12: To Hardhome, Part 2

To Hardhome, Part 2

Jon

The Lower Antler RiverFull novel: Dragons of Ice and Fire — read the rest free on N​o⁠v​e⁠l​C⁠o​d⁠e​x⁠.​o⁠r​g⁠

A week later, the marching trail turned east as the Antler's waters stopped flowing southwards and began a new eastwards course through the haunted forest.

A new day came, and the warband set off. And not long after, after the white dawn rose low over the half-frozen river, after the pale yellow sunrise gave way to the clear white of day, Jon's warband reached a massive lake.

Jon's breath misted in the cold air of a cold morning as he briefly stared over the half-frozen shores. Crosswater Lake, Furs called this place: the lake where the last two forks of the Antlers merged. It was here that the last of the upper river's tributaries ponded together, creating the haunted forest's largest lake: where the Antlers ended and became the Antler.

The lake was several entire miles across, instantly recognizable to every wildling in the warband, especially those who had spent their lives in the haunted forest. All seemed to know that this place marked the end of the first phase of their journey and the beginning of the next. The wildling crossroads that would mark the beginning of another long, cold day of marching downriver for Hardhome.

He stared beyond the lake, across the forested hills, across the confluence of the rivers to the lands beyond. He had never seen these lands of the eastern haunted forest before, not in person. He only knew them from his memories of the ranger's maps. But from them, he knew that somewhere far to the east the Antler would escape this lake, and resume its long, winding, muddy flow down towards the east where it would drain into the Shivering Sea, just north of the Bay of Seals.

However, here and now, all he could see was an especially large lake, shores frozen over by ice, surrounded by pine-covered hills.

A lake with an island in its center, bearing unmistakable signs of habitation. A walled holdfast of mud and wood, surrounded by cold water, a few miles downlake. The settlement, whatever it was, was still far in the distance, but the distance was narrowing.

The warband was now nearly a thousand strong. The hour was early, and scarcely anything but the steady crunch of hundreds of boots on snow and pine needles filled the silence, alongside the soft lap of the river's current. Sometimes from up and down along the column, there were scattered murmurs, bits of oft-tired muttering, but no more; the Weeper set a demanding pace of his raiders, and they had begun their march early, not long after the sun had first arisen.

Jon kept near the vanguard of men and raiders along the winding path beside the water, trying to ignore the pains of his leg, he saw, in the far distance across the water, stout wooden walls with stakes, a wooden keep maybe three levels high, with smoke rising into the air from three different chimneys, and two score or so long wooden buildings besides. And dozens of river boats, some plying the waters even now - despite how frigid the water had to be. They were small, distant, but they were there.

I need a horse, Jon thought quietly, fighting back his grimaces of pain. Or a garron at least. The rangers had always said they were the better mounts in the lands Beyond the Wall. My leg is getting better, true, but walking across half the far north…

Behind him, the Weeper's raiders and a few of his own men trudged silently. Their eyes and sword arms were alert, always. The vanguard of the Weeper's warband was too experienced for anything less. But Jon was certain all their bodies were weary from days of marching in the open elements. How could they not be? The women and children and refugees following the warband lingered further behind, and Marthe and his group further behind still - Jon had to keep an eye on them with Ghost, to see if that particular clan of scum were inclined to run off.

Jon had come around to agreeing - partway - with the Weeper's view on the man. The women of Marthe's clan had run off in the night for the Weeper's warband only the very night before last, taking their children with them: all of them down to the very last girl. Jon could only imagine what horrors they had been through to resort to that level of desperation. It was to Marthe's credit that he had been either intelligent - or cowardly - enough to not try anything in retaliation.

Hours later, as the sun rose to its highest point in the sky, the call went out for a break to end the men's fasts. Jon sagged down with relief atop a nearby stump. Others sat on rocks, on patches of chilled grass and moss that had escaped being covered by the snows. A half dozen men set to chopping down a dead willow and made a good-sized campfire of it nearby.

As Jon ate, his thoughts were occupied, running through the logistics of the next leg of their journey. How to keep his ever-growing warband and trailing refugees fed, how to control the problematic elements like Marthe, how to eventually secure passage across the river - they couldn't stay on the northern shore forever - and how many more clans might join them before they reached Hardhome.

Most importantly, his men, not to mention the trailing refugees, needed shelter and food, drink and rest… at least for a little, before they moved on.

They had marched a hundred and a half miles these past few weeks, and the promise of another one hundred and some still waited ahead. No matter Sonagon, Jon's influence over the dragon, or the Weeper's bloody-minded discipline, over him, there were limits to the men's morale.

The Weeper didn't bother eating - he preferred to eat on the move. The man stood with his arms crossed, staring out at the grey waters of the lower Antler. Jon could only wonder at what the man was thinking. Savage that he was, his knowledge of the haunted forest and the wildling people was greater by far than any ranger that still lived. Though, perhaps he was only observing the lake - the waters of the rivers were still in the process of merging and blending together here, which admittedly made for a rather curious sight.

After he finished eating his dried jerky and hardtack, and a wrapped ball of walnut and berry pemmican, Jon pulled himself up to stand beside the man. The Weeper acknowledged his approach with hardly more than a grunt.

They stood in silence together for a minute or so. Jon still wasn't quite certain where he stood with this savage, now - but the Weeper had been somewhat less implacable in his antagonism for the last few days. It was something, at least.

"The lower Antler's no easy journey, Snow," the Weeper eventually muttered, not bothering to look at him. "We've still got a hundred and some odd miles between us and the sea, and on this stretch, there's still a dozen or so big villages between here and there." He grunted, scowling towards the island across the waters. "This here's just the first of them. Crosswater Keep."

Jon was still looking at the lake's waters curiously. They had followed blue and grey waters of the northern tributary of the Antlers for scores of miles, now. The southern tributary's waters, on the other hand, were more muddy brown, and the two made for a queer sort of blended color where they came together. Furs had mentioned that this made for an excellent fishing spot.

Jon's eyes shifted towards the island village beyond the waters. Little wonder that wildlings set up a village on that island. Control over the lake, fish and game, safety. From such a protected holdfast, especially with those short cliffs to protect them, what would they ever need to fear?

From what he could see, Crosswater Keep had natural defenses, a perfect location, hundreds of people - more than any single clan they had found so far. More importantly, it had boats, enough for all of them to cross to the southern bank of the Antler with ease. No doubt food and shelter for a night or two as well. But its people now weighed on Jon's mind most of all. I can't leave them behind.

As for the Weeper, his scarred face was set in its usual grim expression, trails of tears leaking from the corners of his eyes - but he was also on the islander's village, clearly weighing something. The warband's encampment behind them was quiet, but watchful - Jon could almost feel the weight of the many, many raider's gazes on their backs.

After a quiet pause, the Weeper continued.

"…Used to be more clans along the river, Snow. Gets up to more than a hundred or so big ones in summer for the salmon's season, with too many wandering tribes and families setting up their little tent encampments to count, you know how it goes. Sometimes, in a good year, there's enough salmon that a man might walk across the water on their backs - the summer run brings probably half the free folk in the forest to the river before things go and die down. Less folks in the winter, as you'd expect. Still, there's proper villages along the river for the biggest clans of all, the ones that don't move. Used to be thirty or so, back when times were good. Then those times stopped. Most ended up marching south with Mance." The Weeper's eyes drifted over to meet his. "But not all of them."

Jon listened - frowning. It isn't like the Weeper to speak at length. Was this a sign of a certain thaw between them? Regardless, Jon waited patiently for the man to get to the point.

"…But these dozen or so holdouts ahead of us, they're important," the Weeper's voice turned lower. "These're old settlements, permanent ones. Some are said to be a thousand years old, each ruled by some different clan or another - only a few of them ever accept outsiders. And they're all tough, well-defended." The Weeper spat. "These ones are no upper river scum, Snow - those ones you picked up were just the dregs who couldn't hack it in the better hunting grounds. If you think you'll walk in and get these clans to fall in line, even with your dragon, you're a fool. We should forget them all and move on."

Convincing wildling clans this large to move with us will be difficult. Jon could agree with this savage on that, at least. He turned his gaze to the island settlement that lay beyond the river, frowning. They'll be well stocked, able to hold through winter on their own - or at least they think they'll hold.

"These villages, they didn't march for Mance, did they?"

"No, they didn't." The Weeper gave a short, humorless snort. "When Mance came calling, a bunch of these ones along the river held back. Especially the older, stronger clans that think they can hold up all through winter. Only a few of the great clans moved on his say, mostly ones from the far north like the Thenns. Pretty obvious why that was."

Jon raised a brow, eyeing the curious - and somewhat pathetic - collection of huts atop the island in the distance. Jon had never seen one of the greater holdfasts of the free folk, not with his own eyes and not while they had held living men, but from what he had seen, this small, ramshackle place couldn't even be compared to the ancestral holdfast of the Magnars of Thenn. "They're a great clan, really?"

"Them?" The Weeper snorted contemptuously. "Nah, Snow, this ain't no great clan." The Weeper grunted, worked his jaw, then spat on the ground. "Just a decent big one." He paused, then gave Jon an ugly sneer. "I forgot how much you don't know, boy. You should listen when I say we pass these cunt cowards behind. They ain't worth the trouble."

You know nothing, Jon Snow. Jon closed his eyes for a moment. "…But I'm learning," he murmured quietly.

"Eh? What'd you say?"

Ygritte. She and the Weeper would have gotten along like cats, and yet, he could imagine her laughter, clear as a bell. Laughing at both of them - mocking him, jeering at this barbarian, but for very different reasons.

If only she had been here.

But she wasn't here.

There was only… himself. Him, this savage he named ally, and whatever lay head, whatever might come.

"Nothing," Jon muttered. Then he spoke more clearly. "Who are they, Weeper?" Jon nodded towards the island. "You speak as if you know them."

The Weeper shrugged. "Folk around here call them the beaver men, or the dam-makers, and, eh, as names go, those ain't wrong ones. They've got a name for themselves in the Old Tongue, but fuck if I can pronounce it. Whole lotta beaver wargs. They've got a reputation all up and down the river for tolls" - the Weeper's sneer turned even uglier than the usual - "They'll demand a bucket of silver, a Thenn's sword, a man's daughter, a canoe full of meat, you name it… just as the price for crossing the river anywhere around these parts. You try crossing the river without their say, they'll come out and sink you with your boat, and no one's fighting giant beavers in the water. So," he shrugged. "People pay."

Like a barbarian version of the House Frey of the Crossing, Jon reflected. And now Robb is supposed to marry one of their daughters, as the price for a bridge. As far as Jon knew from the most recent ravens before he had gone on his fateful ranging with Qhorin Halfhand. Small wonder the Weeper finds them so galling.

Still, House Frey did end up marching to war for the north in the end. These wildlings, though…

"Why didn't these 'beaver men' march with Mance, Weeper?"

"Because of the chieftain in charge here - an old graying cunt going by Braithe the Beaverhide. He refused to duel Mance, refused to even talk to him, didn't want anything to do with the host. And now he's still here, "The Weeper spat. "Coward."

"It wasn't just brave men who followed Mance south, Weeper." Jon's voice turned low. He had seen too many innocents die in the Frostfangs to abide that statement. Too many who would have been named coward by this man, but good people all the same - people who would have been better served by cowardice, by keeping to their homes instead of ever venturing into the mountains.

The Weeper's scowl deepened. He finally turned to Jon, eyes narrowed. "I know a coward when I see one, Snow. And I also know that bravery, cowardice, none of it means shit against the dead. All that matters is smarts. That's why Mance was as successful as he was: he was smart - sure, he picked up a lot of the second and third-rate clans, the weak and the badly led and the cowards. But he got maybe half the great clans - mostly, the ones from the northern mountains and further, the ones who've seen the true face of the dead themselves, like the Thenns. He convinced them first, because he knew he could. Then he took all the rest, just because he could. Was all the same to him."

"Only half?"

"Aye," the Weeper grunted. "A lot of the other great clans stayed behind, they're the stubborn bastards who mostly all think they're strong enough to stay apart, strong enough to resist the dead until spring." The Weeper let out a breath, then hucked his mouth and spat a gob of spit in the direction of Crosswater Keep. "And truth is, they might be. For a while, at least."

"Do you think that's why this… Braithe, is still here?"

"The Weeper snorted caustically. "These shits? Aye, aye they stayed behind all right, but if I had to go and bet, I'd say that's what old Braithe's got in mind - he must think he can beat winter and the dead on his own, and he won't ask for a lick of anyone else's help in all the meanwhile. Are you starting to get get what I'm saying, Snow?"

Isolationists. I've heard of clans like this." They don't know what's coming, not really," Jon murmured.

"Right," the Weeper nodded. "They're idiots. Stubborn, stupid idiots. It'll be hard to get 'em on board, harder to get them to follow you. Like I said, I say we march right on past this castle of cunts."

Jon sighed. He would leave them all to die. He wouldn't even think twice about it.

The Weeper's condescension was… irritating, but Jon would address that later if it continued to be a problem. For now, learning more of the lay of the land and the clans ahead was by far the higher priority, and few raiders knew the length and breadth of the haunted forest better than this savage.

"How many people do you think live on that island, Weeper?"

"Eh," the Weeper shrugged. "Four, five hundred, somethingabouts. Why?"

Jon was still thinking, wondering.

"These villages along the Lower Antler," Jon said slowly. "The ones that are still around. The great clans, especially. You know them. And they know you, I think it's safe to guess. What can you tell me about them? Specifically. I need details."

The Weeper's eyes flickered. "It's a who's-who list of the great clans in this here south half of the haunted forest, Snow." He began to list them off on his fingers. "First," his wet eyes narrowed as he stared at the island. "We're looking at Crosswater Keep here - already went over 'em, though this place barely counts as a great clan. Up on the eastern bend a few tens of miles east of here, there's the Stonetooths - they're something else. One of the oldest clans left, said to be a thousand years old. They live in the cliffs, under the hills - caves they made by hand. Cave dwellers, hard to get to, harder to root out. Tough bastards, every one of 'em, and I hear they've got ties with the cave giants too. Good luck talking to them; it's mostly all Old Tongue with that lot."

Jon eyed numerous figures from the Weeper's warband who were close, listening in; Furs and Rolf in particular were both nodding.

"Then there's Bloodhand Hollow," the Weeper grimaced. "Ruled over by Barrad Bloodcloak - brutal fighters, killers, blood drinkers and cannibals, every one of em. They're river pirates that no one can stand - but they're impossible to root out. They've got an island fort of stone, built by giants back when who even knows when by an old king. Then there's Greensight Hold - they're a big, old clan, friends with the local hill giants. They're lousy with wargs and woods witches - queer folk with entire groves of heart trees in their village, it's said they know the secrets of magic better than anyone else in the haunted forest."

The Weeper rubbed at his eyes, spat another gob into the river, then continued on.

"Then, as you get further down towards the coast, the Antler starts to fatten up and spread out. You start getting into marsh and bog country. That's where the Shadowtongues rule - they don't have a specific holdfast, far as anyone knows - they're spread all over the bogs and marshes, and they rule a few of the smaller villages deeper in the forest. They're a queer folk who dye their hair and skin blue - and they like to fight at night. They're more like night killers than raiders. They won't come at you in the open. They'll come for you in the night, get you with their blowsticks and poisons, they even poison the streams. They'll slip past your watchfolk, move in the dark, move through caves, slit your throat while you sleep, or poison you with a dart from the dark. Folk prefer to cut far around their bogs - the Shadowtongues hate outsiders."

Jon remained silent as the Weeper continued, listening patiently, committing it all to memory.

"There's another lake past there - Redbeard Lake, watched over by Redbeard Tower. Gerrick Kingsblood's ancestral fastness from old Raymun - who knows if anyone's still there or not," the Weeper snorted. "Gavin the Trader was also based outta there - the two of 'em like to move together. Not sure about Gavin nowadays, but Kingsblood, he went and marched for Mance, the poncy cunt, and last I heard, he and his folk were with the Thenns and headed west for the Shadow Tower," the Weeper said with a final grunt, before taking out a piece of jerky from his cloak's pocket and chewing on it irritably.

"Then, as you get further down towards the coast, at the base of the Gullet - where the mouth of the Antler starts opening up - you get the Tidebreakers. The Tidebreakers are led by Thaldar 'Tidebreaker' - tough old man, hates the Bloodcloaks and all river pirates, but he's not a bad sort outside of that. Got on well with Mance for a while, until Mance turned down an offer of one of his daughters. Couldn't even speak to one another after." The Weeper chewed for a while on his jerky, before speaking again.

"Thaldar's people are stubborn as the rocks they live on, and they live in the fattest part of the river before it empties into the sea - they've got more food and numbers than anyone, and proper boats. Now them, we should bring on. But forget about it if you want to try bringing on the Bloodcloaks too - the hatred between those clans goes deeper than bone, deeper than the dead."

Jon grimaced. "Why?"

The Weeper spat out a last gob of jerky. "Who even knows? Their ancestors have been killing eachother for centuries. It's a blood feud older than their grandfather's grandfathers. No one even remembers or cares how it all started. They don't even bother with duels anymore - it's kill on sight for the folk of both clans, whenever they lay eyes on eachother's boats on the river. Point is, you'd have to make a choice. If you can convince 'em. Shame, because both clans would be pretty useful. They got real boats, at least compared to these beaver men," the Weeper eyed the island across the lake contemptuously. "Can't speak as to how they'd do out at sea though, river boats ain't the same as sea boats."

There has to be a way, Jon thought quietly. I promised the greenseer, and Sonagon listens to me. I must find a way to get these clans to follow.

"Then," the Weeper continued, "once you get past the Gullet and get to the bend of the coast - where the Antler empties out into the sea - you've got Driftwood Hall, mostly filled up by Whaletooths and winterbird Frozen Shore folk - the ones who come south in the winters," the Weeper grunted. "Driftwood Hall's the biggest coastal village of 'em all - an abandoned whaling station from centuries back, built by those hairy men from across the sea. Or at least it started out that way."

Hairy men? Jon had to unpack that. He must mean Ibbenese whalers. They used to have stations in Westeros?

Jon asked about that, but the Weeper grunted. "Fuck if I know, Snow. All I can tell you's that Alvin Whaletooth and the Lord of Seals split the place between the two of 'em, but who if knows if anyone's still there or not. Last I heard, the both of them were moving south - looking to find their own way past the Wall by water. Who knows if they're moving to Hardhome first or not - I ain't got no clue." The Weeper's eyes flickered to him. "That about sums it up, from all the last of the rumors I heard. There's a few more river clans I expect might still be around, but they ain't as important."

Jon looked across the water at Crosswater Keep in the far distance, wondering. "These clans, they're all separate? How much do they communicate, work together?"

"They don't. They barely even talk, mostly," the Weeper shrugged, his gaze returning to the river. "Can't stand eachother. They don't often take up common arms, not unless someone real stupid forces 'em to. A lot of these lower river clans have old grudges, blood rivalries that go back centuries - especially the Bloodcloaks and the Tidebreakers. But that doesn't mean most of 'em won't unite against a common threat. If they see you as one, you'll have every spearwife, raider, and chieftain along the river coming for your head."

You must not balk, whatever is asked of you, the Halfhand had said, long ago. Ride with them, eat with them, fight with them, for as long as it takes. Jon had done and seen much in those months - more than he could easily reckon with. More than Qhorin could have ever expected of him. But to invade wildlings in their own homes… to conscript them for a long march that would surely kill as many of them as the dead might…

You must do anything and everything in your power to fight against the Long Night. No matter how distasteful, no matter the cost - you will do what you must to fight for the dawn. I want you to swear it, Jon Snow.

Jon let out a slow breath, considering.

The greenseer is right. This is the only way.

"Weeper," Jon said in a low voice. "We aren't leaving anyone behind. All of these villages on the Antler will have to move to Hardhome, or be moved. Give me advice for the task ahead."

"Advice?" The Weeper snarled. "I already told you— !"

The Weeper paused mid-curse. His rheumy red eyes, ever weeping, flickered from Crosswater Keep across the water, to his tired raiders, to Sonagon, and back again. Then his voice dropped lower. A cruel smile split his lips. "You want these beaver men, Snow? You go first."

"Fine," Jon muttered. He started walking away, thinking. How should this go? The boats? No - to even call the Weeper's barges 'boats' is too generous by far. They're good for river fishing and portage, nothing more. No, trying to take this island with such craft is a fool's task.

Then he realized the obvious: but boats aren't the only way across the water.

Jon turned his head back, raised an eyebrow. "Have you ever thought about riding a dragon, Weeper?"

"Eh?" The man blinked.

The waters of the Antler surged beneath Sonagon's bulk, the white dragon snaking effortlessly through the icy currents. The dragon's powerful legs churned beneath the surface, propelling him forward as his injured wings were folded tight against his body. Jon sat astride Sonagon's massive back, clutching the dragon's ridged scales as frigid sprays of water splashed against his face.

Behind him, two dozen of the Weeper's fiercest raiders, including Furs, Hatch the Halfgiant, Rolf, Rags, Mharka, Lewie, Stump, Crab Mors, Two-Notch Haldur and more - all were shouting in alarm, in fear and wonder and delight as they struggled to hold to their precarious perches here and there along Sonagon's hulking length, desperately clinging to the dragon's back spines and scales. Riding Sonagon would have been a chaotic, novel experience for all of them. Just managing to convince Sonagon to allow for this had been a near thing, a frustrating endeavor he preferred not to consider further - the dragon wanted food, lots of it. More than he could provide.

The village of the beaver men loomed ahead, perched on its island in the confluence of the Antler River as the ravenous dragon made its approach directly. The village is certain to have stores and sundries aplenty, Jon considered.

And one way or another, Sonagon would have them.

"Snow!" Furs bellowed, clutching perilously to a spine-knotted rope, as cold water sprayed through the air. "This is insane!"

Jon chuckled under his breath, casting a look back to see how the men were holding up. "You get used to it!" he shouted back.

From what he had seen, most of the men were already eyeing their destination with a grim sort of anticipation. In this moment, Jon was no different.

From up close, the village of the beaver men was unlike anything he had ever seen: a long, flat-topped island ringed by short cliffs, so thoroughly tunneled in the lower reaches that it almost resembled a beehive. The cave-stables of the great beavers the village was known for, presumably. Up above, higher, the wooden structures of the upper island had all been joined together, dozens of tightly-packed wooden buildings all converted into a single sprawling structure.

Ringing the island was a meticulously constructed system of muddy structures, wooden dams and platforms, mud tunnels and mud docks leading to and fro, at least a mile across. A complex network of wooden platforms and buildings, massive dams and caves all ringing the central island, atop which rested Crosswater Keep proper.

The overall appearance was as if the entire village and all its surrounding environs had been built atop the massive dams and caves built by the cave beavers this place was known for. Some villagers, no doubt early-morning fishers, stood atop the outer platforms, watching in disbelief as Jon led the approach towards to their shores atop Sonagon's back.

Everywhere Jon looked, he saw evidence of the giant cave beavers that these people lived alongside. A strange sort of symbiosis that it couldn't be missed, not with how the very landscape of the river here had been reshaped. He saw entire dam systems made of dragged, mudded-over logs and branches, clearly organised both for defense and sustenance.

"This place has always stunk of fish and wet fur," the Weeper muttered, gripping the hilt of his scythe as he clung to Sonagon's horn-rope with one hand. He had taken easily to riding Sonagon, as far as Jon could tell; the man wasn't even sitting, his sense of balance on dragonback was almost prenatural. "Cravens, all of them."

"Big fur," Furs added, a half-grin on his face. "Hope they don't mistake us for logs."

Jon never looked away from Crosswater Keep. Its timber walls stood tall and imposing, surely capable of enduring any winter, but they were nothing compared to the power Jon brought with him. He gripped Sonagon's horn tightly as the dragon approached the isle's beach in plain sight.

As the village drew closer, Jon could see figures scrambling along the battlements built atop the dams - wildlings preparing to defend their home. Spears and arrows glinted in the pale light, and even from this distance, Jon could hear the beaver men's panicked commands and shouts carrying over the water.

The Weeper leaned close as he shouted over Sonagon's swimming. "These folk won't bend, Snow! They never have, and I know their chief, he's a right old cunt! You'll have to break 'em along with him!"

Jon's gaze remained on the village ahead. "That's not the plan."

"Plans change, Snow! Be ready for it all to go to shit!"

Crosswater Keep was fortified not only by the high, sharp-staked mud walls surrounding most of the island, but by the beaver-built dams around it - fish catcheries, all reinforced with more and more layers of stakewalls. Jon had never seen or imagined such a thing. This place would have been a death trap even for an army of raiders.

I've heard that many of these villagers are beaver wargs - but to use their beasts to help build their infrastructure? Their village? The sight was as fascinating as it was eye-opening: Jon had never imagined that a skinchanger's powers could be exercised in such a way.

Sonagon cut through the river's currents with ease, his massive tail creating waves that crashed against the dams. As they neared the village, the wildlings on Jon's back shifted, readying their weapons for whatever resistance they might face.

"This place smells like wet fur," the Weeper muttered, his scarred face twisted into a scowl. "I hate it."

Furs chuckled, leaning over Jon's shoulder. "Better get used to it. They're about to have… a lot of dam problems to deal with."

Jon shot him a sidelong glance. "Really, Furs?"

"You better believe it," Furs grinned.

Hatch, sitting very close behind Jon, grumbled something about "wood-chewers" as they neared the shore.

Crosswater Keep's defenders were already shooting arrows, shouting and screaming. He saw boys and girls running with stacks of spears to the men on the fort's battlements.

Sonagon let out a low but deep, rumbling growl as they neared the island. He hates arrows, Jon recalled nervously. The dragon's eyes were fixed on the wooden battlements the arrows had come from. Sheets of glowing white cold were already leaking from the corners of the white dragon's maw - Jon could feel the cold inferno flaring from within, the dragon's frostfire breath was seconds away from being unleashed. Stop, Jon begged, trying to hold the dragon hold from his instinct to destroy. Bring us near. Don't hunt these prey. Leave them to me.

Sonagon growled, but the frostfire waned from his jaws. He sped up, his massive body slicing through the currents with ease. The wildlings on the battlements hesitated, their eyes wide with shock and confusion. Did they think I was riding a queer sort of boat? Jon wondered.

Whatever these wildlings might have expected from invaders, they could not have seen this coming - a dragon and its riders swimming for them like some great, terrible sea serpent.

Jon felt the cold bite of the river's spray, but he didn't flinch. They were close now, the wooden walls of Crosswater Keep rising above them. The river was swift, but Sonagon swam against it with little effort, his claws digging into the riverbed as he surged toward the island.

Arrows began to rain down from the battlements, but they bounced harmlessly off Sonagon's thick scales. The dragon reached the edge of the village and, with a roar, reared up, his massive claws tearing through the village's timber walls. The force of his the dragon's weight cracked the wooden defenses, splintering them like kindling. Sonagon slammed his tail into the walls, tearing through the battlements and sending wildling defenders tumbling into the icy waters below.

And then they were through the breach, within the village proper.

Jon raised a hand, calling out to his raiders. "Now!"

The Weeper and his men leapt from Sonagon's back, wading through the shallows as the dragon's destruction opened the way. They moved swiftly, scrambling over the broken battlements and into the village proper. Perhaps the beaver men were normally fierce, but now they were beyond disorganized, thrown into chaos by the unexpected assault.

Jon dismounted from Sonagon last, his boots splashing into the shallows as he drew Dark Sister from its scabbard. He made his way into the village, flanked by the Weeper's men, who secured the way for him.

Within, he saw several bodies lying in the mud - beaver men who had tried to resist and been cut down. Unfortunate. And then, past them, staring balefully at the Weeper, he spotted the man who had to be their chieftain. Braithe the Beaverhide, flanked by his people.

Braithe was an old man, tall and lean, his face, arms, and the rest of his exposed skin etched with old, deep battle scars. His skin had a such a deep nut-brown patina from a lifetime's worth of exposure to the elements that he did, in fact, more than slightly resemble an old beaver, with his buck teeth and thick grey hair pulled back into a wide, paddle-shaped braid that reached past his shoulders. It had to be a deliberate appearance.

But Jon looked past those details to see his readiness for battle. Braithe held a copper sword, and an oaken buckler shield in his offhand, both worn but well-maintained. His offhand rested on the back of a massive cave beaver, its dark grey-brown fur slick from the water, its broad, flat tail slapping the ground in an erratic, angry rhythm.

"The white crow. I've heard of you, Snow. Folk from upriver have been fleeing from you and your… demon. You've finally come to take what's mine?" Braithe growled, his voice rough with age. "You think that creature of yours makes you a king?"

Behind him, Jon could see the wildling lord's six wives and dozens of children, anything from swabbling babes to grown men and women in their thirties - all standing in the shadows, their faces pale with fear as they watched the white dragon, as they watched their husband prepare for what would so clearly be his last stand.

As for the giant cave beavers - Jon saw dozens of them looking out from the water, squeaking in fear as they stared at Sonagon. Hundreds more were already fleeing.

"Sonagon is a dragon, my lord," Jon said quietly, stepping forward. "And I'm not here to be a king. I'm not asking you to kneel, and I'm not here for your village. Nor do I want your things, or your women, or your lives."

Braithe worked his jaw, hesitating. His eyes passed over the bodies in the mud, then back to Jon. "Then why are you here, crow?"

"I'm here to save your people," Jon entreated. "The dead are coming," Jon's eyes flickered over to the villageworks, "and your dams won't hold them back. Join us, come south. In the lands beyond the Wall, you'll live, have a new future. Refuse, and you'll fall like all the others. Your village won't survive what is coming alone."

"The dead can't touch my keep, not with the water," Braithe's face twisted into a sneer, his grip tightening on his sword. "We don't need saving, crow, particularly not your kind of saving. We've survived here for generations. Mance Rayder couldn't make Crosswater Keep bend, and neither will you." He gestured to the river and the beavers that were uneasily swimming through the surrounding waters. "This island is ours by right! The bones of my grandfather's grandfathers are buried here, and in time, I'll join them as a man who never kneeled! This lake and the river beyond is ours. The beavers are ours! What do we need you or your demon for? I've survived this long without bending. I didn't kneel to Mance, I won't kneel to you."

Jon sighed. He had expected resistance, but not complete defiance. Not even Sonagon was intimidating making this Braithe waver. Was he mad?

He could not leave Crosswater Keep or its people behind. Its people and their unique skills - especially their wargs - were crucial for the battles and times ahead. In any case, Jon had no idea what a wight-warg would be like, and he didn't want to find out by leaving dozens behind for the white walkers.

The Weeper, who had been eyeing Braithe with disdain, took a step forward. His scythe lay tense in his hand. "Well, this old cunt's gone and made himself clear. Let me gut him, Snow. I'll end this here and now."

"Weeper," Braithe hissed. "I thought I'd seen the last of you and your cockalorum in the summer. Heard you'd gone and died with Mance."

"Well, you heard wrong, old man," the Weeper sneered.

"You've killed near as many crows as Alfyn, boy," Braithe said lowly, still addressing the Weeper, "and here you are working with one? What happened to your honor? To your sense? To your balls?"

The Weeper spat on the ground. "Talk like that again, and I'll be feeding my balls to your wives before the night's done, and that's a promise, you old cunt."

"You've already come to take everything that's mine!" Braithe bellowed, eyes wide. "What difference does it make?!"

"Oh, I'm going to like this," the Weeper muttered darkly, withdrawing his scythe from its holster across his back.

The Weeper won't just kill Braithe, he'll pull his guts out in front of his wives and children. I can't let that happen.

"No. I'll fight him," Jon said, unsheathing his sword. He spoke as sternly as he could, with the tones he thought his father might have used in such a tense situation, when commanding men.

He shot the Weeper a sharp look while speaking, but to Jon's relief, the Weeper grudgingly stepped back within moments, shrugging. "You want to kill him yourself, Snow? Eh, no skin off my back."

Jon ignored him. "We settle this the old way, then," Jon said, raising Dark Sister at the old man. "You and me, one-on-one. If I win, Braithe, your people join us. If you win, we leave you in peace."

I'm trying to save you and your people from the Weeper, Jon silently begged the old man. Submit. Please.

"Snow," the Weeper's voice warned, from behind. "You don't need to offer deals and chances to this river scum."

Jon didn't respond. This is the best way to make them submit, to submit truly. He was sure of it.

Braithe the Beaverhide's wide eyes flickered between Jon and the Weeper, and between Jon and Sonagon - the dragon was giving Crosswater Keep's beavers a long, curious stare, having no interest in the bickering of the humans.

Don't, Sonagon. Please.

As he understood, these islanders considered their beavers almost sacred; Jon couldn't even imagine how they'd react if he let Sonagon make a meal of them.

Braithe's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, he looked as if he might refuse. But then his eyes flickered to the hundreds of his clan surrounding them, all looking right at him - and he nodded. "You must think I'm a fool, crow. I won't believe your words for a second. But if it's steel you want, it's steel you'll get."

Your sword is made of copper, you idiot. "I have not lied, my lord," Jon searched quickly for a training yard or fighting pit somewhere in sight, but found none. This very place would have to suffice. "Shall we?"

"We fight as one," Braithe said, a glint in his eye as he patted his cave beaver's head. It was the size of a pony. "Me and Chomper here."

Furs snorted. "Chomper? Seriously?"

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Jon sent Furs a warning look, even as other raiders behind Jon chortled, even the Weeper. "No," Jon warned. "Man to man. Or I'll let my dragon fight your beaver. Your choice."

Scornful chuckles spread among Jon's men. The Weeper laughed outright.

Braithe snarled, and a collective groan passed through his clanfolk.

There was no proper fighting pit in Crosswater Keep. Just two facing one another in the center of the village, an impromptu circle of wildlings forming around them. Jon's raiders stood on one side of the edge, anticipating what was to come. Braithe's six wives and dozens of children on the other side, their faces a mixture of horror and resignation. They knew, as Jon did, that the outcome of this duel was all but certain.

Even setting aside the mismatch of age, the sheer difference in the qualities of the weapons was starkly contrasted: Braithe wielded a copper sword, thick with verdigris, while Dark Sister's fine Valyrian steel rippled faintly, black and red in the light. Braithe might have been a skilled warrior in his youth, he had the look of such - but if Jon had been in his position, he would have tried to never fight while so outarmed, not if there were any other choice at all.

Thankfully, it was unlikely this ignorant old savage knew what Valyrian steel even was. And when he failed to glance at Dark Sister's blade for more than a second, Jon knew his ignorance.

Braithe lunged first, his copper sword flashing in a wide arc toward Jon's head. Jon parried easily with Dark Sister, the clang of metal ringing out across the village. Jon dodged a second slash aimed at his side and countered with a quick cut toward Braithe's shield arm.

The old man raised his buckler just in time, but the Valyrian steel cut so deeply into the shield that his eyes widened with alarm. He took a step back, a step back that turned into a stumble when Jon advanced with a two-handed strike that gave the buckler a second cut, deeper than the first, almost reaching Braithe's fingers.

The force of Jon's blow sent the old man stumbling back. He recovered quickly, snarling in frustration, and came at Jon again with an overhanded blow.

In that space between the breaths of battle, Jon watched the old man's movements. Braithe was quick, his movements surprisingly agile for his age, but there was no denying the years had slowed him. Jon slid the overhanded cut to his side by parrying at an angle, and then they traded blows for perhaps ten paces.

Then Braithe, bellowing, lashed out with his sword - darting toward Jon's midsection.

Jon stepped aside from the stab, then slid around another of the old man's savagely strong overhanded cuts. Then he flicked out his blade in a tight arc, and Dark Sister sliced across Braithe's thigh.

The cut drew a sharp gasp of pain from the old man. Blood stained the snow at his feet, but the Crosswater Keep's chieftain fought on, determined not to give in.

From the corner of his eye, Jon could see Braithe's wives - six women of varying ages and backgrounds - watching in horror. One of them clutched her chest, her lips moving in silent prayer. Another wept quietly, tears streaking her dirt-smudged face. They knew, as did Jon, that this duel could only end one way.

Braithe, panting now, cried out a guttural shout. He rushed again, his copper blade whipping forward. Jon caught it on Dark Sister, and this time he saw the notch left in the older man's weapon - a bite gouged out from the copper's edge. The old man tried to punch him with his offhand, but Jon ducked under the blow, took a step back. A close-quarters brawl would only favor the old man, with his bigger build and decades of hard-won muscle. Play to your advantages, Jon recalled Ser Rodrik Cassel's words in Winterfell's yards. Strength doesn't decide swordfights for anyone but idiots, and if it does, you better be the stronger idiot.

Strength was not on his side. But it wouldn't matter, even with the almost bloodless path to victory Jon was threading.

They circled the pit, boots sliding in the mud and slush, breath misting in the cold air. The crowd of wildlings shouted and stamped, beaverfolk yelling oaths and chants in support of their chief. Somewhere behind, Jon could hear Hatch and others bellowing out cheers, encouragements, though he didn't listen for the words.

Another strike, and Jon deflected with a twist of his wrist. The clang rang loud, and another notch appeared in Braithe's sword.

Braithe was gritting his teeth, sweat pouring down his face despite the cold, raised his sword for another strike - but his movements were growing slower, his strength clearly waning.

I can end it now, Jon decided. Then he slashed out again, forcing the old man to raise his blade into a parrying position. Just as Jon had planned. He aimed his cut for a weakness he spied midway up the blade, taking a third notch out of the blade, closely spaced to the prior two - and this time, the copper sword cracked.

A jagged line split halfway down the blade. Then the upper half of the copper sword fell into the mud. Braithe froze, eyes wide.

Jon didn't follow up. He waited, feet firm in the mud. He wanted to see what the old man would do.

Braithe screamed and charged for Jon, swinging his broken blade wildly like a knife. Jon stepped forward into the old man's charge, sidestepping the feeble swing and brought down Dark Sister with a precise cut. The blade slashed across Braithe's chest. Not deep enough to kill the old chieftain, but enough to stagger him, Jon expected.

Unfortunately, it was not quite enough to bring the old man to his knees. Then Jon turned and punched the old man in the jaw, which did bring him to his knees. He's lost too much blood to keep up the fight.

Jon stood over him, breathing a little harder, but barely winded. Braithe's broken copper sword fell from his hand, clattering uselessly onto the ground. His twice-cleaved buckler shield slipped from his grip. He stared up at Jon, eyes wide and wild, gaping wordlessly.

"Yield," Jon said quietly. "It's over."

Such a pointless fight. Jon hadn't even needed to resort to the defensive mastery of Acorn's sword dance. His old training patterns from various castle yards had more than sufficed. He would have been better off surrendering from the start.

For a moment, Braithe didn't move. The old man was still gaping. But at his words, something in those wild eyes hardened. The bleeding old man dragged himself back up to his feet, and stared at him.

Jon watched carefully, how the old man's lips tightened, how his knuckles went white as he clenched his fists. How the pride of a lifetime of defiance warred with the reality of his defeat.

Slowly, painfully, Braithe lowered his head. "You've bested me," he rasped. "But don't think this makes you a leader of free folk. It only makes you the man who killed me."

Jon sheathed Dark Sister, sparing a glance for Braithe's wives and many children. They were silent now, staring at their patriarch with haunted eyes, the understanding of his fate now settled. No doubt believing the worst was yet to come. "There's been enough blood today," Jon told him. "We aren't here to slaughter."

The old man stared at him, eyes wide, uncomprehending. "You won't die today, my lord," Jon insisted. "Except if you force me to it. Encourage your clanfolk to surrender peacefully, and you will have peace."

Braithe didn't respond to his words, just stared blankly at him. Jon thought of saying more, perhaps to the clan as a whole - but there wouldn't have been any point. He had already said all that needed to be said.

The village had been won. But the weight of what would have to be done next pressed heavily on Jon's shoulders.

The Weeper stepped forward for Braithe, his scythe already drawn, but Jon stopped him with a look. "No. He lives. Make camp, find their larders, set a watch. Feed Sonagon with whatever you can." Before I can't control him any more. "And get some boats over to our men still ashore. We'll make camp here for the night, then move on in the morn with these people in tow."

The Weeper sneered, but he stepped back, lowering his scythe. "Your choice, Snow. But don't blame me if one of them tries stabbing you in the night. I'd rather trust a snake in my boots than make camp with any of this river scum."

"They won't forget what you did here, Snow," Furs warned as well. "You took their pride. This type takes that real personally."

That could be said for any wildling, Jon thought irritably. And yet they must all be saved from the dead, all the same. He turned back to Braithe, who sat slumped on the ground, his breathing ragged. "Get him treated," he said quietly to one of the raiders. "He doesn't need to die today. What he does next is on his shoulders."

After Furs went away, the Weeper gave him an evil grin. "Snow," he said. "This raid wasn't bad, but we can do better. Your beast sure breaks walls easy enough. Let me handle things my way, and I'll have all the rest of these coward clans begging to eat out of our hands when we head downriver."

He's in a good mood, Jon realized, grimacing internally. I can't say yes to him - and I can't say no, either. Jon hated having to resort to these methods. He had to try to placate the man.

"We'll take things one step at a time, Weeper. Not all the clans are the same," Jon said. I hope. "We'll see who follows us, and we'll see who needs…" Jon struggled for the word.

"Further convincing," the Weeper chortled. "Aye, Snow. I can work with that."

Jon turned away. Sonagon shifted behind him, letting out a low growl as he settled back into the shallows of the river. But not before sending Jon a distinct mental impression of hunger.

So much to see to. Every hour, every minute. It never ends. Jon clenched his fists. Yes, Sonagon would have to be fed soon, on a scale that would no doubt horrify these islandfolk, for the food would have to come from their stores. Perhaps they'll even riot. But there's no choice.

Crosswater Keep was theirs now, but they couldn't rest here for more than a day or two. The journey to unite the wildlings of the river had only just begun.

Jon only hoped he could keep the Weeper from turning it into a slaughter.

That evening, deep into the darkest part of night, two of Braithe the Beaverhide's sons and a score of their followers tried to murder Jon in his sleep - only to be foiled by Ghost and an infuriated tail-swipe from Sonagon.

The Weeper made a pile of the surviving would-be killer's severed heads in the middle of camp, all impaled through a single long spear, and Sonagon ate their cave beavers as all watched - something about that seemed to horrify the Crosswater clanfolk even more than the loss of their sons and brothers.

As for Braithe himself, even Jon was starting to have second thoughts. But there was no evidence linking him to the madness of his sons - only two out of more than twenty. The Weeper would have preferred to kill him then and there regardless, but Jon refused.

The Weeper did insist that Braithe was made to swear a vow before the pile of his own son's heads - on pain of death of all his remaining clanfolk - 'to keep in line.'

The Weeper's brutality made Jon's stomach clench - but the savage wasn't entirely wrong. An example had to be made. Publicly.

Jon just wished it wasn't necessary.

The second village they came upon, two days later, was hardly even worth the mentioning. The Weeper's brutal reputation preceded him here - the clanfolk surrendered to his warband within minutes, begging for mercy the moment the full scope of their numbers became clear. Jon didn't even need to muster Sonagon.

The Weeper's smug looks for the rest of the day, and his muttered 'I told you so, Snow,' over the evening fire did not improve Jon's mood.

The next two villages were both abandoned to the last man, and had been for months, by the look of it.

The cliffs of Stonetooth Haven loomed high above the Antler's waters, jagged and treacherous, their sheer rock faces making the village near impossible to access by traditional means. One great cliff in particular was clearly the clan's heart, with an entranceway cut high into the stone, accessible only by bridge.

The Stonehaveners must have known of his coming, because as soon as Jon approached with Sonagon, the clanfolk didn't even bother with negotiation - they just cut the bridge outright.

After that failure, Jon stood on the riverbank, staring up at the inapproachable stone stronghold, considering how to deal with this unexpected problem.

The cliffs are apparently a facade, hiding an entire internal network of tunnels and cave homes beyond sight. An actual troglodyte people, as Luwin and the rangers had both mentioned existed in these lands.

He had scarcely believed they existed in truth, not until he had seen the lands beyond the Wall for himself. Stonetooth Haven wasn't just a village nestled into the foot of the cliffs, as might have expected - it was inside the cliffs.

Apparently, the Stonetooth Clan were the southernmost of the cave dwellers, and had carved their homes into the rock itself where this great cliff overlooked the southern bank of the Antler. He could see the signs, the logic of it all: outlooks and perches of stone, precarious balconies of wood spread wide and high all across the cliff's stony lower and upper reaches. A clan that burrowed into the stone over a process of centuries.

Jon considered what little he knew of the cave dweller clans. Most of them lived further northwards in the haunted forest, or in the valleys beyond near the Frostfangs. Though he seen none of those clans in person, his understanding - from Ygritte's stories - was that most of them resided in underground tunnels, structures like Gorne's tunnels, or the ones he had wandered through with the children of the forest - the underground wormways supposedly left behind by great beasts of the past.

The folk of Stonetooth Haven, however, had apparently created their home themselves, and not low, as most clans would, but on high, high in the stone, high above the river. And Jon could immediately see why - anyone standing here could have. They have a commanding view of the entire geography from this perch of theirs. They'll see anyone approaching along the river for miles - and repel invaders with ease. They have control of this part of the river, safety and shelter, and most of all, advance warning of all invaders.

But he wasn't here as an invader. He would save them from the dead, whether they accepted him or not.

The only question was how.

"Now these ones we should ignore and move past," Rolf said, causing the Weeper to snort, and a score of other raiders to nod in agreement. "Ain't got no way in."

Beside him on the river's shore stood the Weeper. Behind them, Furs, Rolf, Two-Notch Haldur, and Hatch and a dozen wildlings from various tribes - those loyal to Jon - waited, spears and other weapons in hand.

"No," Jon said evenly. "We aren't leaving anyone behind."

"Snow," the Weeper said slowly, as if he were speaking to a child. "Listen. I don't care how much of a softhearted boy you are. We are not camping here for a siege. We don't have the time, or the food, or the patience. They don't want us. I say leave these ones for the white walkers." The Weeper's eyes flickered as he stared up and down the honeycombed cliff. "Now these ones would definitely buy us some time - just look at 'em."

"Aye," Rolf muttered. "That there is a fort worth defending."

The Weeper isn't wrong there, Jon almost considered. If he went ahead, these Stonehaveners would put up a stiff fight against the dead following them by night - more than enough to buy them time without being followed. They could perhaps go weeks without being haunted at night by the dead.

But no. There were probably hundreds of people - at the least - in these cliffs. He refused to abandon them to the white walkers due to mere inconvenience.

For the next half hour, they debated various tactics of approach. Few of which, it turned out, would benefit from the dragon - not even a dragon could defeat this stony stronghold, nor would Jon have even wished for that outcome.

This, truly, was a situation in which Sonagon was useless.

For lack of any better option, any resolution to the arguing, the Weeper eventually let out a long, slow breath, then spat into the snow. "Fine. You all step back," he muttered irritably. "There's only one way to make these stubborn rock-shitters come out."

Jon frowned. "Which is?"

The Weeper rolled his shoulders. "Just step back and watch, boy."

Before Jon could reply, the Weeper stepped forward, right up to the empty edge of the chasm into which the Stonehavener's bridge had fallen. Then he cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed up at the cliffs: "VROKHAN THUR SKAL VREK'THA HALRAK! GOLOS!"

The sound was more roar than words, echoing across the area, echoing between the cliff's stony walls until it came back redoubled. Jon recognized almost none of the words - the language was Old Tongue, but even he could recognize the intent; raw and foul.

The Weeper was insulting them.

Why?

The Weeper paused to suck in breath, then roared again up at the high cliffs: "SKORN VRAK SUL VRETHA'KHOR! NAH'KAN MOTHRAK TAL THURR!" Spittle sprayed with every syllable.

Jon caught only the tone, but not the meaning. "What did he just say?"

Furs leaned over with a smirk. "He just called their chieftain, Halrak, too craven to piss standing up."

The Weeper looked every part a warlord, if such a term could be used for this savage, as he paced along the shoreline, shouting until flecks of spittle flew from his lips. He hurled insults at such volume that gulls lifted screeching from the cliff-face. His voice rose and fell, breaking into hoarse growls, then surging again into booming, venomous screams.

Jon raised an eyebrow at Furs, and the raider chuckled. "And that was him saying their grandmothers all bent over for Thenns."

Rolf snorted, unable to help himself. "He's got a way with words."

The Weeper broke into a rhythm now, stomping and roaring, every insult ending in a barked "—VREKH!" or "—SKORR!" He mimed obscene acts at the cliff-face, at one point grabbing his own crotch and thrusting it skyward while roaring: "SKOR BAA'TU MOTHRAK! NAH'THUR HALRAK SKORN'VEKH!"

"…And that was something about their mothers siring them by actual goats," Furs said, almost admiringly. "And their dead fathers liking shaved lambs more than their own women, which is why they all come out so ugly, if I've got it right."

The men were all chortling or laughing outright at this point.

The echoes rolled on for the better part of an hour. The Weeper's voice eventually went ragged, but he kept going on. He called the Stonehaveners cowards, sheep, kneelers, ice-suckers, goat-lickers, rock-fuckers, and oathbreakers and more. He spat curses on their bloodlines and challenged the whole cliff to come down and fight him at once.

Jon watched faces appear and vanish in the carved balconies, shadows shifting in high cliff alcoves. The longer the Weeper went on, the more of those faces appeared - until they started throwing things down at him, rotten food and feces.

Thankfully, none shot any arrows, no matter what the Weeper said. Why? This had to be some aspect of free folk culture Ygritte would have known to explain.

Jon folded his arms, trying to ignore the growing crowd behind them - raiders and camp followers and refugees all alike drawn in to watch the Weeper's spectacle. After nearly fifteen minutes, he muttered, "…he can't keep this up forever."

"Oh, aye, he can," Furs chortled. "I've seen him go at it for two days before, back when we had to drive Kingsblood out of his tower."

"That fucking ponce loves his towers," Hatch laughed.

The Weeper was sweating through his furs now, his voice clearly turning ragged. But he kept going on. He stopped only to spit or swallow, then launched into new tirades, each fouler than the last. By the half-hour mark, Jon's head was starting to ache from the sheer volume of it. By the hour mark, even Sonagon had lifted his head from the riverbank to rumble in mild irritation.

Then, at last, a heavy groan of ironwood echoed from above.

A secondary gate of Stonetooth Haven began to shudder open, above a steep switchback path wide enough for only one man at a time, an entrance impossible to take by force of arms.

The Weeper turned to Jon with a wild, satisfied grin. His voice was hoarse, but the words were clear enough. "Told you it would work, Snow."

Even the secondary/upper gate of Stonetooth Haven looked tough, thickly hewn from oak and ironwood and covered with bristling spikes. And even as he watched, the gate groaned open, shedding shards of frozen mud and icicles as it was fully pushed open.

From within, a huge, hulking figure of a man emerged from the shadows. After him, a column of armed figures began to descend the narrow, winding switchback path carved into the cliff.

"Halrak Stonetooth," Furs muttered. "That's a face ugly enough to never see again. Never thought I would."

Jon observed him curiously. The Stonehaven clan's chieftain looked like some of the cave dweller clansmen he had seen moving with Mance's host, which perhaps made sense. Like some of them, Halrak's skin, what he could see of it, was dyed blue and red, except for a thin margin around the eyes.

Beyond that, his skin was rough, marked with jagged scars from countless battles. He had an especially prominent, hook-shaped scar running from the edge of his lip, down his beard, and across a part of his throat. An ugly scar from a no-doubt ugly wound, and Jon wondered how he had gotten it.

He was a hulking man, huge even by the standards of wildling chieftains. His great beard, thick as woven iron, was streaked with grey, and hung far down his chest. He had a mane of hair falling down his back and sides, so thick that mane and beard and hair all blended together, forming an image of a man so hoary he could have almost been mistaken for a giant.

His eyes, however, were fully alert, and entirely cold. Like beady black stones pulled from a frozen river, emotionlessly sizing up the Weeper.

Halrak's look wasn't the anger Jon might have expected, nor the fear that numerous other tribesmen had shown before, but something close to indifference, as though the prospect of combat against one of the far north's most feared raiders was as natural to him as breathing.

In his hand, he held an… axe? It was as tall as the man's shoulder, and looked unusually fine for wildling standards.

No, not an axe, Jon realized.

It was a weapon that shouldn't have been in these lands. A halberd, double-edged, clearly forged of southern steel and well-cared for, freshly sharpened. Where had he gotten such a thing? It didn't look of Westerosi make. But the Stonetooth chieftain hefted it easily, resting it against his shoulder. He appraised the Weeper with a scornful eye, before his attention flickered to the raiders, then to Jon, and lastly and longest to Sonagon, resting in the waters of the river below.

"So you're haunting my river again, Weeper. Fled from the black crows, and now following a white crow and his beast. Bold. Pathetic. Mik'gor ana'tue." Halrak said, disdain tracing every one of his words. "Mag Skag'gram golos bar'grel."

"What did that mean?" Hatch muttered, asking Furs.

"'Great people of the rocks, come out to talk to pathetic coward whoreson,' or something like that, is what I think he just…" Furs muttered, trailing off as they all waited for the Weeper's reaction.

Several of the Weeper's more loyal raiders scowled, spat, or cursed.

"This'll be a bad one," Hatch sighed.

The Weeper spat on the ground, his eyes bulging. "Get down here and say that again, Halrak. Come! Face to face. Come and give me your tongue, old man! I'll wear your eyes for a necklace."

This is wrong, Jon thought. The Weeper would kill the man, and then the Stonehaveners would retreat into their caves once and for all, and refuse all further entreaties.

That could not happen.

Before the two men could properly square off against one another, Jon stepped forward in the path.

"No."

The word rang sharp, slicing through the tension before the Weeper could open his mouth again. Jon kept his eyes on Halrak. "He insulted you, my lord, but it's me you have a problem with."

Halrak's gaze turned to him, slowly. His features could have been carved from stone. "That so, boy?" he said slowly, voice dark.

"Aye," Jon said, taking another step forward. "You cut the bridge before we could speak, so the Weeper had to draw you out. But he isn't in command here. I am. And I will say my piece."

He heard how a murmur rolled through the raiders behind him, low and uneasy, just as murmurs spread amongst the Stonehaveners in turn. From the corner of an eye, Jon vaguely noticed Furs holding back the Weeper, muttering something conciliatory to the infuriated man, but Jon didn't stop.

"You've heard of the dead," Jon said, loud and clearly. "You know what's coming. You must know. The river won't save you. Your caves won't hold forever. When the snow falls and the wights come crawling, you'll be buried with the rest of the North."

One of the Stonehavener men - an equally bearded, equally ugly man who could have been Halrak's brother - gave his chieftain an uneasy look, muttered, something, but Halrak ignored him.

"I know of the dead, crow," Halrak said, his voice like gravel. "I haven't seen the bodies that don't stay down, but I have heard a hundred and more tales from those coming from the mountains, too many to ignore. I believe them. But I don't know you, and I don't believe you. A white crow riding a white demon, asking for trust like it's a gift freely given. You're either a child or a fool, and my Stonehaven will not parlay with either."

"You don't have to trust me," Jon said stubbornly. "I don't want your caves, your weapons, or your pride. You don't have to kneel. You only need to come south. I'll put your people behind the Wall. Give them food, shelter. "

"Behind the Wall, you say?" Halrak laughed. It was a deep, grinding sound, like stones being dragged across one another. "Mance promised the same. Mance Rayder. You, boy, think you can take my people, my name, my future - and then talk of my pride like it's something I get to keep if I were fool enough to listen to you?"

Jon felt a flicker of frustration but kept his voice calm. "I'm not here to steal anything. I don't want to take anything from you. The dead are marching, and your people won't survive up here alone. I'm offering you a chance to join us, to live."

Halrak's lips curled into a sneer. "A chance? You call this a chance?" He hefted his long axe onto his shoulder. "You want us to follow you? You want us to march behind a crow who thinks himself a king?"

Jon felt more than a mere touch of frustration now. "No," he said stubbornly. "I want you to live. That's all. I am not a king, nor do I seek to become yours."

Halrak's eyes narrowed. "Not trying to become a king, eh? Yet you come here with your promises of safety, backed by an army, same as Mance," Halrak's tone turned contemptuous. "I've seen empty promises from empty kings before. Stonehaven holds, and stone does not bend to fools!"

"Hear, hear!" one of the stone clansmen in back shouted, then spat in the snow. "Look where Mance's 'safety' got him."

Jon's anger flared. Several of the raiders behind Jon bristled. He only barely didn't do the same. Even in defeat, Mance Rayder didn't deserve to be insulted by men such as these. Little better than cowards.

"Yes, we've survived up here for generations without the 'help' of kings," Halrak said. "So, tell me true, crow. Why would we need your help now?"

Father, give me the strength to make stubborn fools see reason. "You need us because the dead won't care how strong your cliffs are, or how deep your caves go. Their numbers are beyond all reckoning. They'll climb every cliff, plumb every tunnel, and they'll take everything from you. They are coming as we speak. And when they arrive, you will fall. The white walkers will only add your corpses to their army before they move on to the rest of the north."

"Dire words, boy," Halrak said. Then his tone turned more musing. "But you are only a boy. What do you know of the threat beyond the mountains?"

"They aren't just in the mountains any more, man. They are here," Furs growled. "We've all seen them, only days past. They haunt the nights, the deep woods. Always waiting for a chance."

Every man with Jon agreed in their own way, nodding or exclaiming, stomping their feet or shouting out what they'd seen.

And like that, the Stonehaveners began to eye one another nervously.

Jon took new strength from the men's support. "I've seen the white walkers with my own eyes," he said with a low voice. "I've fought them. It's a miracle I'm still alive." Jon thought of the scar under his furs, sharp as a blade of ice. "If you stay here, alone, you'll be overrun. That isn't a threat. That is a promise." Halrak's eyes narrowed at him, dark, radiating skepticism. "But if you stand with us, we can fight them together, with the Wall under our feet."

Halrak Stonetooth opened his mouth, then hesitated, closed it. More murmurs were spreading between the Stonehavener men behind him, more askance glances being sent to their chief, though Jon saw he attracted just as many. He said nothing, just waited patiently. It seemed the men of both sides were making his argument for him.

"You don't have to kneel," Jon said quietly, after more than thirty seconds of scattered muttering had passed. "You don't even have to like me. All I ask is that when the dead come, your spears are pointed the same way as mine."

Halrak's dark eyes flickered from Jon, to the Weeper, to Sonagon, to the hundreds of raiders and free folk lingering by the river's bank, and then, back to Jon. "Wait here, boy."

Then he turned, motioning curtly to his men. The Stonehaveners retreated higher up the slope, gathered by the entrance to their cliff home. Some greybearded men and old women came out, and spoke with them as well. They began to speak amongst one another, then argue.

The wind picked up and howled. From the riverbank, it was too far to hear anything in detail. Jon saw Stonehavener's hands gesturing toward Sonagon, toward the cliffs, toward him. Some argued fiercely, stabbing fingers into the air; others shook their heads, grim. More than once, Halrak cut through the noise with a thump of his halberd's haft against the ground.

"They're weighing the offer," Furs said cheerily, clapping Jon's shoulder. "If they'd meant to drive us off, they'd have sent arrows by now. If they'd meant to welcome us, they'd have already opened the gates for you and offered you guest right. Coulda gone worse, all considered."

"I don't understand," Jon's frustrations rose from his throat. "Do they not know about the dead? How dire the threat is?"

"Nah, as their chief says it, they've known of them for years." Furs shrugged. "True, maybe they don't know how, ah, serious the threat is now, but I'd say the truth of it comes down to something simpler."

Jon gave him an impatient look. "What, then?"

Furs shrugged. "The stonefolk are cowards, really. They don't move easy, not for anyone or anything, no matter how smart it is. Mance figured that out quick enough. Would you be in a hurry to go anywhere if you had that for a home?" Furs pointed up at the cliffs, honeycombed with tunnels.

No, Jon had to admit that to himself. The Stonehavener's cliffside home truly was impressive, it would have been a respectable fortification even in the Seven Kingdoms. Here in the far north, it was perhaps peerless.

If he were in their place, Jon would look skeptically on all attempts to dislodge him from such a defensible position. Not without the greatest of cause. "Why haven't they driven us off yet, then?"

"Maybe they're smarter than they look," Furs replied easily. "They have to know about the dead, about the white walkers that shepherd them… but yeah, if I had to bet, I'd say they're arguing about you."

"Aye," Hatch rumbled. "Stonefolk don't trust easy, and they don't give a hoot about any clan outside their own. They're arguing if you're worth following, I'd say. You and your dragon. If they think you've got a solid shot at getting south of the Wall, well, that'd change some minds. They didn't like Mance's chances, back when he came knocking."

Jon gave the Weeper a glance, and the man said nothing - just snorted, nodding irritably a moment later.

At last, Halrak turned back. His men parted before him, several bowing as his stride took him past them. He walked with deliberate weight, his axe balanced on his shoulder as though it were no heavier than a shepherd's stick.

He stopped at the end of the switchback path and looked down, down, fixing Jon with his stare.

"You speak fair words, crow," he said, voice booming down the cliff face. "Words about survival, about the dead, about the Wall. But words are easy! And stone doesn't move for words." He jabbed the axe haft toward Jon. "You want Stonehaven's spears at your back? You want our children to march behind your dragon? Then show us! Show me."

A ripple of approval spread through the Stonehaveners, and cheers of assent came down from the cliffside, from the hundreds watching the proceedings.

Jon's heart sank. He had known this moment was coming, but he had hoped there might be another way, that words alone would be enough. He thought of the other clans, the ones already following, the ones yet to come. Would it always be like this? Always, duels? Always blood on the snow before the clans would bend?

Still, at least they were listening to him.

"Show us all! You want our spears, our hearts, boy?" Halrak boomed, for all to hear. "Then fight me! We settle this the old way, Steel to steel. You win, we follow. I win, you and your mongrel army piss off back upriver and die there. Just you and me, blade to blade. If you have even an inch of spine in you, if you claim to be man enough to have the Weeping Man follow you, you will agree. Like true men, we will fight."

He's confident. Jon looked Halrak up and down, considering the nature of this foe. The strength of his frame, the unusual weapon he carried. A decade younger than Braithe had been, at the least. A giant of a man somewhere in his forties, carrying a two-handed halberd with the ease of a light spear. He's sure he'll win.

Behind him, he could hear the Weeper chuckle hoarsely.

No, this will not be as easy as Braithe was.

"A duel, then," Jon agreed, drawing Dark Sister slowly as he shouted up the slope. "We settle it here."

Halrak said nothing in response. He only hefted his halberd and stepped forward, taking the switchback trail down the cliff. As he descended, his black eyes fixed on Jon and Jon alone.

Jon clenched and unclenched his sword hand, loosening and tightening his fingers on Dark Sister's grip. As Halrak faced off against him, he met the man's stone-cold stare with an unflinching gaze of his own.

"He won't go easy, Snow," the Weeper muttered under his breath, his eyes fixed on the figure descending the cliff's path toward them. "He's an old bastard, but strong as any chieftain, and cleverer than he looks. You'll have to kill him."

Jon tightened his grip on Dark Sister. It wasn't Longclaw, but still, its familiar weight offered some comfort. "I didn't come here to kill him, Weeper."

The Weeper gave him a sidelong glance. Then his face twisted, with cruel eyes. "That's what you always say, Snow. But hold back against this one, it's your blood that'll be in the snow."

Halrak Stonetooth now stood directly across from them, flanked by a small group of his warriors, each a big, big man in their own right. Now that Jon could look at him more closely, he could see better how Halrak truly was an imposing figure, taller and broader than even the Weeper, almost akin to Hatch in stature. The overall effect of his dyed skin, weathered and scarred by years of exposure to the elements, his long black-and-grey hair and beard, and rich furs presented a dread portrait, of the sort that northern lords told tales of.

His eyes, most of all, were sharp and black and cold, weighing him like a stone.

In his hand, Halrak carried a massive steel halberd, a weapon that should not have been in these lands. He wore no armor, only thick furs and leathers, but Jon knew better than to underestimate the strength of the man before him.

"You've come to take what isn't yours," Halrak called out, his voice booming out, then coming back, echoing across the cliffside. "To steal my people from their homes, just as that other crow, 'King' Mance Rayder, tried to do before you. If you want to lead us, white crow, you'll have to take it from me! We settle things here the old way, with muscle and stone!"

"Fine," Jon said quietly, drawing Dark Sister from its sheath. The blade gleamed in the open light, its Valyrian steel sharp enough to cut through almost anything. Once again. "As you say, my lord. We'll settle this the old way."

"Under the eyes of the gods," Halrak growled. "With all my people as witness. Come at me, crow! Jon Snow!"

He came at Jon, roaring as he took three gigantic steps, axe poised as if he were about to cut down a tree.

Jon readied himself, set his feet to the steps of Acorn's dance. And then Halrak's massive halberd swung towards him in a wide arc.

The massive weapon whistled as it came cutting for him, but Jon stepped back from the first blow, then parried the second and third.

Then, with a roar, Halrak cut down in a massive executioner's cut, almost straight down into the ground. Jon sidestepped quickly. The force of the blow sent dust and pebbles flying, but Jon remained steady, his eyes locked on Halrak even as the halberd remained in the ground.

He's stronger than me, but slower. Anyone could have seen that. Jon could have used this momentary advantage, darted forward, slashed Dark Sister for Halrak's gut. He almost did. But some deeper instinct told him that the older man had left this opening intentionally. His blade has a back edge, Jon saw, had seen. It's a trick. He wants to use his strength to trick me.

Jon did not attack. He kept his distance. He only raised his sword at a height, almost over his shoulder, his other hand held before him, waiting for whatever might come.

Acorn had taught him the value of patience in battle, and against this foe, he suspected that virtue would bring him far.

After a long moment, the old chieftain cursed. "Are you some kind of coward, boy?"

Jon held Dark sister loosely, eyeing the sharpened edge on the back of the halberd's head. How easily Halrak had held it, even with one hand. He's even stronger than he looks. "Raise your blade, my lord."

Halrak spat. And then, as Jon suspected, Halrak raised the halberd easily - too easily, with a single hand, as he strode towards Jon without even breaking his stride. Yes, it was a trap. He wanted to get me on the backswing.

They circled one another, sizing one another up once more. Jon stepped to the memory of Acorn's dance beneath the roots, presenting only his side to the larger, older man, never lowering his blade or averting his eyes. Watching, and waiting, as men from both sides bellowed encouragements from all around them.

Halrak lost his patience first. He charged for Jon, a wall of fur and blade and muscle, roaring with his halberd set to cut him in two.

Jon slid around the cut, and stepped in. The Valyrian steel blade bit into Halrak's side, cutting through the thick furs and drawing a sharp grunt of pain from the chieftain. But Halrak didn't falter. He swung the halberd again, this time more wildly, but Jon ducked under the blow, his sword slicing through the air as he aimed for Halrak's leg.

The blade connected, drawing a thin line of blood across Halrak's thigh. The older man staggered back, but his eyes burned with fury. "You think you can take me, crow?" he snarled, raising the halberd once more. "You're nothing but a pup!"

Halrak surged forward, closing the space faster than Jon had thought possible. Some second wind of strength. His halberd swung in a brutal, sideways sweep that Jon barely ducked beneath. The wind of it tore at his hair, and then his back struck against a tree - a pine, broad in the trunk, nearly a foot across.

"Stone falls before me, crow!" he roared. The halberd came up high, then swung down with a savage force, a great sideways sweep.

Jon flung himself sideways at the last possible instant, rolling into the snow.

The halberd's blade cleaved into the trunk with a thunderous crack. Sap sprayed, wood split, and with a groan the pine toppled. Snow cascaded from its branches as it crashed to the ground, shaking the earth beneath Jon's knees.

Enthusiastic shouts came down from the cliffside. The onlooking Stonehaveners roared their approval, the echoes bouncing between the rock walls. The Weeper barked a laugh.

Jon scrambled to his feet, Dark Sister raised, his heart hammering. His eyes were wide as he stared at the fallen tree. That blow would have split me in two if I'd been half a breath slower.

Halrak, panting heavily, wrenched the halberd free of the fallen trunk with one hand and turned, grinning through the blood dripping down his side. Then he came at Jon once more.

Gods, he can swing a blade that big for longer than any man I've known. Jon responded to the attack, his blade parrying the next three strikes and then biting into Halrak's arm. He pressed the attack, darting in and out of Halrak's reach, responding to the far bigger man's movements as Acorn had taught him, his movements quick and precise. But he's finally tiring.

Dark Sister flashed in the fading light, each strike calculated, each movement fluid. Halrak was powerful, but Jon was faster. With each swing of the halberd, Halrak grew more sluggish, his movements more labored.

Finally, Jon saw his opening. Halrak's weapon came down in a wide arc, and Jon dodged to the side, bringing Dark Sister up in a swift, controlled strike. The blade sliced across Halrak's chest, cutting deep through the furs and into the flesh beneath.

Halrak let out a roar of pain, staggering backward, his grip on his halberd loosening. Blood dripped down his chest, staining the furred cloak he wore, but he didn't fall. Instead, he glared at Jon, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Yield," Jon said, panting with exertion. He tried to steady his voice. He needed to be commanding here. Like father would be. "It's over."

For a long moment, Halrak didn't move. His chest heaved with exertion, blood running down his side. Jon held Dark Sister warily, panting. The Stonetooth warriors watched in tense silence, their hands gripping their weapons, waiting for their chieftain's decision.

Finally, with a growl of frustration, Halrak let the halberd fall from his hands. It hit the ground with a dull thud, and the older man sank to his knees, his head bowed.

Halrak's people groaned all around him, even as Jon's burst into cheers.

"You've bested me, Snow," Halrak muttered, his voice low. "I'll follow you. But my people will not kneel."

The cheers heightened all around Jon. And, Jon noted, Halrak's people didn't look as upset as he might have expected. He might have even heard a few thin cheers coming from the cliffs. Interesting. Confusing, as well. Perhaps the Stonetooths weren't as united in their obstinacy as I thought?

Jon nodded, sheathing Dark Sister. "I don't need them to kneel. I need them to fight. Together, we stand a chance against the dead. Alone, we fall."

The Stonetooth warriors slowly lowered their weapons, their eyes still wary, but the tension in the air began to ease. Jon extended a hand to Halrak, pulling the older man to his feet.

"Your people are strong," Jon said quietly. "We need that strength."

Halrak met his gaze, a grudging respect in his eyes. "You'll have it, Crow. I will go see to my wounds. Then I'll get my folk in order."

"How much time do you need to join our march?" Jon asked.

"We can't follow you immediately, but in a few days, we will set forth," Halrak sighed. "On my clan's name, it will be done. Later." He fixed Jon with a final, bared-teethed grin. "Now I'll go see to these cuts before I keel over. Good fight, boy!"

The older man turned away without another word.

As Halrak retreated into Stonetooth Haven, as his cave dweller warriors gathered around their defeated leader, the Weeper approached Jon, his voice a mutter. "Well fought, Snow. I was almost hoping you'd kill him."

Jon's breath was calm again, now. He shot the Weeper a sharp look. "There's been enough death."

The Weeper grunted, not disagreeing. "Still, it's good to show strength. Now the Stonetooths know who's in charge."

But do you? Jon wondered - but he didn't say it. He knew that this victory was only the first step. The dead were coming, and there would be more battles ahead. But for now, the Stonetooths were his, and they would fight beside him when the time came. His greater worry was keeping the Weeper placated, willing to follow, willing to be led. The Weeper respects nothing but strength. If I want this all to work…

Furs, standing at the back of the group, nodded approvingly. "You've earned their respect, Snow. That's what matters."

Jon glanced up at the cliffs above. The Stonetooth Clan had stood alone for generations, but now they would fight for something greater than just their survival. Just as he would have to. Jon sighed at the thought. I have to keep fighting, don't I? For how long?

Bringing all of these clans of wildlings and savages to the east, against their will. And I'm planning to bring them all south. Am I making the right decisions? And if I'm wrong, who would tell me?

The Weeper wouldn't hesitate, certainly, but the less said of that savage and his decisions, the better.

…What would father do, if he were here, faced with these choices?

Eddard Stark, leading wildlings away from the dead. Jon could scarcely even imagine. He would have never been in this situation at all, most likely.

He settled to an easier question. What would Robb do? And Jon almost laughed.

He would fight, for as long as it takes. Robb wouldn't back down, he wouldn't stop. He would see the greater duty, and he would fight. Fight for the living, for all those yet to live. And Jon could do no less. With or without his oaths to the greenseer or the Night's Watch. With or without his honor, or his family, the dead needed to be fought, and he would fight them. For the dawn.

Jon didn't even bother to learn the name of the sixth village's chieftain. Nothing but a raider in his late twenties who used a Thenn's sword, who submitted as soon as Dark Sister cleaved through his bronze blade.

The seventh village they came upon was likewise abandoned, as were the eighth and the ninth a few days after.

But the tenth village was worse than abandoned.

It had been burned, and not by the dead.

Jon walked through the blackened ruins of a recent slaughter. Ghost was silent at his side, and his boots crunched over frost-coated ash. He walked carefully, mindful of his still-healing leg. The huts here had mostly all collapsed - collapsed from fire - fire, everywhere, not some more peaceful cause.

This village was burned, Jon thought with certainty, looking around. But by who? Why?

He laid a hand on Ghost's head. He had no particular reason, mostly he was just taking comfort in his direwolf's warmth. It was eerie to walk in this… silent grave of a village. Judging by the scale of it, this place must have teemed so recently with life. He saw accommodations for at least a hundred families, mostly all crude huts by the riverbank. Crude, yes, but solid and strong, hard-packed with wood and mud until they were as thick as any northerner peasant's dwelling.

But now it all lay silent, as dead as any graveyard he had ever seen.

"This was no wight's work," Furs muttered. "This was men."

"Aye," Hatch grumbled, nudging at a collapsed frame with the butt of his axe. "I remember this place. Big Otter's Rock here," then he pointed at the opposite shoreline, where the ruins of a smaller, equally burned village could be found, "and Little Otter's Rock over there. Twin villages, near two hundred families lived here between the two of 'em last time I was hereabouts."

"Looks like, eh, ya, raiders got them both," a younger member of the Weeper's warband, a callow-faced youth named Gregg Sheepstealer said in a thick accent.

"River raiders," Hatch spat. "Who else could've hit both shores?"

Furs shrugged. "Could've been Thenns coming down from the mountains. Or whatever's left of Kingsblood's lot, Redbeard Tower ain't far from here. Maybe even breakaway Stonetooths heading downriver."

"What happened to the people?" Jon asked quietly.

"That's what I'd like to know, Snow," Furs sighed. "Let's keep looking. Look for blood, bodies. If there are any."

Jon kept moving, on his own but for Ghost. He inspected the shadowed interior of another burnt-out hut. This one's rafters were split and sagging, and everything within had burnt to char. The hides that had once served as insulation were all curled into greasy cinders. The scent of smoke still lingered faintly all throughout the village, though the snows had covered most of the wreckage.

Jon paid a part of his mind to Ghost, for the direwolf's senses were far keener than his own. But the direwolf was only scanning the emptiness quietly, not noticing anything in particular.

Is there truly nothing here but death? Jon wondered. …No, that isn't quite right.I've seen no bodies, not even any bones. This silence was worse than a battlefield's. Villages full of the dead left evidence of the dead. This was emptier still, as if the fire itself had carried the people away. Where are the people?

Then Jon stopped. Movement caught his eye.

At the far end of the village, at the threshold of an especially large hut that had clearly once been some communal structure, he saw a flash of motion in the dark interior.

Ghost bared his teeth, hackles rising silently. Jon immediately unsheathed Dark Sister. His heart was racing from the sudden surprise.

But nothing came out to attack him.

He stopped, peering into the lodge as his eyes adjusted to the dark. A shape shifted in the shadows. Jon stilled, searching the darkness with his eyes. It's small, whatever it is. He gestured for the others to hold back and stepped forward alone.

Inside, the gloom stank of soot and sickness. Whatever the small thing was, it fled deeper into the darkness. To a pallet of hides that lay near the hearth.

And upon those hides crouched an old woman.

Jon wasn't even certain if he could call her a survivor, not at first. Her hair was as white as snow, not like Jon's but white with age. Her body was little more than skin and sticks. She clutched a ball of fur against her chest as though it were a child. Only after a moment did Jon see the fur was alive - a pup of a dog, whimpering softly.

A puppy. So that's what it was, Jon realized. How did these two survive?

At his approach, the old woman rocked and wailed. There was a strange, hair-tingling pattern to what she was saying - it was in the Old Tongue, whatever it was. A sound halfway between a chant and a cry. A death chant? Jon had heard of these among the wildlings. Implorations to the old gods before death.

Jon knelt and lowered his sword. "Peace," he said, trying to make his voice as soft as he could. "Peace, grandmother. We mean you no harm."

She didn't stop. She did not even notice him. He saw only a glimpse of her eyes, milky and unfocused, white as snow and blind as winter. She was still chanting words in the Old Tongue. Words he didn't know, words she never stopped chanting. Her voice was cracking with every other word.

"She's been cared for," Furs said from behind his shoulder, having entered the hut at some point. The big man indicated with the head of his axe a pot of water at the old woman's side, and a stack of blankets over in the corner. "Someone kept her alive."

Jon didn't respond. He just drew a piece of bread from his satchel. In this cold it would be as hard as stone, but Hatch helpfully softened it in a cup of broth he'd procured from gods only knew where. Jon brought it to the old woman's lips, guiding her head gently to the cup.

After a moment, she sniffed, trembled, and began to sip.

For the first time, her wailing quieted.

Jon brushed a strand of hair back from her brow. She smelled of smoke and sickness, but she drank like a starved babe, and the sound of her swallowing was the only living sound in the room.

"Who is she?" Jon muttered. "What even happened here?"

Then the doorframe darkened.

A shadow filled it. A massive, particularly ugly shadow. A man stepped in with shoulders as broad as a bull's.

Jon turned, and found himself staring into a face thick and brutish, with a tangled beard. Scars crisscrossed the skin of the ugly figure's face.

There was something else, something outside of the hut stomping closer. Jon looked past the big wildling, and heard a loud sound: a grunting squeal of a breath.

And then, tusks came into view.

Furs and the others raised their axes in alarm when a great boar the size of a horse shoved its head inside the hut. Or rather, tried. Its brindled hide was too large to even fit through the threshold, and it stared at them all with small, mean eyes.

"What are you doing with her?" the ugly man asked. Whoever he was, his voice was grinding: a guttural, ugly growl.

The ferocious figure had been staring at him the entire time, eyes meeting eyes, and instantly, Jon knew. He had felt this before, the pull of another presence larger than his own skin. Braithe had been only a pale shadow in comparison. The boar and this man - they were bound. This was no ordinary raider.

"Down, Ghost," Jon muttered tightly. His direwolf was silently snarling at both boar and man, as viciously as he'd ever seen. Jon stood slowly, keeping his voice calm. He didn't want to start a fight here.

Ghost must have sensed his intentions, because his direwolf's hackles lowered. "We were caring for her," Jon said, more clearly now. "She was left behind. I suspect she's the last survivor."

The ugly man didn't respond, not at first. Just studied him, even as Jon studied him in turn. Jon felt… something from the man, a presence.

And in his beady black eyes, Jon saw recognition in the man, that he felt the same thing.

Jon knew this man. Not who he was, but what he was. Somehow, immediately.

"You're like me," the man said, baring yellowed teeth in something like a grin. "I see it on you. I smell it. You walk in beasts, brother."

Furs cursed behind Jon. "Gods save us. Another warg."

Jon met the man's gaze steadily. "And you are?"

The man pounded a fist against his chest. Bizarrely, the boar outside the hut stomped in mirror to the motion. "Borroq."

The man's accent in the Common was so thick the name came out half a grunt, half a snarl: as if it truly were shaped more by beast than man. Borroq even looked like a boar - his figure was thick, hulking, with a flat nose, thick black brow, heavy jowls dark with stubble. And most of all, his small, closely set, beady black eyes. An ugly, powerful man.

Borroq stepped further into the ruined hut, his brutish face glaring a warning at them all. The air seemed to thicken with the musk of beast and blood. "Raiders. What are you doing here?" Borroq's accent was so thick, it was hard to understand him. "There is nothing here left to raid. I am caring for her."

Jon tightened his hand on Dark Sister's hilt, but he didn't draw. "So were we, Borroq."

The boar snorted. Borroq grinned, showing teeth. "Then I have no fight with you, brother."

The old woman whimpered, clutching her pup tighter, which whined in turn.

Together, the two of them cared for the old woman until she fell asleep, as the warband's vanguard made camp in the ruins.