

Men already started to gather around it. And was proving to be a quite troublesome process. Free Folk didn't have coin. Anything they offered like a bundle of fur, uncut amber, ores of silver, or one or two rare gems like sapphire, freshwater pearls needed to be valued in coins first, then the transferred amount in grains could be given to them. 

Tormund had to put up his men around the house to prevent people from trying to plunder it. The situation was as quarrelsome as it was annoying, but the chieftain managed to keep control. 

Jon tried to remember the names of Tormund's men. Hatch the Mule, Hrolf, Bone Spear Erik, Two Notch Haldur just to name a few. There were other names of note to be counted. Like Soren Shileldbreaker a famous warrior and raider, Two chieftains of the Frozen Shore Clans with seashells and clad in sealskins. They all made a rough crowd, but peace with these people could go a long way to create a profitable relationship. 

On the far side of the house, where valuable timbers were gathered to be carried in the galleys almost made Asher Forrester cry. He trekked to see what was the issue.

"Look how they butchered the ironwood trees!", young Forrester howled. "This is no way to treat such a resource, you moron!" 

Jon had to agree. Wildlings instead of cutting the main branches of the trees had somehow managed to uproot them whole. Torreg was rather annoyed. "What is the issue? You wanted ironwood. We got you ironwood." 

"You need to cut the main branches of the trees. Like one out of three branches or two out of five. So in next summer, more timber can be harvested. But now the whole tree is dead." Asher explained in an angry voice. The look on Torreg's face showed he didn't think of it this way. If Wildlings keep uprooting ironwood, one day there will be no more ironwood. 

But the trees had strong roots. Ironwood was difficult to cut down even with the sharpest ax. The way it had been uprooted looked like someone just pulled out a sapling from the soil. "How did you do it?", he asked. 

" Giants.", Torreg replied in a way that implied it was completely normal for mythical creatures uprooting trees. 

Jon exchanged looks with Asher. Giants?!  Wildings were one thing but giants?! Old nan claimed they were as large as pine trees, mixing blood in their morning porridge and devouring bulls whole, horns, hooves, and hide. 

A whistle of Night Screamer bird tore his attention from the timber. A way of signaling each other their father had taught them while hunting. Robb, who had come down with Theon and his guards were eyeing a bound girl among a group of men. "Shieldbreaker's men"  Jon recognized. Trouble. 

When the girl noticed them, she cried "M'lord!", trying to get their attention. Her captor slapped her hard in the face. 

"Who is she?", Robb demanded of the man. 

"My woman", the ugly man with a burly chest replied. He was better armed than Most common wildlings. A raider. 

The girl squirmed despite the threats of strikes. "He lies, m'lord! I'm just a fisherman's daughter. They claimed they were traders, they were! Then they attacked my family home and carried me away." 

Robb's hands went on to his sword. "You fucking scum! I allowed your boats through because you said you wanted to trade, not trouble. This how you repay trust? " Jon stopped Robb with a hand, motioning Ulfric forward. 

The angry bear of a man grabbed the raider by his throat and pushed the head into a nearby fire pit where they had gathered for warmth. The arms flailed pathetically, the smell of burning flesh immediately covering the whole area. Ulfric Strormcloak's face looked like he was just eating breakfast while the man was screaming on the top of his lungs in pain. The housecarl had a knack for brutal violence, unlike any other man he had seen. Clearly, Jon had chosen his right-hand man well. 

Soren who had watched the entire thing going down clutched his stone ax, ready for a battle. But all of his men were surrounded by veteran Stark guards and Jon's own men.

"Come on. Give me a fight." Jon took out his sword and ax. "I fucking warned you people about raids." 

Shieldbreaker would've chosen to fight despite the disadvantage but Tormund intervened. "Bloody idiot! I especially forbade the raids. Not just you still did it, but brought the girl here? Where her own people would be today?" 

"You are taking their sides instead of your own people?" Soren spat on the ground. 

"I'm taking my own side," Tormund warned him, flanked by his own son and men. "You shed a drop of blood in my home and You are done. You leave empty-handed." 

Finally, the angry warrior relented. More likely for the things he had ordered. Two dozen bushels of corn, a pile of oil clothes, copper pots for cooking which was quite valuable for a household, and more. Not for the threats. 

Gathered Free Folk watched the scene unfolded. None came to put their nose in or to say something. Most likely they were impressed by how flawlessly and brutally the murder was done other than anything. 

Wildlings Leaving With Supplies

Later in the night, when all the bartering and haggling was done for the day, Jon hoped the talk of Giants was just Torreg joking. Tormund had called for a feast in the hall. Notable Warriors and chiefs of the friendly clans were present, drinking ale and occasionally singing some bawdy songs. He was explaining to Hassmyra why her vegetable patches were failing. "You need to cover the ground with mulch when snow falls." he told her. "Then water the leaves of the plants when frost gathers else they will freeze and break........."

Theon and Robb were talking to Alvin The Whaler. A middle-aged man with a clean shaved face. Alvin and his family hunted whales near the Frozen Shore, in small crude boats which would be called dhingy farther south. But they did it with surprising efficiency. He came to buy steel harpoon from Jon, but the trading was of steel was banned. Jon told him he would see if his father allowed him to bring them next time. Made of steel may be, harpoons couldn't be compared to actual weapons. They settled for some pearls which the whalers family found while gathering oysters.

The old man looked like his eyes were still in the sea, when he told Theon, “Grey whales aren’t even the biggest things you get around here, ain’t that right?”. Looking for confirmation from his family.

“Oh aye,” one of his sons agreed. “You get some monsters in these waters.”

“Oh yep. Grey whales aren’t the biggest out there, plenty of others as well – we get sperm whales about twice the size some seasons too,” Alvin said. “And that’s to say nothing about the sharks. Have you ever seen a great ice water shark? Bigger than this bloody hall!”

Jon and Robb listened intently. Maybe if their grandfather Rickard was alive, he would've told them stories like this in Winterfell's hall on a cold night, around a fire with warm drinks in hand.

Alvin talked while twisting up fibers to make rope. “But the biggest – the absolute biggest – creature you’ll ever see,” Alvin continued. “A bloody leviathan.”

There were a few murmurs of agreement. “Those monsters can grow over two hundred feet long,” Alvin explained. “They cause tidal waves when they surface. Now those are too big for any of my boats, I heard you need something called Ibbenese whalers to bring those down. They don’t come in close to the coast, either, but I’ve seen a few before when I’ve taken my boat too far out to sea. Bloody monsters, believe me.”

The only thing Jon knew about leviathans was from Old Nan’s tales, that the first sea dragon Nagga used to be so large it could hunt leviathans out of the ocean.

“But do you want to know the scariest thing I’ve ever seen, boys?” Alvin said looking at Theon's brooch. “A kraken.”

“Krakens?” Greyjoy got excited. Krakens were another semi-mythical creature right there. “You’ve actually seen one?”

He nodded for emphasis. “Oh yes,” Alvin explained. “Nine years ago now – I was hunting way off the coast, much further than I should have been, truthfully. There was a fierce storm, but I was riding through. There is no weather in the world that can sink one of Alvin’s ships,” he added with pride. “But right then, I saw bloody giant wave hit me from the side, and I was washing upwards on the wake as a monster rose up beside me! A kraken! It was almost as big as a leviathan, but with a lot more tentacles and a lot angrier.” Alvin shuddered. “I’ll tell you, I ruined a good pair of pants that day!”

The stories continued as the night went on. Alvin Whaletooth had a story for every day he had been at sea.

Suddenly the gate of the hall started to shake. The walls as well, heavy timbers planted deep in the ground, as a massive figure started to crawl in through. All Northerners would have been scared shitless, including Jon, if the scene had not been somewhat hilarious, rather than being scary. Still, most of them went for their weapons before Torreg and other Free Folk chiefs sharply told them to put away their blades. Saying "They" don't appreciate humans waving steel in their faces. 

"They" was a Giant. A massive block of fur and muscle, almost twelve feet high. Its hands were sloped nearly touching the ground. Shaggy pelts covered its waist. Everyone was too stunned to talk. Thankfully Tormund came to the rescue. 

"This is Fjall Weg Isar War Wun," he announced. "He is from the Frostfang Canyon Clan. Here to trade." 

Robb by then gathered his courage to separate himself from his guards and moved forward. "By the gods," he exclaimed. But when he took a step forward, the giant wasn’t happy. He growled. 

"Uhh, how can we help him?". Jon finally composed himself. 

Fjall Weg Isar War Wun grumbled, pointing to a barrel of ale, said something in the old tongue. He understood some of the old words, but the giant's dialect was far older, cruder, and primitive. 

"He wants a barrel of ale,"  Tormund translated. "And he has this,"  he said, pointing outside the door to a massive object about twenty feet long. 

Jon and Robb went out to see it. It was an old mammoth tusk, with a rough surface and broken edge. A tusk of this size would take five men to pick up.

Robb circled around and came back. "A barrel of ale?"  he repeated. " For this?" 

Jon understood what he meant. The ivory available in Westeros was mostly walrus ivory. Elephant tusks coming from Essos were extremely rare and valuable. An Ivory of this size could worth at least two hundred dragons. More, if it was carved properly to make sword handles or statues of gods and whatnot.  

The giant shrugged impatiently. Pointed at the ale again. 

"Just give him what you think is fair." Tormund advised and went to join the other guests. 

In the end, Jon gathered ten barrels of ale and two dozen bushels of grain for the giant. Half of their supplies to return home but at least they didn't rob Fjall Weg Wun or whatever his full name was blind. 

Even when he got far more than what he asked for, the giant didn't say anything. He took one of the Giantsbane family's makeshift sled, stored everything in it, and walked away, pulling it behind him. 

"You could've warned us earlier," Jon complained when everyone came back. "Rather than slapping us in the face with a giant. " 

"He came late. Not my fault. But You did fair by him, he will remember that. Giants are not as crafty as us humans. They don't cheat and like those who deal fair." 

Jon moved around the smoky room. Wildings had already gone back to their pipes and entrail harps. Their own men were still nervous, muttering among themselves about monsters. Asher was carving a crude figure of the giant from a wood piece taken from the fire. Probably Ulfric was the Only one not fazed at all. He had stood up in case the giant proved to be hostile. Now he was drinking slowly, measuring every wildling who might prove to be a threat. 

He found a seat between Robb and Theon. His father's ward was eyeing a pretty teen of the river clans. Karsi, Jon remembered the name. His brother was watching a red-haired girl slightly older than them. She wasn’t pretty, not like those lords' daughters Robb was used to. Must be the red hair that intrigued him.

"Be careful where you stick Yourself Greyjoy" Jon warned. "These people might cut off your cock if you try to fuck the wrong girl. " 

Theon couldn't care much about the threats. "Learn a thing or two about fucking a girl from the expert, children. The way I do it, there's no risk. It's really an art." 

"So come on. Enlighten us about this....art." Robb said, without breaking eye contact with the girl. 

Theon was about to get ready for a speech on his favorite subject before Torreg interrupted them, one-third in his cup. 

The young chief flopped on a log across the fire. "You lordlings should know something." He drank deep from his horn. "There has been talking among the Haunted Forest Tribes. Talk of an election. " 

So? "Election of what? " 

Torreg took another sip. "Of a King I hear. Someone called Mance Rayder, a former crow who had been trying to win favors and battles. To convince notable leaders to support him as king." 

That was certainty news. A King Beyond The Wall. Whenever there was a King beyond the wall it meant conflict between Free Folk and Northerners. A war would be brewing in the future. 

Robb broke the silence. "Well, maybe we should go and talk with this Mance Rayder instead of Tormund for an alliance. He must be a great warrior. And a great man if he can crown himself king." 

"So is my father." Torreg was red in his face and about to stand up before Jon shoved another round of mead on his hand. He tumbled slightly in his drunkenness, walked away still visibly angry. 

"Why did you provoke him? That was not necessary at all." 

"Why not?", Robb gave a shrewd look. "Torreg is ambitious. Perhaps we can use him and Tormund to our advantage. Who knows? Maybe even as a rival King perhaps."

Jon took a long sip from his cup, washing his mouth with the drink. A king. Aye. And Why not?  Tormund was a great warrior known among wildlings. He already had support from the Frostfang Forest Clan, several ice river clans, and apparently from Giants as well. If he could convince a few more, he could easily crown himself a King. Not the King of all the Wildlings maybe. A King who consorts with the enemy won't be accepted by all the wildlings. But those who can enjoy the fruits of the alliance would surely do. 

And that's why Robb was the heir to the North. His brother was inexperienced in battle and lordship both, but he already had started to show promise. Sea Dragon Point was booming in trade and this plan to counter an enemy King Beyond the Wall was sound as well. Father's teachings are coming through. 

A tug on his cloak tore him from his thoughts. The little orphan girl he met in the morn was trying to get his attention. She was dressed in a wool tunic and a piece of fur as a cloak now. She reminded him of little Arya and Sansa, back when they were chubby babies. Jon pinched her cheeks and tickled her, making the girl smile. Asa touched his cheek in return. "Val?" 

"Oh, you are looking for Val?", Jon pulled her closer, putting her on the bench. "She must be around here somewhere."

That reminded him; he actually been so busy since morning he hadn’t even seen Val after he left her in the hall. Nobody had seen her either. Where was she anyway? 

He left Asa with Robb and Theon, thinking of checking outside."Keep an eye on her, will you?". 

The outside was dark and quiet. Wicker and mud-dubbed walls of the houses were far from each other with silhouettes of lights coming. It didn't seem like a good idea to go door to door asking if they have seen a girl with blonde hair. It could be that she already had left for her father's. But Val wanted to bring food for her family as well. Why would she leave without saying anything? Something wasn’t right. 

Suddenly he felt the urge to piss. Jon choose a tree and undid his breeches, proceeding to empty his bladder. 

"Your brother is weak.", someone suddenly said, making him almost soiling his pants. The girl Robb was talking to was watching him from the other side of the tree. 

He was more annoyed than embarrassed. Jon didn’t try to hide his nakedness. If she wanted to have a look, why not let her have it. "Robb isn't weak. He just is not used to the way of the Free folk." 

The girl leaned on the trunk, still not averting her eyes. "What type of leader shies away from talking with a girl?" 

"The type of leader who is not used to girls staring at his cock while he is trying to take a leak." Jon pulled up his breeches. "What is Your name? " 

"Ygritte " 

"Well, Ygritte. " Jon walked in front of her, grabbing some soil and snow from the ground to clean his hand. "Why don't you give my brother another chance? Without the cock talk, preferably. "

Getting busy with a girl in Winterfell would be scandalous for Robb. But no one was here to see them now. This would probably be a much-needed surge of confidence for his brother.

Ygritte gave it some thought, Looking back at the hall."Maybe I will. " 

Ghost had followed him from a bone he had been breaking to get the marrow inside. The Direwolf had gotten so big now Jon had to raise his hand to reach his head. He scratched the ears. "Have you seen Val boy?" 

Ghost sniffed the air a few times. Then pointed his snout at the exit of the Village. Forest was thick and dark beyond. Jon walked to the gate and took a moment to compose himself, taking a deep breath. Ghost was sniffing Val's footprints. The light snow that falls often beyond the wall didn't cover them up yet. Meaning she left barely an hour ago. Still, it didn't feel right. 

Jon closed his eyes, trying to tap into Ghost's senses. There were many things his human eyes and nose couldn't tell him. But with the direwolf's help, he could see them easily.

A faraway bush was slightly crooked. Someone or something was hiding in there some times ago.  And other smells. Over the pungent scent of cattle dung and piss, he found wild animal scents. A couple of wolves? And maybe a bear?  Why would the animals come so close to a settlement? Was another warg nearby?

In the end, he walked up to Tormund's barn and choose a runty garron from the animals. It would serve for a small journey. Val wasn't far away. He could talk her into coming back for the night. Convince her to take the journey when the route was clear.

It would probably be better to call Ulfric or Tormund's men to go with him. But it would take a long time. And he wasn't sure if Val was in trouble or not. His senses were telling him she was. Jon never had a closer relationship with Val. Most of the time they japed at each other. Still, he felt like he shouldn't leave her alone in face of potential danger. 

Jon got up on his horse. Ghost didn't need to hear a command, just turned to the tracks and ran. He followed the direwolf into the night.  

Chapter Text

The air beyond the Wall was a frozen, lifeless expanse, so cold that it could freeze a man’s lungs solid with every breath. Jon Snow could feel the chill seeping into his bones, even through the thick furs wrapped around his body. The land beyond the Wall was unforgiving, a wasteland of ice and snow where the wind howled like a hungry beast. This seemed like a place not for the living, yet Jon pressed on, resolve hardening with each step. Ghost moved beside him, his white fur blending into the landscape, his eyes like embers in the night. 

He gripped the reins of his horse, runty yet sturdy Northern steed bred for the harsh terrain. The horse’s breath steamed in the frigid air, its muscles tensed with every step as if it too sensed the danger that lay ahead. He had left the warmth of Ruddy Hall behind, venturing into the wild lands beyond the Wall with nothing more than his sword, his cloak and Ghost for company. But the more he pressed on the more it seemed like this journey was a folly. Cold, way too cold. The wilderness was an endless sea of white, broken only by the jagged silhouettes of ancient trees and the distant mountains that loomed like sentinels over the frozen world.

It could not have been more than an hour since he got on the horse, yet time seemed to have lost all meaning in the cold and the dark. The only constants were the biting wind and the oppressive silence that seemed to swallow every sound. Jon could feel Ghost’s presence beside him, a comforting shadow in the gathering gloom. The direwolf moved with the grace of a predator, his body tense and alert, his ears pricked as if listening to something Jon could not hear.

Then, without warning, Jon felt it like hitting a stone wall—a dark presence, malevolent and cold, like a shadow cast by the eclipse of the moon. It was a feeling he had come to recognize—the sensation of another warg nearby. Jon’s grip tightened on the reins, and he glanced at Ghost. The direwolf’s ears were flat against his skull, his hackles raised, and his red eyes gleamed with a predatory hunger. Jon urged his horse forward, his heart pounding in his chest, and soon he saw them.

Wolves. A bear. A shadowcat. And a man. The clearing was a scene of chaos, lit only by the pale light of the moon and the faint glow of the stars. Val was there, her back against a snow-covered boulder, trying desperately to fend off the wolves that circled her. Her cloak was torn, her golden hair matted with blood, and her face twisted in a mask of pain and fury. She fought with nothing but a knife, stabbing at the beasts as they lunged at her, their jaws snapping inches from her throat.

The man—Varamyr—sat atop a massive white bear, his face twisted into a cruel smile as he watched Val struggle. The bear’s breath steamed in the cold air, its fur stained with blood, and its eyes wild and full of rage. The wolves, the bear, the shadowcat—all of them were under Varamyr’s control. Jon knew he was outnumbered, outmatched. This man had to be an extremely powerful warg to be able to control so many animals at once, but he couldn’t just stand by and watch Val die.

Jon dismounted from his horse, his boots sinking into the snow as he drew his blade from its scabbard. The steel gleamed in the moonlight, its edge sharp enough to cut through bone. Jon took a deep breath, steadying himself, and reached out with his mind.

Warging had become natural to Jon, like a second skin. But this was different. He wasn’t just trying to connect with Ghost—he was trying to break the bond between Varamyr and his beasts. Jon closed his eyes, focusing all his will on the wolves, extending his mind like a hand reaching through the darkness.

He felt the wolves’ presence, wild and fierce, but there was something else there too—a dark, twisted force that recoiled at Jon’s touch. Varamyr. Jon pushed harder, driving his will into the wolves’ minds, forcing them to see him as their master, not Varamyr. The wolves hesitated, their loyalty to Varamyr wavering as they felt Jon’s presence in their minds. Jon seized the moment, pushing Varamyr’s influence out of their thoughts and replacing it with his own.

The first wolf whined and backed away from Val, its ears flat against its skull. The others followed, their aggression draining away as Jon’s influence took hold. Varamyr snarled, his face twisted with rage as he felt his control slip. He reached out with his mind, trying to reassert his dominance, but Jon was ready. With a final push, he severed Varamyr’s connection to the wolves completely, leaving them lost and confused in the clearing.

“Ghost!” Jon shouted, his voice carrying over the howling wind.

Ghost moved like a shadow, silent and deadly. The direwolf lunged at the wolves, driving them back even further, his teeth bared in a snarl. The wolves scattered, their courage broken, and Ghost turned his attention to the shadowcat that had been lurking at the edge of the clearing. The great cat hissed, its fur bristling, but it too retreated under the force of Jon’s will. Shadowcats were amush predators, and warg or not, this one had no will to fight a direwolf. 

Varamyr screamed, his voice a mix of rage and frustration, as he realized he had lost control. He urged the bear forward, but the great beast hesitated, confused by the sudden absence of the wolves. A shake of its thick neck threw Varamyr off his ride. The warg fell from seven feet high, his winds knocked off his lungs. Jon didn’t give Varamyr a chance to regain his footing. He ran to Val’s side, his face grimaced as he saw the blood on her shoulder.

“Val,” Jon said, kneeling beside her. “We need to get you out of here.”

Val looked up at him, her eyes filled with pain and desperation. “Jon… I can’t walk. My ankle... it’s broken.”

Jon glanced around, his mind racing. The horse was gone, frightened off by the bear, and they were too far from the coast to make it back on foot. He needed to get Val to safety, but the only way to do that was to put her on Ghost’s back.

“Hold on to me,” Jon said, wrapping Val’s arm around his shoulder as he helped her to her feet. She winced as her weight settled on her injured ankle, and Jon knew she wouldn’t be able to walk on her own.

He led her to Ghost, who stood patiently as Jon secured Val to his back with his sword belt. The direwolf’s fur was warm and soft, a stark contrast to the freezing air around them. Val clung to Ghost’s fur, her face pale and strained.

“Ghost will get you back to Tormund,” Jon said, his voice firm. “Just hold on. Send help.”

Val nodded weakly, her eyes filled with tears. Jon gave her a reassuring squeeze, then stepped back. Ghost whined in protest. The direwolf had no wish to leave Jon behind, but he held to his order with a sharp slap on Ghost's rump. He watched as Ghost set off at a steady pace with a lingering look behind him, Val clinging to his fur as the direwolf moved through the snow with the grace of a shadow.

Jon turned back to Varamyr, his heart still pounding. But now, in anger. The warg managed to get back on his feet now, his face twisted with fury. He drew a short blade, its edge glinting in the moonlight, and advanced on Jon with murder in his eyes.

“You think you can steal my beasts, whelp?” Varamyr hissed, his voice filled with venom. “I’ll gut you and feed your entrails to the crows!”

Jon raised his own sword, his grip steady despite the cold seeping into his bones. “Snow will cover your bones come the morrow beastlord. You're strong. But the powers I have are beyond your dreams.”

But Varamyr was not a man to give up easily. With a snarl, he lunged at Jon, his blade flashing in the moonlight. Jon parried the blow easily, his sword ringing as it clashed with Varamyr’s. The two men circled each other, their breaths steaming in the cold air, their eyes locked in a deadly dance.

Varamyr was quick and strong, his movements sharp and precise, but he was not a swordsman. Jon deflected Varamyr’s strikes with practiced ease, looking for an opening. The warg fought with feral intensity, his blade darting like a snake, but Jon’s skill and determination held strong against Varamyr's heavy blows.

As soon as Varamyr stopped to take a breath, with a sudden surge of speed, Jon struck. Cold steel sliced through the air, finding its mark in Varamyr’s belly. The warg let out a choked gasp, his eyes widening in shock as he stumbled back, clutching the wound. Blood spilled between his fingers, dark and thick in the pale light.

Jon didn’t hesitate. He followed up with another strike, his blade cutting deep into Varamyr’s chest. The warg fell to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he tried to stem the flow of blood. His eyes met Jon’s, filled with a mixture of hatred and fear.

“You......You’ll pay for this.” Varamyr rasped, his voice weak and fading. His eyes rolled back for a second, leaving Jon with a great burning inside his head as he barely managed to keep his focus.  

Jon jumped forward blindly, his sword flailing with a desperate slash. The blade hacked through Varamyr’s head at an angle, cutting the head in half. The lower half stopped moving, the body going limp as he slumped to the ground. 

Jon fell beside Varamyr's lifeless body, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts.  The burning pain still lingered inside his skull, with the vile presence of Varamyr still echoing. The cold gnawed at his exposed skin, and the wind bit into his cheeks, but the heat of battle still burned in his veins. His hand tightened around the hilt of his blade, now slick with Varamyr's blood. He had won, but the victory brought no sense of relief. There was no time to savor the moment, no time to reflect on the life he had just taken. The wilds beyond the wall were unforgiving, and danger lurked in every shadow.

As if to remind him, a low growl rumbled through the night air. Jon's head snapped up, and his heart sank as he saw the white bear emerging from the darkness. The massive creature's fur was matted with blood, its eyes wild and filled with rage. Varamyr's death had severed the warg's control over the beast, but it had not taken away the bear's primal fury. It was a living embodiment of the North's brutal, unyielding power, and it was coming for him. 

The snowbear reared up on its hind legs, towering over Jon like a mountain of fur and muscle. Its roar echoed through the clearing, a sound that sent a shiver down Jon's spine. He had seen smaller bears in action before, watched them tear through prey with terrifying ease. And now, with Varamyr dead, the larger bear's rage was directed solely at him.

Jon barely had time to raise the sword before the bear charged. The ground trembled under the weight of its massive paws as it barreled toward him, its jaws wide open, teeth glinting in the moonlight. Jon threw himself to the side, narrowly avoiding the bear's snapping jaws. He hit the ground hard, the impact jolting through his body, but he rolled to his feet, ready to face the beast again.

The bear whirled around, its eyes locking onto Jon with a feral intensity. It lunged at him, its claws raking through the air. Jon ducked under the swing, bringing his blade up in a desperate attempt to strike. The blade cut into the bear's shoulder, drawing a spray of blood, but it was like trying to chop down a tree with a table knife. The bear barely seemed to notice the wound, its fury undiminished.

Jon knew he couldn't win this fight. The bear was too powerful, too relentless, and he was already exhausted from his battle with Varamyr. 

The bear charged again, and this time, Jon wasn't quick enough. The beast's paw slammed into him, the force of the blow sending him flying through the air. He hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud, the wind knocked out of him. Pain exploded in his chest, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe, couldn't move. The world spun around him, the helplessness seeping into his very soul.

Through the haze of pain, Jon saw the bear advancing on him, its massive form blotting out the stars. He struggled to rise, but his limbs felt like iron, his strength drained. The bear loomed over him, its breath hot and foul, its eyes burning with a murderous rage. A slash of the claws ripped through his stomach, tearing wool, leather, and muscle. Another bite crushed through his shoulder. Jon had brought his knees to his head, curling into a ball to save his chest and head, his sword forgotten. This was it. This was how he would die—alone in the frozen wilderness, far from home, far from the Moat. 

But Jon wasn't ready to give up. He had fought too hard, come too far to let it end like this. Desperation fueled his actions as he reached out with his mind, searching, seeking. He had already driven away Varamyr's wolves, but there were other creatures in these woods, other animals that might answer his call. He needed help, and he needed it now.

Jon reached out with his warging abilities, extending his mind into the darkness. He could feel the cold, the emptiness of the wilds, but he also felt life—faint, distant, but there. A pack of wolves, their thoughts a jumble of hunger and fear. A flock of ravens, their minds filled with the promise of carrion. And then, something else—something stronger, more powerful.

Another direwolf.

Jon's heart leaped at the sensation. It was distant, but not too far. He could feel its strength, its determination, its fierce protectiveness. And something more—other presences, smaller, but no less important. Pups, still in the womb, waiting to be born. The direwolf was pregnant, but she was not weak. She was a mother, and mothers were fierce when their young were threatened.

Jon focused all his will on the direwolf, calling to her, urging her to come to him. He could feel her hesitation, her instinct to protect her unborn pups, but he pushed harder, sending out a wave of desperation and need. 

The bear was still upon him, its massive form filling his vision. It had slapped Jon with massive claws, looking for the head to deliver a final blow. But then, from the darkness, came a howl—deep, resonant, and filled with primal fury. The sound cut through the night, echoing off the trees, and the bear hesitated, its head snapping up to locate the source of the cry.

Out of the shadows, the direwolf emerged, a massive creature with fur as black as night and eyes that burned with an inner fire. She was larger than Ghost, as big as a stallion, her muscles rippling under her thick coat as she moved with lethal grace. Her belly was swollen with her unborn pups, but there was no weakness in her stance, only strength and a fierce determination.

The snowbear turned to face the new threat, its growl rumbling like distant thunder. The direwolf bared her teeth, a low growl emanating from deep within her chest. The two beasts circled each other, their eyes locked in a battle of wills. Jon watched in awe, his body trembling with pain and cold, as the direwolf prepared to defend her unborn pups with everything she had, mistaking Jon's summons as a threat to her. 

The bear struck first, its massive paw lashing out with deadly force. The direwolf darted to the side, avoiding the blow with fluid grace. She countered with a snap of her powerful jaws, her teeth sinking into the bear's flank. The bear roared in pain and fury, swinging its paw at the direwolf, but she was too quick. She released her grip and danced back, her eyes never leaving the bear.

Jon knew this was his chance. While the two beasts were locked in combat, he had to get away. He managed to get himself on fours, his entrails almost hanging open. The loss of blood was blurring the world. He bit back a cry of pain as his ribs protested the movement. His vision swam, and the world tilted precariously, but he forced himself to move, to crawl away from the deadly battle unfolding before him.

Each movement sent waves of agony through his body, but Jon gritted his teeth and kept going. The sounds of the fight—the bear's roars, the direwolf's snarls—faded into the background as he focused on one goal: survival. He had to get away, find shelter, and live. 

He inched away from the battle, the sounds of the direwolf and the snowbear growing fainter with each passing moment. Jon could feel his strength waning, his body growing colder and weaker.

Finally, Jon could go no further. His body gave out, collapsing into the snow, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The cold was overwhelming now, seeping into his very soul, and he could feel the darkness closing in around him. But before he lost consciousness, he could almost feel a figure with a golden head touching his face, a comforting presence in the unforgiving night.

********************************

Jon drifted in and out of consciousness, the pain in his body ebbing and flowing like the tide. The world around him was a blur of shadows and whispers, the cold ever-present, gnawing at his bones. He no longer knew how much time had passed since the direwolf had saved him from the bear. His mind was a haze, filled with fragmented memories of battles, blood, and cold. Warmth from his own blood was the only thing tethering him to life.

As he lay there, barely clinging to consciousness, a strange sound reached his ears—a soft rustling, like leaves moving in the wind, though there was no wind in this dark, frozen place. Jon forced his eyes open, his vision blurry and unfocused. He saw movement in the shadows, figures darting between the trees, small and swift, almost ethereal in their grace.

At first, Jon thought it was a trick of his failing mind, a hallucination brought on by pain and cold. But then he felt hands—small, delicate hands—lifting him, turning him gently as they examined his wounds. Jon tried to speak, to ask who they were, but no words came. The world was slipping away from him, and the darkness was closing in once more.

The last thing he saw before losing consciousness again was a face—a small, ancient face with eyes as deep and dark as the night sky. The figure leaned over him, whispering words he couldn't understand, and then everything went black.

Jon awoke in darkness, but this time, it was a different kind of darkness—warm, enveloping, like the inside of a cave. The air was cool but not biting, and there was a faint, earthy smell that reminded him of the deep woods. He tried to move, but his body felt heavy, his limbs unresponsive. Panic surged within him, but then he heard soft, murmuring voices, speaking in a language he didn’t understand.

He blinked, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light. He was lying on a bed of soft moss, covered in furs, deep within a cavern. The walls were lined with roots—thick, gnarled roots that twisted and turned, pulsating with a faint, eerie glow. The roots seemed to come from above, from a circle of weirwood trees that Jon could barely make out through a crack in the cavern ceiling. Their faces—pale, ancient, and carved with sorrow—seemed to watch him, their red sap eyes bleeding into the earth.

Jon's gaze shifted to the figures around him. They were small, no taller than children, but with an air of ancient wisdom that belied their size. Their skin was the color of moss, their hair like the roots of the trees above, and their eyes—large and luminous—shone with an inner light. Children of the Forest, the legendary beings who had once ruled Westeros long before the coming of men.

One of them, who seemed older than the others, stepped forward. She held a bone needle in her hand, threaded with a thin, shimmering fiber that Jon had never seen before. The others moved closer, their faces solemn, as the elder began to sew his wounds, her hands moving with practiced precision.

Jon winced as the needle pierced his flesh, but the pain was distant, muffled by whatever strange magic the Children were using. He felt the threads pulling his skin together, binding the gashes left by the snowbear’s claws and the savage battle with Varamyr. The fibers glowed faintly as they were woven into his flesh, their light sinking into his body, leaving only faint scars behind.

The thoughts were disjointed, fragmented memories flickering through his mind like dying embers. The battle with Varamyr, the snowbear’s savage attack, and the desperate flight through the wilderness all played out in disjointed flashes. He could barely keep his eyes open, the exhaustion pulling him toward unconsciousness. But every time he slipped too far, the pain would drag him back, a cruel anchor to the world of the living.

The Children worked in silence, their faces impassive, their eyes reflecting the faint glow of the weirwood roots. Jon couldn’t tell how much time had passed—minutes, hours, days. The boundaries of time blurred in the darkness, the only measure of its passage being the gradual ebb of his strength. The wounds closed under the Children’s care, but something was wrong. Despite their efforts, a deep, festering would took root in Jon’s belly wound.

At first, it was just a dull ache, a discomfort that Jon tried to push aside. But as the days continued to pass, the pain intensified, spreading outwards like poison in his blood. His skin grew hot to the touch, feverish, and the wound began to darken, the flesh around it turning an unnatural shade of black. A foul stench filled the air, thick and putrid, and Jon could see the concern growing on the faces of the Children.

They tried everything they could—herbs, poultices, even their most powerful spells—but the infection was beyond their skill to heal. The old gods might have guided their hands, but even their ancient power could not stop the rot that was spreading through Jon’s body. The Children exchanged troubled glances, their whispers growing more urgent, their movements more hurried. They knew, as Jon did, that time was running out.

After gods knew how many days later, the elder of the Children approached Jon, her small, mossy hands trembling slightly as she placed the obsidian blade into his hand. She looked at him with sorrowful eyes, eyes that seemed to hold the weight of countless centuries. There was nothing more they could do for him. The dragonglass was a last resort, a tool to end his suffering before the infection consumed him entirely. They left him there, in the cavern’s depths, to face his fate alone.

Jon lay there, the weight of the dragonglass blade heavy in his hand, his breath coming in shallow, labored gasps. The fever had taken hold, and his vision swimming with dark spots. He was dying, and he knew it. There was nothing left but to wait for the end. As the fever worsened, he felt his thoughts begin to drift, slipping away like sand through his fingers.

And then, in the midst of his fevered delirium, she appeared.

Rhae stepped out of the shadows, her form shimmering with an otherworldly light that cast strange, flickering shadows on the walls of the cavern. She was more ghostly than he remembered, her hair flowing like liquid moonlight, her eyes as deep as the night sky. She moved with a grace that was almost inhuman, her steps soundless on the cavern floor.

Jon tried to speak, to ask her what she was doing there, but his voice was gone, stolen by the fever that raged through his body. He could only watch as she approached, her expression calm and serene, as if she had all the time in the world.

“You are at the edge, Jon,” Rhae said, her voice soft and melodic, like the rustle of leaves in the wind. “It was not wise for you to travel alone at night beyond the Wall. You are closer to death than to life.”

Jon could only nod weakly, his grip tightening on the dragonglass blade. He didn’t know if he had the strength left to use it, but if the infection continued to spread, he might not have a choice.

“I can help you,” Rhae continued, her gaze unwavering as she looked down at him. “But I need something in return.”

Jon’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What... what do you want?” he managed to rasp out, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“A promise,” she said, her tone steady and unwavering. “You will owe me a debt, Jon Snow. A debt that I will collect in time. When the moment comes, you will do as I ask, without hesitation, without question. Do you understand?”

Jon’s mind was clouded with fever, his thoughts muddled and sluggish. He didn’t understand fully what she was asking, but he knew he had no other choice. He was dying, and this strange, spectral woman was his only hope. The weight of her words pressed down on him, but he nodded, the barest inclination of his head.

“I... I promise,” he said, his voice trembling with exhaustion.

Rhae smiled, a faint, almost sorrowful smile, and reached into the folds of her cloak. She withdrew a small bundle of herbs, their leaves dark and glossy, with an unnatural sheen to them. With a flick of her wrist, she lit the herbs, and a thick blue smoke began to curl up from the smoldering leaves.

“This smoke will take you away,” she said, her voice low and soothing. “It will carry your soul to another time, another place, far beyond this cavern. While you journey, your body will heal, free from the pain that binds you. But remember, Jon Snow, that this is not without cost. When you return, you will be bound by your promise to me.”

The blue smoke swirled around Jon, its scent strange and intoxicating. It filled his lungs, his mind growing hazy as the world around him began to fade. He could feel his consciousness slipping away, the pain in his body receding as the smoke worked its magic. His eyelids grew heavy, his limbs numb, and soon he was sinking into a deep, almost death-like sleep.

As the darkness closed in, the last thing Jon saw was Rhae’s face, her expression unreadable, as she watched him drift into the void. The sound of her voice echoed in his mind, a final, haunting whisper that lingered in the silence.

“Remember your promise, Jon Snow. Remember.”

And then there was nothing but darkness.

(End of this Chapter)

******************************** 

A New Beginning   Echoes of The Past  (Chapter 1)

As he felt he might be swallowed by the void, a hand reached out to him. He could not see it, but he felt its presence, warm and firm, guiding him through the blackness. A voice, familiar and yet distant, whispered in his ear—a voice he had heard before, in the midst of battles, in the silence of the night.

“Look upon just one record of the past, Jon Snow. Look and believe.”

The darkness began to lift, though not entirely. It peeled away like a heavy curtain, revealing a faint light—cold, gray, and distant. Jon found himself standing on a rocky plain, the dawn barely breaking on the horizon. He was no longer in the cavern, no longer dying from the infection that had ravaged his body. Instead, he was different. His limbs felt heavy, his skin rough and thick, his breath deep and powerful. He was still Jon Snow, but at the same time, he was someone else—someone from a time so ancient it was barely comprehensible.

He stood, not as himself, but as another man. A man of the past, yet also a reflection of his own soul, the echoes of which had traveled through the ages. This was no mere vision. It was a life he was reliving, a memory that had been buried deep within him, now unearthed by the smoke and the magic of the old gods.

Jon, or the man he had become, looked down at his hands. They were large, calloused, the hands of a warrior who had fought many battles. He flexed his fingers, feeling the strength in them, the raw power that coursed through his body. He was a sturdy man, thick-limbed and deep-chested, his skin weathered by the elements. His furs were heavy, and the pelt of some great beast draped over his shoulders. He turned his head, instinctively checking his surroundings, his eyes sharp and alert, his senses heightened.

The cold dawn light revealed a vast, untamed landscape—mountains in the distance, forests dense and dark, and the open plain stretching out as far as the eye could see. There were no castles here, no walls, no signs of the world Jon knew. This was a time before men had bent the land to their will, a time when survival was won through strength and cunning, not through titles or oaths.

He carried a short spear in his left hand, its blade fashioned from chipped flint, the edges sharp and lethal. In the girdle of his kilt, he could feel the weight of a stone ax, its head heavy and brutal, lashed to the handle with sinew. These were his tools, his weapons, the instruments of a life spent in constant battle with the elements, with beasts, and with other men.

Jon—or the man he had become—felt a sense of familiarity, a deep connection to this life. It was as if he had always known this place, this body, and this existence, even though it was so far removed from his own. He could feel the strength in his muscles, the sharpness of his instincts, the primal intelligence that guided his every action. This was a life unburdened by the complexities of politics and war, a life lived in its rawest, most essential form.

As he stood there, the voice whispered to him again, softer this time, almost tender.

“This is who you were, Jon Snow. This is where your bloodline began, in the dawn of the world. This is the spirit that has been passed down through the ages, from father to son, from warrior to warrior. Now you live and heal. ”

Chapter Text

Jon's eyes opened slowly, the world around him was a blur of darkness and cold stone. For a moment, he felt disoriented, caught between the remnants of a dream and the harsh reality of waking. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar, rough-hewn stone pressing against his back, unforgiving, and icy. He blinked, trying to focus, but everything seemed distant as if he was still ensnared in the fog of sleep. His body felt heavy as if years had passed while he slumbered, his muscles sore, and his limbs leaden as if he had fought a thousand battles. Yet when his trembling hand rose to his chest, he found no fresh wounds—only deep, jagged scars, the remnants of some forgotten war etched into his flesh.

He closed his eyes again, grasping at the fragments of his memory. There had been a dream—a vivid dream that felt like a lifetime. But the details slipped away like sand through his fingers, leaving only fleeting images—a face, a voice, a warmth that tugged at his heart with both sorrow and longing. He remembered Val, her voice calling out to him, her touch as real as the stone beneath him. And there were others—Robb with his fierce smile, Sansa with her soft, mournful eyes. They were there, alive and whole in that dream, but he couldn’t hold onto the memories, couldn’t bring them into focus.

A soft rustle of fabric broke through his thoughts, and Jon turned his head. The movement was slow and sluggish as if he were waking up from a deep, unnatural slumber. Rhae sat nearby, her eyes fixed on him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. The flickering light of a small fire cast shadows on her face, making her expression unreadable. Yet, in her gaze, there was something that unnerved him—a depth of knowledge that seemed far beyond his understanding.

"Rhae..." Jon's voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. He tried to clear his throat, but the dryness lingered, making speech painful. "How long...?"

"A thousand heartbeats. I counted," Rhae replied softly, her voice smooth and calm, as if she had anticipated the question. "No more, no less."

"A thousand heartbeats..." Jon repeated, frowning as he tried to make sense of her words. It felt as though he had lived a lifetime—experienced countless moments that stretched into eternity. "But... I lived a lifetime in that dream," he muttered, his brow furrowing in confusion. "I saw Val... and Robb... and Sansa... But I can't remember it well. Just pieces... fragments."

Rhae’s lips curled into a small, enigmatic smile, one that sent a chill through Jon’s spine. “That is expected,” her almost too calm. “The mind is not meant to hold onto such things. Dreams of that nature are fleeting, like shadows at dawn. They cannot be fully grasped, only glimpsed.”

A cold fear settled in Jon’s stomach. “What kind of witchcraft is this?” he asked in a trembling voice. “What did you do to me?”

Rhae’s smile remained, but a sadness flickered in her eyes that Jon hadn’t noticed before. “I did what I could to save your life. It is not witchcraft. What happened to you is beyond the craft of any mortal. Such things belong to places where shadows walk free and the oldest gods still whisper.”

The mention of the gods the First Men worshipped before their arrival in Westeros, sent a shiver through Jon. He had prayed in front of the Heart Tree countless times, always feeling their presence as distant, not fully knowable. But now, the thought that he had been touched by something so ancient and beyond his understanding filled him with dread. He struggled to push the fear away, but it clung to him, a dark presence at the edges of his mind.

He tried to sit up, his muscles protesting, but Rhae placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, urging him to lie back down. “Rest, Jon. You are still weak. The body also needs time to heal, even when the mind cannot.”

Jon’s breath came in ragged gasps as he fought to calm himself. He wanted to question her further, to demand answers, but his strength was failing him, his body betraying his will. The darkness crept in at the edges of his vision, the world slipping away from him once more.

Before he could fade into unconsciousness, Rhae reached into a small satchel at her side and produced a wooden bowl, its contents steaming. The smell was earthy and rich, tinged with the metallic scent of blood. Jon’s stomach twisted with hunger, overriding his fear for the moment.

Rhae bought the first spoonful near his mouth. “The children left this for you. When they saw you were getting better,” she said, watching him eat. “Blood stew, made with rat meat I think, wood nuts, mushrooms, and roots. It is not the fare of kings, but it will give you strength.”

Jon nodded, too tired to do more than continue eating. The stew, though not appetizing, warmed him from the inside out, each mouthful filling the hollow ache in his belly. As he ate, Rhae reached behind her and drew forth something wrapped in cloth. She unwrapped it slowly, with a reverence that caught Jon’s attention, revealing his own sword.

The sight of it stirred strength and comfort within him—as long he had the strength to wield it, he knew he was not helpless. The blade was as he remembered it, dark and lethal, but there was something about the metal that always unsettled him. He had first thought it was similar to Valyrian steel, but now, in the dim light of the cavern, he was sure that it was not.

“It’s... different from any metal I've seen before.” His eyes traced the intricate patterns along the blade. They resembled runes, ancient and indecipherable, pulsing with a life of their own. The metal had a blueish hue, deeper than he recalled, almost as if it was absorbing the light around it.

Rhae watched him carefully, her expression unreadable. “Do you know whose sword it is?” she asked, her voice low and measured.

Jon shook his head slowly, his gaze never leaving the sword. “I recovered it from a barrow. I thought it was Valyrian steel first. It looks different, more blue, and these patterns—they almost look like runes of the First Men.”

Rhae nodded, as if she had expected his answer. “It is not Valyrian steel. It is something far older, something born of blood and fire, forged in the darkest depths of the world.”

Jon’s grip tightened on the hilt of the sword, a sense of unease washing over him. “What is it then?” 

Rhae watched him for a moment before replying, “It is Bone Steel, forged from the bones of fallen enemies, cooled in their blood, and shaped in volcanic fire. Then, it was strengthened by rune magic. It is a craft as old as the world itself, practiced by the First Men with bronze in the days when they warred with the children of the forest. The blade belonged to Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf, one of the greatest warriors to ever live. But I'm sure you have already gussed that. He wielded it in battle against both men and Others, and it drank deeply of their blood.”

Jon felt the weight of the sword in his hand, the history of it pressing down on him like a physical force. “Yes. Theon Stark,” he murmured, the name resonating with the echo of ancient legends. “The Hungry Wolf they called him.”

“Yes,” Rhae said, her voice almost reverent. “He was the bane of his enemies, a man who took pleasure in his slaughters. This blade... it is cursed, Jon. It will not only kill your enemies, but it will also poison them, their wounds will fester, and their blood will run until there’s nothing left to bleed. It is a weapon of death, not just for the body but for the soul. And it hungers. Hungers for blood and battle.”

Jon looked at the blade again, a shiver running down his spine. The thought of wielding such a weapon, something that could bring not just death but a lingering, agonizing end, filled him with deep unease. He had killed before, as necessities not for pleasure,  but this was different.

“Be careful with it, Jon. You have not fully mastered the blade, nor the darkness it carries within it. It will test you, push you to the edge, and if you’re not careful, it may even try to consume you.”

Jon nodded slowly, his mind swirling with thoughts and doubts. “I understand,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction. He was still weak, his body worn and battered, and the sword felt almost too heavy to bear.

Rhae studied him, her gaze sharp and probing. “You are not yet strong enough to wield it, not in your current state. Rest, Jon. Your body needs time to heal, and your mind needs time to come to terms with what has happened.”

Jon nodded again, feeling the exhaustion pulling at him, dragging him down. But there was something else, something that gnawed at the back of his mind, a question he needed to ask before sleep claimed him. “Rhae.... The promise you asked of me, in exchange for saving my life... what was it? What did I agree to?”

Rhae’s expression softened, a faint smile touching her lips. “That is not for today, Jon Snow,” she said gently. “When the time is right, we will speak of it. But for now, you must rest. Your journey is far from over, and you will need all your strength for what lies ahead.”

Jon wanted to protest, to press her for answers, but the weariness was too much. His eyelids drooped, the world fading into darkness once more. As he drifted back into sleep, he heard Rhae’s voice, distant and echoing in the dark.

“Sleep, Jon Snow. Ghost will find you soon, and you will return to the world of men." 

**********************************

Jon woke up for the second time to the sound of crackling fire and the scent of salt and smoke. His eyes blinked open slowly, the haze of sleep giving way to the warm, dim light of the great hall around him. The walls, made of rough-hewn wood darkened by years of soot, loomed above, the ceiling lost in the shadows. Smoke curled lazily from a central hearth, where a large fire roared, filling the hall with warmth and a faint, comforting smell of burning pine. The hall was divided into several quarters, each sectioned off by thick, rough, worn, fibre tapestries that fluttered gently in the draft.

Jon’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, and he recognized the place—Ruddy Hall, Tormund’s home. The realization brought a mixture of relief and safety. The last thing he remembered was the deep, dark cave, the weight of his wounds, and the memories that had threatened to pull him under.

As he stirred, he noticed a familiar figure sitting beside his bed. Robb sat with his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly together. His dark hair hung loose around his face, and his expression was one of deep contemplation, tinged with the shadows of worry.

“Robb,” Jon croaked, his voice rough from disuse as he pushed his hands. 

Robb’s head snapped up, his blue eyes widening in shock and relief. “Jon!” he exclaimed, leaning forward. “You’re awake! By the gods, you’re awake!”

Jon tried to sit up, but his body protested, the dull ache of his wounds still present despite the healing. Robb quickly placed a hand on his shoulder, urging him to stay down.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Robb said, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve been through enough.”

Jon nodded, sinking back into the bed. His body still felt weak, as if the strength had been sapped from his very bones, but he was alive. That alone seemed like a miracle. He glanced around the hall, taking in the details he had missed earlier. The tapestries that divided the quarters were adorned with scenes of battles and hunts, made from worn out thick fibres, the plant juice and coal made colors faded but the imagery was still vibrant. Splintered board shields and flint weapons lined the walls, trophies from Tormund’s countless exploits. The air was thick with the scent of smoked meats and salted fish, stored for the long, harsh winters that always came too soon in lands beyond the North.

“How long?” Jon asked, voice still hoarse.

“Two weeks,” Robb replied, his gaze fixed on Jon’s face as if afraid he might disappear again. “Two weeks we searched for you. We thought… I thought…” Robb’s voice broke, and he swallowed hard, blinking away the tears that threatened to spill.

Jon reached out, grasping Robb’s hand with as much strength as he could muster. “I’m here, Robb,” he said, his voice firm despite the lingering weakness. “I’m here.”

Robb squeezed Jon’s hand with a strong grip. “Ghost found you. Led us right to you under the shadow of a great heart tree. You were… you were barely alive, Jon. Your wounds—by the gods, I’ve never seen anything like it. We thought you were dead.”

Jon remembered the heart tree, its ancient face carved deep into the wood, the eyes weeping red sap. The memory was hazy, clouded by pain and the dark embrace of unconsciousness, but it was there. The children of the forest had found him, tried to heal him with their ancient magic. But there was more—Rhae, her cryptic words, the blood promise. Jon felt a shiver run down his spine, though the hall was warm.

“How…?” Robb hesitated, his eyes searching Jon’s face for answers. “How did you survive? Those wounds… they were mortal, Jon. They should have killed you.”

Before Jon could answer, the heavy wooden door of the hall creaked open, and Tormund Giantsbane strode in, his massive frame filling the doorway. His red beard was as wild as ever, his eyes bright with relief as they fell upon Jon.

“Snow!” Tormund’s voice boomed through the hall, a grin splitting his weathered face. “You’ve got more lives than a bloody cat! We thought the Others had taken you!”

Jon managed a weak smile as Tormund approached, his heavy boots thudding against the wooden floor. The wildling chief clapped a hand on Robb’s shoulder, his expression one of genuine joy.

“Told your brother here you’d be fine,” Tormund said, though his eyes betrayed the worry he’d carried. “But even I wasn’t sure. You were in a bad way, lad.”

Jon pushed himself up slightly, propping himself against the headboard. “The children.....The children of the forest found me after the bear. They… they healed me.”

Robb and Tormund exchanged a glance, their expressions skeptical but curious. Robb leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “The children of the forest?” he asked. “I’ve heard tales from old nan, but… Jon, how? And why? Why would they help you?”

Jon hesitated, his mind racing. He couldn’t tell them everything—not about Rhae, not about the blood promise. Some things were too personal to speak of, even here, among his closest friends. “I don’t know why. But they did. I remember… there was a cave, deep in the woods. They found me, took me there. They used their magic… something ancient, something I can’t explain.”

Tormund’s eyes narrowed as he listened, his skepticism warring with the evidence before him. “Magic,” he muttered, scratching his beard. “I’ve seen some strange things north of the Wall, but this… lad, you should be dead. I saw those wounds myself. No man survives that.”

Jon looked down at his chest, where the deep scars still marred his skin. The memory of the pain, the claws rending his flesh, was still fresh in his mind. But he was alive, against all odds. “I should be,” he agreed. “But I’m not. The children… they saved me. They must've led Ghost to me once they deemed I'm safe.”

Tormund let out a bark of laughter, clapping Jon on the back with enough force to make him wince. “Safe enough, aye,” he said. “But don’t go thinking you can leave without answering more questions. There’s more to this, Snow, and we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

Jon managed another smile, though the effort left him exhausted. “One question at a time, Tormund. I’m still piecing it all together myself.”

Tormund nodded, his grin fading into a more serious expression. “Aye, that’s fair. But don’t think I’ve forgotten you owe me a tale or two, Snow. You can’t go wandering off into the woods, getting yourself near killed, and not share the story.”

Jon chuckled weakly, the sound rough in his throat. “I’ll tell you what I can, Tormund. But some things… some things are better left unsaid.”

Tormund raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “A mystery, eh? Well, I’ve never been one to shy away from those. But for now, you rest. You’re no good to us dead, and you’ve come too close to that for my liking.”

Robb stood, his hand still resting on Jon’s shoulder. “He’s right, Jon. You need to rest and regain your strength. We can talk more when you’re feeling better.”

Jon nodded, grateful for the reprieve. His body was still weak, his energy sapped by the ordeal he’d endured. But he was alive, and for now, that was enough.

As Tormund moved to leave, Jon called out to him, his voice soft but firm. “Robb, Tormund… thank you. For finding me. For bringing me back.”

“There’s something you should know,” Robb said quietly after he had helped Jon to take some bites of meat and finished a cup of ale. Tormund's daughter had brought a platter for Jon from their best store.

Jon propped himself up on one elbow, ignoring the twinge of pain that shot through his side. “What is it?” He could see that whatever Robb was about to tell him was not something to be taken held weight. 

Robb hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor before meeting Jon’s once more. "Before we found you under that heart tree, we found the corpse of Varamyr's bear and body where you fought him, those were not the only things we found.”

Jon’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Robb took a deep breath. “We found six direwolf pups. Newborns. They were near the body of a gigantic female direwolf. She had attacked Varamyr’s snowbear and killed it, but she died from the wounds she sustained in the fight.”

Jon’s heart clenched at the news. He had summoned the direwolf to save his life,  but now the knowledge of what that call had cost weighed heavily on him. The image and senses of the great she-wolf, fierce and protective, filled his mind, and he couldn’t shake the guilt that gnawed at him.“Where are they now?” Jon asked after a long pause, his voice tinged with sorrow.

Robb’s hand tightened slightly on Jon’s arm as if grounding him. “Ghost, Val, and the orphan children are looking after them now. I was thinking we could give them to our siblings...and one to the new baby on the way. The last one… I thought it could go to Father.”

Jon opened his eyes, meeting Robb’s gaze. The thought of Eddard Stark, their father, with a direwolf by his side was a powerful one. But Jon’s mind was already working through the possibilities.

“Father is safe in Winterfell,” Jon reasoned. “He’s surrounded by loyal men, our retainers, and the walls of Winterfell. But Uncle Benjen… he’s out there, beyond the Wall, serving as First Ranger. He’s in constant danger. Perhaps… perhaps the last pup should go to him.”

Robb smiled. “I almost forgot about Uncle Benjen,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “But you’re right. He could use the protection of a direwolf, more than Father.”

Jon nodded. “How are the pups doing? They would need constant feeding and cleaning now that they lost their mother so young.” 

“They are doing better than I thought,” Robb confirmed, a note of pride in his voice. "Direwolf pups are resilient. They are thriving on goat's milk. Val, Ghost, and those two orphan children are looking after them now.”

Jon allowed himself a moment to imagine it—Sansa with a direwolf by her side, Arya running wild with hers, Bran clinging to his as he grew, one beside the crib of the coming baby. And Benjen… Jon knew that his uncle, always stoic and duty-bound, would welcome the protection and companionship of a direwolf, especially in the dangerous lands beyond the Wall.

But the thought of their family, safe and sound in Winterfell, led Jon’s mind to other, more pressing matters. He shifted slightly, his expression turning serious. “Robb,” he began, “have your trading ships returned to Sea Dragon Point yet?”

Robb’s expression turned annoyed at the question, and he shook his head. “No. We're late. Nearly two weeks now.”

“You need to take the fleet back to Sea Dragon Point. Father is probably sending letters already to ask for your return.” Jon said, his voice firm despite the concern gnawing at him. “You’re acting Lord there, Robb. The people, the town, the market....They all need you.”

Robb frowned, his reluctance clear in the tightness of his jaw and the way his eyes darkened. “You are not well enough to travel such a long distance yet. I don’t want to leave you right now,” he admitted. “Not so soon after finding you.”

Jon understood the sentiment—he didn’t want to be separated from Robb either, but the goods they bought needed to be sent back to the market as soon as possible. A lot of coins depended on them. Not to mention, a good portion of the fleet being two weeks late would make a lot of people nervous about sending the ships Beyond the Wall regularly. 

“Father will hesitate to let us go on another trading expedition beyond the Wall if you don’t return soon,” Jon said, appealing to Robb’s sense of duty. “And the men at Sea Dragon Point will need your leadership. You can’t leave them in the dark.”

Robb was silent for a long moment, his expression conflicted. But eventually, he nodded, the decision made. “You’re right,” he said, though there was a note of reluctance in his voice. “I’ll take the fleet back.”

Jon felt a wave of relief wash over him. But there was one more thing that needed to be done, something Jon knew he had to take care of personally. “Tell Ulfric to take all of my longships back to Moat Cailin. Except for my flagship, The Sea Wolf.”

Robb’s frown deepened, confusion flashing in his eyes. “Why?” Clearly not understanding why Jon would want to remain behind.

“I intend to go to the Shadow Tower,” Jon explained. “From there I will make my way to Castle Black. There are questions that need answering.”

Robb stared at Jon, his brow furrowed in worry and confusion. “Castle Black? Jon, you’ve just barely survived… whatever that was out there. And now you want to venture to the Shadow Tower?”

 “I need some answers. About the children of the forest, the Others. It is very important. I can’t just ignore it after being saved by the creature's magic we thought were of myths.”

Robb’s face tightened with concern, but he knew Jon well enough to recognize the determination in his brother’s eyes. “Are you sure? We could go together after from Sea Dragon Point. I’d feel better if you weren’t alone.”

Jon’s heart swelled at the offer, at the love and loyalty he felt radiating from his brother. But this was something he had to do alone, something that went beyond the bonds of brotherhood. “I’ll be fine,” Jon reassured him, though he wasn’t entirely sure himself. “And I won’t be alone—I’ll have Ghost and Asher going with me.”

Robb looked at Jon for a long moment, weighing his options, his emotions, his duties. Finally, he sighed, nodding in reluctant agreement. “I trust you, Jon. Just… don’t go find yourself into more trouble. Father would never forgive me if I let you go alone and something happened.”

Jon smiled faintly, the tension in the room easing just slightly. “I’ll be careful,” he promised. “And when I find the answers I’m looking for, I’ll return to Moat Cailin. I’ll see you soon for our next trading voyage.”

Robb leaned in, clasping Jon’s hand firmly. “I’ll hold you to that. Take care of yourself, Jon. And don’t forget—family comes first.”

Jon nodded, his grip on Robb’s hand tightening for just a moment before he let go. “Family first,” he echoed, his voice filled with the weight of House Tully's words. 

*************************************************************

Ulfric Stormcloak had left the room, handing out a great deal of lectures and barking out his worries, the heavy oak door creaked shut behind him, leaving Jon in the flickering firelight of the smoky hall. The sounds of men preparing to depart for Sea Dragon Point echoed faintly through the thick stone walls, quite a number seemed to have gathered to check on his health.

He was just beginning to let his thoughts drift when the door creaked open again. Jon turned his head, expecting Robb or Ulfric to have returned with more news, but instead, it was Val who stepped quietly into the room. Her presence was like a cool breeze on a warm night, soothing but carrying with it a touch of the unknown.

Her beautiful face was a portrait of mixed emotions—worry, relief, and deep, unspoken grief that shadowed her eyes. She stood in the doorway for a moment, as if unsure of herself, before crossing the room to Jon’s side. Without a word, she took his hands in hers, her touch warm and steady. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words, until Val finally spoke.

“I heard you had woken up,” she said softly, her voice trembling slightly with the weight of everything she had not yet said.

Jon looked into her eyes, seeing the storm of emotions that raged within her. He tightened his grip on her hands, offering what comfort he could. “Val,” he murmured, “It’s good to see you.”

She nodded, a small, sad smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I… I wasn’t sure you would make it,” she admitted, her voice thick with the fear she had held in check for so long. “When they brought you back, I thought...I thought that you had died as well." 

Jon shook his head, trying to dispel the memory of those dark moments. “I’m still alive,” he said thickly, as if the words alone could make it true.

Val held his hands a little tighter, as if afraid he might slip away if she let go. For a long while, they just sat there, holding on to each other, neither one needing to speak. But the silence couldn’t last forever, and eventually, Val drew a deep breath.

“Thank you, Jon Snow. Thank you for saving my life.”

Jon frowned slightly, confusion clouding his expression. “Why did you leave Ruddy Hall in the first place that night?” he asked, needing to understand what had driven her into such danger.

Val’s face twisted in grief, the raw emotion so palpable it was like a physical blow. She turned her gaze away from Jon, staring at the fire as if she could find answers in the dancing flames. “I heard a rumor, from a man who came to the feast,” she began, her voice low and pained. “He said Varamyr… he attacked my father’s house.”

Jon’s face twisted to hear more of that vile skinchanger's deeds.  He had measured out Varamyr to be a sick, dangerous man, a skinchanger who could control beasts and tried to control men, but this was worse than he had imagined.

“Varamyr killed them,” Val continued, her voice breaking as she spoke. “Both my father and my mother. My sister, Dalla… she barely survived. The people of the village rallied, drove Varamyr and his beasts back, but… it was too late.”

Jon felt the weight of her words settle over him, heavy and cold. When he learned his mother was dead, even though he never knew her, the grief was hard to bear. He didn't even want to imagine what it would be like losing both of one's parents at the same time. 

“I’m so sorry, Val." His voice filled with the sorrow he felt for her loss.

Val turned back to him, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “You avenged them, Jon. You saved me, and you avenged my family. This… this is the second time you’ve saved my life. How can I ever repay such a debt?”

Jon’s lips twitched in a sad smile, but there was no mirth in it. “Both were done by chance."  He tried to downplay the role he had played. It really did not feel like a heroic deed—just something right that was needed to be done.

Val shook her head, her expression resolute. “Chance or not, you saved me,” she insisted. “And I’m grateful, Jon. More than you can know.”

Jon didn’t know what to say to that, so he remained silent, the fire crackling softly in the background. Val’s presence was a comfort, but it also brought with it a reminder of the world beyond the walls of Ruddy Hall—a world filled with danger and loss.

“I don’t have anywhere to go now. My sister had taken it upon herself to leave with one of my father's strongest allies,” Val said after a long pause.“Ruddy Hall is… it’s the only place I can find shelter. I’ll need to find a trade I think, something to live on.”

Jon looked at her, seeing the determination in her eyes, the strength that had always drawn him to her. But there was also a vulnerability there, a hint of uncertainty about the future. He understood that feeling all too well.

“My hall at Snowfall is empty as you well know,” Jon said quietly, his voice carrying a note of invitation. “Save for a few good friends like Ulfric and Asher Forrester. They’re good brothers-in-arms, but terrible company to live with.”

Val raised an eyebrow, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips despite the sadness that lingered. “Are you asking for my hand, Jon Snow?” she asked, her tone playful. “You know I’m of the Free Folk. If a man wants a wife here, he must carry her off.”

Jon felt a chuckle rise in his throat, the first genuine laugh he’d had in what felt like a long time. “I suppose I’ve already done something similar,” he said, his eyes also twinkling with humor. “I did save your life twice, after all.”

Val laughed, a sound that was both sweet and sad, filled with the complexities of the world they lived in. She leaned in closer, her breath warm against Jon’s cheek, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still.

“I think that counts,” Val murmured, her voice low and intimate. And then, without another word, she kissed him.

It was a kiss filled with all the emotions they had kept at bay for so long—relief, gratitude, sorrow, and something more, something that had been growing between them since the first moment they had met. Val’s lips were soft and warm against his, and Jon found himself lost in the sensation. 

As Val’s lips parted from Jon’s, the warmth of the kiss lingered between them, hanging in the air like a summer haze. Jon felt an unfamiliar rush—a mixture of exhilaration and longing—surge through him. The taste of Val’s lips, the softness of her skin, the warmth of her breath—it was intoxicating. His heart raced in his chest, each beat echoing the newfound connection he felt to this woman who had somehow become intertwined with his fate.

Without thinking, Jon reached out, his hand brushing against Val’s cheek as he pulled her back toward him. Their lips met again, this time with more urgency, more desire. The kiss was deeper, more intimate, as if Jon was trying to memorize every sensation, every movement. His hands slid up to cradle her face, his fingers tangling in her pale hair. Val responded with equal fervor, her hands clutching at his tunic as if she feared the world would pull them apart at any moment.

For Jon, it was as though time itself had stopped. This was something new, something pure. It was his first true kiss, the kind that stirred the soul and ignited a fire deep within. He had never dreamed of such things, not in the life he led, not with the burden he carried. But here, in this smoky hall, in the arms of this fierce, wildling girl, he felt a flicker of hope, a glimpse of a life he never thought he could have.

When they finally pulled apart, both breathless, Jon’s eyes searched Val’s, looking for any hint of doubt or regret. But there was none. She gazed back at him with a mix of emotions—relief, longing, a touch of sadness—but most of all, there was a deep, unspoken understanding. Val slowly moved to sit beside him on the bed, her hand still entwined with his. She leaned her head on his shoulder, drawing comfort from the closeness, and Jon instinctively wrapped his arm around her, holding her tight.

They sat in silence for a moment, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the room. The weight of the world seemed to lift, if only for a brief while. Val sighed softly, her breath warm against Jon’s neck. “I’ve lost so much, Jon,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “My home, my family… Everything I knew is gone. I am an orphan now, just like those children.”

Jon felt a pang of sorrow at her words. He knew the pain of loss, the emptiness that followed. His mind drifted to his own past, to the ghosts that haunted his memories. “Hali and Asa,” Val continued, “They have no one left, just like me. I want to take them back to Snowfall with us. I can’t leave them behind, not when I know what it’s like to be so alone.”

Jon nodded, understanding the depths of her feelings. “They can live with us,” he agreed softly. “With you, with me. With the children and you there, Snowfall’s great hall will start to look like a proper home again. Not just a place to sleep, but a place to live, to build something new.”

Val lifted her head from his shoulder to look at him, her eyes searching his face. “What about you, Jon? What will you do now?”

Jon’s gaze drifted to the flickering flames in the hearth, his thoughts already turning to the road ahead. “I have to go to Castle Black,” he said quietly. “There are things I need to know, questions that need answers. But you… you should go back to Snowfall with the fleet, with Hali and Asa. Meera will need help looking after the hall. You can help her.”

Val’s eyes softened at his words. Despite her fierce independence, she understood the underlying message—Jon needed her to listen to his orders, to be the one to care for the home he intended to return to. She gave a small nod, accepting the responsibility he was entrusting to her. “If that’s what you want, Jon, I’ll go back with them. But I’ll be waiting for you at Snowfall.”

Jon turned back to her, his expression serious. “This life, it won’t be easy, Val. I can’t promise you endless comfort. I mean to travel regularly. Far and wide. And I can already see there will be more problems ahead. All I can offer is the truth and my loyalty, for as long as I live.”

Val smiled a small, sad smile that spoke of her understanding. “I am not a woman who seeks an easy life, Jon Snow. I’ve grown up and lived through hardship. I know what it means.”

Her words brought a sense of calm to Jon’s heart. He leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead, sealing their unspoken pact. “Then it’s settled. You’ll return to Snowfall, and I’ll join you there once my business at Castle Black is done.”

Val rested her head against his chest again, closing her eyes as she listened to the steady beat of his heart. For a moment, they simply held each other, finding solace in the presence of the other. Jon’s mind, however, was already moving ahead, planning the steps he needed to take, the paths he would soon tread. 

The flickering fire cast long shadows across the room, the warmth of the hearth a small comfort in the face of the cold reality that awaited them both. But for now, in this quiet moment, they found a brief respite—a small, fragile hope that amidst the darkness, there could still be light.

Chapter Text

Jon stood at the prow of the longship, the wind pulling at his cloak as the coast came into view. The sky was an overcast grey, the cold sea winds cutting through the narrow rough canvas tent set up in the middle of the ship. Ghost was lying on his rug without much fuss as the sea didn't really agree with him. The sea was calm for now, a flat expanse of grey-green water stretching toward the distant horizon, but Jon knew how quickly the weather could change in these northern latitudes. The rugged shoreline loomed ahead, The Wall and dark cliffs rising like jagged teeth, their tops lost in the mist. Twenty miles to the Shadow Tower, he thought, his mind already weighing the distance they would have to cover on foot.

Beside him, Ulfric Stormcloak, Jon’s lead housecarl, and most trusted companion shifted uneasily. The Northman’s broad shoulders were hunched beneath a thick fur cloak, his eyes narrowed as he scanned the shore. Ulfric was a man of few words, but Jon had known him long enough to read the worry that flickered in his eyes.

"Doesn’t sit right, leaving you here, my lord," Ulfric muttered, not for the first time. "You’ve only just healed from those wounds. And now you’re heading straight into another risky journey. Castle Black’s not what it once was. None of the Night's Watch is."

Jon kept his gaze fixed on the horizon. "I’ll be fine, Ulfric. You’ve been worrying over me since I woke. I don’t intend to get myself killed now, after all the trouble I went through to stay alive."

Ulfric grunted. "I’ll worry all the same. It’s my job."

Jon turned to look at him, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Your job is to keep Snowfall running while I’m gone. I need you there, Ulfric. Asher will see me to Castle Black, and from there I’ll take a ship from Eastwatch. I’ll be back at Moat Cailin before the moon turns twice."

"Aye, if the gods are kind," Ulfric muttered, though he seemed somewhat mollified by Jon’s assurances.

Jon clapped a hand on Ulfric’s shoulder, then turned to look back at the shore. Behind him, Grenn and a handful of the men were securing the ship, making it ready to land. Asher Forrester, stood at the stern, calling out orders to the oarsmen. The longship slowed as it neared the rocky shoreline, the water shallowing.

"Ready to disembark!" Asher shouted, his voice carrying over the wind and waves.

The ship scraped against the rocks as the men lowered a plank over the side, and one by one, Jon’s party began to make their way to shore. Jon was the first to step onto solid ground, the pebbles crunching beneath his boots. He breathed in deeply, the scent of salt and pine heavy in the air. It was good to be off the sea, though the journey ahead was still long. The Shadow Tower lay two days' march to the east, and from there, Castle Black. Jon was anxious to walk the halls of the old fortress and find the answers that had been gnawing at his mind.

Behind him, Ulfric followed to help with the supplies, his heavy boots thudding on the stones. "I still don’t like it," he muttered, more to himself than to Jon.

"You don’t have to like it, Ulfric," Jon said, adjusting the grip on his sword belt. "You just have to trust me. And I’ll be home before you know it."

"Gods willing," Ulfric grunted.

Asher and the rest of the men disembarked, shouldering packs filled with provisions and weapons. The raggedy mule they brought up with them from Ruddy Hall was too seasick to do any heavy load carrying so it was each man carrying his own weapons, provisions, and armor. The longships would return to Snowfall, carrying Ulfric, Val, the children, and the rest of Jon’s retinue back south to Moat Cailin, but Jon and his small party would be making the journey on foot. It was dangerous, but Jon had no choice. The Night's Watch was not what it once was, and rumors he heard regarding Haunted Forest Tribes organizing during his journey meant there was trouble brewing beyond the Wall. Jon needed to know the truth, about the true history, legacy, and the foundation of the Night's Watch and there was only one place he could find it—Castle Black.

"Let’s move out." Jon tightened the strap on his sword and hung the shield over his shoulder. "We have a long way to go."

The wilderness South of the Wall was a stark grey land. The land stretched out before them, a vast expanse of pine forests, jagged hills, and icy streams. The cold was ever present, a constant reminder that they were too close to the Wall itself. Jon and his men trudged through the undergrowth, going over the streams and climbing slight elevations of the rocky land. Their breaths misted in the air, boots crunching in the thin layer of frost that coated the ground.

Asher led the way with Ghost, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his sword, while Grenn followed close behind. Jon walked in the middle of the group, his senses alert to the world around them. Two more men shared the middle line with sacks of provisions with the mule, the final two spearmen closing up the line.

They had been marching for hours when they came upon the settlement. It was a small cluster of huts, little more than thatched roofs and crumbling stone walls, nestled in a hollow between two hills. Smoke still curled from the remnants of the largest hut, the blackened timbers charred and smoldering. Jon could smell the faint scent of burning wood as they approached. Asher's hand went up for a signal to tell everyone to spread up.

"Looks like trouble. Wildlings, maybe."

Jon nodded grimly. "Could be. Everyone stay sharp."

As they neared the settlement, the signs of destruction became more evident. The ground was littered with the remains of smashed pots, torn blankets, and scattered food. The doors to the huts had been ripped from their hinges, and the fences that had once kept sheep and goats penned in were now nothing more than splintered wood.

Grenn picked up a flint arrow from the ground to show it to Jon. "Wildling raiders, no doubt about it."

Jon motioned for the men to spread out to advance and they moved cautiously into the settlement, their weapons drawn. It was clear the raiders had taken everything of value—iron tools, metal utensils, all the livestock. But they seemed to not have taken the lives of the settlers.

A man, tall and gaunt with a weathered face, emerged from the shadows of one of the huts, followed by a woman and two children. The man had a chipped hand axe in his hands and a knife in his belt. The woman and the children looked frightened, their faces pale and drawn, their clothes singed, torn, and dark with soot.

"Are you from the Night's Watch? Is this how you protect us.....arriving so long after those bastards continue to destroy our lives?" the man asked, his voice full of anger.

Jon sheathed his sword and stepped forward. "No. We mean you no harm. I am Jon Snow, of Moat Cailin. These are my men. We were on our way to the Shadow Tower when we came upon you by chance."

The man’s eyes narrowed. "From the coast? You’re from the South?"

Jon nodded. "Aye. What happened here?"

The man’s face twisted in anger and sorrow. "Wildlings," he spat. "They came in the night. We heard the dogs barking, but by the time we knew what was happening, they were already here. Took everything—our sheep, our goats, most of my harvest saved up for tax and winter. They burned what they couldn’t take. My family… we barely got away through a tunnel under our floor ."

Jon glanced at the smoldering ruins of the man’s home. "You’re lucky to be alive."

The man nodded, his eyes haunted. "Aye. But we’ve lost everything. The wildlings took it all."

Jon looked to Asher, who was already scouting the area for tracks. "Did you see how many there were?"

"A dozen, maybe more," the man said. "They were led by a woman. Fierce as a wolf, she was. Had a pack of them with her—wild men, the lot of them."

Jon felt a surge of hate and annoyance. He had heard stories of the wildling bands that haunted the lands of The Watch but this attack seemed too organized, too deliberate. It was not just a sudden raid for food and supplies; the raiders had to have knowledge about the land to do it, how to avoid Watch's patrol, the location of the farm, and how much haul it would produce...They were probably scouting this place for days.

"These tracks are many hours old. They're long gone." Asher had returned from scouting the tracks wildlings had left. "They had split up. One group has gone to climb the Wall back home while another will take the cattle. They probably have a large raft or ship waiting somewhere on the coast."

If they had horses, they could have tried to chase down the one group with the livestock. But they were on foot and the raiders had many hours start on them. "You can’t stay here," Jon said, turning back to the man. "The wildlings could come back. You and your family should come with us to the Shadow Tower. You’ll be safe there, at least for a while."

The man hesitated, looking at his wife and children. "I don’t know. We’ve lived here our whole lives. This is our home. Beside this spot of land, we have nothing."

"It’s not safe," Jon pressed. "The wildlings are growing bolder. If they have come once, they’ll come again. You have nothing left to rebuild your lives here. Come with us. You can make a new start at the Tower. The Night’s Watch will find something for you to do. "

The man looked at his wife, whose face was still etched with fear. "We’ll come," he said at last. "I see that we have no choice."

Jon nodded, relieved. "Pack up what you want to take with you. Use our mule if you have to. We leave early in the morning."

The family retreated into what was left of their home, gathering what few possessions had not been stolen or destroyed. Jon’s men began to make camp in the ruined settlement, setting up tents, lighting a fire, and preparing for the night. One of the men got up on the main huts to set up a hidden lookout post up on there, in case someone else came looking.

Jon stood at the edge of the camp, looking out into the darkening forest. The sky had grown heavy with clouds, and the wind had picked up, carrying with it the scent of salt and smoke. He knew the road ahead would not be easy. There could be other enemies lurking in the wilds, both human and otherwise. Ghost nudged up his hand, picking up his worry. "Stay here boy. Guard this place."

He turned to Asher. "I’m going out to see if I can find a deer or a boar. We’ll need more provisions now for the journey ahead. Ghost will warn you in case of trouble."

Asher frowned. "Alone? You sure that’s wise?"

"I need some time alone to clear up my head. I’ll be fine. Keep an eye on the camp."

Asher nodded reluctantly. "Just don’t take too long. You need rest. We’ve got a long way to go yet."

Jon nodded and slipped into the forest, his longbow in hand. The woods were quiet, save for the rustling of the wind in the trees and the occasional cry of a bird. Jon moved silently through the foliage, his senses attuned to the slightest sound or movement. No prey was likely to be so close to the settlement but Dag, the farmer told him there was a meadow nearby. He was hoping to find deer feeding there on fresh grass or boars digging up roots.

Stopping at a shallow stream, he picked up some spruce and cedar leaves from the nearby trees. In his satchel, there was a bronze cup which he used for drinking but it would also be suitable for a grinder. He mashed up the leaves using a stone from the stream bed while using some coal collected earlier to make a coarse ointment. Both types of leaves had a strong scent. They would work well to cover up his. Jon applied the mixture well to his face and hands. Even though deer hunting depended more on careful moving and hiding one's sounds, the cover scent ointment would give him an advantage if the wind were blowing from a location opposite his.

The meadow was large and stretched wide for miles. Jon was surprised to know that there were no other homesteads for miles. This much grass could feed hundreds of sheep or goats easily. All people had to do is cut and dry up the grass for winter. The wildling raids must be so severe that people would move up further South where they would live as refugees or poor serfs rather than having their own lands.

Jon crouched down after a sigh. The grass was so high that he was completely hidden. His nostrils flared, trying to pick up as much scent of the nearby animals as possible. His ability to pick up individual smells had gotten far stronger than the average person's. He was easily able to detect somewhere on his right there was a stag hidden in the grass. The musk of the fur, oily skin,, and droppings were strong. The exact position of the stag couldn't be determined so he waited for it to raise up its head to check up on the surroundings.

After a time, he spotted his prey—a large buck looking around for any threats, its antlers silhouetted against the grey sky.

Jon raised his longbow, nocked an arrow, and took aim. The string sang as he released, and the arrow flew true, striking the buck straight between the eyes. His arrows were of steel and easily penetrated the skin, meat, and bone, reaching the brain. The animal dropped down dead before it could even realize what had happened.

He stuck up his dagger in the buck's belly and tore it up to its throat, taking out the stomach before it could spoil the meat. The meat was fresh, still warm, and he worked quickly to cut it into manageable portions. He wrapped the pieces in the skin, tying them tightly with leather strips to hoist the bundle onto his shoulder. For the rest of the carcass, he hoisted it up on a nearby tree by using a cordage so that no scavenger would be able to get to it.

As he straightened up, wiping the blood from his hands on a scrap of cloth, a sudden shift in the air made him stop. A chill that was different from the usual northern cold swept through the trees, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled. 

Then, without warning, an old woman stepped into the clearing as if she had materialized from the very mist. Jon had not heard her approach—no crunch of leaves, no snap of a twig. She moved lightly for her age, her feet almost silent on the frost-covered ground. She was dressed in ragged furs, her face deeply lined, with hair the color of fresh snow. And yet, despite her age, there was an undeniable strength to her, a strange beauty in the sharp lines of her face and the gleam in her pale, almost luminous eyes.

Jon instinctively rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, though he did not draw it. 

The old woman regarded him with a long, searching gaze before she finally spoke, her voice surprisingly strong for someone who looked as frail as she did. “A hunter, I see. You’ve made a fine kill.”

Jon blinked, uncertain of how to respond. “Aye,” he said cautiously. “A buck. The meat will is for my men for the journey ahead.”

The woman took a step closer, her gaze drifting to the carcass of the deer. “I’ve not tasted meat in many years,” she said, her voice carrying an undercurrent of sadness. “Goat’s milk and berries are all that sustain me now.”

Jon frowned, glancing at the meat he had carefully wrapped. He had enough for his men and then some, but this woman... there was something about her, something that tugged at his heart in a way he couldn’t quite explain. She seemed so old, so alone. “You live near here?” he asked.

The woman nodded. “In a hovel, not far from here. My family once lived with me, but they are all gone now. Passed away, or too weak to remain.” She sighed, her eyes distant, as though recalling a memory from long ago. “I have lived through more winters than I care to count, and the cold seems to grow sharper with each passing year. But the gods have kept me alive, for some purpose, I suppose.”

Jon felt a pang of pity for her. It was not right for anyone to live like this, alone and forgotten. He knelt down and opened one of the bundles of meat, cutting a generous portion from the deer. He wrapped it in a clean cloth and offered it to her.

“Take this,” Jon said. “It’s fresh, and there’s more than enough for my men and me. You should have it.”

The old woman’s eyes flicked to the meat, and for a moment, Jon saw something flash in them—a hunger, perhaps, or something deeper. But then she smiled a small, sad smile, and reached out with trembling hands to accept the gift.

“You are kind,” she said softly, her voice almost a whisper now. “Kinder than most who walk now and used to in these woods.”

Jon shook his head. “It’s no more than any man would do. But maybe you ought to come along with me. We're going to the Castle of Night's Watch. Living here....all alone with the wildlings raiding. Gods forbid if something bad were to happen you would have no help here.”

The woman looked at him for a long moment, her pale eyes studying his face. “You have a noble heart, young one. But I have lived in this land for so many years that I can't even think of going somewhere else. For your kindness, I have little to offer you.”

Jon started to protest, but the woman held up a hand, silencing him. “I have no riches, no treasures. But I do have one thing—a relic of my son, long gone now. It is old, and perhaps not worth much to most, but it has brought me some comfort over the years. Perhaps it will do the same for you.”

From beneath her cloak, the woman withdrew a small object, wrapped in a piece of soft leather. She unwrapped it slowly, carefully, as if revealing something precious. Inside was a pendant, a bronze hammer with a short handle, well forged but clearly ancient, its surface worn smooth by time.

“This belonged to my son,” the woman said, holding it out to Jon. “He was a strong man, a warrior, like you. I give it to you now, in hopes that it will bring you strength, as it did for him.”

Jon hesitated, but the woman pressed the pendant into his hand. The metal was cold to the touch, but there was a strange weight. 

“I cannot take this,” Jon said. “It’s all you have left of him.”

The woman smiled again, that same sad smile. “I still have his memories. And now, you have his hammer. Wear it, young one. It will serve you well.”

Before Jon could protest further, the old woman reached up and placed the pendant around his neck. Her fingers were cold, and as the hammer settled against his chest, he felt a strange chill spread through his body as if the very air around him had grown colder.

“Thank you,” Jon said, his voice quiet, though he wasn’t sure why. Something about the old woman unnerved him, though not in a way he could explain. There was a presence about her, something ancient. She gave off the same presence as the one-eyed man he met long ago before the raid in the Iron Islands.  

The old woman inclined her head. “The gods watch over you, Jon Snow,” she said, her voice carrying a weight that seemed far greater than her frail form suggested. “May your journey be swift, and may the winds favor your sails.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, disappearing into the mist as silently as she had come.

Jon stood there for a long moment, watching her go, his hand resting on the bronze hammer at his chest. The air around him had grown colder still, and a distant rumble of thunder echoed across the sky, though when Jon glanced upward, the clouds seemed no darker than they had been before. The wind picked up, stirring the trees and making the grass whisper like a thousand voices.

******************************************************************************************************************

The shadows of the forest deepened as Jon made his way back to camp. The smoke rising from the farmstead served as his guide. When he arrived, Asher was tending to the fire, while Grenn and the others were busy recovering what they could of the scorched shelter. He overheard Asher talking to Dag which brought a smile to his face. "Don't worry so much about your future, friend. Jon Snow will help you. He helped me to turn my life around. At the very least, he might offer to take you back with us to Moat Cailin."

The family sat huddled near the hearth, looking lost, but there was a glimmer of hope in their eyes when they saw Jon return with food. 

"We’ll eat well tonight," Jon announced as he set down the meat. He pulled out a knife and began slicing thick cuts, handing them to Asher to cook over the fire. "Get roasts and stew going. We’ll need something hearty for the road ahead."

Asher nodded, tossing chunks of the meat into a pot alongside a good portion of smashed-up hardtack, some potatoes they had salvaged from the settlers’ stores, and bundles of wild herbs the men had gathered earlier. Dandelion roots, wild onions, and fresh green nettles. There were even some fish in a frying pan, freshly caught from the stream. Dag and one of the guards brought out the mule to bring back the stag carcass. There was still a lot of meat, bones, and fat on it to let it go to waste. The scent of roasting meat and simmering stew soon filled the air, mingling with the earthy smell of the forest.

Jon sat by the fire as the food cooked, sharpening his knife with a whetstone while the rest of his men worked in silence. The children took over the duty of feeding the direwolf pup Robb got for their uncle with a cloth dipped in milk. Their mother watched with a mixture of gratitude and wariness. She had lost much, but tonight at least, her family would have full bellies.

When the meal was ready, they ate in relative silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the occasional grunt of satisfaction. The roast was tender, the stew rich with flavor, well salted, and spiced up with wild gingers, thyme, and lovage. Everyone even got a fish fried in butter. It took quite a while to finish eating as everyone was hungry after a long day, helping themselves with second or third servings. After the meal, Dag started salting up what was left of the buck, preserving it for the days ahead. Ghost took over two of the leg bones for his night-time snacks.

As the fire died down to embers, Jon brought up his blanket near the fire to get a good amount of warmth. Grenn and Asher took over the first watch shift while everyone else retreated inside their tents. The night was quiet except for the twang of Grenn's dulcimer's strings and Asher singing along with him with a sleepy voice.

I ain't got no father
I ain’t got no father
I ain't got no father
To buy the clothes I wear

He turned to Dag, the patriarch of the small clan who had lived on this land for years. The older man sat across from him, his face etched with lines of worry and grief, but his eyes still held the strength of a man who had survived many winters.

"What did you farm here, Dag?"

Dag scratched at his greying beard, glancing at the ruins of his home. "Rye, mostly," he said. "A bit of wheat too, when the season was kind. This land’s good for two proper harvests a year, if you know how to work it. We had sheep and goats too, for milk and cheese. The pasture’s wide, plenty of space for grazing and making more hay than a thousand cattle can eat."

"And the Night’s Watch?" Jon pressed. "How did they protect you?"

Dag’s face darkened, his brow furrowing. "Used to be we paid our taxes, one-third of what we grew and raised. In return, the Watch kept us safe from the wildlings. That was years back when there were more of them. But now..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Now they can barely hold their own. The raids have gotten worse, and the black brothers are too few to stop them. My old neighbors lost most of what they had in the last year's raids. Raiders sometimes burn what they can't carry off. Once there used to be half a dozen families in this area. All had moved South now."

I ain't got no mother
I ain't got no mother
I ain't got no mother
To mend the clothes I wear

Jon listened quietly, absorbing the man’s words. The Watch had always struggled with numbers, but it seemed things had grown worse since the last summer. He made a mental note of the situation, knowing he would need to speak with the Lord Commander about it when he arrived.

"We’ll make for the Shadow Tower in the morning," Jon said. "You can surely find a trade there. Ser Denys Mallister will see you have a place to start again. I know it’s not much, but it’s better than staying here."

Dag looked in the direction of his wife and children sleeping in the ruin of their main hut, pale shadows in the firelight. He nodded slowly. "Aye. We’ll come. No sense in staying here with nothing left."

I ain't got no brother
I ain't got no brother
I ain't got no brother
To drive the steers with me

Jon gave a curt nod and stood up, wrapping his blanket around him tighter to head for the comfort of his tent. It had an oiled canvas cover, lined with fur on the inside to keep everything very warm. He pulled up his bedroll and blanket up to his nose, hoping to get a good night's sleep. The verses of the song were still flowing well with the rustling of leaves. He worded up the last lines in his mind before closing up his eyes.

I'm a poor, lonesome, cowboy
Poor, lonesome, cowboy
Poor, lonesome, cowboy
And a long ways from home

The next morning, Jon and his party set out early, the dawn light casting long shadows across the desolate landscape. Their breakfast was another serving of last night's stew, supped up with some more ship's biscuits. Men on the last watch added more meat and potatoes to the overnight simmering cauldron. Dag and his family followed from the middle of the line, their few remaining belongings packed onto a rickety cart pulled by the mule. The journey to the Shadow Tower would take another half a day on foot, through wild country where the threat of more possible problems still loomed.

By midday, they passed through a valley where the remains of an old village lay in ruins. The sight reminded Jon of a field of old skeletons—destroyed and abandoned, with only ghosts left behind. But there were no wildlings here, only the wind and the cawing of distant crows. The wildlings had raided this land long before and moved on, leaving nothing but desolation in their wake.

When they finally arrived at the Shadow Tower, Jon felt a sense of both relief and foreboding. The castle stood tall against the Wall, its stone towers weathered and worn by centuries of cold winds and snow. Like Castle Black, the Shadow Tower had no walls surrounding it, only the towering Wall itself. The buildings were in dire need of repair—crumbling stonework, broken roofs, and sagging beams spoke of years of neglect.

Ser Denys Mallister greeted them at the gate as the watchers sent words of their guests, his remaining white hair and beard a stark contrast to the black cloak of the Night’s Watch he wore. Despite his age, Ser Denys stood tall and proud, his eyes sharp with the wisdom of decades spent defending the Wall.

"Lord Snow," Ser Denys said, bowing his head slightly in respect. "Your fame has reached even this far North. I heard of you several times from your uncle. Hope your journey was uneventful."

Jon returned the nod. "Uneventful enough, Ser Denys. We’ve brought some of your settlers with us. Wildlings raided their home not far from here."

Ser Denys looked at Dag and his family, his expression softening. "You’re welcome here," he said kindly. "We’ve need of good folk to tend our nearby lands. The Watch can always use more hands to help."

Jon reached into his pouch and pulled out two gold dragons, handing them to Dag. "This should help you get started. Find another piece of land closer to the Shadow Tower. You’ll have better protection here. Buy some more sheep and goats to start living as a herder."

Dag stared at the coins in disbelief, then looked up at Jon with tears in his eyes. "Thank you, m’lord. I… I don’t know how to repay you."

"Do not lose hope. Keep this land alive. Survive. That would be payment enough," Jon said simply.

Ser Denys offered Jon and his men a place to rest, but Jon declined. "We need to reach Castle Black," he said. "Still some daylight is left. I appreciate your hospitality Ser, but we’ll be on our way."

"Very well," Ser Denys replied with a hint of sadness in his voice. "May the gods watch over you on your journey, Lord Snow. The road to Castle Black is long and treacherous these days."

Jon and his men mounted the horses they had hired from the Night’s Watch, their supplies replenished for the journey ahead and well stored in a new cart pulled by two mules.

**********************************************************************************
Jon rode at the head of his party, the biting cold of the northern wind cutting through his heavy cloak, as Castle Black rose up from the horizon, a dark and ancient silhouette against the sheer, glimmering expanse of the Wall. Even from a distance, the Wall in the first light of morning was a sight that took Jon’s breath away. Towering and implacable, the Wall was more than just ice—it was history, power, and mystery, all bound into the vast northern boundary of the realm. Its cold presence stood as a reminder of the lands beyond, the wilds where only the Watch's rangers, bravest or the most foolish —ventured.

As Castle Black came into clearer view, the reality of its state hit him. The castle, though still a formidable presence, was crumbling at the edges. The stone walls bore the marks of age, cracked and weathered by centuries of harsh winters. The towers seemed squat and broken in places, as though a mighty fist had once pounded them into submission, leaving the structure barely standing. The once grand fortifications of the Night’s Watch were now a shadow of their former selves, reduced to something small and worn. Jon couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness at the sight of it.

As they drew nearer to the gate, Jon's heart leaped when he spotted a lone rider approaching from the direction of the castle. The rider, cloaked in black, urged his horse forward, and Jon soon recognized the familiar figure of his uncle, Benjen Stark. The older man’s face was weathered from years spent in the unforgiving cold, but there was warmth there too, in the way his smile broadened when he saw Jon.

“Jon!” Benjen called out, his voice carrying over the wind. “I have been watching the roads for hours awaiting your arrival boy!”

Jon dismounted as Benjen drew closer, his boots crunching in the snow. He barely had time to speak before Benjen slid off his horse and embraced him fiercely, the cold momentarily forgotten in the warmth of their reunion. Jon returned the hug just as fiercely, gripping his uncle’s broad shoulders. It had been years since both had met, but in that moment, it felt as though no time had passed at all.

“I’ve missed you, Uncle,” Jon murmured, pulling back to look at Benjen’s face.

“And I, you,” Benjen replied, his eyes scanning Jon’s face as if looking for any scars or signs of battle. “Though you look like you’ve been through your own share of trouble. You’re half-dead, boy.”

Jon smiled, even though he was very tired due to being on the horse constantly for days. "Lands beyond the wall had worse weather. Let me show you something first. I come bearing gifts.”

Benjen raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh?”

Jon whistled softly, and from behind one of the packhorses, Ghost emerged, carefully carrying a small figure in his mouth—a direwolf pup, granite grey, save for the subtle blue hue that tinged the tips of its fur. The direwolf padded forward on large paws, its red eyes gleaming as it sniffed the air cautiously. Ghost dropped the pup in front of Benjen and then retreaded quickly as his presence made the horses from Shadow Tower very nervous even though Jon did his best to calm them down by warging into them.

Benjen crouched, extending a gloved hand toward the wolf. The pup sniffed his palm, then licked it, earning a chuckle from Benjen. “So this is whom you’ve written me so much about?” he said, astonishment clear in his voice. “Where did you even find such creatures?”

“Both were accidents,” Jon said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Well, now that I think about it, maybe not so accidental at all. There were more pups. I convinced Robb to leave one for you. He thought you could use some company up here at the Wall. This little one’s got a fierce spirit, but I think he’ll take to you.”

Benjen looked at the wolf, surprised but pleased. “I’ve seen many things beyond the Wall, but a direwolf as a gift? That’s a first.” He stood, still looking at the pup, amused. “What’s his name?”

“I was thinking of Frost,” Jon replied, eyeing the wolf’s bluish fur. “It suits him, don’t you think? Like the frost that clings to the trees in the morning.”

Benjen grinned, his face softening as he scratched the pup behind its ears. “Frost it is, then. Thank you, nephew. This is a fine gift indeed.”

Jon felt a surge of pride, glad to see his uncle so happy. As they began to lead their horses toward the gates of Castle Black, Benjen threw Jon a sideways glance. “You know, Jon, bringing gifts and visiting the Wall… you’re not planning to take the black, are you? I heard of the works you have been doing as Lord of Moat Cailin. Surely that’s a better fate than freezing your arse off here with us.”

Jon chuckled softly. “No, Uncle. I’ve no plans to take the black. But I do have some business with the Watch. Official business. And, truth be told, I’ve heard some… strange rumors during my travels. I need to know more about the Wall, its history, and its connection to the Children of the Forest.”

Benjen’s expression grew serious. “The Children of the Forest? Jon, those are stories and legends from long ago, from before even the First Men. What exactly have you heard?”

Jon hesitated. He had not yet fully processed everything he had experienced beyond the Wall. The vision, the whispers, the cave where the children tried to heal him, the obsidian dagger… there was much he didn’t understand. “It’s difficult to explain,” he said after a moment. “I have heard many strange rumors. Something might be stirring beyond the Wall, something tied to the Children. I need to know how much of it is true or not.”

Benjen studied his nephew carefully, his expression still of a question. “Well, seems like you have taken your history lessons with Luwin rather seriously,” he said at last, “if you’re looking for answers related to the Wall, you’ve come to the right place. The library here holds many of the old records. And we have many people who know a great deal about our history. But enough of that. Let's get you and Your men inside first. I have kept you standing on the road long enough."

Everyone including the horses was grateful as Benjen started to lead them to the gate of Castle Black. Jon kept Ghost close by his side while the rest of the party followed at a distance to keep the horses calm. As they got nearer the keep, more of the crumbling towers and their battlements came into view. Jon looked at his uncle sideways. "After seeing the Moat, I told myself I would never be judgemental about a keep. But seeing Castle Black in this state... "

Benjen sighed, shaking his head. “If more lords took an interest in the Wall like you, perhaps it wouldn’t be in such a sorry state. Most of them forget the Watch exists until they need us.”

As they passed through the creaking gates and into the outer courtyard of Castle Black, Jon could see the truth of his uncle’s words. The yard was quiet, save for a few black-cloaked stewards going about their duties. It seemed to be the most neglected part of the castle whereas it should have been the most protected with walls, watchtowers, and double portcullises. Jon made a note in his mind to talk about it with Lord Commander Mormont.

Inside the courtyard, recruits of the Night’s Watch sparred in the snow, their black cloaks billowing in the wind, their swords ringing as they clashed. The older men were rough, well acquainted with their tools, and dressed in old paddings where whereas the younger trainees a mismatched bunch of boys, old men, and poor examples of recruits in their prime. And they were few in number. It told Jon all he needed to know why the ancient order of noble protectors had fallen into such a disaster.

After stabling their horses and settling into their quarters, Jon joined Benjen by a roaring hearth in the Chamber of the first ranger. The warmth of the fire was a welcome relief, and Jon accepted the cup of hot spiced wine Benjen offered him, savoring the heat as it spread through his body.

Benjen’s expression grew more thoughtful, his brow furrowing as both of them settled down comfortably. "I must warn you, Jon, about the meeting with the Lord Commander," he declared. "Your help with finding new recruits was much appreciated. But Ned's requisition of the New Gift was not. Not by Mormont, nor by the other officers. We had a good amount of settlers in that area and almost all of them have taken up with their new mercenary Lords rather than staying with the Watch. It has cost us a valuable source of supplies."

Jon sighed. "You knew this was coming for a long time. Father asked King Robert. His council, and his Hand all agreed with his argument that the extension of land grant was not lawful by the Targaryens. Father was well within his rights to take it back and put it to better use than falling to desolation and neglect. But surely he's offering the Watch some sort of compensation in return."

"Well, he is offering to find us more men with the help of the Lord Hand but Mormont is full of doubts. So are the other officers like Thorne. They think it was better to be satisfied with what they had instead of a promise of something may or may not happen."

He finished his glass with a long gulp for another refilling. Despite the poor look of Night's Watch, their winery produced well-made Northern wine with local berries.

Benjen kept going. "They are cautious about the deal of Sea Dragon Point with Tormund's clan as well. Deals like this have been made before, you know. All of them ended with one side turning on the other over some random incidents. With wildling boats coming to trade, they are gaining knowledge about Northern coastlines and waterways. It just might encourage them later to commit more raids."

"I will try to give Lord Commander Mormont as much assurances and help as I can, uncle. I have a plan to offer him as it is in our greater interest to see the Watch standing strong against all kinds of enemies. Rest assured, after father's and my work is done, everyone will be happy and satisfied. "

Benjen didn't look fully convinced. But he decided to let this issue drop for now. "You said you have heard some strange rumors? The lands beyond the Wall are full of strange things. More than you or I can imagine. But if it’s knowledge you’re after, the Wall has plenty of secrets. For the answers to your queries, there’s no better place than our library. And no better man to guide you than our Maester."

He smiled at his uncle's enthusiasm. "From your words, he sounds like a wise person."

"Wise doesn’t begin to cover it. He is one of the most interesting men I’ve ever known. Sharp as a sword, even in his old age. He’s forgotten more history than most men ever learn. And he shares your passion for it. You are sure to like him, Jon."

Jon agreed, already thinking about the dusty old tomes that might hold the answers he sought. "I better go visit the library then to grab some materials for a little nighttime exploration. The journey was too hard on us. It will take some bedrest for me to recover fully."

Benjen got up to show Jon his way. "With Mormont gone, I'm in charge of looking after the Keep. Take your rest and recover. We will talk more once you are rested." 

Chapter Text

Jon

Jon had heard of the old library at Castle Black, the biggest in the North—once a place of learning, now mostly forgotten. Benjen said brothers of the Night’s Watch had little need for books and even less time to read them. But Jon, unlike many of the sworn brothers, had always found solace in the written word. It was in books that he hoped to find answers, to understand the ancient origins of the Wall and the Watch, and maybe, to unravel the deeper mysteries that had plagued him before his arrival here. 

He pushed open the door to the library, the heavy wooden door groaning on its iron hinges. A rush of musty air greeted him, thick with the scent of old paper, leather, and dust. The room was vast, larger than Jon had imagined. Row upon row of shelves stretched into the shadows, packed with books and scrolls, some so ancient that they looked ready to crumble at the slightest touch. The library was lit by only a few flickering candles, casting long, wavering shadows on the stone floor.

In the dim light, Jon saw two figures near the far end of the room. One was a short, stooped man in plain black robes, his back hunched as he rifled through a stack of parchment. The other, seated beside him, was an old man, bent with age and dressed in the faded grey robes of a maester. His head was bowed slightly, and though he seemed to be staring at the table before him, Jon noticed something odd—the maester’s eyes did not move. The old man’s milky white gaze was fixed, unseeing.

Jon cleared his throat softly, announcing his presence.

The old maester turned his head slightly at the sound, his sightless eyes searching the room. "Who is there?" the maester asked, his voice surprisingly strong despite his frail appearance.

"Jon Snow, Benjen Stark's nephew," Jon said, stepping forward. "I’m here to… I was looking for some reading materials. Researches, about the Wall and the history of the Watch."

The old maester’s face lit up, a smile spreading across his thin, weathered lips. "Ah, a visitor. And not just any visitor, but a reader! You are most welcome, Jon Snow. Your uncle did say you were coming to Castle Black." 

Jon hesitated. The warmth in the maester's voice was unexpected. He had heard of the maester before from his uncle—Aemon, his name was. It was a Valyrian name. But he didn't think much about it. There were many houses in Westeros that shared Valryian ancestry. Aemon could be a son of any of them. 

"I didn’t mean to intrude," Jon said, glancing at the younger man who was still sorting through the books. "I saw you working and didn’t want to disturb you."

"Nonsense!" Aemon replied with a chuckle. "I am always pleased to meet a curious mind. You have not disturbed me in the least. Clydas and I were just searching for a particular volume. We have a small… problem in the Watch, you see. Some of the brothers have been showing signs of sickness—gum bleeding, weakness in their bones, skin turning blue in patches."

Jon frowned. "That sounds like a common gum disease for villagers." 

Aemon's eyebrows lifted. "Gum disease? I have heard the common term, but I do not know the easy cure. Lime and fresh meat would surely help. But lime doesn't grow very well except in glass gardens in the far north. Clydas and I have been searching through the records for anything useful, though it has been slow work." His blind eyes flickered towards Clydas, who was still rummaging through piles of old books. "We are looking for something easy, cheap, and effective."

Jon sat down to think about this for a while. The disease was very common in Moat Cailin when he first arrived there. Especially among the people who lived in the farming villages. But not so much among those who lived in marshlands and ate a good number of cranberries. Then, the disease almost became nonexistent when they started collecting cranberries commercially. The light beer people brewed down in the Wolfswood with spruce and pine needles could have a hand in that as well. The practice was adopted by the people of the Moat to give their beer a light tangy flavor. A combination of both these practices could very well serve as an easy and cheap solution. 

"I don't think lime is the only cure for this. Anything with a sour or tangy flavor could very well be a source of remedy," Jon said thoughtfully. "A light beer made from spruce needles and twigs could help. Chewing pine needles regularly might also do the trick. The people of Moat Cailin do this often to stave off sickness, and long-distance sailors carry preserved cranberries as a cheap source of fruit. They rarely fall ill with gum disease."

Aemon’s face brightened. "Very interesting theory… of course! How simple, and yet, how effective that must be." He turned his head slightly toward Clydas. "We must try this immediately. Thank you, Jon Snow. You may have just saved some of the brothers from a slow and painful death."

"It was nothing," Jon said, feeling a bit embarrassed by the maester’s praise. "I’m just glad I could help."

Aemon nodded thoughtfully. "You’ve done more than you know. But let's discuss what you were looking for."  

Jon shifted his weight, feeling the cold uneven stone beneath his boots. "I’ve been thinking about the Wall, about its history. The Night’s Watch too—how it all began, what we’re really guarding. There’s so much we don’t know. I was hoping to find some books on the subject."

Aemon smiled again, a faraway look in his clouded eyes. "Ah, the Wall. There are as many legends about its creation as there are stones in it. Some say it was built by Brandon the Builder with the help of giants and the Children of the Forest. Others claim it was raised by sorcery, by the first of the ancient kings of the North. But the truth…" He spread his hands. "The truth is often buried beneath layers of myth and time."

"I was hoping to uncover some of that truth," Jon said quietly.

"Then you have come to the right place," Aemon replied, gesturing to the shelves surrounding them. "There are hundreds of books and tomes on the subject alone, collected from the libraries of all the abandoned castles along the Wall. It will take time, but if you are willing to sift through the dust and ink, you may find what you seek."

Before Jon could respond, Aemon turned to his steward. "Clydas, bring Jon Snow a list of my personal collection, and some of my own notes. They may prove useful in his search."

Clydas nodded quickly and disappeared into the maze of shelves. Aemon turned back to Jon. "You will find much here, Jon Snow, but not all. Some truths are hidden even from the oldest of books. But I wish you luck in your search."

"Thank you, Maester," Jon said, feeling a strange sense of gratitude. "I’ll do my best."

Aemon pointed toward a row of shelves near the far wall. "Start with the oldest tomes, the leather-bound ones. They will have the earliest accounts of the Wall’s construction, though many are more legend than fact. Still, legends often hold a kernel of truth."

Jon followed the maester’s directions and soon found himself standing before the shelves Aemon had indicated. The books here were ancient, their leather covers cracked and faded, the pages yellowed with age. Dust clung to everything, and Jon had to wipe it away with his hand before he could even see the titles.

He pulled down one of the books at random, a heavy tome bound in dark leather. The title, written in faded ink, read: The Builders of the Wall: Myths and Histories. Jon sat down at one of the wooden tables, the candlelight flickering softly around him, and began to read.

Hours passed in silence, the only sounds in the room the soft rustle of pages and the occasional creak of the floorboards. Jon found himself lost in the words, poring over stories of giants and sorcerers, of kings long dead and forgotten. Some of it was nonsense, of course—wild tales of dragons and magic—but other parts seemed more plausible, more grounded in reality.

He read about Brandon the Builder, how he was said to have constructed not only the Wall but also Winterfell itself, with the help of the Children of the Forest. There were accounts of ancient oaths sworn by the first men of the Night's Watch, promises to defend the realm against threats from beyond the Wall—threats that had long since faded into legend.

Jon had just finished reading one particularly interesting passage about the Children of the Forest when he noticed Clydas returning, carrying a small stack of papers and a tray of food "Maester Aemon’s list," the steward said, setting the papers and foods down in front of Jon.

"Thank you," Jon said, glancing at the first page. The list was long, filled with titles and notes in Aemon’s neat handwriting. Jon decided to copy the list, knowing he wouldn’t have time to read everything during his stay at Castle Black. He could study the titles later, perhaps even bring some of the books back to Snowfall if the Lord Commander allowed it. But first, he really needed to eat something. 

In his tray, there were several bread rolls with added butter, a bowl full of meat-vegetable stew, and a mug full of steaming hot tea. Jon had a good laugh in his mind to see that the tea had green spruce needles floating on it with added honey. Aemon had already added Jon as his test subjects to see how the results would differ from healthy to sick ones. In any case, the hot tea would probably help him to stay awake. 

After lunch, it took him several hours to transcribe the list, carefully copying each title and note onto his own parchment. By the time he was finished, his hand was cramped, and his eyes were bleary from the dim light. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his sore muscles, and looked down at the list in his hand.

At the very bottom of the page, something caught his eye—a signature, written in the same neat hand as the rest of the list. It was simple, just two letters: A.T.

Jon stared at the letters for a long moment, his mind turning them over to guess the family name. A.T. Aemon… Targaryen?

It took him a moment to piece it together, but when he did, his heart skipped a beat. Aemon Targaryen. The old maester… he was a Targaryen, a member of the royal family that had once ruled the Seven Kingdoms. So this is why Uncle Benjen said the Maester is a very interesting man. The last Targaryen. How had Jon not realized it before?

He looked over at the old man, who had returned sometime before to look for more books, still sitting quietly at the far end of the room, his sightless eyes gazing into the shadows. A Targaryen, here at Castle Black, serving as a maester in the Night's Watch. It seemed almost impossible.

Jon folded the list carefully and tucked it into his cloak. There was much more to learn, it seemed—about the Wall, about the Night’s Watch, and about the man who had just given him access to a treasure trove of knowledge.

With a quiet bye to Aemon, Jon slipped out of the library, his mind racing with new questions and possibilities.

******************************************

The day was cold, but then again, it was always cold at Castle Black. The Wall loomed over the fortress like a god of ice and stone, its shadow long and brooding as the sun began its slow descent behind the horizon. Jon Snow was sitting on the stone steps of the Lord Commander's Tower, a thin fur cloak wrapped around his shoulders, trying to keep the chill from seeping too deeply into his bones. Before him lay a piece of parchment stretched flat on a wooden board, held down by a pair of stones, with a rough map sketched out in ink. His gloved hand moved with steady precision, adding in details, marking out possible settlement areas for the remaining subjects of the Night's Watch.

The ink smudged under his fingers, but he paid little mind. He had spent hours at this, revising and redrawing the map in his mind, thinking of what little fertile land lay to the south of the Wall and how best to settle the dwindling numbers of farmers and crofters that still owed fealty to the Watch. Resources were thin, and the brothers of the Watch were thinner still. They could not afford mismanagement of land, especially not now with the diminished number of people to support this military order. Winter was coming, after all. The words echoed in his mind like a warning from a dream. They always did.

Beside him, his half-eaten meal—a chunk of bread, cold salt beef, and a cup of brewed herb tea—lay forgotten. His mind was elsewhere, focused on the task before him, even as the sounds of steel clashing against steel rang through the courtyard below. The training yard was alive with activity as the men of the Night’s Watch sparred in the cold light, the sharp crack of swords and the grunts of exertion carrying through the air.

Jon had spent hours working on the plan, his thoughts spiraling between the harsh reality of survival and the long-term future of the Watch. They needed a self-sustaining settlement, somewhere to grow crops and raise livestock. In theory, it seemed like the answer to many of their problems. They had already seen their manpower supplies dwindle, and relying on the southern lords for aid had become a gamble. If they could build a properly protected agricultural base on the Wall, they could ensure their own survival, or so it seemed at first glance.

But the more Jon thought about it, the more he saw the cracks in the plan. The lands closer to the Wall were unforgiving—harsh winters, short growing seasons, and wildlings often raided the northern stretches. 

No, farming wasn’t the answer. It was too vulnerable, too reliant on factors beyond the watch's control. If a single season failed, the farmers would be left to starve. If they were raided, everything they had built could be taken in a single night. They needed something else—perhaps a mixture of trade, or even some kind of industry that could work with the resources of the North. 

Light, uneasy footsteps stopped the wheels of his mind from turning. He looked up to see Maester Aemon making his way up to him, carefully holding the railings of the stairs without the help of his steward. Jon quickly got up to help out the Maester. An old man like Aemon climbing the stairs could easily turn into a disaster. He only had met Aemon once or twice, but even in that small time, he realized just how valuable the old wise man was for the Watch. 

"Are you supposed to be climbing these stairs alone, Maester?" Jon chided him gently. "Even I have to be careful walking on the sleet-filled steps." 

"I have been climbing these steps long before you were even born, young man, " Aemon told him in the same Jon had used. "Beautiful morning it is today seems to me. A gentle breeze and cold fresh air. Too beautiful to be locked up in my rooms going over ancient texts." 

"So it seems". Jon climbed up to the brazier near the gate to heat some of his tea and offered it to Aemon. "Sun is reflecting on the ice crystals. Almost like light on diamonds." 

"Thank you, Lord Jon." Maester Aemon said with a long sigh, sitting down comfortably on the fur blanket Jon was using. For some long moment, none of them said anything. Aemon drank the warm tea and Jon finished his bread and beef in a welcomed break. 

"Can I ask you something, Maester? Jon said after some moments had passed. 

Aemond turned his white eyes to Jon. "Of course. Please go on."  

"You are a Targaryen. One who was in for the Iron Thorne even," Jon was hesitant to say the words, wondering how the Measter might take it. "And my uncle is a Stark. With all this history and bloodshed, both of you never had any problems?  I mean, all those who died before and after the war. His father, brother, and sister. Your nephew, grandnephew, and his children. That seems like a hard wound to forget. For me, it would be impossible." 

Aemon did not say anything at first. Instead, he finished up his tea and wrapped his cloak around more carefully. "Gods have tested our families in more ways than one, let us leave this wound at that, my lord. As for your uncle, he is a good man. One of the best and truest I've ever met in this world. We leave our family names and allegiances when we take our vows. Benjen and, I always went along fine. None of us took part in that war. None of us saw the horrors that took place. We never spoke of it in person and continued to do our duty." 

The old man seemed hesitant to say anything more and Jon didn't press him further. It was a sensitive issue indeed. But digging out old history and pain was not going to help anyone. Instead, he kept asking questions about the geography of various locations he had marked on his map. 

Down in the yard, Grenn and Asher were locked in a fierce training bout with their companions and recruits of the Night's Watch. Jon watched them for a moment, allowing himself a small respite from his planning. The sight of Grenn, a hulking man of simple demeanor but surprising strength, was a welcome distraction. Asher, lean and quick, danced around Grenn like a shadow, his sword flashing in the morning light. The two had been friends since they’d come to Moat Cailin for trade, but Jon had never known Grenn well, not the way Asher did. Still, he could see why the two men were close. Grenn had grown strong, both in body and spirit, since they had first crossed paths.

A sudden clash of metal snapped Jon’s attention back to the yard. Grenn had just knocked down two men in quick succession, his large frame moving with surprising agility for a man of his size. One of the recruits lay groaning on the frozen ground, clutching his shoulder, while the other spat blood from a split lip, his training sword knocked from his hand. A murmur of approval rippled through the Watch's recruits, though it was quickly stifled when a sharp voice cut through the air.

“Alliser Thorne,” Jon muttered under his breath. "Excuse me, Maester. I probably should take a hand before any problem arises." 

The Master-at-Arms stood at the edge of the yard, his black eyes cold as the ice beneath their feet, arms folded over his chest as he glared at the recruits. Thorne had a way of souring the mood wherever he went, and today was no different.

“Is this what passes for fighting at Castle Black now?” Thorne sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. “A big oaf like you, Grenn, should stick to hauling barrels and chopping wood. Leave the swordplay to those with quicker wits and lighter feet. You'll never amount to more than a farmhand in a fancy cloak.”

Grenn’s face flushed with anger, but he held his tongue. Jon could see the effort it took for him to stay silent against a knight. The other recruits glanced at each other uneasily, none willing to risk Thorne’s ire. But Asher was not so easily cowed.

Thorne had never truly been one of the Northerners despite spending many years on the Wall. His heart was still with the Targaryen loyalists, despite the fall of their dynasty. He had fought for them, and when Robert Baratheon had claimed the Iron Throne, Thorne had been sent to the Wall as punishment, a bitter relic of a lost cause. His disdain for the North and its people was well known. He saw the brothers of the Watch as little more than peasants, and his attitude had soured many relationships at Castle Black.

Asher Forrester, a Northman to his core, was quick to defend Grenn.

“Why don’t you fuck off, Thorne?” Asher’s voice was calm but filled with contempt. “Grenn just knocked down two men faster than you ever could. Maybe you should try it yourself before you open your mouth.”

The tension in the yard grew higher as Thorne’s eyes narrowed, his lips curling in a snarl. Jon stood from his seat, ready to intervene if needed. Thorne’s temper was as quick as his tongue, and Jon had no desire to see the training yard descend into chaos.

Asher, however, was not intimidated. His hatred for Thorne was well apparent, stemming from more than just the man’s harsh treatment of the recruits and Grenn. Asher’s family, House Forrester, had been staunch supporters of House Stark, and Thorne’s loyalty to the Targaryens was a sore point for him. In Asher’s eyes, Thorne was nothing more than a degenerate, a man who had supported his King's evil deeds for a lost cause.

The yard fell silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a blade. Thorne’s hands got closer to his waist, and for a moment, Jon thought the Master-at-Arms might draw steel right then and there. But Thorne was a serpent, not a fool.

“You’d best watch your tongue, boy,” Thorne said, his voice dangerously low. “One day you might find yourself without it.”

Asher grinned, but there was no warmth in it. “Is that a threat? Because it sounds like one. And if you think you can best me, you’re welcome to try.”

Thorne’s lip curled, but before he could respond, Jon stood up from the steps, his map forgotten. "Enough." His voice was calm but carried the weight of authority. “Ser Alliser, my men need their drills. Let them train without your interruptions.”

Thorne’s dark eyes flickered toward Jon, his sneer softening slightly, though the malice remained. "As you say, Lord Snow." The title was given with no small amount of contempt. Thorne turned on his heel and stalked away, his black cloak billowing behind him.

Jon watched him go, his jaw clenched. Alliser Thorne had never hidden his disdain for Northerners, and Jon was not blind to it. He knew Thorne saw him as little more than a brat, a pretender who had risen too high, too fast. But Jon had no time for petty rivalries at the end of the world. There were more pressing matters at hand. 

Asher let out a long breath once Thorne was out of earshot. “That man is a snake” he muttered. “The sooner someone puts him down, the better.”

Jon couldn’t help but agree, though he said nothing. Asher’s hatred of Thorne wasn’t just about the man’s treatment of Grenn. As a Northman, Asher despised everything Thorne represented: the old loyalties to the Targaryens, the scorn for Northern traditions, and the arrogance of the South. To men like Thorne, the North had always been a backwater, a frozen wasteland filled with savages. 

He turned back to the yard, where Asher and Grenn were watching him expectantly. Jon gave them a nod, his expression softening. “Grenn, that was well done.”

Grenn smiled, his cheeks flushed from the cold and exertion. “Thank you, my lord,” he said, his voice humble. He hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward. “I was hoping to ask a favor if you’ll permit it.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

Grenn shifted his weight, glancing at Asher for a moment before continuing. “I’ve been thinking… I’d like to return to the farmstead near the Umber lands where I grew up. There’s a girl there… the farmer’s daughter. I’d like to marry her, bring her back to Snowfall with me, if you’d allow it.”

Asher clapped Grenn on the shoulder, a wide grin splitting his face. “You sly dog! I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Grenn shrugged, looking both pleased and embarrassed. “She’s a good girl, Asher. I just… I need your permission, my lord.”

Jon studied Grenn for a moment. The request was reasonable enough, and Grenn had proven himself a loyal man since joining them at Snowfall. There was no reason to deny him.

“I see no reason why not,” Jon said finally. “You’ve served well as a guard at Snowfall, and you deserve a family of your own.” He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small leather pouch, shaking loose a half-gold dragon. “Take this. Use it to buy some gifts for her father and your new household. It’ll help with the dowry.”

Asher grinned wider and quickly followed suit, digging into his own coin purse and handing Grenn another half-gold dragon. “Consider it a wedding gift from me.”

Grenn looked down at the coins in his hands, his eyes wide with gratitude. “Thank you, my lord… thank you both. I don’t know what to say.”

Jon gave him a small smile. “When you’ve settled your business and the wedding is done, return to Moat Cailin. Travel via the ferry boats from Long Lake; it’ll be quicker than the roads.”

Grenn nodded eagerly. “Aye, my lord. I’ll do as you say. And thank you again.”

With a final nod, Grenn turned and left the yard, his heavy boots crunching in the snow as he went. Asher watched him go, with a light smile. "Isn't it funny how easy marriage is for the commoners? While it's become such complexity for us?" 

Jon nodded thinking of Val, unable to lie. “Aye. It’s… complicated.”

“Love always is,” Asher said with a knowing smile, though it faded quickly. “Believe me, I know.”

Jon looked at Asher, sensing the deeper meaning behind his words. Gwyn Whitehill. The woman Asher had loved and lost, the woman whose name still brought a flicker of pain to his friend’s eyes. The Whitehills and the Forresters had been at odds for generations, locked in a bitter feud that had seen blood spilled on both sides. Gwyn, the daughter of House Whitehill, had been Asher’s lover, though their relationship had been fraught with tension and secrecy. The war between their houses had driven them apart, and Asher still carried the weight of that loss with him.“Do you ever think about her?” Jon asked, feeling it was expected of him to broach the subject. “Gwyn, I mean.”

Asher was quiet for a moment, his eyes distant as he stared out over the training yard. “Every day,” he admitted, his voice low. “But what’s done is done. Our families… there was no way it could have worked. Duty came first, as it always does.”

“And yet,” Asher continued, “it doesn’t make it any easier, does it? Loving someone, knowing you can’t be with them the way you want. It’s like a wound that never really heals.”

Jon didn’t respond right away, but the truth of Asher’s words resonated deeply within him. He thought of Val, of their bond, and the uncertainty of what lay ahead. 

He had not told his father, Eddard Stark, about his wish to marry Val yet. In truth, he wasn’t sure how to bring it up in a letter. What would his father say? His father had always taught him the importance of duty, loyalty, but also honor. Would he see it as acceptable to marry a woman from beyond the Wall, a wildling? Or he would have someone else in his mind for Jon to marry? He knew how most of the North viewed the free folk—barbarians, savages. But Jon had seen a different side of them, especially Tormund's people. Who were really not all that different from mountain clansmen or deep forest folk. 

Before Jon could say more, the heavy gates of Castle Black creaked open, drawing everyone’s attention. A rider on horseback entered the courtyard, his figure framed against the white backdrop of snow and ice. It was Jeor Mormont, the Old Bear, returning from his rounds with the Night’s Watch subjects.

***************************************

Jon Snow sat by the hearth in the Lord Commander's quarters, the heat from the fire a welcome respite from the frigid cold of Castle Black. The room was sparsely furnished, with little more than a heavy oaken table, a few battered chairs, and the Lord Commander's old bearskin cloak hung on the wall. Jeor Mormont sat across from him, his weathered face half-hidden in the flickering shadows. The firelight reflected off his deep-set eyes, making him seem even more the grizzled bear he was often compared to. Benjen Stark stood near the window, his breath misting in the cold night air, while Maester Aemon sat quietly in his corner, the blind old man wrapped in his thick black robes.

Jon had spent the day drawing maps and making plans for a new settlement for the Night’s Watch subjects, but now the real discussion was about to begin. He had been waiting for this moment, not just to talk about maps and cattle, but for the larger conversation, the one about the future of the Watch. Jeor Mormont’s silence was heavy, but Jon could see that the Lord Commander was turning the thoughts over in his mind, measuring Jon’s worth before any were spoken.

Jeor spoke first. “I hear you’ve been busy, Jon Snow. My sister writes to me often, though not as much as she once did.” He smiled faintly, a rare gesture for the old bear. “Maege and the girls are doing well, thanks in no small part to your help. That trading fleet you helped them build near is working very well, I’m told. Not many can say they’ve done so much for House Mormont.”

Jon inclined his head, the shadow of a smile playing on his lips. "The Mormonts have been good to me, Lord Commander. Your family is strong. It's an honor to help where I can."

"And not just with the fleet. Sending those Ironborn prisoners to the Wall was a boon," Jeor continued, his voice gruff with gratitude. "The Ironborn are always raiding the coast, causing trouble. Most lords would’ve just hanged them. But you sent them here instead. We’re short on men who know how to fight, and I could use more like that."

Jon nodded. “Killing prisoners is a waste. Those men were pawns of House Blacktyde. Sending them to the Wall was the right thing to do. The Watch needs every man it can get, especially men who’ve seen battle.”

Jeor’s gaze held Jon’s for a long moment before he grunted his approval. “Aye, the right thing. You've your father’s sense of duty, no doubt about that.”

At the mention of Eddard Stark, a shadow passed over Jeor's face, and Jon knew the conversation was about to turn to more serious matters. But before they could dive into it, Jon decided to address another pressing issue.

“Before we get into the main business, there’s something else I’d like to discuss,” Jon began, leaning back slightly in his chair. “I’ve been spending a fair amount of time in the Castle Black library. You’ve got a wealth of old tomes and scrolls there, records going back to the time of Brandon the Builder and beyond. I’d like to take a selection of those books on loan.”

Jeor raised an eyebrow. “You want to take our books?”

“Only for a time,” Jon clarified quickly. “There’s a lot to learn from them, but many of the volumes are in poor condition. I’ll keep them safe. I’ll have them stored in glass boxes, use chrysanthemums to repel mites and bugs. And when I’m done copying the most interesting ones, I’ll return the originals along with the copies.”

Jeor scratched at his beard, clearly considering the offer. "I don’t see much sense in giving away something for nothing, even if you do plan to return it. What will you offer in exchange?"

Jon had anticipated this. “Gold would be an easy offer, but we both know it’s not always coin that’s needed. Instead, I’ll offer you another benefit. I’ll make sure the books are properly preserved—something they sorely need—and I’ll send you an extra copy of each one, free of charge. The knowledge in those books will remain with the Watch, and it’ll be in better condition than it is now.”

Jeor grunted again, but there was a glimmer of interest in his eyes. “Glass boxes and dried leaves, eh? Hmph. Maester Aemon, what do you think?”

Aemon, who had been quiet until now, tilted his head slightly, though his clouded eyes saw nothing. "The preservation of knowledge is always valuable, Lord Commander. And it seems Lord Jon has given this a good amount of thought. The old records are brittle, and some are in danger of being lost altogether if they’re not cared for."

Jeor drummed his fingers on the table, the sound a slow, deliberate rhythm. Finally, he gave a sharp nod. "Fine. You can have your books but you should make sure they are well cared for."

Jon smiled, inclining his head again. “You have my word.”

Now that the matter of the books was settled, Jon leaned forward slightly, his expression turning more serious. “There’s something else. Something more pressing.”

Jeor’s brow furrowed, and even Benjen turned from the window to listen more closely.

“It’s about the people living in the Gift,” Jon began, choosing his words carefully. “I have seen quite the poor condition of the land on the way here. The subjects of the Watch are suffering. Wildling raids are constant, the crops are failing, and there’s not enough food to go around. The farms are scattered, which makes it nearly impossible to defend them. Even the men you send to guard them can’t be everywhere at once.”

Jeor’s scowl deepened. "You think I don’t know that? We do what we can with the men we have, but there are too few of us and too many miles to cover. And since your father—" Jeor stopped himself, casting a glance at Benjen, then continued, his voice tight. "Since Eddard Stark took back the New Gift, our supplies and manpower have been dwindling."

Alliser Thorne, who had been standing quietly by the wall, now stepped forward. “Your father’s actions have left us in a precarious position, Lord Snow,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “The New Gift was valuable to the Watch. Your father’s greed has only made things worse for us.”

Jon bristled at the insult, but Jeor cut in before he could respond. "That’s enough, Thorne," the Lord Commander growled. “The Starks have done more for the Watch than any other house, and you’d do well to remember that.”

Thorne sneered but kept his mouth shut. With a dismissive wave, Jeor motioned for him to leave. Thorne gave Jon one last venomous look before stalking out of the room.

Once Thorne was gone, Jeor turned back to Jon. “Thorne can be a moron, but there’s some truth to what he said. Losing the New Gift was a blow. The land was valuable, and now the Watch will struggle to keep itself fed during Winter. But the Starks are not to blame. Your father had his reasons, I’m sure.”

Jon nodded, though he could see the frustration in Jeor’s eyes. “I’m not here to speak for my father’s actions. House Stark never supported the grant of the New Gift. But what’s done is done. And I’ve been thinking—there’s another way we could approach this. The land you still have can be put to better use. The farms aren’t working, not with the constant raids and the scattered settlements. But there’s plenty of pastureland, enough to support a cattle herding settlement.”

Jeor raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Go on.”

Jon unfurled the map he had been working on earlier in the day, spreading it across the table. The rough charcoal lines marked out the terrain, the rivers, and the forests, but in the center was a large settlement, fortified with ditches, palisades, and watchtowers.

“This is my plan,” Jon explained. “Instead of scattering the settlers across small, undefended farms, we gather them into a single, well-protected settlement. The village will be surrounded by a palisade and a ditch, with trained militia made up of the villagers themselves to defend it. The palisade will be built on the mound dug for the ditch to get a greater height. Inside, there will be a market, watchtowers, and a large pen for cattle; goats, sheep, and cows. The people will raise cattle for dairy, meat, wool, and leather. A portion of the goods will be sold as tax to the Watch and some can be sold in Riverlands or Vale to buy necessary grain.”

Jeor studied the map in silence, his face unreadable. Jon pressed on.

“There’s plenty of pastureland available, enough to support thousands of cattle. The villagers will work together, not as separate farmsteads, but as a community. And they’ll be trained to defend themselves. If they’re attacked, they’ll be able to hold out long enough for help to arrive from Castle Black, Eastwatch, or the Shadow Tower.”

Maester Aemon added his concerns. "What about the need for grains, vegetables, or fruits? A diverse diet is a must to keep a population healthy. They will need those farm produces as well." 

Jon thought of an answer for it too. "Community farming, Maester Aemon. The people will keep their most experienced farmers to plow the most fertile land together. The produces will be equally divided and shared." 

Benjen, who had been listening quietly, now stepped forward to examine the map. “It’s a good plan, Jon. But it’ll require a lot of coin. Cattle don’t come cheap, and building homes and fortifications will take time and resources.”

Jon nodded. “I know. But I’ll speak with my father. The North has always supported the Watch, and I believe he’ll be willing to provide the funds you need. The Watch can aid in the building, and the settlers can be trained by the Watch to defend their homes.”

Maester Aemon, who had been mostly silent throughout the discussion, now spoke. “It’s an ambitious plan, Lord Commander. But if the Watch is to survive, it must adapt. The way we operate now is unsustainable. Lord Jon's proposal could give the Watch the strength it needs to thrive, not just survive.”

Jeor was quiet for a long time, his eyes fixed on the map. When he finally spoke, his voice was gruff but resigned. “It’s a bold plan, my Lord. And it could work if the funds are available. I’ll accept it. But I’ll hold you to your promise. If House Stark doesn’t come through, we’ll be right back where we started.”

Jon felt a weight lift from his shoulders. “Thank you, Lord Commander. I’ll make sure the funds are secured.”

Jeor grunted again and sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “Let’s hope your father sees things the same way.”

As the meeting continued, Jon couldn’t help but reflect on the man before him. Jeor Mormont was a hard man, forged in the fires of battle and responsibility, but there was respect there too. Respect for Jon’s father, Eddard Stark, and perhaps, just an added bit of respect for Jon himself. Yet there was also an unspoken tension.

Jeor respected the Starks, but Jon knew that losing the New Gift had stung. It wasn’t just about the land; it was about pride, about the Watch’s independence, and about how much the Watch relied on the North to survive. Jon could see that now, as clearly as the firelight that flickered in Jeor’s dark eyes. The Watch was at a crossroads, and the decisions they made now would shape its future.

Chapter Text

Jon

The tournament grounds outside Snowfall bustled with life and all of its commotions. The smells of horse sweat, damp earth, roasting meat, ripe paddy, and the distant tang of pine smoke filled the cold air, mingling into a scent that was oddly comforting. The crowds pressed in along the lists, some holding tankards of mead, others laughing or shouting as jousters mounted their horses. Pennants fluttered atop makeshift wooden towers, the colors of various coats-of-arms adding a splash of vibrancy to the otherwise gray-green northern landscape. Laughter, gossip, and the occasional clink of coins being wagered buzzed through the air, as alive as a hive of bees disturbed from their nest. It was the first harvest fair. People had just taken their second paddy harvest of the year home without any loss due to floods or heavy rain, and it called for a mass celebration. And what better way was there to complete a fair than a test of mettle? That's why Jon decided to hold the choosing of his new sworn riders here. From a pool of Northern hedge Knights, his vassals and nearby nobles

Snowfall itself—Jon's small but growing settlement—was visible beyond the stands. Low wooden houses clustered around the longhall and its assorted buildings, smoke spiraling from their chimneys. His namesake town in its infancy, Jon thought, but with each new added home, the land felt more his. The palisade had been built with the sweat of freedmen and settlers, forged on the low elevated hill, out of the muddy plains and the bogs that had once belonged to no one but the crows and the cold wind. Jon’s people now—rough men, hardy women, and restless youths—had gathered there to make something of themselves. And so had he.

Yet, for all that they had accomplished, there was still something precarious about it. The North was vast and hard, and lords who failed to defend their lands and people did not stay lords for long. It was not enemies that would be the nail of their coffin, though. It would be the land itself. Cold, unforgiving, and brutal at Winter times. Being close to the South, they had some respite from the cold here. But the harvests, the trade and the grain store needed to be in constant vigilance, or else they would be back right where the Moat was two years ago. Close to ruin and abandoned. They were way behind in filling up their larder, and a good number of summer years had passed already. But their population was still low, and the new harvests were bountiful. So if Jon's people were vigilant, perhaps they would indeed make it out of the Winter unscathed. 

Jon adjusted his wolfskin cloak and tried to push the ominous thoughts aside. His gloved fingers idly ran over the pommel of his sword. To his right, Val sat cross-legged on the wooden dais, looking every bit a queen in the way she held herself. The gold of her hair gleamed in the thin sunlight, and her sharp blue eyes flicked between the riders as if she could see straight through their armor. Hali and Asa were beside her, squirming on the bench, but Val seemed content to let them fidget around. There were no older men here to tell them what to do. Ulfric's opinion was, it would not be any good to rein in Freefolk children with manners of Northern Houses. Jory was strict in following the chain of command and would not go out of his way to correct his liege lord's adopted charges if Jon did not say anything. Asher's thought was to let children be children. 

“Big one’s going to fall!” Asa exclaimed to Hali, pointing to a hedge knight who struggled with his saddle straps.

“Bet he’ll get knocked on his arse,” Hali replied with a giggle, earning a soft chuckle from Val and a warning glare from Jon. 

To Jon’s left, Ulfric sat with arms crossed over his broad chest, scowling as if the sun itself had offended him. His beard hung in thick braids, held in places with rings, and his scarred hands rested on the hilt of a long axe, the designated weapon of houscarls. Other housecarls like Asher or Hyet, Meera's uncle, either were sitting with them or with the commonfolk in the feast. 

A trumpet sounded, sharp and sudden, silencing the crowd. Across the field, two riders spurred their horses forward. Hooves churned the earth, sending up sprays of mud, and the sound of lances splintering echoed through the air like thunder. The last two remaining contenders in the tourney were about to go full tilt. 

Jon leaned forward, his eyes narrowing in concentration as the youngest Ryswell made his charge. Rickard Ryswell had talent—there was no denying that. He rode with the confidence of a man who knew how to win, his lance steady as the tip aligned with his opponent’s shield. But it was the way Rickard shifted slightly in the saddle at the last moment inside the defense circle of his opponent that caught Jon’s eye. A subtle move, barely perceptible to the commoners, yet it made all the difference. The hedge knight's lance whistled past Rickard’s shoulder, missing by a hair, while Rickard’s own weapon struck at the shoulder hard. 

With a loud crack, the hedge knight was thrown backwards from his horse, hitting the ground with a heavy thud. The crowd erupted in cheers, and Rickard, swaying slightly in his saddle, gained his posture and lifted his lance in triumph.

Jon found himself nodding, impressed despite himself. The man knows how to ride, and ride he did well. There was no luck in that tilt.

Ulfric grunted. “The man's a cocky one, but there’s skill beneath the swagger. He could prove useful if he decides to stay around.”

The herald declared Rickard the victor, and Jon stood with the rest of the crowd to acknowledge the win. One of the housecarls brought forward the prize—a new breastplate, polished to a mirror’s sheen. Rickard accepted it with a grin, and for a moment, Jon saw something familiar in the man’s expression, the hunger for glory and recognition. It was common knowledge around the Rills that Ryswell brothers were a quarrelsome bunch. With two older brothers before him, Rickard stood to gain little from his own family in terms of good land or wealth. This is why, no doubt, he arrived here at the Moat to take part in the jousting. To have a rare chance of winning fame. 

When the cheers died down, Ulfric leaned closer. “He’ll be waiting to speak with you sooner or later. When will you see him?" 

Jon gave a curt nod. “Send him to the tent after he’s cleaned up. I have business with the hedge knights first."

He stepped into the tent right behind the tourney ground, with the children trailing behind him. The outside was still going thick with the sounds of celebration- townsfolk and traders singing drunken songs, the clink of tankards, the low hum of distant laughter. Smoke from campfires drifted in the air, carrying with it the smell of roasting boar, beer, and mead. Inside the tent behind him, laughter rang out—Asa’s high-pitched giggle followed by Hali’s gleeful laughs. Val sat cross-legged on a fur-lined mat, watching over the two children as they played. Asa tried to mount Hali like a horse, and the boy obliged with a series of lurching movements that sent them both sprawling to the floor in a heap.

Val threw back her head and laughed, her long golden hair catching the lamplight. Jon turned toward the sight, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“They’ll soon be as wild as Ghost,” Val said, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement. She reached down to help Asa to his feet, brushing dirt from her tunic.

For a moment, they watched the children tumble together, the simple joy of their play filling the space between them. Val reached out and rested her hand on Jon’s knee, her fingers light but warm.

“So... is this how the Southern Lords choose their sworn men? On account of well they can ride and joust?”

Jon leaned back on his elbows, staring at the slanted ceiling of the tent. “Not always,” he admitted. “But the realm is quiet. There are no battles to prove men in combat, and I need riders—capable ones. These hedge knights are a mixed lot, but some of them have shown promise. If they are ready to swear their  oaths to me in exchange for land to settle down, we start our work to build up a capable cavalry." 

Val tilted her head, her long hair falling over one shoulder. “Seems to me you are putting more trust in armor, horse, and lance than the men beneath them all. It seems strange to leave the question of loyalty on tourney skills.”

Jon gave a small shrug. “I don’t have the luxury of selecting men that I trust and training them to be knights or becoming experts on cavalry skills. The men born in these parts don't ride, and if there's ever a threat coming from the South, I am the first line of defense. I need some capable commanders and horsemen now to help me build up a working mounted force from the ground up." 

Val sighed, her fingers warm against the chill of his skin. "Today was supposed to be a celebration. And here you are still worrying about land, men, and titles. You should be out there with your men. Drinking and singing." 

“I have to,” Jon replied, smiling. “That is the life of a Lord. If I don’t, who will?”

Val leaned in closer, brushing a stray lock of black hair from his face. “What would you do if you did not have to worry about it all?" 

“I am guessing the right answer is 'Thinking about you?" 

The words hung between them like a delicate thread, taut and shimmering. Then, slowly, she leaned in and kissed him. Her lips were soft, warm and tasted faintly of honey and wine. Jon let himself sink into the kiss, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her closer. It was a slow, deliberate kiss—one that promised something more intimate. 

Val pressed closer, her hands sliding beneath his cloak, her touch warm and insistent. She kissed him again, more urgently this time, her fingers curling into his shirt as she tugged him toward her. Jon’s heart raced, his body responding instinctively, but a small voice whispered in the back of his mind—not yet.

He pulled back gently, breathing heavily. “We’ll be married soon,” Jon said, his voice thick with longing. “We have all the time in the world, Val.”

Val gave him a sly, knowing look. “We could marry right here,” she said softly, her fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. “In your godswood. Just the two of us with a Wise woman to speak the vows. It’s the old way.”

Jon smiled, brushing a kiss across her temple. “My father is soon calling the lords of the North to Winterfell for a grand tournament. That’s where I want to marry you. With the old gods as our witnesses, in the heart of Winterfell.”

Val huffed a small, playful sigh. “You think too much like a Southerner.”

“And you think too much like a wildling,” Jon replied, kissing her again.

She melted into the kiss, her arms wrapping around his neck. For a moment, the world outside the tent faded away—the tourney, the hedge knights, the responsibilities of leadership. It was just them, tangled together in the warmth of the furs, lost in each other.

Then the flap of the tent rustled, and they pulled apart just as Ulfric Stormcloak and Jory Cassel stepped inside.

“My lord,” Ulfric said with a slight bow, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. “The hedge knights are waiting outside.”

Jory gave a polite nod to Val, his face carefully neutral, though a hint of amusement danced in his eyes. “We didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Val chuckled softly, her hand lingering on Jon’s for a moment longer before she stood. “I’ll take the children,” she said, her voice warm with affection. “You’ve got your duties, my lord.”

Hali and Asa scrambled to their feet, still full of energy despite the long day. Val herded them toward the tent’s entrance, casting one last glance over her shoulder at Jon. 

Jon watched her go, a soft smile tugging at his lips. Then he turned to face Ulfric and Jory, his expression hardening. "Bring them in." 

The hedge knights who entered the tent were rough men, scarred and windburnt. Their armor was mismatched and battered from years of hard use, and their faces bore the marks of long campaigns and narrow escapes. These were not the knights of gleaming plates and flowing silks that rode in southern tourneys. These men had fought for every scrap of bread and every coin they’d earned.

Jon had called them here to make them offers of land and duty, but he was under no illusions about what these men were. Vagabond Knights were a fickle breed—some honorable, others little more than sellswords with a thin veneer of knighthood. Some had likely won their spurs in true battle, others in some back alley after spilling the right man’s blood

They had no lords, no banners, no glory—but they had their skills, armor, and horses, and that was enough. And now, Jon meant to put them to good use. 

Jon let the silence stretch, meeting each man’s gaze in turn. Some held his eyes with quiet confidence. Others looked away, shuffling in their boots. One of the knights, a broad-shouldered man with a thick, dark beard, carrying a round shield on his coat, cleared his throat.

“My lord,” he said, dipping his head in a gesture which might be called a bow after a fashion. “You called us here, promised good steel and land. But if I may ask… what is it you want us to do?”

Jon leaned forward, resting his hands on the edges of the table, Winter's Wrath slung across his back. “You’ve all fought in some sort of conflict,” Jon began. “You know what it means to survive in hard places. And know mounted combat and riding. That's precisely what I need from you. I am building up a cavalry force. For that, I need good horsemen. You offer me your sword and loyalty, I will see that you are well rewarded." 

“Loyalty’s a rare thing when material needs are concerned. As my lord surely well knows,” muttered another Northern knight, a stocky man with thick black hair. “What exactly do we get in return?”

"I will grant you land,” Jon met his inquiry. “Not just any land—land of your own, where you will build your keep, raise your banner, and answer when I call. You will get help with the building of your keep, with your stores and livestock. But all of you must swear to me as your liege, and I will expect obedience." 

A murmur rippled through the tent. Some of the men exchanged glances, weighing the offer.

Jory Cassel added his concerns. "Make no mistake, what's asked of you won't be an easy task. I have been working this land for over a year now, and though the land is indeed bountiful, milking out its resources and creating a community is hard work. Our country is a jealous mistress, and she has no patience to suffer fools. All of you have to put your head and heart to make something of yourself." 

Some of the knights with the roughest looks were smiling a sweet smile like they had just won a great prize in exchange for their swords. Ulfric Stormcloak warned them. 

"You will be bound by the law of the land and King. Those of you who will swear allegiance must follow our laws. The smallfolks and steward appointed to you are of this land while you are outsiders. If you mistreat the people under your care and break the laws, you'll be promptly replaced. Do any worse, you might get hanged from your own gate." 

Ghost yawned, showing a series of sharp teeth. Some of the knights flinched at the sight. 

One of the northern men, a grizzled veteran with a scar splitting his cheek, knelt before Jon. “I was born a bastard of House Locke,” he said. “They never bothered to offer me half as much good. If you hold true to your words, my lord, my sword is yours to command." 

One by one, the other northern knights followed. The Riverlanders hesitated, but soon they, too, bent the knee. Only two men lingered, their hands resting near their sword belts.

Jon looked at them. “If you have doubts, you can go. Feel free to enjoy the fair or serve as guards in my trading expeditions as you please.”

One man spat on the ground. “I was knighted by a Frey, but the only things I have received from them is a place to sleep and some coins.” They, too, stepped forward, kneeling. “A sword in service is better than one rusting in the rain.”

Jon inclined his head. “Rise, then.”

He turned to the assembled men. “Feast. Drink. Tomorrow, we talk of duty.” 

The tent emptied quickly. Outside, laughter grew twice as much as before. 

Jory lingered at Jon’s side. “You’ve solved our cavalry problem,” he said. “But hedge knights aren’t known for taking orders well.”

“They will learn,” Jon said. “Or they will be replaced.”

Jory hesitated. “Some of them might not have won their knighthood in a valiant way. If they mistreat their subjects—”

Jon cut him off. “Then they will answer for it. The stewards and smallfolk will report to me, not them. If they step out of line, they will be dealt with accordingly.”

Jory studied him for a moment, then nodded.

Jon turned to Ulfric. “Bring Rickard Ryswell to me.”

*****

The flap stirred, and Rickard swaggered into the tent, shoulders loose, mouth curled in a lazy grin. His armor glimmered in the brazier’s glow, and his fine boots were miraculously free of mud—a knight through and through. Jon watched the man with curious eyes, but his face was unreadable. Rickard was still young, but not so young as Jon, and the easy confidence he carried outweighed Jon's. Ryswell was a trueborn son of a powerful House, and there was no hesitation or uncertainty in his mannerism. 

“Well met, Lord Snow,” Rickard greeted him. "You are fast growing to be a famous man. I have been waiting to make your acquaintance." 

Before Jon could reply, Ulfric took a step forward, the weight of authority in his voice. “The proffered title is Lord Jon or Lord Bloodhair." 

Rickard raised his hands in mock surrender, the smirk never leaving his face. “Of course, of course. My apologies... Lord Jon. I understand the standard norms might not be so common in your new communities." 

Jon said nothing. He let the silence stretch until Rickard’s smirk faltered ever so slightly. The moment hung heavy between them, and Jon seized it.

“Please have a seat,” he ordered, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

Rickard sat, lounging back in the chair like a man sitting at a feast rather than in the presence of a lord. Jon studied him for a moment. The man had potential—he was quick in the saddle, clever with a lance, and carried the weight of a noble family name. But he was also sort of arrogant, carefree, and too accustomed to getting his way. A weapon, if properly wielded, Jon thought.

Ulfric stood back to the side of the tent, his arms crossed, silent and brooding. His housecarl’s gaze was steady, but Jon knew him well enough to read the unease in the man’s stance. Ulfric's father had been a mercenary, and he himself had been forged in blood and battle—Stormcloaks were the type who trusted deeds over words. He had not taken well to Rickard Ryswell. 

“I am forming a cavalry force,” Jon began.“A Druzhina. I assume you have heard the name. Riders sworn to guard the Neck and ride to war when called. It is an ancient tradition, born of the First Men. I need someone to take charge, train it, and command it."

Rickard tilted his head, interest flickering behind his cocky grin. “I know of the Druzhina. Heavy Cavalry force of the Kings in The North from back when The North was devided up to petty Kingdoms. But the necessity of such forces is over. Not to mention the cost that comes with it. We are not at war now, either. What, exactly, will this force do now? Hunt swamp rats and brigands?”

“I merely need someone to train up my riders for now. Marshlanders don't ride. The men I've brought from Winterfell are busy with other jobs. If I have any sudden needs of a mounted force for any reason, like the issue with the Ironborn, I have to petition White Harbor.” Jon leaned forward slightly. “I have no intention to call on others to protect my own. I have already gathered up some Knights. The horses will patrol the Neck. Keep the peace. And in time, ride to War. I'm looking for expert men who will settle down and pass their skills to their sons. ”

Rickard drummed his fingers on the armrest, considering. “Let's say I am the man to train and lead your horses. What exactly do I get in return?" 

“Land,” Jon replied. “If you also swear your allegiance to me. A place to build your own keep. A seat at my council. Men to follow you. It’s an honorable position— though ceremonial, most of the time. But if war ever comes, you will be the first to lead.”

Rickard’s grin widened, though it was tempered with genuine curiosity. “But it means my sword will be yours to command. Not of House Ryswell. It's unlikely your House and mine will have conflicting interests, but it still remains a big commitment." 

“What you do is up to you. If you swear your allegiance, you will have enough to start up a new House of your own someday. If not, you'll get coins, room, and the prestige to lead. I mean to continue my travels beyond the Wall and Essos soon. That means conflicts and chances to win glory. You have much to gain either way." 

The brazier crackled, the flames casting long shadows across Rickard’s face. For a long moment, the man was silent, weighing his options. Then, with a shrug and a smirk, he slid from his chair and knelt before Jon.

“I swear it then,” Rickard said, his voice smooth as silk. “By the old gods and the new, I’ll ride for you, Lord Bloodhair, and lead the Druzhina wherever you command.”

Jon took a ring off his finger, offering it to Rickard. It was of old gold, with a big ruby on it. "There's three of these. Ulfric wears one for the Heavy Infantry. Asher Forrester wears one for Fian archers. Now you get the last one for the cavalry. He clasped Rickard’s arm, sealing the oath. “Rise, Commander of my Druzhina.”

Rickard stood, brushing off his breeches with a satisfied grin. “You’ve made a wise choice, my lord.”

Jon allowed himself a faint smile. If it comes to blood, we’ll see if it was wise soon enough.

The tent flap rustled closed behind Rickard Ryswell, leaving Jon alone with Ulfric and Jory. Silence fell, thick and heavy like the mist rolling through the evening marshes. 

“Are you certain this was wise?” Jory Cassel asked, his tone as calm as it was heavy. “Ryswell may have sworn to you, but his loyalty will never change from his family to you. If you mean to raise him as a new vassal, you better be aware of it. You are giving him power, Jon. Real power.”

Jon knew that. Every decision carried a cost. “We need someone like him,” Jon replied quietly. “The cavalry needs a leader with a noble name to lead if it’s to gain any respect beyond the Neck. The lords of the North won’t listen to a man without a great banner to his name, no matter how well he rides.”

Ulfric grunted, unconvinced. “The lords may listen, but it’s not them I’m worried about.” He paused, studying Jon with the blunt gaze of a man who’d seen too much of war and men. “Ryswell’s older than you. More experienced. What if he tries to undermine you, unconsciously or otherwise? He did not seem to me a man accustomed to following orders from someone younger." 

Jory's concern was much the same. “You’ve kept things simple so far, Jon. That’s why it’s worked. You, me, Asher, Blackherds, Stormcloaks… none of us come from full-blooded nobility. We understand each other in ways highborn lords don’t. Bringing Ryswell into that changes things.”

Jon exhaled through his nose. “I know.”

He did know. Jory wasn’t wrong about the closeness they had forged—Asher, banished from Ironrath; Ulfric, born to a sellsword; Jory, loyal to his house despite being of little consequence. They were men creating their own places in the World, bound together by necessity, friendship, and shared hardship. Rickard Ryswell was not one of them.

Another man entered the tent. He carried the air of the marshes with him—cold, quiet, and implacable, wearing simple jute woven clothes, dyed with cranberry and hyacinth dye. A marshlander through and through. He knelt without a word, waiting for Jon to speak.

Cain Blackherd was the middle son of House Blackherd, a small family that had clung to the Neck for generations, surviving where others would have withered. They had no grand titles, no ancient sigils, only hard land and harder lives. They survived before by herding goats and sheep in the Northern plains of The Neck. Jon had raised them to herd good cattle, keep horses, and be his third major vassal. 

"How much have you heard?" Jon asked him with a smirk. "And how is your family?" 

Cain returned the same smile. "Tents are not really that good to cover up a private conversation. I got the most out of it. My family is well too. Grateful. Working hard. And eager to know how they may be of service to you." 

" Well, what I need you is to serve as my second-in-command of the cavalry. You are already a sound enough rider and know the land. With proper training of the lance, you'll soon be good as any Knight." 

Cain’s dark eyes flicked up to meet Jon’s. There was no hesitation in them, no doubt. “Of course, my lord. Whatever you require." 

Jon nodded and stepped forward. The brazier’s light flickered between them as he spoke the ancient words of the First Men.

“Give the lord his due, so the land may have a strong protector. Always be loyal to lord and kin, in peace and in war. In return, sit in the council of the lord, pass judgment, and till the soil.”

Cain repeated the words slowly, each syllable weighted with meaning. When the oath was done, Jon extended his hand, and Cain clasped it.

“You’ll ride as second in command of the Druzhina,” Jon told him. “Rickard Ryswell may lead, but you’ll be the one I trust.”

***********************************************************

The longhall at Snowfall hummed with quiet warmth, the air thick with the smell of wood smoke, stew, and the faint tang of ale. Outside, the winds whistled low and cold across the winter marshes, carrying with them the bite of the season's last breath. But inside, the hearthfire crackled warmly, and Jon Snow—Lord of Moat Cailin—sat with his adoptive daughter perched on his lap, trying and failing to get the girl to eat her soup properly.

She was a stubborn one, like all Free Folk.

"Hold it like this, Asa. See?" Jon dipped the edge of the wooden spoon into the thick broth and raised it to his mouth. He blew softly, steam curling from the surface, before tasting it. “Now, you try. Just a little bit.”

Asa giggled instead, poking at the spoon with chubby fingers. Most of the broth sloshed over her lap, staining her woolen trousers a murky brown.

"Seven hells," Jon muttered, plucking a rag from the table. "You’ll wear the soup before you eat it."

Val sat across from him, her legs stretched out and her back pressed lazily against the bench. She drank straight from the bowl, raising it to her lips like a wildling who didn’t know better—and didn’t care. When she noticed Jon’s expression, a grin spread across her face.

“I say she’s doing fine,” Val said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Taking after me."

"Gods help me," Jon sighed, setting Asa’s spoon aside and draping a cloth around her neck. Another he placed on her lap, hoping it might keep her dry, though it was likely a lost cause. "I’m not raising three children alone. Meera, the big one is your charge."

From the other side of the long table, Meera Reed laughed softly. "Oh no, my lord. I am too young to raise children. This burden, I fear, is yours to bear."

Val only smirked and drank again, undeterred by Jon’s exasperation. Asa reached out to imitate her, but Jon gently nudged the bowl back to the table. "No," he said, “we use spoons.”

“We?” Val teased, arching a brow. "Don’t speak for all of us."

Before Jon could reply, a scrap of bread flew through the air, narrowly missing his head. He turned just in time to see Hali alongside some of the other Housecarls children adjusting themselves in their seats. Jory Cassel, sitting a few benches down, tossed his hands up in mock surrender.

"Don’t look at me," Jory said with a grin. "I’m not raising four children either."

Val let out a peal of laughter. Asa joined in with a delighted shriek, banging her spoon against the table, sending bits of soup flying. Jon tried to frown, but the corners of his mouth twitched in spite of himself.

"Careful," Jon warned, wiping broth from his sleeve. "We'll continue this nonsense in Winterfell when Bran and Arya are present. They'll be angry if they miss out on a proper food fight."

Across the hall, the hum of quiet work continued. A handful of Jon’s scribes hunched over old tomes, turning pages gingerly beneath the flickering light of the hearth. The maesters sat nearby, deep in their studies. The Hearthguards were enjoying their day off, busy in quiet reading, whittling wood, or having a lazy drink in hand. It was a large hall, and no one was getting each other's way.

The young scholar, Maester Aldric, had been sent by the Citadel not long ago—a bright-eyed scholar eager to prove himself. Beside him was the older maester, Roderic, a wanderer from Oldtown who had come north to study the legendary flora and fauna of the swamps around Moat Cailin and Greywater Watch. Jon had enlisted his help in training the scribes in exchange for room and board, as well as access to the rare books Jon had salvaged from Castle Black.

They made an odd pair: Aldric, all energy and precision, with ink-stained fingers and a mind sharper than a raven’s beak, and Roderic, with his slow, deliberate movements and soft-spoken wisdom.

Jon had learned quickly that the young maester and the old one shared little more than a title. Aldric spoke in rapid bursts, his mind darting from thought to thought like a sparrow in flight, while Roderic took his time with every word, as if each was a stone carefully placed in a wall. But both were diligent, and Jon needed diligent men. 

Aldric was the first to speak up, breaking the low murmur of the hall.

"My lord, come look at this," he called, his voice carrying an undercurrent of excitement. He held up a parchment, the edges yellowed with age. "You won’t believe what we’ve found."

Jon rose from the table, setting Asa down gently. The girl gave a disappointed squirm but quickly found interest in the crust of bread Val handed her.

Keep an eye on them," Jon told Jory as he made his way across the hall to where the maesters sat.

"What is it?" Jon asked, leaning over the table. The parchment Aldric held was ancient—so fragile it seemed ready to crumble beneath the slightest breath. The ink had faded to a pale brown, but the symbols written across it were unmistakable: Runes of the First Men.

Roderic peered over Aldric’s shoulder, his pale blue eyes gleaming with quiet wonder. "It’s a complete passage," the old maester murmured. "A full translation, from runes into the common tongue."

"I don't understand." 

"It's a word-for-word translation from the upper runic passage. Meaning we can identify the runic letters for the common tounge's letters," Aldric said, pointing to the flowing script beneath the runes. "It’s all here. Whoever made this translation must have known the language of the First Men better than anyone alive today."

Jon’s eyes scanned the parchment. The translation was rough, uneven in places, but it was coherent—a rare and precious thing. Most texts from the time of the First Men were fragmentary at best, scattered remnants of a long-dead tongue. But this...This was a key.

With this, they could unlock the meaning of the ancient runes that adorned the stones and relics scattered throughout the North—relics that had been mysteries for thousands of years.

"How much more of this do we have?" Jon asked, barely keeping the excitement from his voice.

"Not much," Roderic admitted, "but it’s enough to build on. If we study this passage, we can begin translating the other texts you brought from Castle Black. It will take time, but... this could unveil so much of the past beyond our dreams." 

Jon nodded slowly, his mind already racing. The knowledge hidden within the runes of the First Men could hold anything—history, forgotten lore, even secrets of the magic that still lingered in the North.

"Get on it," Jon ordered. "I want every scribe working on this by morning."

Roderic gave a small, satisfied nod. Aldric was already reaching for another tome, eager to dive back into the work.

Ulfric Stormcloak, Jon’s commander and most trusted friend, sat across the table, arms resting on the wood, his broad shoulders hunched forward in thought.  His auburn beard caught the firelight as he turned a bronze bowl in his hands, inspecting the craftsmanship with a practiced eye.

“We need to decide,” Ulfric rumbled, beckoning Jon to him. He slid the bowl across the table with a soft clink, followed by a piece of dull, worn scale armor. “My smiths are talking about lowering production of scale armor. They want to shift the focus to bronze utensils. There’s good money in it—especially in the Riverlands and White Harbor.”

Jon frowned, picking up the armor and running his fingers over the overlapping scales. It was an Essosi design, mixed with Northern craft by their head smith. The scales were small, durable, and ideal for armoring the mass. The armor lacked the gleam and prestige of mail or plate, but it was lighter and could be produced way more cheaply. 

“We’re already known for this,” Jon said, lifting the armor slightly. “My father ordered a hundred of these to armor his peasant levies. The scale armor serves its purpose.”

“That's true enough,” Ulfric said, nodding. “But we do need to make quick profit. Our stores are not up to the Winter mark. And we’re already making plate armor to continue our specialized production. This,” he gestured to the bronze bowl, “takes less time to make. We can produce it in bulk, sell it in the ports and across the Riverlands, and trade it to the Freefolk. My sister at Godskirk says the copper and tin mines are yielding well. She thinks it’s time we move on.”

Jon set the armor down, considering Ulfric’s words. Godskirk was a crucial settlement, nestled in the marshes near the coast, and the Stormcloak family had restored the ruined keep of the First Men with the wealth they had brought from the East. The mines there were rich in copper and tin, a resource that had allowed Ulfric’s House to prosper in the harsh North. Ulfric’s sister, Eira, was sharp-eyed and shrewd, with a head for trade that rivaled the merchants of White Harbor.

Yet the thought of abandoning the armor didn’t sit well with Jon. His father had relied on the skill of the smiths in Moat Cailin to outfit the commoners. 

“Let us do both,” Jon decided after a moment. “Half the forge will work on utensils, the other half will continue making armor. We can train new apprentices to keep the craft alive. If the demand for scale drops, we’ll shift more to bronze goods.”

Ulfric gave a slow nod. “A sound plan.”

Jon leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. The decisions never stopped. Being Lord of Snowfall meant constant pressure, endless choices.

“How is your father?” Jon asked, changing the subject. He glanced up at Ulfric, whose face softened at the mention of his father, Hoag Stormcloak, a legend in his own right.

Ulfric’s smile was faint but genuine. “The same as always. Spends his days by the shore, fishing and watching the clouds. He’s seen too much blood in his life." 

Jon had heard the tales of Hoag Stormcloak. In his youth, Hoag had been a fearsome commander in the Company of the Rose, a renowned sellsword company that had fought across the Free Cities. The scars of those battles were more than skin-deep. Hoag had retired to the North, but his mind, by all accounts, had never fully left the battlefield.

“My mother used to say that he brought the battlefield with him,” Ulfric said, his voice contemplative. “Even when he left it behind.”

“And your sister? How does she fare?” Jon asked.

“She’s taken over the day-to-day at Godskirk,” Ulfric said. “With me here, most of the decisions fall to her. But she’s capable. Always was. And my nephews, Fillian and Killian, are due to return soon from their service with the Company. Once they’re back, everything will be in order.”

Jon nodded. He had great respect for Ulfric’s family. The Stormcloaks were hard, practical people and carried a distant blood relation with House Stark through the founder of Company of The Rose.  He knew he could rely on them, through oaths and kinship.

The fire crackled softly, and for a moment, Jon allowed himself to relax, his eyes growing heavy. 

Suddenly, the heavy doors of the longhall creaked open, letting in a gust of cold air that swept through the room like a knife, with every head inside turning to him. Jon’s eyes snapped open, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword.

Haldur, the master-at-arms of Moat Cailin, entered with quick, purposeful strides, his face set in a grim expression. He was a man in his prime, his black hair tied back, his nose crooked from too many breaks. There was a hardness in his eyes that indicated something was wrong. 

“My lord,” Haldur said, stopping just inside the hall, his breath visible in the cold. “The Blackherds say they have caught a would-be rapist a few miles from here. But some men from House Bolton are protesting his innocence." 

Jon felt a sharp pang of irritation. House Bolton. Of course, it had to be them. The Boltons had a notorious reputation. But  Roose had always managed to keep his men in check, else he gains the ire of Eddard Stark. 

Jon straightened in his chair, the brief moment of peace slipping away. “Bolton? You sure?" 

“Aye.” Haldur’s expression darkened. “The men say they’re here to recieve someone from the South but the alleged rapist had lagged behind to meet someone." 

Jon exhaled slowly, the weight of leadership settling on him like a cloak of iron. He had no patience for rapists. Bolton men or otherwise. 

“Of course,” Jon muttered under his breath. “The gods forbid I have a moment’s peace. Call our new Druzhina. Tell Rickard that we're riding out right now." 

Chapter Text

Jon

The road to Hedeby was no road at all, just a twisted path of packed earth worn hard by hooves and cart-wheels and softened again by Moat Cailin’s endless rains. The wind carried the scent of peat and wet moss, and the bogs on either side of the trail gurgled like dying men in their sleep. The company moved at a trotting pace through the Neck’s grim wilderness, shrouded by mist and the ancient willows whose drooping branches swayed like banners of mourning.

Jon Snow rode at the head of the column, Winter's Wrath at his back and Ghost loping beside him, silent as snowfall. The direwolf had doubled in size compared to a common grey wolf and was still growing. Now, he was a great beast to unsettle the most hardened men, his fur pale as frost, patches of red around the muzzle, eyes burning red in the gloom. Even the new Druzhina, men with battle scars deeper than some rivers, kept a wary distance.

Jon's thoughts were not with the mud beneath his boots or the fog curling through the trees. They were ahead, in Hedeby, with the man they rode to judge. He had not expected to be acting Lord and Judge both before breaking his fast, but such was the lot of rulers in the North. Justice did not wait upon ceremony, nor did evil take heed of schedules. Ulfric Stormcloak rode at his right, grim and brooding beneath a black cloak of dyed bearskin, his war-axe slung across his back. His face was as hard as the iron scales that covered his breast, and he hadn't spoken in some time. To Jon's left was Asher Forrester, commander of  Fian bowmen, his short hair trimmed neatly and his eyes scanning the mist like a hawk. Haldur followed with the rest of the Druzhina, a line of weathered hedge knights and Housecarls from half a dozen bannerless families, their cloaks muddied and their faces watchful. At their head rode Rickard Ryswell, young and proud, helm plumed with a crimson tassel, his voice carrying clearly through the damp morning as he barked orders and jested with the men behind him. Cain Blackherd brought up the rear. 

By the time the new town of Hedeby came into view— a large cluster of thatch-roofed halls and a central hall,  nestled against a ridge of wooden palisade—the sun had climbed half its way above the trees. A group of riders waited on the road ahead, their cloaks dark and spattered, weapons sheathed but ready.

Carles Blackherd, recently declared Lord of Hedeby, met them at the fork of the road. His beard was short and his face clean, but there was something wise in his eyes that Jon always found reassuring. Born and raised in the Neck, Carles moved like a man used to uncertain footing—quick, silent, and deliberate. Beside him were four of his houseguard, and farther off stood a cluster of uneasy-looking men in the grey and pink of House Bolton. They stood near a cart where a bound figure slouched, gagged and hooded, and stinking like a midden heap.

The smell hit Jon first—rancid, cloying, and inescapable. Ghost let out a snap of his jaw, and even Jon’s horse snorted and sidestepped, its nostrils flaring. The animal twisted under him, hooves slipping in the muck, and Jon had to tug at the reins to keep from being unseated.

“Gods,” muttered Asher, pulling his scarf over his nose. “What in seven hells is that?”

Carles rode forward to meet them. He was happy to see his son Cain among the Druzhina and dipped his head in greeting. “My lord,” he said to Jon. “We caught this one three miles out. Calls himself Reek. Smells worse than his name.”

Jon dismounted, boots squelching in the wet earth. “The girl?”

Carles nodded toward the side of the clearing. A young woman sat on a fallen log, wrapped in a wool cloak too large for her, her face pale and drawn. She looked no older than fifteen. Her hands trembled in her lap, and when she glanced up at Jon, her eyes were red from weeping.

Jon turned back to the cart. The prisoner moaned behind his gag, jerking against the ropes that bound his wrists to the cart’s railing.

“You searched him?”

Carles held up a dagger, short and broad-bladed, stained with something dark. “This was on his person. A heavy falchion as well. And this.” He reached into his cloak and produced a small glass vial, stoppered tight.

Jon’s brow furrowed. “Is that poison?”

“Aye,” said Carles. “The sort I’ve seen in the black markets of Saltpans. It's rare in our country. Bitter-leaf and serpent’s oil. The kind that kills in hours and leaves no trace but a bleeding gut and rotting bowels.”

“So we have a rapist,” Jon said, voice hardening, “and maybe worse. A killer. A poisoner. It seems scums are branching out these days." 

The Bolton men shifted uncomfortably. Ghost bared his teeth again, wide and menacing. One of them swallowed audibly, his eyes on the direwolf’s slavering jaws.

Jon stepped closer to them. “What were you degenerates doing on my lands?”

The tallest of the five men cleared his throat. “We were just passing through, m’lord. Headed for Moat Cailin. Captain Walton’s gone ahead, said he was to receive Lord Bolton's son. We stopped at Hedeby for a drink. That one—” he nodded toward the prisoner—“said he needed to step off for a moment. Take a shit. That’s all.”

“You left this creature alone?" 

The man shrugged. “He’s not our charge, m’lord. Just came along with us to look after the horses. He raises the pigs in Dreadfort. That's all." 

Jon turned to Carles. “Is that true?”

“They only drank. That much is true.” Carles looked back at the girl. “She was down by the stream. Said the man grabbed her, held a knife to her throat. Her dog raised the alarm. My men found her half-naked, him on top of her, knife in hand.”

Jon’s gaze fell to the girl again. There was a red line on her throat—thin, but angry. A scar that would fade, but not vanish.

He felt cold anger welling in his chest. “What stopped you from slitting his throat then and there?”

Carles hesitated. “The others,” he said. “Five more Boltons. I could’ve killed him, but then I’d have had to kill the rest. But that would surely anger Lord Roose. That's why I thought better to send for you.”

Jon gave a curt nod. He turned to the girl. “What’s your name?”

“Maerie,” she said softly, barely louder than the wind.

“You were out by the stream?”

She nodded. “I was washing clothes. He came from behind. Pulled me by the hair. Said he’d cut my throat if I screamed. I thought—” Her voice cracked. “I thought I’d die.”

“You’re safe now.” Jon looked to Haldur, who had dismounted and stood glaring at the prisoner.

Suddenly, Haldur’s voice boomed. “It’s him.”

Jon turned. “What?”

“It’s him!” Haldur shouted again, stepping forward, his hand on his sword. “That’s the one. A year and a half ago, you surely remember! when Lyn—my wife—when she was attacked, she said there was a fourth. Three you killed. This is the one that ran. Lyn told me he was ugly and stinking, like rot given form. Gods, it’s him.”

Jon’s hands curled into fists. He remembered that day—remembered the way Lyn had trembled, the blood on her dress, the look in the rapists eye when he had killed his first. And one had slipped through despite them searching for a day. Now, here he was.

“You’re sure?” Jon asked quietly.

“I’ll stake my life on it. My wife still has nightmares about that day." 

Ghost snarled forward, sensing Jon's anger. The Bolton men stepped back, hands on their hilts.

Jon took a breath. “Then justice is long overdue.” The punishment for would-be rapists, twice guilty was surely death. No question about it. Roose Bolton could raise questions about the matter the trial was done but the hell with him. 

"Let me do it, my Lord. I want to skin it alive."  Haldur drew his sword in one smooth motion. The prisoner thrashed, but there was nowhere to run.

Suddenly there was a sound of several hoofbeats clopping in their way. Jon turned at the sound. Riders, a score of them, filed in from the South their standards tattered and grey, but the man at the center rode straight and tall, in polished leather with silver worked at the cuffs. His cloak was deep green, his surcoat Bolton pink, though clean of blood. His face was young but sharp, carved like a blade’s edge, and he wore the look of one raised on books and honor. Not unlike Robb, though leaner, harder, older.

Rickard stepped forward. “That is Domeric Bolton, my lord,” he said, his voice carrying. “Of the Dreadfort. My sister’s son.”

Jon gave the man a nod—cool, cautious, measured. Ryswell's Blood, perhaps, by familiar threads of Northern kinship, but the name was a red rag in the North,  though Domeric looked little like the tales of Red Kings of Old. In his clean linen, neat cape and freshly sheared face, he looked more like a Southern Lordling than the heir of Roose Bolton. 

“My lords,” Domeric said, reining in. “I come from the Vale. My father bade me to return and make myself familiar with my future holdings properly. He said the blood of the North should not remain strangers.”

Rickard studied him. “You look well nephew. But you’ve chosen a poor time for pleasantries.”

Domeric’s brow creased. “What’s the meaning of this?” He gestured to the noose, to Reek, who squatted now with piss leaking down his leg.

“One of the men in your father’s livery tried to force himself on a girl beneath my vassal's walls,” Jon said. “He failed. We caught him soon after. Care to explain yourself?" 

Domeric’s lips parted, then pressed tight. “That cannot be. My father is a man of honor. He would not keep such… filth… in his service.”

Asher Forrester snorted. “Aye, and I’m a maiden of the Vale.” Asher had not forgotten how the Boltons supported the Whitehills when the issue with Gwyn arised and forced him to leave Ironrath. Without the Bolton support, Whitehills would never dare to make threats of war on Foresters. He had no love for the flayed men banner or anyone riding under it. 

The laughter broke through the air like a whipcrack. Captain Walton’s hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, and for a heartbeat Jon thought the soldier might try to cut Asher down then and there, honor or no. But Domeric laid a hand on his arm, and the moment passed.

“We have no need of jest,” Jon said, and signaled Asher to keep quiet. “Bring him forward.”

Reek was hauled to his feet by two guards, and his feet scraped at the stone. When Domeric saw him clearly, his face stiffened. A flicker—just that—of revulsion and doubt. It passed as quick as a blink.

“That’s…Reek,” one of the Bolton men said. “He tends the stables. Mucks shit. Keeps the pigs."  

Walton, the Bolton captain, dismounted slowly, his face drawn. “Aye, my lord,” he said. “Reek is… a servant. He volunteered to come with us, was ordered to look after the horses. He is useful in his own way." 

“In his way,” muttered Haldur angrily. “He and three other men tried to rape my wife not two years past." 

Domeric turned, shocked. “That’s a grave accusation. What proof do you have to confirm Bolton men were involved in such crime?" 

Jon stepped forward. “You say your father would never keep such a man. Yet here he stands. Do you think we invent such crimes, Lord Domeric?”

“I think—” Domeric faltered. He looked to Rickard for support but he purposefully looked away. It seems Rickard had no will to be involved in such business which could cause him tension with his new Lord.  Domeric then found his voice. “I think if he is guilty, he should stand trial in a lord’s hall, not before boys playing at justice.”

Jon’s hand curled at his side. “I am Lord of Moat Cailin,” he said, voice cold as the mist rising from the bog. “You’ll address me as such or you will not speak at all." 

The tension thickened. Ghost rose and padded to Jon’s side, a silent specter, and Domeric paled. He nodded stiffly.

“If there was no rape,” Domeric tried to reason “only the attempt—then perhaps—”

Jon’s voice cut like a knife. “As Haldur said, a year and a half past, a girl was attacked not ten miles from here. The man fled. The description fits. We will bring her. If she names him, he will face justice." 

It was then the second horn blew.

More riders. The banners were orange and black, bearing the Moose’s head of Hornwood. Daryn Hornwood led them, his beard neat, eyes sharp. He dismounted and bowed low to Jon.

“My lord Bloodhair,” he said. “We come seeking a man. A rapist. We’ve followed his trail three days. North, through the fen and bog.”

Jon nodded slowly. “Welcome, Lord Hornwood. You may have just found him.”

Daryn beckoned to a great slab of a man—Rurik, gold-haired and hulking. He said nothing at first, only studied the ground, the tracks, the scuffed boots and fouled leathers.

Then he knelt before Reek and grunted. “That’s him.”

Domeric stepped forward. “You recognize him just by boots? Or did You just point at him because he was bound and gagged.”

Rurik rose. He held a parchment in one hand and shoved it right on Walton’s nose. “That’s the print. Made in Hornwood muck. Match it.”

Walton bent, eyes flicking from parchment to Reek’s boot. He did not speak.

Walton squatted beside the bootprint, the parchment clutched in his gloved hand. The wind tugged at his cloak, and sweat beaded on his brow despite the chill. His eyes flicked from the stained heel of Reek’s boot to the imprint pressed into the soft, peat-laced mud, then back again.

“Well?” Jon asked.

Walton stood slowly. “The match is good,” he said, voice tight as a drawn bow. “Too good. That’s his tread.”

Reek made a small mewling noise, some wordless protest lodged in his throat, but Daryn Hornwood was already moving.

“I’ll carve the bastard’s heart out,” Daryn snarled, drawing his sword in one smooth motion. “I’ve hunted stags that left less sign. How many women have bled out screaming before he crept off into the dark?”

Rurik too stepped forward, drawing a curved falx, sharp like razor from his back. “We should hang him from his ankles, my lord. Let the crows pick out his eyes while his filth leaks into the mire.”

Jon took a step closer to Ghost, one hand resting at the direwolf’s nape. Around him, the men of Hornwood shifted, and not far behind, the Bolton men tightened grips on their hilts. Tension coiled like a viper between the two groups.

“It’s happened before,” Daryn growled. “Farmsteads near the Wolfswood’s edge. A girl taken. A boy left cut up like meat. And the ones who lived could never name their tormentor. Only say he smelled of rot and squealed when he laughed.” He rounded on the Bolton men. “Was he with you then? Were you all?”

Walton stiffened. “Mind your tongue, Hornwood. Reek’s no knight or a soldier. He’s muck for the stables. Nothing more.”

“Then why send muck with men sworn to the Dreadfort?” Asher Forrester asked. “You dress rapists in common men’s skin and send them south with sweet smiles.”

Swords sang from sheaths.

Daryn’s men surged forward, a half-dozen blades bared in the fading light. Rurik jumped to his lord’s flank, and two more Hornwood men flanked him. Walton’s company did the same, steel catching glints of sun, anger written on every face. Jon’s own knights and housecarls stood frozen, hands at pommels, waiting his word.

Ghost growled, low and long.

“Enough,” Jon said. He raised his voice, sharp as a whipcrack. “ All of you lay down your steel. I'll not have men killing each other in my land." 

Haldur stepped forward, sword half-drawn, eyes flashing. “Let me at him. Just let me—”

“You’ll stand down too,” Jon declared, pointing a finger at him. “All of you. This is my land. My hall, my sky, my dirt under your boots. And on my land, I will decide justice.”

There was silence, thick as stew. Then Walton sheathed his sword with a muttered curse, and Daryn followed a moment later, slower, reluctant. One by one, steel was swallowed by leather.

But no one looked away from Reek.

It was Rurik who broke the quiet. “Moat Cailin’s girl was attacked. I see a knife wound. But he didn’t take her.”

“No,” Jon said.

“Well, in Hornwood, a girl was raped. A girl died. So if you speak of justice, Lord Jon, ours is the greater claim.”

Jon let the words turn over in his mind. Rape was crime enough, but murder on top… He looked to Reek, who trembled where he knelt in the mud, and felt no pity.

He ought to do it himself, he thought. Take Winter's Wrath—and end the wretch in one stroke. A clean death, if not a swift one. But—

“I’ll have him,” said Haldur. “Let me finish what he started years ago. Let me end it.”

Jon studied him. His knuckles were white, his eyes wild. Not grief—this was older, deeper. Hate grown roots. Jon did not trust what might come of it.

“We’ll have a trial,” Jon said, raising his voice again. “Trial by combat.”

Daryn blinked. “He’s a shit-stained wretch. What honor is there in—”

“You said justice,” Jon told him. “And there's two side claiming it. We'll throw the Boltons a bone too. So they can't claim any hasty decision was made." 

Rurik spat. “Then we’ll have our bout. But we’ll have two. If that creature wins, he'll fight again. Hornwood’s girl lies dead and cold. Our claim’s not lesser. We want our own say.”

Jon hesitated, but nodded. “So be it.”

“I’ll fight for Hornwood,” said Rurik, his voice like gravel scraped on stone.

Haldur stepped forward again. “And I for Moat Cailin.”

“No,” said Domeric suddenly. “This is foolish. Trial by combat? Over this filth? He’s no warrior. Behead him. Be done with it.”

Daryn turned, lip curled. “If you don't like it then fuck off back to the Dreadfort, Bolton. We don’t need your honor. Not if it smells like that.” He jabbed a finger toward Reek, who had begun to mutter under his breath, something tuneless and cracked.

A coin was tossed. Ulfric spun it in the air, caught it, and slapped it to his wrist.

“Star,” he said.

Haldur nodded. “Mine, then.”

Jon stepped close, looking at his Master-at-arms in the eye. “Be patient. Reek is no warrior. He’ll swing like a madman, and you’ll be tempted to end it quick. Do not. Let him wear himself out. Use a shield. You’re no green boy.”

“Aye, my lord.”

A ring was cleared. Men moved to form a wide circle, boots pressed into the soft ground, eyes hard. Even Domeric said nothing more. Walton retrieved Reek’s sword—it was less a blade than a butcher’s cleaver, rusted at the edge and chipped like a drunkard’s tooth.

Jon watched as the weapon was pressed into Reek’s hands. The man trembled as he gripped it, fingers twitching. His eyes darted, his lips peeled back in a grin.

Haldur took his place, shield raised, sword bare. “Come filth,” he said. “Let’s end you.”

Reek rushed him.

There was no art in it. He charged with a shriek, cleaver swinging wildly, blows falling like hail on the shield. Haldur stepped back, kept his blade in tight, let the shield take the brunt. Reek screamed as he struck, over and over, a frenzied storm of steel and spit and rage. The cleaver bit into wood, cracked it, splintered the boss.

Jon watched. “He’s too angry,” he muttered. “Too wild.”

But Haldur held. For every savage blow, he gave little ground. Step, shield, step again. Reek panted, eyes bloodshot. His swings slowed, grew clumsy. The cleaver caught air, then shoulder, then air again. Haldur’s shield cracked, then broke, falling to pieces. He flung the splinters aside and ducked an overhand blow.

Jon saw his chance come before anyone else.

Steel flashed. Haldur swept low and hamstrung the wretch. Reek screamed, high and thin, as he toppled, knees buckling beneath him. The cleaver fell from his hands. Haldur straddled him, fists clenched around what was left of his shield.

He did not use his sword. He beat him.

Blow after blow, bone cracking beneath wood. Reek clawed at the air, shrieking, but Haldur kept hitting, until the face became pulp, the brain started to leak through the nose, until the man beneath was no longer a man.

When it was done, Haldur stood, breathing hard. Blood painted his face, his hands, his chest. He spat on the corpse.

No one cheered at first.

Then Rurik barked a laugh. One man clapped. Then another. Soon Hornwood men roared approval, shouting and hooting. But there was no triumph in it. No song would be sung of this day. No bard would carry this tale south. 

Jon stared at the body. A justice, perhaps. But not a clean one.

He turned away. “Bring water and distilled wine. Bind Haldur’s hand.” He looked to Daryn. “Your men got what he came for.”

Daryn gave a curt nod. “I’d have done it slower.”

“I know,” Jon said.

He gestured to Ulfric. “Invite Lord Hornwood’s men to Snowfall. The road’s long, and time runs fast. They’ll want food, drink, and rest for tonight." 

Daryn looked as though he might protest, but after a beat, he nodded. “Aye. We’ll come.”

Jon turned to Walton. “And you. You’ll leave my lands by sundown. Take what’s left of your man with you, and burn it. I will not have this thing ruining my soil. Next time Dreadfort has business here, I expect a raven first.”

Walton looked to Domeric, then gave a nod .

It was much later in the night, when Jon went to bed and got the furs over him, he realized: everything happened so fast that, they didn't even find out why Reek was carrying the poison for. 

************************************

It was a brisk morning, the sort that clung to the bones and stiffened the joints, even through the warmth of wool and the lazy heat of the hearth. Outside, the marshes steamed faintly in the grey light, mist rolling off the Fever River like a pale breath from some sleeping giant. Most folk were out already—at the paddies bent over rice shoots, or chopping timber in the frost-touched forest, or loading wagons with peat and firewood for the eastern villages.

Val had taken Asa and Hali to fish by the riverbank, her long braid swinging behind her like a rope of sunlight. Snowfall was quiet for once. No thudding boots, no clatter of practice swords in the yard, only the caw of crows and the hissing of mist curling over the stones.

Jon had slept late, which he rarely did. But some mornings, it was harder than others to rise. When he finally descended into the hall, rubbing sleep from his eyes, he stopped in his tracks.

Two strangers sat before the fire.

One of them was cloaked, but already the hood had been pushed back, revealing a pale-haired dwarf with a goblet in one hand and his legs dangling off the chair, too short to reach the floor. His mismatched eyes flickered with the flames. The other was leaner, darker, sea-worn, and wore a tattered cloak fastened by a pin shaped like an onion.

His eyes were weary, but kind. And calm.

Ghost padded forward silently, sniffed once, then sat at the edge of the hearth, watching them. The direwolf’s eyes were slits of red in the firelight, and though his hackles didn’t rise, he didn’t lie down either. He was watching.

The dwarf raised his goblet in greeting. “Lord Jon Snow, I presume.”

Jon crossed his arms. “Aye. And you are Tyrion Lannister.”

A smile twitched across the dwarf’s lips. “Indeed. You know, ‘a fine aroma of mud and shit’ is a poor way to describe a man’s lands, though I confess your land has a certain charm.”

Jon narrowed his eyes. “That’s interesting. Considering you only said that to your squire on the road, and again in my hall.”

Tyrion blinked. “Well now. Spies, is it?”

“No,” Jon said evenly. “But Ghost was nearby.”

The Imp chuckled softly, swirling the wine in his goblet. “That’s a curious creature. And a curiouser master. The Starks do have a habit of collecting beasts.”

The second man stood. He moved with sailor’s grace and soldier’s patience. His cloak bore salt stains, and his boots were battered, but he held himself like a man who had earned his place, rather than inherited it.

"I’m Ser Davos Seaworth,” he said. “I come on behalf of Lord Stannis Baratheon, Master of Ships, brother to the King Robert. He’s arrived at White Harbor, and he rides now for Winterfell.”

Jon nodded. “Then I suppose this isn’t a social visit.”

“I’m afraid not.” Davos gave a small apologetic bow. “You are summoned to Winterfell. By order of King Robert. Merchants have made formal complaint about your, ah… war with House Blacktyde.”

Jon’s expression tightened. “There’s been no war, Ser. Only raids. And counter-raids. We’ve won most of them.”

“Still,” Davos said gently, “the merchants do not trade in victory or vengeance. They trade in silver. These raids—however just—choke the flow of goods. King Robert means to hear both sides.”

“And will try to hang someone, no doubt.”

“If there is a confession,” Davos said, “Lord Baelor Blacktyde may well be held accountable. Or his men. There was no need to raid, my lord. A formal complaint to the Crown would have sufficed.”

Jon turned toward the fire, feeling its warmth along his side. “And when did formal complaints ever protect a fishing village? Or a merchant barge caught in the reeds? I did what I must. Blacktyde is a lord of the realm. I’m a bastard ruling a ruin. At best, Baelor gets fined and blames some drunken cousins. At worst, I’m ignored.”

“Perhaps,” Davos said. “But the Ironborn fear the heads now lining your shore. That too is true. It does not mean it’s right.”

Jon looked at him, eyes narrow. “And was it right of his men to attack my new villages? To plunder what little they had, take children as thralls and kill their parents? Where was King's justice then, I ask? No, Ser Davos, I did the absolute right thing, then and since." 

“Aye. That may be so by your judgement,” Davos’s tone did not waver. “The realm is at peace, Lord Jon. The King will not have it disturbed. You’re ordered to attend Lord Stannis at Winterfell. There’ll be an Ironborn envoy. You’ll speak your piece. But the cutting of heads, the burning of ships—those days are done.”

Jon exhaled, long and slow. “As long as my people are safe, I’ve no quarrel with that.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Davos’s mouth. “That’s good to hear. I’ve seen what you’ve done here. These lands are no longer forgotten. You’ve brought life back to the Moat. It’s been my pleasure, truly.”

He bowed again, lower this time.

“I must go. Lord Stannis will be waiting on the road, and I don’t want to test his patience.”

Jon extended a hand, and Davos shook it with a firm grip. “Safe road, Ser Davos. My men will escort you." 

Davos gave one final nod and left the hall, leaving only Tyrion and Jon by the fire.

The dwarf had remained quiet through the exchange, sipping his wine, his sharp eyes following every word, every gesture.

“You’ve been quiet,” Jon said, taking the chair Davos had vacated.

“Just listening. It’s what I do best. When I’m not drinking or being blamed for things.”

Jon studied him. “It’s not that I mind guests, Lord Tyrion. But it helps to know what they want.”

Tyrion gave a lazy smile. “To see the North, for one. The last time I came in this direction, I visited Seagard, drank with the Mallisters, and pissed off from the in the dead of night. A spiritual moment.”

Jon smirked despite himself.

“But truthfully?” Tyrion went on. “I came for trade. Lannisport has grown fat and wants to trade grain and ore with Sea Dragon Point. I offered to come in person. My lord father approved. He likely hoped the cold would freeze some sense into me.”

“And the tournament in Winterfell?” Jon asked.

Tyrion spread his hands. “I couldn’t miss that. I may be a Lannister, but I’m not blind to spectacle. And besides, Casterly Rock is dull in the summer.”

Jon nodded slowly. “You’ll find little spectacle here.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve seen a Snow build a keep from wood and mud. I’ve seen wolves bigger than horses. And I’ve seen rice fields blooming in swamps men called cursed. That’s spectacle enough.”

He drained his goblet and sighed.

“You’ve done well, Jon Snow. Even my father would say so, and he hates nearly everyone.”

Jon looked toward the fire. “This land is old. It remembers kings before dragons flew. It carries memories in its roots. Strange though it may be, I’ve grown… fond of it. It feels like home. One without my kin.”

Tyrion did not laugh this time.

Instead, he followed Jon’s gaze to the rows of books lining the walls. Thick tomes bound in cracked leather, vellum scrolls, brittle pages inked by dying hands. A library grown slowly, one rescued page at a time.

“Seven hells,” Tyrion muttered. “You’ve built quite the library in the bog.”

Jon shrugged. “It isn’t mine. Most came from the Night’s Watch. Books too torn or moldy for Castle Black, but not yet rotted enough to burn. I’m copying them. Filling in the gaps with what we know. I’ve got two maesters at it full time.”

Tyrion’s eyes shone. “Every man builds walls. Few build minds. I think I like you, Lord Snow.”

“I’m not sure that’s meant as praise.”

Tyrion chuckled. “Praise from me is rare coin. Spend it wisely.”

Jon stepped toward the shelves, trailing a finger down the spine of an old volume—The Lives of Four Kings, half-eaten by silverfish. “You truly like books?”

Tyrion looked up. “I’m a dwarf, Jon. Clever, but weak. Ugly by most reckoning. I have no great sword hand, no house of my own. I was born with nothing but a sharp tongue. Books keep it sharp.”

Jon gave a small nod. “And I was born with a broken name. Bastard’s steel. That’s all I had.”

“You’ve sharpened it well.”

“And you’ve seemed to made yours a dagger,” Jon said.

Tyrion raised his cup again. “To strange paths.”

Jon clinked it with the tip of his finger.

“I’ve duties,” he said after a moment. “You’re welcome to stay here at Snowfall. But your men will need to find lodging in Moat Cailin, or in town. This hall wasn’t built with extra rooms. Only space for the lord and his kin.”

Tyrion inclined his head. “That’s fair. I’ll remain here. My squire too—he’s more shadow than a sworn sword, but I sleep better with a shadow nearby.”

“I’ll speak with the maesters. They’ll see to your needs. And I’ll assign a servant."

Later that day, Jon found Ulfric and Asher near the stables, under the slanted roof where saddles hung from rusting hooks and cobwebs nested in the rafters. The straw beneath their boots was half-rotted from the damp, and the air reeked faintly of horse sweat, hay, and wet leather. Ulfric was tightening the girth strap on a dun-colored gelding, hands moving with slow, deliberate certainty. Asher stood near the post, arms crossed over his chest, watching the horizon with eyes like storm clouds.

Jon’s boots squelched faintly in the mud. Neither man turned until he was nearly upon them.

“I sent you to Kattegat two days ago,” Jon said, his tone flat. “You’ve been quiet since.”

Ulfric gave a small, respectful nod. “We’ve watched them, as you asked, my lord.”

Jon raised a brow. “And?”

“Nothing suspicious. Not on the surface.” Ulfric glanced up briefly, the grey in his beard catching a sliver of sun. “It was Lord Tyrion’s idea to come north. Something about favorable trade with Sea Dragon Point. Timber, grain, salted fish. Tywin Lannister approved it, though from what I saw, he likely gave it no more than a sigh and a seal. They brought a merchant ship—broad-hulled, deep-keeled, flew banners off the stern. Twelve guards, a handful of servants. And wine. The kind of wine that doesn’t cross the Neck unless it’s chasing a contract.”

Jon grunted. “Southerners always bring wine. Makes their deals easier to swallow.”

“They didn’t try to hide,” Ulfric went on. “Tyrion’s been speaking with the town elders, asking after roads, harvest yields, even furs. One of the girls from the granary said he asked if we ever get snow this far south. I think the dwarf is slightly mad.”

“No,” Jon said, glancing northward. “Only clever.”

But Asher’s silence spoke louder than Ulfric’s report. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t uncrossed his arms. His jaw was tight, the muscles in his neck drawn. Jon knew Asher Forrester well enough by now. That look meant something darker lay coiled beneath.

Jon turned toward him. “What is it?”

Asher finally shifted his gaze, and the look in his eyes was all flint. “There’s more.”

“Speak then." 

“The man commanding the Lannister guards. His name is Ser Amory Lorch.”

Jon frowned. “That name means nothing to me.”

Ulfric shook his head. “Nor to me. Just another southern knight, I thought.”

But Asher did not look away. “Well, I wish I did not know the name.”

“My father told me the tale,” he said. “Long ago. When I was barely grown, still trying to swing a sword without splitting my own skull. He told it with wine in his hand and almost tears in his eyes. Said it was their greatest regrets. A dark stain on their great victory." 

Jon said nothing.

Asher turned toward the marsh. The fog was thickening beyond the trees, a low grey blanket clinging to the land.

“It was the Sack of King’s Landing. After Rhaegar fell on the Trident, the rebels marched south. Tywin Lannister held back, watching, waiting. When the city gates were opened, he moved like a vulture. His men rode in behind the banners of peace, cloaks red and gold, blades hidden under their smiles.”

Jon nodded slowly. He knew the history. Every man in the North did. But the stories often stopped at Aerys’s death. At Jaime’s betrayal. They didn’t dwell on what happened afterwards. 

Asher continued. “They say the Red Keep burned that day. Bells ringing, smoke thick as soup. Elia of Dorne was raped and murdered. Everyone knows that. But her children—”

He stopped. Swallowed.

“Her children were supposed to be hostages. Protected. Even by southern standards. But Ser Amory Lorch found the little girl. Rhaenys. Hiding under her father's bed. She had a toy dragon in her hands.”

The words hung in the air.

Jon felt the cold seep into his bones.

“They say he stabbed her so many times, her face was ruined. The maids who found her didn’t recognize her at first. Only knew her by the eyes. Dark, like her mother’s.”

Jon’s mouth was dry. “Gods.”

“Aye.”

Asher's voice was hollow now. “Lord Glover told my father that Eddard Stark came into the Red Keep just after. He saw the girl. And Aegon, the boy. Smashed against a wall. Elia’s blood still fresh on the tiles. They say Lord Stark stood there silent. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just looked.”

Jon turned his face from the wind. The mists curled tighter around the towers, denser than before. 

“And now that same butcher walks in our land,” he said, “under a lion’s banner. Under Tyrion’s banner.”

Asher nodded. “Worse than free. He commands their men. Tyrion might not like him, but he tolerates him. That’s enough.”

Ulfric shifted uncomfortably. “I heard something else. One of the guards—southern boy, loose tongue—said Lorch was sent by Tywin to keep Tyrion in line. ‘Stop him from making a fool of himself,’ were the words.”

The silence stretched between them like a drawn bowstring.

He looked toward the hills. Past the watchtower, past the fences and pikes, to the town of Kattegat nestled in the Fever River. Somewhere out there, Amory Lorch walked freely. Maybe sipping his wine. Maybe laughing. The same hands that had held a child down now rested on a sword hilt.

There were some things too foul for even the Neck to swallow.

Jon turned back. His voice was low and cold. “I want him kept away from Snowfall. If he comes near this keep, turn him around.”

“He won’t cross the gates,” Asher promised.

The gelding stamped and tossed its head. Jon placed a hand on its neck, forcing it to share his mind and calmed it down.

He glanced again to the fog. The crows were circling above, their cries echoing.
The image still lingered in his mind: a bed, a child, a toy dragon. A man in red armor pulling her out from the shadows. The blade.

Jon had heard of many cruel things. He had heard tales of men hanged for stealing bread, boys flogged for kissing the wrong girl, villages burned for a bannerman’s slight. But this—this was different. It was senseless. A girl no older than Asa. And no justice ever came.

He wondered what his father had felt, looking upon those broken bodies in the Red Keep. Eddard Stark seldom spoke of the war, and never of the sack. Now he could guess why. Perhaps some things were better left buried. 

Chapter Text

Wick

The mud stuck to his boots like clotted blood, thick and wet and stinking of rot. Wick hunched his shoulders deeper into the torn cloak he’d stolen off a drying line two winters past, squatting low beneath the twisted blackroot pine that marked the old fence line east of Snowfall. The clouds above the town's guard towers hung low and sullen, threatening rain. It would not be the first time the gods pissed on him. Nor the last.

He waited.

The man should have come by now. Wick had been there near an hour already, maybe more. He carried no sun-dial like some Lord’s son, but the light was dimmer than when he first crawled out of his hovel. That meant something. Or it meant nothing. Time slipped funny when your belly was empty. He rubbed the dirt from his fingers onto his breeches and looked up toward the rise of the town. Snowfall loomed against the gray like some brooding old beast. Lights flickered behind shuttered windows, and smoke curled in lazy threads from the chimneys. Warm hearths. Meat on spits. Soft beds.

Wick's belly growled, and he pushed a knuckle hard into it. “Shut up,” he muttered, to his stomach or the wind, he couldn’t say.

The man in the hood should’ve been here.

He came every third day, without fail. Always with that same lazy step, like he owned the world and everything in it. Wick would wait by the stump or under the pine—wherever they chose that week—and the man would pass by as if by accident, kneel down to tighten a bootlace or pick a weed, and slip him the copper.

Copper. It didn’t sound like much. But it had changed everything.

Before, Wick had stolen. Not for sport, like some other boys in the lanes of Snowfall, but because he had to. He was twelve last nameday—he thought. Might be thirteen now. No maester had ever inked it in a book. Didn’t matter.

What mattered was Mam. Her cough had turned wet last autumn, and her joints swelled so bad she couldn’t walk properly, let alone work. Wick’s sisters, Ran and Talla, were no more than six and eight. Mam kept them quiet, kept the fire lit when there was wood. But it was Wick who filled the pot. Or didn’t.

He used to snatch crusts and cold turnips from behind the baker’s stall, catch old loaves tossed out by the wandering brothers of the Faith. Once he stole a sack of oats, and a stable boy chased him all the way to the river. He only got away because a surprised hound bit the boy on the arse. That made Mam laugh, even through her cough. Said the gods had sent the dog.

Then the trader came. He wasn’t like the others who passed through Moat Cailin, all grins and bribes and silver tongues. This one was quiet, like a snake in the rushes. Dressed simple, but too clean. His boots were good leather. His coinpurse never jangled.

Wick had tried to lift it, only once though. The man caught his wrist like a viper. Didn’t shout. Didn’t hit.

“Smart hands,” he’d said. “You use them for more than stealing?”

Wick had blinked.

“ Maybe smart ears, too?”

He did. Wick heard more than most, always had. When you grow up with nothing, you learn to listen—to know where the guards walk, which dogs bite, when the butchers toss their scraps.

So he’d listened. For the trader.

He was to beg as he always did, near the gates, outside the longhall, at the old market where the fishwives cursed louder than a septa dared. And he was to listen. Who the Lord spoke to. Who came and went. If any knights from White Harbor stayed. If the Ironborn raiders were spoken of.

Mostly, it was dull. The Lord of Snowfall—Jon Snow, they called him,—was a quiet man. No...still a boy. He couldn’t be that much older than him. He had eyes like frozen pitch and a voice that could cut meat. The longhall men said he was too young for his post, but none dared said it to his face. Wick had watched from behind barrels as the man trained with sword and longaxe, had heard the way even the grown men said “my lord” and stood straighter when he passed.

The first time he’d passed Wick, he had paused. Just a beat. His eyes had flicked to Wick’s face, then lower to his ribs pressing against his tunic. He tossed him a coin and moved on. Wick had clutched the coin, daring not to believe his luck. 

He gave the trader what little there was. The names of guests. The dates of visits. Rumors muttered by guards drunk on sour ale. He told him about the girl with honey-blond hair who followed the Lord around sometimes, and the big housecarl who drinks ale too much.

Three coppers each time. Sometimes four.

Wick had cried the first night he bought real bread and bacon. The butcher had slapped him for stealing before when he came back a day later with more coins and asked for sausages.

“Where’d a rat like you get coin?” he’d growled, but sold him the meat all the same.

Mam had eaten half and wept. “My boy,” she’d said, and kissed his brow with dry lips.

That was two moons back. Since then, Wick hadn’t had to steal once. Ran’s belly no longer looked like a cave in her ribs. Talla laughed when he came home, always with her grubby hands reaching out to see what he'd brought.

He would’ve done anything to keep that laughter. But now the trader wasn’t here.

Wick wiped his snot with the back of his hand. A crow cawed from the branch above and flapped off in a spray of dead needles. The wind hissed through the pine, and Wick shifted, restless.

He stood up, brushing at his breeches though the dirt only smeared worse. The road to the east snaked into the trees, all slush and old leaves. No sign of boots. No trader. Just the wind and the quiet and the steady thump of his heart.

The copper clinked in his pocket as he walked—three dull coins, rubbed smooth by time and fingers. They jangled faintly with each step, buried deep in the folds of his breeches, and Wick kept a hand on them the whole way, half-afraid they might vanish if he let go.

He hadn’t tasted meat since the last payment copper was spent. But he saved some changes. Stale bread would do. Town baker sold his hard bread for half the price. It had to. He could beg for some boiled rice-water for a broth, and Mam could gum it down slow, even with her teeth all gone to rot. Wick would take the crusts, if there were any. Maybe a heel no one wanted. And there would always be hyacinth soup there. The gods alone knew when the trader would return—if he ever did—and meat cost more than coin. It cost risk. It costs blood, sometimes.

Mist still clung low to the ground, curling around Wick’s ankles like the breath of the dead. Somewhere out beyond the trunks, a loon wailed from the direction of the Fever River—long and low and mournful.

Wick quickened his step.

He didn’t like the woods when they went quiet. Not like this. Too still. Too soft. Like the whole world was holding its breath. He clutched the coins tighter, thumb rubbing along the worn groove of the largest one. It was warm from his palm. He could smell the rain coming into the air, thick with wet leaves and churned earth.

Then—

A rustle. He froze.

The path ahead curled around an old willow tree, its crown bent low and heavy, its pale green branches trailing in the mud like a widow’s veil. They swayed faintly. There was no wind. Something moved beneath the hanging boughs. Wick took one step closer, then stopped. His breath caught in his throat.

That wasn’t a dog.

Not even one of the monstrous hounds the hill clans bred to tear men apart. This was larger. Much larger. A squat, hulking shadow slouched beneath the willow, fur caked with leaves and dried mud, mottled brown with hints of gold.

A massive bear.

His heart jolted hard enough to hurt. The coins spilled from his hand and scattered into the mud.

A grizzly. Here. So close to the town.

His first thought went to the Fever River. That’s where bears belonged. He knew it like he knew the ache in his belly. Bears fished for salmon, sloshed through reeds, left men alone. They weren’t meant to be here. Not this close. Not on the road.

But this one was. He dared not breathe.

The beast turned its great head, steam huffing from its snout. Its eyes were dark and wet and glistening. The breath that leaked from its nostrils was thick and white. It raised a paw and set it down again with a slow, deliberate weight.

It wasn’t charging. Not yet. But it wasn’t moving aside either. It stood there, vast and silent, as if it had been set there to wait.

Please, Wick begged in silence. Please just go. Please be a trick of the mist. Please be a shadow. But shadows didn’t blink. Shadows didn’t huff steam or smell of wet fur. Shadows didn’t block your road like a mountain.

The bear stood its ground.

Wick turned and ran, soft as he could, not daring to look back. The mud sucked at his torn boots as he fled. His breath came in ragged bursts, cold and loud in his ears.

He knew these woods. Knew the paths others forgot. He could lose it. He slipped beneath a fallen limb and broke into the narrow game trail behind the discarded dye vats, thinking to circle wide around the beast, come at the road from the other side—

Thump.

A hiss cut the air.

He staggered, eyes wide. Something dropped from the branches above.

A shadowcat landed before him with a soundless grace, sliding on the ground, leaving a trail of nails. It's pale spotted hide twitching as its muscles tensed beneath. It was lean and low to the ground, tail lashing, ears flattened back.
It made a sound like boiling water. Not a roar. A growl stretched to a hiss, low and furious.

Wick’s legs went numb.

“No,” he gasped. “No, gods, no—”

The cat inched forward, muscles rippling under its dappled pelt. Its golden eyes locked on his with a hunger that was almost human.

One step back. Then another.

He turned and bolted—

And ran straight into the cold.

There was no sound. Not even the breath of the beast. Red eyes watched from the edge of the trees—twin coals glowing in the mist. Wick tripped and went down hard in the muck. His arms scraped against roots, and pain shot up to his shoulders.

The direwolf stepped from the undergrowth. It was enormous, tall as a horse at the shoulder, fur pale as hoarfrost. Its eyes glowed like blood on fire, and its breath curled slow and steady in the morning air.

Wick’s voice caught in his throat.

He scrambled backward on all fours, slipping, panting. One way left. One path.He took it.

He ran like the wind, like a hare from the hawk, feet hammering the forest floor, lungs bursting.

And then the road opened before him.

He turned the last bend—

And froze.

The man stood in the center of the path like he had always been there, as if the world itself had bent around him.

Black cloak, heavy and still. A long mane of dark hair tangled by the wind. Pale skin under shadows, sharp and stern. The direwolf stood beside him now, silent once more, eyes fixed on the boy.

Jon Snow.

Lord Bloodhair, the smallfolk sometimes called him.

His eyes were darker than dusk on the barrow lands. “Stop running,” he said.

The voice was sharp and cold, and it stopped Wick dead in his tracks. His knees gave out, and he dropped to the earth.

“M-my....  m'lord…” he choked out, voice high and cracking.

Jon took a single step forward. The wolf moved with him, as if tethered.

“You’ve been seen,” Lord Jon said. “Four roads you took. All led here.”

“I—I didn’t mean—”

Jon’s tone was steel. “Didn’t mean to run? Didn’t mean to listen? Didn’t mean to spy?”

Wick’s mouth worked, but no words came out. His throat had gone dry, his tongue thick and useless as wool. The mud sucked at his knees, cold and wet, like it meant to drag him under and bury him with roots and worms.

Jon Snow did not move. He stood straighter than the trees behind him, his black cloak unmoving though the mist curled at his boots. No sword hung from his hip, but the weight of steel was in his gaze, and the cold in his voice bit sharper than any blade. “Who was it?” he asked, quiet as litter fall. 

The Lord took a step forward. Not fast. Not slow. Just inevitable. The boy flinched.

“Who bought your whispers?” he said again. “Who gave you coins for names and faces and fireside words? Speak plain.”

Wick’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again.

“I don’t… I never knew his full name,” he stammered, heart pounding in his chest like fists on a locked door. “He was a trader. Said he came from the south, from the Riverlands. Called himself Torrhen.”

Jon Snow tilted his head slightly, considering that like a butcher considering a haunch of meat. “Torrhen,” he said, as if testing the weight of the name on his tongue. “A southern man wearing a northern name. Fitting.”

Wick nodded, fast and eager, like a hound trying to please its master. “Aye, m’lord. He had a scar down his left cheek. Deep. His ear was gone too—just a hole where it should’ve been. He smelled… he smelled like flowers. Healing oil, maybe. And he always wore gloves, even in the sun. Black gloves, soft as butter.”

Jon said nothing.

The silence stretched.

The direwolf loomed behind him, tail twitching once, eyes locked on the boy like a bowman measuring a shot. Wick’s breath came in short, uneven gasps. He felt as if the trees themselves were leaning in to listen.

“What did you tell him?” Jon asked at last.

The wind stirred the long grass.

Wick shivered. He looked down. His hands were shaking.

“My lord… please…”

“Tell me.”

Wick opened his mouth to answer, but the words caught behind his teeth. Then he heard it. A soft rustle in the grass beside him. He turned.

And screamed.

From the underbrush, a pale form glided forth—white and silent. A snake, longer than any he’d ever seen, thick as a man’s thigh and gleaming like a strip of polished ivory. It moved with no sound at all, only the whisper of reeds parting as it passed.

When it came within a foot of him, it reared back, rising up until it stood nearly level with his chest. Its hood flared wide like the sails of a ghost ship, and its tongue flicked out, tasting his fear.

Its eyes were black. Deep and bottomless.

Wick pissed himself.

The warmth ran down his legs, soaking into the muddy earth. He sobbed aloud, hands raised as if to shield himself, but the snake did not strike. It only watched.

“Don’t—don’t let it bite me,” Wick gasped. “Please—I’ll talk—I’ll tell you—I swear it, gods help me!”

Jon made no move to stop the creature.

He only waited.

“I told him everything!” Wick shrieked. “All I saw! All I heard! Who came through the gates, who left, who passed near the longhall! The houseguards who drink at the tavern, the girls who warm their beds, which hearthguard stand the hall watch! I told him about the fishwives and the dyers, the ones who whisper at market, the girl with the blonde hair who stays too long in the yard—”

His chest hitched. He was choking now.

“I told him names! Names of your men—the ones with bears on their cloaks, the bulls head ones, the ones with southern voices—I didn’t know it was wrong! I didn’t! I thought he was just a merchant, my lord—I thought he just wanted gossip—I didn’t know—”

Jon stared at him, his expression carved in stone.

“That,” he said quietly, “is called treason.”

The words hung in the air like a headsman's axe. 

Wick’s head snapped up. His face was red and slick with tears and snot.

“No,” he gasped. “No, my lord, I didn’t mean no harm—I’m just a boy, please—”

“You’re a spy,” Jon said. “You sold secrets about your lord. The punishment for that is death.”

Wick’s heart stuttered like a wheel stuck in snow. His fingers clutched at Jon’s cloak, filthy and trembling. “Please, please don’t—I didn’t know—I didn’t even know what treason meant—I was only hungry! Mam’s sick. My sisters are skin and bone. I never meant to do no wrong—I only wanted bread.”

The lord stared down at him. “You should have come to me.”

Wick blinked, unsure he’d heard right. “W-what?”

“If you needed bread. If you needed work. You should have come to me.”

“I—I didn’t think—no one ever helps, my lord. Not for nothing. Lords don’t care for folk like us. Not in the castles. Not anywhere.”

Jon’s voice was low. “And so you thought your liege would be the same. Without even giving it a try." 

Wick dropped his gaze. He had no answer.

The snake slithered away, vanishing into the mist as if it had never been. The direwolf sat again at Jon’s side, a silent sentinel of fang and shadow.

“If you had no kin,” Jon said, “I’d send you to the Wall. Let you freeze in the black and earn your pardon in sweat and blood.”

Wick paled. “The Wall?”

“Where boys become men,” Jon said, “or corpses.”

A pause.

“But you have sisters. And a mother. So I will give you one more chance.”

Wick dared a look up. His lip trembled.

“You will report to the dye factory at first light,” Jon said. “There’s work there. Hard work. You’ll do it.”

Wick nodded fast enough to snap his own neck. “Yes, my lord. Aye.”

“Bring your sisters too,” Jon continued. “Even young ones can haul baskets or stir the vats. I’ll not have them starving while you sell your soul to snakes.”

“I will,” Wick whispered. “I will, I swear it. I’ll bring them.”

“Of course you will,” Jon said.

He knelt.

His voice dropped to a murmur that felt colder than the wind. “Because if you don’t… I’ll know.”

Wick felt the hairs on his neck stand up.

The beast-lord leaned in, close enough that Wick could smell the faint salt and leather on him, the trace of snow. “If you lie to me again… if you vanish, or if Torrhen comes for you, and I hear so much as a whisper—”

Jon didn’t finish.

He only looked into Wick’s eyes, and said:

“I’ll send the bear.”

Wick’s heart stopped.

“If the bear does not find you…” his voice was lower than breath, “the shadowcat will.”

Wick’s breath caught. His lips moved, but no sound came.

“And if she tires of hunting,” Jon said, “the snake will come.”

Wick began to cry again, though he didn’t remember when he’d stopped.

“I’ll go,” he stammered. “I’ll go, I swear it. On the old gods and the new, I’ll go, I’ll do what you said—please don’t send them—I’ll go, I’ll—”

Jon rose.

“Then go.”

Wick stumbled to his feet, legs numb, mud up to his thighs. He turned to flee.

“Wick,” Jon called softly.

He froze.

Jon’s voice carried through the trees like judgment. “The roads are clear now.”

Wick still ran. He didn’t look back. He didn’t dare.

He ran until the woods thinned and the smoke of the town touched his tongue. He ran past the dye vats and the weeping tree stump where the dogs pissed, past the moss-stained stones and the fishmongers' shed, all the way to the slant-roofed shack he called home.

He burst through the door and collapsed beside the firepit, where the embers had long gone cold.

A voice stirred in the dark.

“Wick?” Ran’s voice, small and uncertain. “Is that you?”

He couldn’t speak.

He saw the bear in his mind again, unmoving in the road. The red eyes glowing in the mist. The snake’s hood flared wide.

And the man.

The Lord of Moat Cailin. 

He had met him in the woods and lived to tell of it.

But Wick knew, deep in his marrow, that it had not been mercy. It had been a warning.

Jon 

The boy was gone now, vanished into smoke and splinters, to a hovel of wind-warped wood and sisters with hollow cheeks and eyes like dead things. Wick. That had been his name. A slip of a boy, scarcely taller than a spear’s shaft, with sallow skin stretched taut across jutting bones. His name clung to Jon’s thoughts like briar to wool. Wick. It itched.

He always remembered names and faces. The names mattered. Even the low ones.

The path before him widened, where old cart ruts had split the earth into furrows. The damp marsh stink clung to his cloak, thick and sour as if the very ground resented them. Beyond the next rise, hooves clattered—swift and solitary.

Asher Forrester came riding out of the mist, his yellow hair snapping in the wind like a banner. He rode lean and tall, clad in a dark cloak trimmed with grey fur, one mailed hand steadying the reins, the other resting on the hilt of a sword worn smooth with use. He reined up sharply and swung down, boots crunching on the frost-rimed ground.

“My lord,” he said, voice clipped and cool. “It’s done. The preparations are finished. The godswood has been cleared at Godskirk. Ulfric rode at first light. He took the prisoner with him. The housecarls are gathering now. They await your command.”

Jon gave a short nod. “Good.”

But his eyes were elsewhere—drawn to the trees behind them, where the boy had knelt, where his legs had given out beneath him and warm piss had soaked the snow. Wick had wept there, before Ghost. And the viper.

The memory came sharp as a sword drawn in the dark. The boy’s terror. His snot-slicked face. The way he had stared not at Jon but through him, like he saw some monster behind the eyes.

Asher turned to follow his gaze. He was quick like that—too quick sometimes.

“What is it?” he asked. “Something happened with the boy. Didn’t it?”

Jon said nothing for a moment. The trees whispered in the wind, and Ghost stood beside him, white and still.

“Do you ever wonder,” Jon said softly, “if a man might be to blame for the wrongs done against him? Not by fault. By his own failure.”

Asher frowned. “You think the boy betrayed us because of something you did?”

“No,” Jon said, eyes still on the trees. “More like something I didn’t manage to do.”

He drew in a breath, cold and sharp as broken glass. “He was starving. That’s why he did it. He sold what he knew to some whisper-merchant who called himself a trader. Names. Faces. Which banners we flew, who rode where, when. Anything that might be worth a crust of bread.”

He looked down at his gloves, flexing his fingers slowly. “He did it for coin. But only so he could eat.”

Asher folded his arms. “So?”

Jon’s eyes snapped to him. “So? That’s not enough for you?”

“You think feeding the boy would’ve changed anything?” Asher asked. “A spy is a spy. Starving or not.”

“He had no one,” Jon said. “No father. No kin worth the name. Just those little sisters and a fire that barely lived. I saw it in his eyes. The kind of desperation that doesn’t lie. Not hunger, but the ache beneath it. The knowing that no one would save you.”

He looked away again, toward the woods. “My father once said that a lord must be a father to all beneath his rule. Not just his soldiers, but the crofters too. The stableboys, the fishers, the smith’s sons, the girls who clean chamber pots. All of them. A thousand children in all but name.”

Asher gave a quiet snort. “And if you try to carry them all, you’ll break your back before winter’s done. You didn’t fail that boy, Jon. The world did. You didn’t put the hunger in his belly.”

“No,” Jon said, “but I didn’t take it out either.”

He turned to face Asher fully now. “You saw how he looked at me. Like I was more a demon than a man. Like I could’ve saved him. And I didn’t." 

“Would you want to?”

Jon’s mouth twitched. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

He fell silent for a moment, listening to the wind hissing through the reeds, and the low croak of frogs. Somewhere distant, a raven called once, twice.

“This matter with Wick,” Jon said, “Opened a new outlook in me. A way of thinking I hadn’t dared before. What good is command if you blind yourself to all the smallfolk? What good is honor if it only shields your own?”

Asher studied him. “And what would you do? Feed every beggar boy and washerwoman in your lands?”

He let out a long breath, white mist curling from his lips. “I’m not a god.”

“No,” Asher agreed. “Only a lord. And doing way better than you think.”

Jon smiled faintly. “That’s the worst part. I thought I was doing well. But I missed the boy. I missed his hunger. And even this small mistake could have greater consequences.”

Asher placed a hand on his shoulder. “You saw it now. That’s what matters.”

For a long while, neither of them spoke.

The wind rustled the canopy above like parchment turned by unseen hands. A lone raven let out a harsh cry, high and hoarse, and then silence returned, heavy and listening.

“So tell me about this trader,” Asher said at last. 

Jon shifted his weight, the leather of his gloves creaking. “Riverlander, or so he claimed. Gave the name Torrhen.”

Asher raised a brow. “Torrhen?” The disbelief in his tone was sharp as flint. “That’s a northern name.”

“Too northern,” Jon agreed. “Too neat. Like a knife laid out with the bread to put you at ease.”

He turned his gaze to the trees again, where light filtered through moss-hung limbs and bark rough with age. “He smelled of rose oil,” Jon went on, “and wore gloves even in the heat. His left ear was gone—bitten or cut, I couldn’t say. There was a scar across his cheek, old and pale.”

“Sounds like he’s seen steel,” Asher muttered.

“I’d wager it. He was smooth with his tongue and quicker with his coin. Watched more than he spoke. Moved like a man trained to listen before striking.”

“Some ironborn spymaster’s pet, then?”

“Possibly,” Jon replied. “Or worse. There’s unrest in the Western Sea, whether the Crown sees it clearly or not. I’d not be surprised if King’s Landing thought of sending its rats before it decided to send Stannis." 

“And what did you measure in him?” Asher asked.

Jon was silent a moment before answering. “I am certain of only one thing,” he said. “He was no trader.”

The wind gusted then, carrying the scent of damp leaves and the sharp tang of peat rot. Ghost, silent as shadow, circled a few paces away, red eyes fixed on nothing, or perhaps on something only he could see.

Asher’s jaw tightened. “Do you want us to find him? If he’s still close, I can have men on him before dusk. We’ll peel back his lies. His skin too, if it comes to it.”

Jon turned to look at him. His eyes met Asher’s—and for a moment, only a moment, Asher saw something else in them. A glint that didn’t belong. The reflection of his own face in Jon’s pupils wavered, shifted.

There were no pupils at all.

No grey, no man’s warmth.

Only slits, black and narrow, carved into a white field. Scales beneath the skin. Something not born of man nor beast. The flicker was gone in a heartbeat, like waking from a dream half-remembered.

But Asher flinched all the same. Just a twitch, barely a movement, but there. His shoulders stiffened, and a tendon jumped in his throat.

“The trader is dead,” Jon said quietly.

Asher’s lips parted, but for a moment no sound came. “Are you sure?”

“I am.”

Another pause. Ravens cawed somewhere distant. The forest held its breath.

Asher’s gaze lingered. “You didn’t say how.”

Jon turned his face away. Back toward the trees, where the silence lived. He did not answer. He didn’t need to. The forest had seen. So had the wind.

The leaves whispered it among themselves, in their creaking old tongue. The trees leaned in close, rustling secrets from branch to branch. It had happened in the dark, done with fangs.

“Take Val and the children,” Jon said at last, his voice quieter now, yet no less firm. “Bring them to Godskirk. I’ll follow soon.”

Asher held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded once. No more questions. His hand moved to the reins as he turned toward his horse.

He reached for the stirrup, but hesitated.

“The boy,” he said. “Wick. Is he dead too?”

Jon’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile. “No. He’ll be working the dye vats by morning. Hard work. Hot and foul. He’ll earn his keep, as will his sisters.”

Asher exhaled, slow and long. Some small tension unwound from his shoulders, though his eyes still searched Jon’s face.

He didn’t understand—not truly. But he was glad the boy lived.

“Dye vats,” Asher repeated, almost to himself.

“They need more hands,” Jon said. “And the stench will keep spies at bay.”

Asher gave a snort, half laughter, half disbelief. “You have a cruel way of showing mercy.”

Jon’s eyes were still on the woods. “Some form of punishment was necessary. It's not cruelty. Just honest coins, earned by hard, uncompromising labor." 

The gelding snorted and tossed its head. Asher mounted in one smooth motion, the saddle creaking beneath him. He lingered a heartbeat longer, gloved hands resting on the reins, eyes on Jon.

“I’ve fought beside you, bled beside you,” he said. “I’ve seen you cold, but not like this. I don’t know what’s changed. But I can see something has.”

Jon said nothing. The silence said enough.

Asher didn’t press it. He turned his mount with a light tug and rode on at a slow canter, hooves thudding softly on the mossy ground. The sound faded with distance, swallowed by trees and shrubs. 

Jon stood there a while longer, Ghost circling back to him, silent as breath. He reached down, resting a hand on the direwolf’s head.

The trader had screamed. Not from pain—that had come later—but from knowledge. From recognition. He had seen the viper right before it struck. But it was not the serpent's eyes that were looking at him then. Which frightened him so much. The eyes were grey, unmistakably human.  

***********************

Jon rode at the head of a silent column, his cloak heavy on his shoulders, damp with the breath of the morning. Ghost loped beside his horse, as always. Behind the direwolf padded a grizzly bear as broad as a wagon, its coat thick with clumps of black-brown fur, and further still, a spotted Shadowcat slipped through the underbrush like smoke. The last was the auroch—massive, horned, with breath like steam and a hide the color of rusted iron. They came without reins, without tethers. They followed.

Jon had not ridden this path since he had visited the barrow for the last time. 

The godswood at Godskirk lay far from the town proper, shrouded in dense pine and ancient yew, as if the trees themselves had turned away from man. The people of the Stormcloaks said the godswood was haunted. They avoided it except on holy days and for burials. But Jon had found something older than ghosts beneath its roots.

He remembered it well: the ring of trees, the circle of stones, the barrow sealed with stone arches, cold iron, and seven carved wolf-heads. The tomb of Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf, had been untouched for a thousand years. 

He’d open the lock with his own hand. Beneath the barrow lay swords not forged in any smithy of man, furs older than Winterfell, and bones still wrapped in torn clothes. From that tomb, he had taken wealth—not only ancient gold coins and treasures, but power as well. With it, he rebuilt. Snowfall had risen on blood, wood, and stone. Moat Cailin stirred from ruin. 

They passed the last curve of the path and crested the hill. The woods opened like a wound. Godskirk lay spread below: the round tower-keep of House Stormcloak rising squat and black from the center, the town huddled around its feet like sheep beside a crofter’s fire. But Jon turned his eyes east, where the trees thickened and darkened, and the godswood waited.

A hush fell over the men as they entered the grove.

It was a place of green silence, broken only by the rasp of breath and the crunch of boots. Pines loomed like old Lord in judgment, their branches twisted and heavy with moss. The snow here was untouched.

At the grove’s heart stood the weirwood. A monstrous thing, gnarled and thick-trunked, its leaves red as fresh wounds. Its carved face wept sap from its gouged eyes. A white mouth curved like an old man in sorrow. Or perhaps hunger.

Jon dismounted without a word. His feet sank into the moss. Ghost came to his side and sat. The bear huffed behind him, the shadowcat slinking up to curl at the roots of the tree. Even the auroch came, massive and slow, and knelt with a thunderous groan.

Ulfric’s sister, Eira Stormcloak, stood for her house. She wore a coat of black bear fur and bore a blade at her hip. Her eyes were sharp as any man’s. Beside her stood Jory Cassel, once of Winterfell, slight grey in his beard, his back straight with age and pride. Carles Blackherd and Ulf Flint too. Hyet Cray for the Reeds was the last, brother in law of Howland Reed, younger than the others, all in green with his lizard-skin boots and ceremonial willow mask drawn back.

These were his bannermen now. His council. His allies. 

The housecarls flanked them, armored in mail and brigandine, with axes across their backs and mailed fists on hilts. Behind them came the Stormcloak men, silent, watching.

Jon stepped forward and the weirwood loomed over him, its bloody leaves rustling as if in breath.

Each man and woman bowed, one by one.

Eira knelt. Jory and Carles followed. Hyet and Ulf inclined their heads. Val alone did not kneel, but she bowed. The children knelt last.

Jon raised a hand.

“This grove has a long memory,” he said, his voice calm and clear. “Even if we have forgotten a lot." 

He took his place at the base of the weirwood, standing where the roots met the ground, where the red leaves fell in drifts like dead hands.

“For too long,” Jon said, “we have forgotten.”

His voice carried in the grove, strong and bold.

“For too long, we have prayed like southerners—softly, with closed eyes and empty hearts. For too long, we have buried our dead and whispered half-remembered names into the trees, hoping the old gods would answer. Wondering if they have forsaken us." 

He looked across them, face by face. No one spoke.

“But the gods are not deaf. They were only waiting for their true currency to be offered. Blood." 

He turned slightly, placing one hand on the tree. The bark was cold, damp, and rough with age. The sap beneath was sticky. It clung to him.

“They gave us gifts,” Jon said. “The Sight. The skinchanging. The whisper of beasts. Their souls joined with our own. The weight and power of green-dreams. But we turned away from them. We called such things cursed. We locked them in tombs and legends and let the Southerners teach us shame. Of our own customs. Our own culture." 

He looked back toward the men.

“That ends tonight.”

A shiver passed through the gathered. He heard it in the way the housecarls shifted their boots, the way the underbrush rustled behind men's legs. 

He gestured once.

From the trees came the sources of blood. The grove opened.

Twelve Ironborn prisoners were led forth by Stormcloak men—each one once a sellsword of the Company of the Rose. They bore blue cloaks now, fur-lined and marked with the Stormcloak badge—a snarling snow-bear's head on blue fields. 

The Ironborn came in chains. Some glared. Some wept. One even pissed himself, the smell sharp.

Behind them came more: men herding animals into the grove. Cattle lowed, goats bleated, and pigs snorted, each of them frightened by the grove, by the eyes on them, by the beasts near Jon’s side. Twelve of each, bound and leashed, bleating and bellowing.

Jon waited until the grove was still again.

“They say we are savages,” he said. “Because we kneel to trees. Because we feel the pull of fur and fang in our dreams. Because we do not pray with golden cups or gilded bells.”

His voice rose.

He stepped forward, Ghost rising beside him.

“This night we return to the Old Ways.”

He turned to the prisoners.

"We will feed our Heart trees fresh blood tonight. Tonight they will no longer remain silent faces on a tree. They will come alive. And they will talk to their true followers." 

“And that is not the only thing we will return to,” Jon said again, his voice even, though the weight of it was pressed down on the gathering like snow-packed sky. “We will have Old Gods of the forest feast again, yes—but not only them.”

A murmur stirred the grove like the wind before a storm. Not loud, but present. The kind that lives in the space between glances, in the shifts of feet and the way hands tightened around belts and sword hilts. They had gathered here under the heart tree, solemn and obedient—but now they watched with more than reverence. Now they listened with unease.

Jon saw it in their bodies, not their mouths. Ulfric’s housecarls stiffened. Jory Cassel’s jaw moved like he was chewing the inside of his cheek. Even Blackherd, the most obedient of them all glanced sideways after hearing this. 

 The beasts seemed to feel it too. Ghost snarled wide, not in threat but in tension. The bear let out a heavy breath that plumed like steam. The shadowcat’s tail twitched, and the auroch scraped its hoof across the frozen ground.

Jon turned slowly, eyes scanning the grove. He had brought them here for truth, not comfort.

“There were gods before the Heart Trees,” he said. “Before the faces were carved. Before the sap bled red from the bark.”

He let that truth fall over them like fresh snow on stone.

“When the First Men crossed the land bridge from Essos,” Jon continued, “they brought gods of their own. Gods we forgot. But the earth did not. Nor the stones. Nor the barrows or the burial carvings. Or the oldest records in runes." 

His hand lifted, slow and deliberate, not to the weirwood but to the dark forest behind it.

“We’ve begun to read what was written in our ancestors tombs. Runes carved into standing stones. Marks etched on old bronze, buried with bones. The books from Castle Black had very old records both in the Common tongue and runic language of the First Men. Now we are able to understand most of it." 

He looked across the grove, face to face.

“There were gods before the Old Ones,” he said. “And they had names.”

Now the murmuring began in earnest. Words passed low between housecarls. Eira Stormcloak frowned and glanced toward her brother’s men. One of the Cassel boys muttered something to his cousin. Jory silenced him with a look. 

“They had names,” Jon said again, louder this time. “And faces. And meaning.”

He spoke them slowly, as if invoking them with breath alone.

“The All-Father. Lord of the Sky. Master of Ravens and Kings.”

“The Thunderer,” he said. “Who speaks in storms and strikes the world with his thunder. The defender of Mankind." 

“The One-Handed God of Justice, who gave his arm to bind the Great Beast.”

“The Mother of the Hearth, Keeper of Births and Fire.”

“The Twin Sisters—Fate and Vengeance.”

“The Pale Wolf.”

“And the Horned Lord.”

The grove was utterly still now. The trees heard him. So did the men.

Then Ulfric Stormcloak stepped forward. He moved with the quiet strength of a boulder shifting in the earth. His voice was calm, but the unease beneath it was clear.

“My lord,” he said, bowing his head, “on behalf of all people gathered here… are you asking us to convert to gods we’ve never heard of? Gods buried in dust and bone? That may be our heritage once but it was thousands of years ago. We changed and adopted new customs of new lands as all civilizations must do." 

Jon met his eyes. He did not smile.

“Who said we can't continue to worship both?" 

He stepped down from the roots of the heart tree and began to walk. Slow, unhurried, between the fires and the snow-matted grass.

“The Old Gods are the gods of nature,” Jon said. “They are the wind in the trees, the stillness in snowfall, the breath of the beast. They live in the bark and the stream and the stone. They are our ancestors’ breath. They are silence. They are memory.”

He paused.

“But they are nameless. Faceless. You cannot speak to them as you would to a man. You cannot ask them for courage. You cannot curse them for the death of a child. They will not answer. And there's good reason for it. They are, after all, gods of nature, given faces in our weirdwoods. Trees understand light, earth and water. Our lives compared to a Weirwood are merely a blink in the flow of time. They may stir when greater consequences are concerned, but trust me, our day-to-day lives, do not make much sense to them." 

He turned toward the weirwood.

“They watch. But they do not lead.”

Jon turned again to face the crowd.

“The First Men knew this. And before they ever carved the faces into trees, they carved them into stone. They knelt before figures who spoke of strength, of wisdom, of war, of love. Gods who could bless a spear or a womb. Gods who had names.”

“The Seven came later. With swords and fire. With kings and septons. They told us to kneel and burn and obey. They shattered our stones and salted our groves. Their gods are jealous.”

Jon’s voice hardened.

“Ours were not.”

Now the murmurs had quieted again. There was tension still, but it had shifted. No longer the possibility of outrage—only uncertainty. He could work with that.

“We will not forsake the Old Gods,” Jon said. “For the harvest, we will kneel to the heart tree. For snowmelt, for rivers rising, for game returning to the wood. But in battle, when the sky turns black and wolves howl—we will call on the Thunderer.”

He looked to Eira. “When judgment is needed, when blood must be answered by blood—we will call on the One-Handed God.”

He looked to Val. “And when a child is born when the hearth is lit for new life—we will give thanks to the Mother.”

His voice was quieter now, but no less sharp.

“We are not replacing. We are remembering. We are taking back what was ours before the Andals, before the flames, before even the First Keep at Winterfell.”

“And if we do this?” Ulfric asked. “If we bend the knee to these gods, old and older still… what will change then?”

Jon’s gaze passed over the crowd and fell back on the tree.

“Because cold winds are rising and darker figures stir in the far, far North,” he said. “Past the Wall, beyond the Frostfangs, into the Land of Always Winter. Tormund Giantsbane has spoken of it. Even though he is not sure if it is rumor or true events. Of entire camps gone silent. Families no longer in their age-long hovels. Mance Rayder, a former brother of the Watch has turned his cloak to the Wildlings. He is gathering men on behalf of such events. He is saying they will be in mortal danger in years to come if they do not unite. Many are hearing his call." 

That silenced them.

Val stepped forward, brow creased. “You think the Others have come again?”

Jon nodded. “I don’t know it for truth. Not yet. But I’ve seen things in dreams. Green dreams. Warnings. And I know this: if they come again, the North must stand together. And we must be stronger than before.”

Jory Cassel folded his arms. “And these new gods will give us strength?”

Jon smiled faintly. “No god gives strength freely. But they are not without gifts. We will make good use of them." 

He pointed toward the woods. "I will show it to you rather than just talk about it." 

From the forest edge, a figure emerged. An old woman, gnarled as driftwood, her hair a tangled mass of ash and moss. A woods witch. Her eyes were dark as pitch. Around her neck hung teeth—wolf, bear, and man. In her hand was a sickle. The blade was not steel, but obsidian, black and curved, sharp enough to part shadow.

She said nothing. She just nodded once. Jon stepped back. The Stormcloak soldiers moved forward. 

They brought forward the Ironborn prisoner. Shackled, bare-chested, bruised. They were forced to kneel in a half-circle before the heart tree. One struggled and was struck. Another spat at the ground.

From the opposite edge of the grove, twelve new figures emerged from the dark.

They moved in a quiet line, their cloaks the color of river moss and mountain stone, their hair braided with bone, copper wire, and simple glass beads. Girls, all of them—maidens grown tall enough to bleed and to bear, but not yet wed. Meera Reed walked at their head, her chin raised high, her step light as a mist over still water.

Each bore a blade across her palms, held flat and reverent. No two were the same.

One shimmered in hammered copper, another in dull tin. There was bronze and forged iron, silver, polished steel, and one curved dagger of dragonglass—black and gleaming, thirsty for heat. The rest were stranger alloys, greenish or dark-red, glinting in the firelight like old blood.

They moved as one until they reached the edge of the circle. There, in the shadow of the heart tree, they halted and fanned out, standing behind the kneeling prisoners.

Jon watched in silence, his expression as unmoving as the weirwood.

Meera stepped forward one more pace. She met Jon’s eyes, and he gave her a slow nod. But another voice rose before she could take her place.

“Meera.”

Hyet Cray’s voice was sharp, cutting across the stillness like a thrown knife. The crannogman strode forward, his reed-stiff cloak dragging wet leaves behind him, boots dark with peat.

She turned toward him. “Uncle.”

“This isn’t your place,” Hyet said, not loudly, but firmly. “You are still so young. You’ve never spilled blood outside the hunt. I’ll not see you do it now, not for this. Your father would never allow it. Let the soldiers do the cutting.”

Meera’s eyes narrowed. “You trained me to hunt cranes and frogs and beavers. You taught me where the neck veins run, and how to silence a man before he cries out. You gave me the blade of bronze that hangs on my hip. What did you think I’d use it for? Polishing apples?”

“This is not a hunt,” Hyet growled. “This is an old ritual. Cruder And darker. You don’t know what will come of it.”

“I know enough,” she said. Her voice was calm, but there was steel in it. “If we’re to remember who we are, it must be all of us. Noble and maiden blood must lead the ceremony. It has to be me." 

She lifted her head toward Jon. “I will stand. And I will do my part.”

Jon gave a solemn nod. “You have my leave. As does each of you who came.”

Hyet turned toward Jon, jaw tight. “My lord, I do not have her parents' permission. If you let her cross this threshold, there may be no crossing back.”

“After it is done, there won’t be,” Jon said. “For any of us.”

The wind picked up.

The woods witch stepped into the circle, sickle blade gleaming in the firelight. She wore no shoes, her feet black with earth and stained red with old blood. Her eyes glistened like tar pits, and her mouth moved, forming no sound at first. Then a whisper.

The words came low and strange, shaped by a tongue no maester ever inked, older than the runes of the barrows. The girls began to echo her, repeating the phrases. One voice at first. Then three. Then all twelve.

A rhythm formed in their chant—slow and mournful, like waves on stone.

The witch raised her sickle high. The chanting ceased. Even the fire seemed to draw inward, the flames curling smaller.

Then—

She pointed.

The first girl stepped forward. A pale-haired daughter of House Bogg, her blade copper, her eyes distant.

She placed a hand on the first prisoner’s shoulder. The man spat at her, but it landed in the moss.

She drew her blade across his throat in one clean stroke. The blood came bright and hot, spattering the weirwood’s roots and staining the heart tree’s white bark crimson. The man gurgled once. Then fell.

The grove went utterly still.

Then—

A shriek overhead. Not one. A hundred.

Ravens.

They poured from the trees in a black storm, wings beating, cawing, and swirling. They filled the sky like night come early, wheeling above the heart tree, circling the corpse.

Then the thunder came.

A low distant rumble at first, but it grew until the earth seemed to groan beneath their boots. The branches above creaked and swayed, though no wind touched them. One of the pigs squealed and broke its leash, only to be seized by the bear in a single swipe.

The second girl stepped forward.