13: To Hardhome, Part 3

To Hardhome, Part 3

Jon

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

In the morning, the nameless old woman was dead.

A crude pyre was quickly built, overlooking the Antler's banks. Scraps of timber were pulled from the ruins, half-burned beams and whatever else would burn. Hatch easily split them with his axe, Furs dragged them into place, and the others stacked them high in a crude, uneven mound. Several dead trees from the area were also chopped down, their driest wood added to the pyre.

The pyre wouldn't burn well, Jon expected. The wood wasn't entirely dry, and there were no evergreen trees within ten miles of this part of the Antler, so he presumed the wood was all birch or willow. Neither burned as hot or quickly as the pine he would have preferred.

But it would serve.

When the pyre was finished with its construction, Borroq returned to the big hut and wrapped the old woman in her own blanket. He carried her to the pyre as though she weighed nothing at all. His boar trotted at his side, the while the pup of a dog trailed behind them both in an odd, pitiful sort of procession.

Jon's leg, wounded in the Frostfangs, was still healing, but it tended to hurt more often on colder mornings. He winced as he laid down a last piece of charred wood from the village.

It wasn't only the old woman who was being burned. The warband's refugee column had lost others on the march: two old men who could walk no further and had simply dropped dead, a bent-backed woman whose heart gave out in the snow, and a babe from a river clan's villagefolk who had sickened with a sudden fever.

None of them had been fighters. But they were his responsibility all the same.

Furthermore, they had found the bodies of the village's men and boys just past the outskirts. Some one hundred and sixty corpses, all in one place. A mass execution, the Weeper had said authoritatively, and Jon couldn't see any cause to disagree. The villager's killers had left the corpses all just lying there, not even beheaded - which had made the raiders all practically spit with anger.

Better to burn them all now, Jon thought, as the last of the bodies was stacked onto the pyre, than see them rise in the night with blue eyes. That they hadn't already been arisen by the enemy pursuing them was nothing but a stroke of fortune.

The Weeper took out a steel sparker, likely looted from a dead ranger, and someone produced a piece of flint. The flames caught quickly, and before long, smoke began to drift over the river. The pup whimpered at Borroq's feet, and the great boar snorted restlessly at the smell of death.

Jon stood silent a long while beside the older warg, until at last he asked quietly, "Who did this?"

"The Bloodhands," Borroq said, lowly. "They burned this place, sure as winter."

Jon had not a clue who they were. The Weeper must have seen his confusion, because he immediately growled in recognition. "They're the scummest scum at the bottom of the barrel of river scum, Snow. River raiders."

Pirates, then, Jon thought. Yet the word didn't seem large enough to encompass the ruin all around him.

"Why're you so certain, warg?" Hatch rumbled, looking at Borroq. "I ain't seen any markings I'd trace to 'em."

"I've been hunting them," Borroq said simply. "This is not the first clan they've ruined."

"And all we've got is your word?" Hatch looked at the boar warg skeptically, but Borroq only gave him a gimlet-eyed look.

"Take me at my word, Halfgiant," Borroq grunted, shrugged. "Or don't. Is all the same to me."

Men from around the camp looked at one another questioningly, as the pyre's flames burned. Wildlings don't trust skinchangers, Jon recalled Qhorin saying. Ygritte had said something similar at one point as well. Who would trust half a beast in half a man's skin? Only an entire fool, she had said.

Furs shook his head with a frown. "With respect, I've known of them for years, Weeping Man. Known them, sometimes. They'd sometimes come round my home, when they felt like traveling up on the coast past Old Mother's Crock. They were bad, aye - thieves. Cutthroats, when they had to be. But this…" He gestured at the burnt-out huts, the silence that had replaced a whole village. "This ain't like them. Killing and capturing a whole clan? Why?"

The Weeper gave Furs an ugly, disgusted look. "What do you think? Winter's upon us, Mance is dead or worse, the dead are coming, and the crows are still roosting pretty in their nests. Folk are thinking there's no way out. It's all driving every clan to madness. Desperation makes monsters out of men. But this—" He jabbed a finger at the pyre, at the smoke spiraling up into the pale sky. He looked at Jon. "This will have consequences, Snow. Free folk don't enslave free folk. Not ever. It's a line we don't cross."

A silence followed, heavy as ice. Men shifted uneasily, angrily eyeing one another.

Jon's eyes narrowed. I'm no wildling. I know nothing of wildlings, their ways, their manners of justice. I don't know how a leader of wildlings should act, here. He felt the weight of Dark Sister at his side. Within his glove, he clenched and unclenched his fingers. "Where are they, Weeper?"

"Not far," the warlord of a raider growled.

Jon nodded once. His jaw was tight, and his heart was cold. But I am my father's son. And father knew only one kind of justice for pirates.

Somewhere downriver, the Bloodhands were waiting.

They moved on not long after the sun rose.

Borroq and his monstrous boar had fallen in with the column, yet always kept to themselves.

With every stop, the great beast snorted and rooted at the snowbanks. Borroq for his part, spoke little with the warband. At night he always staked himself apart from the others. His fire burned alone, every night - just as he kept to himself, with the sole exception of the pup from the burned village. The dog always slept curled at Borroq's feet.

The rest of the camp gave him wide berth. Even the 'clanless' - a term that Jon was not familiar with, but seemed to hold some importance among the free folk who had rallied to the Weeper - avoided the boar warg.

Borroq, for his own part, seemed just as content to keep his distance from all the rest of the raiders. He never even acknowledged the existence of all the rest of the men and women and children following in the warband's wake.

It was unfortunate. Jon would have gladly taken the chance to learn from Borroq, to learn more of skinchanging, how free folk wargs taught themselves and others, how they lived with a gift that was as oft as not a curse in their culture. He remembered Luwin's tales of skinchangers, remembered Ygritte's half-jesting, half-wary stories. Borroq could have answered questions no maester ever could, questions he hadn't thought to ask the greenseer.

But when Jon went to him and asked, the man had only fixed him with that heavy boar's-eye stare and grunted, "I'm no teacher, Snow," before turning away without another word.

And that had been the end of it.

The warband pressed on. They followed the bends of the Antler, the river running black beneath veils of drifting ice.

They passed three other ruined villages. Each was a hollow grave of itself, each one marked by Bloodhand's red hand. Each village showed signs of slaughter: fire everywhere, slashed nets, abandoned homes. At one village, the bodies of dogs lay scattered in the snow, butchered where they had fought to defend their owner's homes. Fields of slaughter were found at each village, and each field had far, far more men than it did women.

"More Bloodhand work," Borroq muttered more than once, grunting pure ire whenever he saw the marks.

He had been hunting them for some time, as it turned out. Someone precious to him, slain, though Jon never could get the details. "Blood for blood," was all that he had said.

Sometimes they found signs of life, albeit scarce ones: a trail of footprints vanishing into the trees at one point, a scrawled warning carved into a log wall somewhere else. But the people themselves were gone. Whether they had fled, been taken, or lay dead beneath the snows, no one could say.

By night, the campfires burned, and Jon felt the eyes of his men on him. He found himself… strangely restless. Almost anticipating the confrontation waiting for them downriver.

Sonagon was proving increasingly difficult to manage - the warband was unable to keep up with the dragon's insatiable hunger. The Weeper grumbled of vengeance, Two-Notch Haldur muttered about ambushes on the river. Furs and Hatch conferred away from the others, quietly. Ghost prowled at the edges of camp, never straying far, while Phantom stayed farther afield, his eyes and ears against the pursuing dead.

And always, at the fringe of the fires, Borroq's boar snorted and pawed at the earth while its master sat in silence, disdainful of the company of everyone and everything, except for his boar and that scrawny little puppy. Borroq's heavy-lidded eyes reflected the flames as he sharpened the blade of his axe, for hours on end.

Jon lay awake long after the others had gone to sleep, listening to the slow rush of the river.

For tonight, at least, Ghost slept with him. The direwolf had silently slipped into his tent to curl up by his side. Taking solace in the warmth of Ghost's massive white form, he thought of the ruined villages behind them, of the dead who always followed, of the river raiders waiting ahead. And he thought of Borroq, who would not teach, and of Braithe, who could not teach. He thought of what it meant to be a warg in a land where even the best and strongest of them lived as outcasts and pariahs, hated at best and feared at worst.

And he thought of what kind of future might await for a dragon warg, the most powerful warg of all. He thought of Ygritte, gone or dead. He thought of the greenseer, alone under the roots, outliving all his friends and enemies, forgotten to the world, caught between life and death for an entire century, a man who had outlived even his own name. And amidst it all, Jon wondered about himself.

Was loneliness inevitable, for a man, for a being such as him?

The following evening, they found the home of the Bloodhands.

Bloodhand Hollow, the fifteenth village of the Lower Antler, was an even nastier, more brutal affair to resolve than Jon had expected.

The settlement was more or less what he'd expected from the warband's stories: a collection of ancient, broad, squat towers of stone, ringed by stakewalls. It lay on a long island between the frozen banks of the lower Antler, with half a dozen squat stone towers scattered across the interior of the icy island. Apparently it had been built by some long-dead King-Beyond-the-Wall.

Regardless, it was well defended, well manned. At least by the standards of wildlings.

None of which had done the Bloodhands any good. Their wooden walls lay shattered for a hundred feet from the wake of a single lash of Sonagon's tail. Terrified Bloodhand clanfolk peered out from dozens of huts, from the open air, from atop their towers.

Jon stood at the edge of the village, gripping an unsheathed Dark Sister. His breath misted in the frigid air as the warband's vanguard assembled behind him. His eyes were fixed on what had to be the chieftain of this village - Barrad Bloodcloak.

Barrad looked unusual for a wildling, with a slightly sallower cast to his skin and narrower eyes than a normal Westerosi's. Perhaps he had ancestry from Essos, not that it mattered. What Jon truly noted were the twin axes at his side, the bloody red cape he had heard stories of, and the scheming, cold smile the man wore.

The villagers, some two hundred or slightly less in number, watched in tense silence from the shadows of their homes and the outskirts of the fighting pit. He could feel their gazes, see their suspicion and fear, their uncertainty and hatred as their eyes flitted between himself and Barrad. Jon's best men stood to one side, the villagers on another.

Behind him, the ground trembled faintly with each of Sonagon's restless movements. Jon kept a thread of his attention on the dragon and on the archers in the Bloodhand's remaining watchtowers… not that he needed to, because Sonagon's attention had been on them for this entire time. The dragon loomed behind them all, wings tucked in tight and jaws glowing - ready to release frostfire on the archers at a moment's notice.

Yet as Jon's gaze passed over the crowd, something struck him. There were women everywhere. He saw women by the dozen, by the score, many pressed close together. Women who were painted, tattooed, bald… it had to be women from at least a dozen different clans. Many were bruised. For every man Jon saw in Bloodhand Hollow, there were at least five women. And that was only the ones left in plain sight - not the ones surely locked away. Why? What was going on here?

Barrad followed the direction of his attentions. And then he laughed, throwing his arms wide. His cloak billowed crimson behind him. "You see them, white crow? My brides, my thralls. What Mance never gave me, I took for myself!" He barked a cruel laugh. "Every boat I raided, every clan I burned, I brought back spoils. The best spoils."

At his gesture, a girl was shoved forward from the press of women. Whoever she was, she was striking - red-haired, high-cheeked. Her blue eyes were still bright even through numerous bruises. Barrad gripped her arm possessively.

"When I first got her, she fought me," he bragged, his grin wolfish. "A maid, kissed by fire, pure as springwater and screaming like a wildcat. Never had a wench who did so much biting and scratching. Drew this scar—" He tugged down the edge of his cloak to show three pale lines across his collarbone. "But then I brought out the whip. She learned better. Now she fucks as good as any whore." The girl flinched at the word, shrinking from his grip. Barrad laughed again, cruel and triumphant, shoving her back into the crowd of women. "That's what the whip's good for, boy. Teaching your women. And now I've got dozens."

Jon's hand tightened on Dark Sister's hilt, his eyes fixed on the girl's hair before he came back to himself. His heart pounded in disgust, and he could almost feel the need to step forward and right this wrong with Dark Sister's edge. He felt the gazes of his men behind him, the villagers before him.

"Do you have a point, pirate?" Jon asked coldly.

"Got me wrong there, white crow," Barrad laughed, scathingly. "My daddy was a pirate, from across the Narrow Sea. Me? I'm just a raider, and a raider's just a man who knows what he wants, and how to get it," he smirked. "And see, there's something I want. I want a deal, you and me."

"A deal." Jon said flatly.

"Tribute," Barrad said, giving Sonagon a wary nod. "I'd say you've earned some, eh? I'll give you and yours half my women, a good part of my treasure and larders, and you just go and get yourself on to, eh, wherever it is you're going. No skin off my back, no skin off yours. And in return, none of this has to go and get bloody."

Jon went stiff. Surely he does not mean…

Barrad only went on, uncaringly. "Me and my boys have been too successful, you see?" he spread his arms, indicated their entire surroundings. "Got more pretty mouths than we've got food to feed. I'll give you first pick on the ten prettiest, aside from my own wives." The man in the bloody cloak grinned. "Good deal, eh?"

He would have me be a buyer of slaves. A slaver like him. Jon felt his disgust harden into hot, clean anger. His tumultuous thoughts found certainty. The Weeper called him a coward, that he grew to infamy not for striking at crows but for preying on his own. He said that not even Mance wanted Barrad Bloodcloak. So this is why.

Jon raised Dark Sister. "There will be no deal, Barrad," he said coldly. "You will surrender, and you and your people will join our march to Hardhome. Or you will die here."

The wind howled down the riverbank, carrying with it the bite of winter. Barrad didn't reply. He only reached his hands for his twin axes hanging at his sides, as his face twisted into a sneer. His people stood behind him, watching their leader, waiting for his word.

"I'm not Mance Rayder," Jon continued, his voice and his sword arm steady. "I'm not a King-Beyond-the-Wall, and I'm not asking you to bend the knee. But you will do as I say. This is about survival. The dead are marching, once and for all, and they won't care about your captives, your 'deals', or your misbegotten pride."

Barrad spat on the ground. "Fuck you, white crow. And fuck the dead too! This is my island! Here, my Bloodcloaks can fight an army! I didn't kneel to Mance, and I'm not kneeling to you," he growled, as his voice turned thick with contempt. "You think because you have a demon at your beck and call that I'll follow? That I'll crawl on my belly like some dog?"

Jon stood firm. He had suspected from reputation that Barrad Bloodcloak wouldn't be an easy man to bring over, but now, he no longer wanted to bring him over at all.

He's a killer through and through. Not even Mance wanted him, Jon told himself. This one, I can kill.

But Jon's eyes slid over to all the women and numerous children in this settlement, and Barrad's men. They're all river raiders. Meaning that they know how to take to sea. We need them. No matter their crimes. Too much is at stake.

"Your people will die if they stay here, Barrad," Jon shouted for the benefit of the surrounding crowds. "And I have no interest in your home! There's no hope anymore in the far north - the Frostfangs made that clear! But south of the Wall, there's still hope! If you stay here, you'll all freeze - and then, when the dead come, they'll take everything!" Jon shouted as loud as he could, said, voice rising against the icy wind. "What does anything matter compared to that?"

"You think we fear the dead?" Barrad's eyes gleamed with fury, and he took a step forward, his hand resting on one of his axes. "We've lived with death all our lives. I don't need your demon, and I don't need you." He unsheathed his axes, the metal catching the dull light of the overcast sky. "I'll show you who kneels, crow. You're just a boy, you're nothing! Nothing but Mance Rayder's biggest mistake."

The village grew deathly silent. The only sound was the crackling of dying fires and the distant murmur of the river. Jon felt the eyes of his warband behind him, felt the tension ripple through the air. This wasn't about negotiations anymore. This was about pride, about power, about Barrad's refusal to submit.

The Weeper stepped up beside Jon, his scarred face twisted in a dark smirk. "Told you he'd be trouble," he muttered. "Bloodcloak doesn't know the meaning of surrender."

"He'll learn," Jon said quietly, his gaze never leaving Barrad's. He stepped forward, Dark Sister in hand. "This doesn't have to end in blood, Barrad," Jon said more loudly. "Think of your people."

"In a hundred years, my people will remember me as the one who never kneeled!" Barrad snarled - and with a roar, he charged.

Focus. In that space between the breaths of battle, as Barrad came at him, Jon centered himself.

He thought of his next actions. How he might approach this battle. Barrad didn't deserve an honorable duel. It wouldn't be wrong to allow Sonagon to crush him—

No. Sonagon didn't know the meaning of restraint. If the dragon took action, the archers on the watchtowers might panic and let loose their shafts, which would most likely provoke Sonagon into a rampage, which in turn would result in a mass slaughter of these people by the hundreds. If that happened, even protecting his own men might be impossible.

No, only one man needed to die. And for that man, Jon would spare no more consideration. All he could do now was focus on the enemy before him.

Barrad's axes met Dark Sister in a blur of motion. Then Jon met him again head-on, blade flashing as it caught his second set of strikes. The clang of steel rang out, echoing through the village. Barrad swung again, faster this time, but Jon sidestepped, his training taking over as he settled into a defensive posture.

Jon did not experience battle fever. That fugue-like state that some raiders spoke of had rarely been in him, and it would take a better fighter than this to bring it out. Barrad though, clearly fought like a berserker, each blow delivered with savage strength. His axes were heavy, meant to cleave through armor and meat and bone, and every swing carried with it the full force of his rage. But he was sloppy to Jon's eyes, predictable.

Barrad cut out at him half a dozen times. Jon evaded or parried the blows easily, stepping back each time, sacrificing space for control. He observed Barrad's furious movements through distant eyes even as Dark Sister danced in his hands, parrying or sliding each strike to the side. He could see the man's frustrations climbing.

Then Barrad overreached, and Dark Sister slashed across Barrad's arm, drawing a deep gash. But the wildling barely flinched. His eyes were wild with fury.

"Yield!" Jon shouted, even as he blocked another brutal strike, then stepped out of the way of another. "This isn't what your people need!"

Barrad only laughed, the sound guttural and mad. Blood trickled down his arm, staining the snow beneath them. "Blood is all they need! The blood of the enemy, the blood of traitors, the blood of crows!"

Without warning, Barrad reached into a pouch at his belt and pulled out a twisted, dried mushroom. His eyes gleamed with manic intensity as he shoved it into his mouth and swallowed.

A berserker mushroom? Jon's heart sank. He had heard ranger's tales of these: a tactic for only the maddest of the mad even among wildlings.

The effect took hold within moments. Barrad's body convulsed, his muscles bulging unnaturally, veins standing out across his neck and arms. His eyes widened, filled with an inhuman rage, and his breathing grew erratic. He let out a primal scream, an animalistic sound that sent a chill down Jon's spine.

Barrad charged again, his axes swinging wildly, faster and harder than before. Jon barely managed to block the first strike, the force of it sending a jolt of pain up his arms. Barrad's movements were erratic now, driven by sheer frenzy, but that made him all the more dangerous. His axe glanced off the mail on Jon's side but failed to cut through, still sending a sharp pain through his ribs. Jon gritted his teeth and held his ground.

Focus. Barrad's screams were incoherent, the sound of a man lost to madness. Anticipate his actions. Jon stepped back from five axe strikes, had to parry a sixth. Then Barrad's strikes just kept coming, like some storm of steel, each one faster, more desperate than the last, and Jon knew he had to end it. He couldn't outlast Barrad's berserker fury, but he could outfight him. Let the wind pass, and when it does… strike!

With a sudden twist of his body, Jon sidestepped the next wild swing and drove Dark Sister upward. The Valyrian steel blade slid through Barrad's throat with a sickening ease, cutting through flesh and bone. The wildling's eyes bulged, his scream turning into a gurgling choke as blood poured from the wound.

Jon twisted the blade and pulled it free, stepping back as Barrad staggered. The wildling dropped to his knees, his axes falling uselessly to the ground. His hands clawed at his throat, trying to stem the blood, but it was futile.

With a final, ragged breath, Barrad Bloodcloak collapsed face-first into the snow, jerked twice, and was still.

Silence fell over the village. The only sound was the soft crackle of the fires and the steady breathing of Jon's warband. Jon stood over Barrad's lifeless body, his chest rising and falling heavily, the pain in his side throbbing. He sheathed Dark Sister, his gaze shifting to the people of Bloodhand Hollow, who watched with wide eyes, their fear mingled with awe.

The Weeper stepped forward, his expression unreadable as he looked down at Barrad's corpse. "Told you he was a tough bastard," he said, his voice low.

Jon wiped the blood from his mouth, wincing at the sharp pain in his side. "He didn't have to die," he muttered, shaking his head. "His people needed him."

The Weeper spat on Barrad's corpse. "His people needed a leader who'd get them south, not this slaver scum. And no people need an idiot who'd fight to the death over pride when winter is coming."

Jon hesitated at those words, then nodded. He glanced at the gathered villagers. All the women's faces were so pale in the cold, but still, he was seeing hope in those gazes.

"You'll have them now," the Weeper said, warning. "But don't think for a second they'll forget what you did." Then the Weeper smirked, cruelly. "If you don't want all this lot to start hating you inside a week, you better be able to keep those mouths fed."

The larders. Jon turned away from Barrad's body, his eyes sweeping over the village, suddenly more tired than the battle should have left him. There's still so much to do.

The people of Bloodhand Hollow stared back at him, fear and hope still evident in their expressions. But now, they weren't looking at Barrad's corpse. They were looking at him. And behind him, Sonagon's massive form loomed, a reminder of the power Jon carried.

The villagers began to kneel, one by one, until all of Bloodhand Hollow was bowing before him.

So many people. And like the Weeper said, now I have to care for them. The very thought gave him a sense of exhaustion. Another life taken, another battle won - but at what cost?

Whatever the price was, he would pay it, and keep paying it a thousand times over if need be. When Jon started issuing orders a moment later, the people moved quickly, and soon the fight was forgotten amidst the preparations.

When it was nearly dusk, Borroq found Jon at the edge of the island, staring at the black water slipping past.

"Justice is done," the boar-warg grunted, as Jon approached and stood beside him. Borroq didn't look away from the river. Just stared into its depths, as though they might have held something he sought.

Jon looked at him. The man's eyes were heavy, his expression as unreadable as ever. The pup from the burned village slumbered at his feet, nose tucked to tail.

"Who did you lose?" Jon asked quietly.

Borroq's mouth opened slightly, then closed. He shook his head. "The names of the dead are bone. I keep mine."

Some wildling expression Jon had never heard before. Or perhaps they were his words alone. "…I think I understand. Where will you go, now?"

Borroq thumbed frost from his beard. Stared northwards. "After Howd Wanderer."

Jon frowned. "I thought he died. He hasn't been seen since the Frostfangs."

"No," Borroq grunted, curtly, as heavy and certain as stone. "Saw him and his sons get away. Dogs with sleds. He left his… left someone important to me. She died, here on the river. I mean to find him, tell him."

The boar snorted somewhere in the dark beyond. Then Borroq bent down, picked up the puppy, and his boar came over. Before long, he was sitting astride his great boar like it was a horse.

After the boar was ankle-deep in the river's cold water, Borroq looked back across the island - at the kettles, at the freed, at the dragon drowsing full by the river. "Good luck to you, brother," he said gruffly. "Hardhome's still a long journey, and the dead won't stop coming."

"And to you," Jon said. "If you find him—"

"Don't worry on my account, Snow." Borroq gave him a thin, bitter smile. He laid a thick hand atop his boar's head. "Living or dead, we'll be marching to that crow Wall of yours. But, my vows come first."

Borroq left without another word, without farewell - one man and one great boar fading across the water and ice until they vanished into the mists. For a while, Jon watched the place where the river fog had taken him, until there was nothing to see but swirling currents of fog and the faint tracks of a beast too heavy to be impeded by snow.

He turned back to the work. There were sick and wounded to be laid near the fires, and countless traumatized women to care for, which would present its own problems of discipline among the men. Something would have to be done about the surviving Bloodcloak raiders. There were sleds to lash, barges to stock and tallies to double.

He ended up concerning himself mainly with the Bloodcloak's prisoners. He found the red-headed girl Barrad had shown off like a trophy and asked her name. "Ress," she said after a long time. She had no relation at all to Ygritte, it turned out.

Night gathered. Sonagon slept, belly on the riverbank, half in and out of the river, his cold breath fogging the water all around him. The Weeper's men took watches atop the broken towers. Somewhere far upriver a wolf howled; Ghost's ears perked, but he did not answer with his own howl. He never did, and probably never would, except if they somehow encountered other direwolves again. Jon lay down at last under a leather awning that flapped with the wind. For a few precious hours, he almost managed to sleep properly.

When he woke in the small hours the sky had mostly cleared. After packing just about everything in the Bloodcloaks armory and larders, after everything had been taken that could be taken, his men started ferrying the captured women to the shore atop the barges, twenty at a time.

Then the day broke, clean and hard.

And they moved on, heading eastwards. Always, eastwards.

The sixteenth and seventeenth villages were both abandoned. Nothing but windblown ghost towns, slowly being covered in snow. Silent graveyards waiting silently on the Antler's frozen banks.

The Bloodhands hadn't just hit the villages upriver from them, apparently.

The eighteenth village had a survivor, if he could be called that, remaining in the whole of the village; a single, entirely mad, piss-streaked old man, legs frozen, beard turned to an icicle, sitting in a rocking chair as he waited to die.

This village hadn't been hit by the Bloodhands, as far as the raiders could tell. The clan here had simply packed their things and headed downriver, leaving this one old great grandfather of a man behind to his miserable fate. Too familiar a story, now.

All Jon could get out of him was the chants, that he kept shrieking into the wind. "Hardhome, Hardhome… The promised salvation, they're all saying it. Salvation! Hardhome. Go to Hardhome, and find salvation…"

Half an hour later, they left him behind, and headed downriver.

For Greensight Hold.

The nineteenth village had Jon's most difficult duel of all.

"Careful of this one, Snow," Furs muttered. "I wouldn't normally put a spearwife up against a raider in a straight fight, but this here lass is an exception."

"Aye," Hatch agreed amiably. "Haven't seen her before myself, but heard stories. Stay quick on your feet."

"Who is she?" Jon asked, as the spearwife waited for him in the fighting pit, looking up at him with a mix of curiosity and anticipation.

There had been little preamble of negotiations in approaching this village. The tales spreading downriver of Jon's duels had apparently preceded them. As a result, this small village - Greensight Hold - had been ready for him, the clan's best warrior ready and waiting to fight.

Their commitment to the old ways was noteworthy. But Jon had not expected their best fighter to be a woman. A spearwife that scarcely looked more than a few years older than him.

"She goes by Laisa Threespear, last I heard," Furs said easily. "Now, she ain't a raider, but she's said to have killed raiders who've been over the Wall more than half a dozen times. In straight fights, mind. She's got a reputation up and downriver as being something special among spearwives - and she's supposed to be a warg, besides. Mance came calling for her and her clan, a year or so back. Didn't follow him in the end, though."

"Why?"

Furs shrugged. "Dunno. All I know is this clan's an old one, thick with woods wargs and woods witches, and she's supposed to be a tough one even among them. Just be careful, is all I'm saying."

Jon noted the warning silently, then focused on the foe before him. As Furs said, the woman was a warg. There could be no mistake: Jon could sense it when he met her eyes, there was a presence to this woman beyond her own skin, like Borroq.

The woman had long, flowing black hair, a cocksure grin, and her sword seemed to reflect that - a curved steel blade that didn't look Westerosi, the edge was jagged instead of straight-edged. Jon had heard of weapons like this. Blades meant to bleed, rather than kill. A type of blade more oft seen from the hairy men of Ib than any Westerosi, if he remembered correctly. Curious to see such a blade here.

Notably, despite her title by reputation, he saw no spears on her. Or even a spear, for that matter. Just the sword without even a corresponding shield. Why?

Jon descended to the village's fighting yard. Jon stood at one end of the yard, Dark Sister in hand. A smattering of cheers rang out from both sides, in support of their fighters. But Jon had no eyes for them, nor did his opponent.

"So you're the white crow, eh?" she grinned, as he stepped into the fighting ring. Her vivid green eyes locked on his. "Stories said you'd be taller."

Jon raised a brow. "I'm sorry to disappoint, my lady."

Her grin widened. "Yes, I could do with being called a lady more often. Nice on the ears."

Jon drew Dark Sister from its sheathe. "Prepare yourself, my lady."

She laughed, her expression as amused as it was anticipating. Her expression, stance, form, all of it was as taut and hungry as a bowstring. She wants this, Jon realized. She wants the fight. "I'm surprised I'm hearing no smart words from you, crow. Fought spearwives before, have you?"

"Is that not normal for the free folk?" Jon asked, with a vague sort of curiosity as he stood with Dark Sister in hand.

She chuckled slowly, settling into a fighting stance. Her green eyes gleamed with the light of the setting sun. "Oh, it's been the same every time I've ever fought one of you southrons. Men and women in all their neat little southron roles. They don't understand those who don't fit. Spearwives confuse them. Fools that they are."

Jon supposed that made sense. The lands of the far north had a very different understanding from the rest of Westeros on who could fight, and who couldn't. The roles of gender were far less strictly defined in these lands - a major part of why the wildlings were considered wildlings.

But after meeting Ygritte, his own thoughts on such matters had changed. Let alone after meeting Acorn. "Skill with a blade has nothing to do with one's birth," Jon said neutrally. "A sword doesn't care who wields it."

"Well said." She gave Jon a sharp, knifelike grin. "Now then. Last chance to back out and be on your way, crow," she said, spinning her blade with casual expertise. "Greensight Hold ain't far from the sea. Would be a shame if the white crow went and died here like some dumb sod in the mud."

"You first," Jon said coolly, holding Dark Sister in a swordbreaker's stance he had learned from Rodrik Cassel - Winterfell's master of arms - long ago. Judging from the skeptically raised eyebrow, the wildling woman clearly didn't recognize his one-handed defensive form, but she didn't comment. Jon was coming to find that these defensive stances went well with the wood dance, could be easily integrated into the martial forms of the children of the forest. "Walk away. Or don't."

"Heh," Laisa snorted. "The white crow has balls." Then her eyes darkened in shadow. Playful humor gave way to a calm focus as she took her own stance. "Let's see if you still have them by the time I'm through with you."

Jon didn't bother replying. He reviewed what little he knew of this spearwife. Laisa Threespear isn't the chieftain of Greensight Hold, he recalled Furs saying. He tightened his grip on Dark Sister. She's acting in the stead of her great-grandmother, a woman so old she can't even leave her bed, supposedly. She's the clan's voice, their first spear. I was told she uses multiple weapons, but I only see the one. She's a warg, but I see no animal. Is she trying to trick me?

Just in case, Jon reached out to Sonagon, asking that the dragon currently resting on the riverbank be ready to intervene in case this village's welcoming posture was a facade and this was all one great ambush. If these people did choose to dishonor themselves, their village would turn red with blood. Jon prayed he would not have to make that choice, and focused on the foe before him.

There was no urge to attack straight away. Jon only took a deep breath, and observed his opponent. She did no less.

He took a step to the side, and she shifted to her left. Not lazily, but slowly. Her movements were steady. Even her eyes were steady, following his movements with a sort of calm indifference that Jon had seen in few, very few fighters. But where? Where had he seen those eyes before? Acorn's bored contempt and disdain sprang to mind, but no, not her. Someone… else.

But like Acorn, he saw no obvious weaknesses, nothing in this woman's stance, no obvious chinks he could exploit.

But she was no Acorn, Jon was certain. Just another wildling chieftain. Focus. Jon took another step to the side, and so did she, in the opposite direction. Soon, they were slowly circling one another, two fighters orbiting each other in the pit, the hundreds of onlookers all silent, only sounds the rustling of fur and leather, and the occasional murmur from the onlookers rising above the quiet before battle.

Jon wasn't the same man he had been in the past. He had fought many foes in the past months, and taken his swordsmanship to a new level of skill from the boy who had first sworn his oaths. That boy had been talented, but untested. Ignorant of ways of the sword outside of those taught in Winterfell's training yards.

Acorn and Ser Rodrick had both said that the basis of good swordsmanship was good footwork. Rodrik had called footwork a fighter's foundations, Acorn had called footwork the roots of combat. Both words betrayed a different philosophy of fighting: a knight's martial tradition differed in countless ways from that of the children of the forest. It was up to him to blend the traditions together into something wholly his own.

To that end, perception was the key. With enough insight, seeing the enemy for who and what they were could show a swordsman the future, in every way that mattered. And now he focused that perception on this foe.

Am I seeing all there is to see?

He focused, and looked past this spearwife's unwavering eyes to all the rest of her. And he started to see. There were subtle lines of tension running through the spearwife's frame. It wasn't that she was prepared for whatever might come. She was uncertain of what might come, of what he might do, and was keeping her options open.

Good. Jon could use that lack of confidence, however subtle it was. He did nothing, he took no action. He just watched, and waited. After a few more breaths of time passed, the woman snorted in irritation and lunged for him.

Jon pretended to lunge in the same moment, meeting her halfway - only to move as just as her spear's tip reached for him. Dark Sister instantly swept down, as Jon slid to the side and cut down, not at her, but at her weapon—

The wildling spearchief's eyes widened. And then she was scrambling back, a deep notch cut through her sword.

She gave her blade a long look and tsked. "Good trick," she muttered, eyeing Jon more seriously. Then she eased her stance, shifted into a looser, sprinter's form, turning into a three-quarters profile. What was she doing?

Then she exploded forwards, thrusting her blade straight-on like a harpoon.

Wait, no - Jon only realized in the space between instants - she had just thrown her sword at him like it was a spear.

Jon threw himself out of the way, rolling on the ground and getting back on his knees - only to find himself beset with her slashing down for him with a long knife.

The thrown weapon had been a feint, meant to break his defenses, only for her to bring out a sidearm nearly as long as a sword. Even worse, she was a superb knifefighter.

The onlookers hooted and hollered - it was as if every time Jon had one of these duels, the lookers-on watched with ever more enthusiasm and intensity. It was distracting. But even Jon could feel the intensity of the crowds, the thrill of anticipation through the gathered wildlings.

She has mobility on me, Jon thought, as he parried another strike. He was all too aware of his bad leg, still slowly healing. Her footwork is excellent, but untrained. She's like the Weeper, in a smaller way - all instinct, all aggression.

"Spear!" she shouted.

Someone from the crowds tossed her a spear. She tossed it in the next instant. Jon barely managed to slide aside from its path. "Spear!" She shouted again, and then she had another spear.

Was this breaking the rules of a wildling duel? Jon's eyes whirled, but he saw no one interfering, not even from his own side. Apparently not.

She twirled the new weapon with showman's flourish. Then she snapped forward in a sudden thrust. Jon parried, and pain lanced up his arm as the haft scraped past, opening his sleeve and skin alike.

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Laisa laughed. "Not so quick now, crow!"

Jon ignored her taunt. Hot blood welled up from the gash, liquid running down his upper arm beneath his furs and mail. No matter. He read her hands, her hips, the rhythm between attack and withdrawal. Then she feinted high - and hurled her spear straight at his chest. He twisted, blade meeting the shaft mid-flight, deflecting it wide.

"Spear!" She barked again, voice a little higher. But as another weapon was tossed her way - Dark Sister darted out high and cut it down from the air. And then he was on her.

Contrary to what he'd expected, she leaned into his aggression with her own. Her shortsword sidearm was of a higher quality make than the rest of her weapons, likely actual steel taken or traded from a ranger. It could stand against Dark Sister for a time.

Someone managed to throw a shortspear to her, and then she was using both weapons at once, thrusting the longer shortspear while keeping her sidearm shortsword poised for a quick strike. But Dark Sister danced in his hands, and he studied her movements, the way she moved with the fluidity of someone who had been born to fight. She lunged for his throat with her spear, but he spun around the attack, bringing Dark Sister from high to low, scoring the woman across the back of the leg.

"Fuck!" She hissed through gritted teeth as she began to bleed into the snow. But it was only moments before she was on him again, thrusting high, low, to his side, to his groin. But he parried and dodged as needed, and then she broke off from his superior strength. Range was her friend, while the melee was his. "Just fucking keel over already, crow!"

Jon didn't dignify that with a reply. She was panting for breath now, as much as him. Even with her wounded leg, she was still almost dancing around him and his defensive posture. Her footwork was impeccable, light and quick on the snow-covered ground, but Jon had fought in worse conditions.

His bad leg's limp still precluded him from taking a harder offensive: but that was fine. He could work this defensively, and stay ahead of her cuts and thrusts until he could open up an opportunity. Jon had confidence in his ability to react to anything the spearwife could throw at him. And more importantly: She's tiring, Jon noted. She's bleeding more than I am. And she was panting harder now, harder than him. I should end this.

Then she surprised him. With a quick twist of her wrist, she hurled the shorter spear, and Jon barely managed to deflect it with Dark Sister. The momentary distraction gave her enough time to unscrew her long spear, turning it into two shorter weapons. Jon's eyes flickered with realization, but by the time he'd adjusted, she was already on him.

Her strikes came fast and relentless, the twin spears a blur in her hands. Jon blocked one, then another, his arms aching from the repeated impacts.

She pressed the attack. "We haven't kneeled to a king in over three hundred years, crow!" she shouted between strikes. "We didn't kneel to Mance Rayder, nor to Raymun Redbeard! Not to any of the kings before either! You think you can do any better than them?"

"I'm not asking you to kneel," he hissed. "I'm asking you to live! If you stay here, you will all die!"

The clash of steel echoed through the trees. Jon's breaths came in ragged gasps as he parried another blow. But she looked even worse, exhausted and sweating and panting for breath: yet her eyes were wide, half with disbelief, half with sheer battle thrill. "Beat me, and you can tell that to my matriarch!"

End this, Jon decided. Now! She was retreating from him now, tiring with every blow. Jon's muscles burned, his body drenched in sweat as he chased her down.

Then, something unexpected happened.

She angled her head up and whistled, sharply.

An instant later, something massive pounced forth from the ring of onlookers surrounding them, from the side of her own people. A blur of night-black fur struck out at him.

Jon barely twisted away in time. Claws slashed his side, tearing leather and mail but failing to penetrate. He stumbled - and then he recognized what he was seeing.

A shadowcat, even larger than Phantom. Its golden eyes blazed at him, as the beast hissed with malice.

The Weeper shouted from the edge of the ring, "This wasn't agreed!"

"He's the fool for not bringing his beast!" Laisa spat, advancing.

Jon rolled to the side just as the shadowcat lunged again, its claws scraping the dirt where he had been moments before. Desperation clawed at him as he scrambled back to his feet, now facing both Laisa and her shadowcat. He couldn't keep this up. Not like this.

I can't fight both. Jon rolled as the shadowcat struck again, dirt spraying where its paws hit. He came up on one knee, heart hammering, sword ready. Ghost, come!

The shadowcat and Laisa were both on him. He hadn't thought to keep Ghost directly beside this fighting ring - he needed to buy himself a few more seconds. The shadowcat met his eyes again midair, and in a moment of wild, reckless desperation, that gave him an idea.

We're both wargs. Let's see whose will is stronger.

He seized that connection, dove into the shadowcat's mind. For a moment, the world narrowed to golden eyes and hot breath - to teeth and muscle and bloodlust. The cat froze mid-lunge, confused, crashing into the dirt beside him. Laisa cried out, gripping her head, her control collapsing.

Jon pushed harder. The world snapped like a taut line breaking.

The beast shrieked and fell, twitching in the mud and snow. Laisa cried out, staggered on her feet, weapons dipping as Jon's consciousness clashed with her own and proved the stronger.

Ghost emerged from the circle of onlookers all around him, as Jon surged forward.

Dark Sister cut a downward arc for the spearwife's throat. She blocked once, twice - awkwardly, too slowly. She was gasping, disoriented. His next strike knocked one spear away; the following blow swept the sidearm from her hands. He pressed in close, the tip of his blade grazing her side, cutting through leathers and mail. She gasped, stumbled back, blood seeping through her tunic.

The shadowcat let out a screeching yowl, but it couldn't move. Ghost had pinned it to the ground by its throat.

Jon wasted no time. His blade cut through her guard. She was on the backfoot, the savage grace she had once wielded reduced to desperate blocks and feints.

The tide had turned.

Despite her prowess, Jon was quicker now. He cut through half the blade of her steel shortsword - it had been badly angled for a desperate block, then he batted her shortspear aside.

Then Jon pressed forward, and with a final sweep of his blade, disarmed her, punched her in the chest, and knocked her off her feet and to the ground with a last shove.

She was in the mud. He held Dark Sister inches away from her disbelieving eyes, only just stopping himself from killing her outright.

The match was over.

The crowd of wildlings erupted into a cacophony of cheers and groans as Laisa shifted to one knee, still on the ground, clutching her side where blood seeped between her fingers. Her leg was bleeding as well. She seemed speechless. She panted for a few moments, groaning, before she ground out through gritted teeth. "I yield. Gods damnit, I yield."

Jon, panting, covered in sweat, lowered Dark Sister. "Good." Ghost relaxed his jaws, and withdrew from the shadowcat.

Her gaze locked with Jon's, and even through the pain, she flashed him that sharp, wild grin. "You fight well, Snow," she said.

He nodded, still panting, but lighter now. "So do you," he replied, his arm still bleeding. He offered her a hand, and she took it, pulling herself upwards. "That was a good fight."

She looked at him like he was crazy. "Best in my fucking life. You really do live up to the stories, crow."

Jon chuckled quietly. "As you say, my lady."

She looked away from him at that, her cheeks flushing slightly. Then she let out a shaking breath and sucked in a larger, deeper breath.

"Guess that's that! Greensight Hold's following the dragon now!" Laisa shouted and shrugged, giving her people an apologetic look. "Sorry!"

Even her own people cheered.

Greensight Hold's underground great hall was carved deep into the earth beneath the village, its air warm and cheerful, thick with the scent of roasted meat, pine smoke, and the faint tang of fermented mare's milk.

To Jon it was almost nostalgic, though he had never been here before. The hall was lit with a surprising brightness. Hundreds of candles burned along the long tables, and the walls were studded with cleanly burning torches that cast a soft, flickering light across the space. The rough-hewn stone and timber beams reminded Jon of Winterfell's undercroft, though wilder, less polished, with weirwood roots twisting through the ceiling like so many white veins. It also stirred memories of Mole's Town's wormways, the cramped tunnels where men and women sought warmth in the dark, where the sworn brothers would ease their burdens with food and drink, sometimes too many of their burdens.

No, this wasn't quite like either of those places. It was cruder, more savage. But the hall buzzed with just as much life as those places out of his past, filled with the raucous chatter and laughter of his men and the people of the Greensight clan, all their voices echoing off the stone in a chaotic, joyful din.

Jon had been invited to take a place of honor, and he found himself sitting at the head of a long, uneven table hewn from a single massive pine, its surface scarred from years of use. Furs, Hatch, and a small band of the rest of his closest followers flanked him, all overjoyed by the prospect of a hot meal after days and weeks of trudging through snow.

The Weeper was also with him, sitting by his righthand side. But despite the closeness, it was almost as if he sat apart. The Weeper had greatly enjoyed watching the duel, to be sure, but the prospect of actually entering Greensight Hold and availing of what hospitality it had to give seemed to have flattened the warlord's expression into a mask of impatience. Even now, his lips were curled into a perpetual sneer.

At least he's mostly quiet, Jon thought with mild irritation. Something about these people annoyed the Weeper, greatly, and in a different way from the other river clans. But why?

I don't care, Jon decided. As long as he doesn't cause problems.

He straightened when Laisa Threespear strode into the hall, albeit slowly. Should I help? Her wounds from the duel had been bandaged, hobbling her a little. Would that be proper here… no, there's no need.

He immediately relaxed when he saw the mirth in her eyes, the continued confidence in her steps. She was heading straight for him, as her clansmen all greeted her in their own ways. Her long black hair was loose now, unbound, and her green eyes were focused straight on him as she carried a wide wooden platter. Jon looked at it curiously: this wasn't a serving tray as he normally knew them, and she was no servant.

On the tray sat a loaf of dark, coarse bread, along with a small bowl of coarse salt, and nothing more. Behind her, a young boy who might have been her brother, certainly no older than ten, followed with a clay jug of milk and a stack of horn cups. The clan's chatter quieted slightly, all eyes turning to their leader, as far as he understood her role here to be, and her guests.

"Well, white crow," Laisa said, her voice carrying over the din as she set the platter before Jon with a flourish. "You fought like a demon out there, and you've earned your place at our fire. Greensight Hold welcomes you and yours." Her grin was still sharp, but there was warmth in it, a genuine respect that hadn't been there before their duel. She tore a chunk of bread from the loaf, sprinkled it with salt, and held it out to Jon. "Eat, and be safe under our roof."

Bread and salt. Jon hesitated. Guest right.

His hand hovered above the bread. Guest right was a sacred thing on either side of the Wall: a promise of safety, a demand of trust. He had no rational reason to refuse, but such a gesture wasn't to be accepted lightly all the same. He looked up warily, searching for any hint of deceit, anything at all, but all he found was a different side of that same earnestness he'd fought in the fighting pit. Green eyes, staring into his. He averted his gaze.

Best not to stare overlong at such a fair woman, either.

Furs nudged his side with an elbow, his voice a low mutter: "Take it, Snow. Don't insult them."

Jon nodded slowly, then took the bread and bit into it.

The instant he did, their hosts erupted in amiable cheering, cups clinking and voices rising all around in a cacophony. Jon just chewed, the coarse grain and sharp salt grounding him in the moment, before he watered it down with some mare's milk.

He passed the platter to Furs and Hatch, who eagerly tore into the bread and salt. The boy who was likely Laisa's brother grinned at him in a child's gap-toothed admiration before pouring more cups of milk for his men and setting down the jug entirely.

Laisa's expression cooled slightly as she turned to the Weeper. "And you, you sour old bastard," she said, thrusting a piece of salted bread toward him. "You're under our roof too, like it or not. Eat, or I'll shove it down your gullet myself."

The Weeper's head snapped up. His scarred face twisting in a scowl. "I don't need your pity, spearwife," he spat, his expression almost venomous.

What is he doing? The hall quieted, tension rippling through the air. Jon's fingers twitched. He almost wanted to reach out and grab the man. Why is he acting so irrational?

"Pity?" she scoffed. "Nah, this is me keeping you from ruining my feast with your starving corpse."

The Weeper didn't reply, just stared at her, his fingers twitching. The hall quieted for a moment. Laisa didn't flinch, despite the tension. She just crossed her arms, met the Weeper's eyes, and stared.

Jon wondered if he actually needed to step in, or perhaps send the Weeper out from the great hall. But then she scowled. "Oh, just take it already, you old sod, or I'll have my shadowcat sit on you."

A ripple of laughter spread through the clan, breaking the tension. The Weeper's scowl deepened, but he snatched the bread from Laisa's hand, shoving it into his mouth with a grunt. "Fine," he muttered, chewing as if it pained him after sprinkling on some salt.

The clan roared with laughter again, and Laisa clapped the Weeper on the shoulder, hard. "That's the spirit, you miserable sod!" She turned back to the table, raising her own cup of mare's milk. "To our guests, who fought well and didn't die! May they not freeze their arses off before spring! By earth and water, bronze and iron, ice and fire, they are safe in Greensight Hold!"

The hall exploded in cheers, cups raised high, and the air filled with the clatter of horns and the rhythmic stomp of boots on the stone floor. Jon allowed himself a small smile, the warmth of the hall and the clan's exuberance easing the knot in his chest. It wasn't Winterfell, but it was close enough to stir a pang of homesickness - mixed with a strange, sudden sense of belonging among these wild, free folk. Or perhaps I'm just tired.

But those words, they bothered him.

Earth and water. Bronze and iron. Ice and fire. The words lingered in Jon's mind, even after Laisa had walked well away to see to others. Powerful concepts, in opposition. He had seen guest right offered many times before, in Winterfell, in other places throughout the north. But this was his first time seeing it offered in the far north, and he had never seen such an oath added before. Some old wildling tradition, no doubt.

Still, Jon wondered. The greenseer made me swear by those same words. But what do they mean?

Jon asked Furs, and the man leaned in jovially, taking a swig from his beer. "Those? Those are godly words, Snow." Then his grin flattened into something darker. "Guest right is a pact between men, and promises between men… those can be broken. Rarely, but it happens." The men around them shifted uncomfortably. "And when that happens, it means blood gets spilled, one way or another. But spoken like that before a heart tree, and this whole damn room is under a heart tree, guest right is like being chained by the gods. Swear by 'em like that, in a place like this, and you'd best keep your oath or die trying."

Jon considered those words. "So those who break these oaths are outlaws?"

Furs stared at him for a moment, then grimaced. "Nah, no one would dare, man." His scowl deepened, as if he was visibly pondering a thorny question. "How should I explain… my daddy could have said it so much— "

"Shut up, Furs. I'll explain it," the Weeper growled. The man's eyes were runnier than usual, wet with tears. But the only emotion Jon could see coming from him was anger, impatience that they were in this place. Something about Greensight Hold bothers him, Jon was increasingly becoming certain.

"Snow, listen," the Weeper muttered. "When a free folk swears to the gods in the old ways like that, with the old words, they aren't just binding their life but their soul to their oath. A man breaks an oath like that to the gods, he's worse than an animal, couldn't even be called a man at all anymore. Folk would end such an oathbreaker the same way they'd end a rabid dog. And when they die, their souls will be picked apart and eaten by the gods. Forever."

Jon felt a chill at that. But Hatch only chuckled. "Didn't know you followed the old ways, Weeping Man."

The Weeper snorted. "Just because I know 'em doesn't mean I respect them. It's all pretty words for pretty cages in the end. And Greensight's always been soft on gods."

Laisa heard that. She was back at the high table in three strides, a horn of small beer in one hand, the other resting on the hilt of a bone knife at her belt. "Soft?" She smiled, but it was the same jagged smile she'd worn in the fighting pit. "Tell that to the Thenns we fed to the roots two winters back. They broke guest right. The tree took their tongues first, then their eyes. Last I saw, their skulls were still screaming. The god's curse will damn them even beyond death for a while yet."

The Weeper went still. Then he scowled and waved her off. She laughed and was soon seeing to other families of her clan, more of Jon's men. But despite the newly eased conversation, Jon paid it little mind. A curse that could damn a man beyond death, Jon pondered. His chill didn't go away. Eaten by the gods.

The conversation around him drifted. His thoughts wandered in other directions. To the weirwood roots snaking through the ceiling, and somewhere beyond the roots, to a pale lord in black, slowly being devoured by a heart tree under the earth. The chill didn't go away. He could feel it in his bones. The old gods watch here, same as they do in Winterfell's godswood. Jon's thoughts wandered further, thinking and recollecting and remembering. And I swore such an oath…

When he found himself staring at Laisa's backside in the distance, of all things, he had to rapidly blink himself awake properly. His eyes and thoughts were drowsier than usual. He swallowed, willing himself to be more awake.

"I think I'll turn in," Jon said, his voice low but firm as he rose from the table.

"Wait, what?" Furs complained. "We're just starting man, they haven't even brought out the beer."

The clan's noise faltered for a moment. He was suddenly aware of far too many eyes turning to him, but Laisa only stepped over to him. She tilted her head, her grin softening into something almost understanding. "Early night, white crow?" she asked, no judgment in her tone.

Jon nodded. "Plenty of furs in the back tunnels," she said. "Rest well - you've earned it."

Jon offered a quiet "Thank you," before turning toward the shadowed archway at the hall's far end. Furs and Hatch called after him, half-teasing, half-concerned, but he waved them off, his steps almost steady despite the ache in his leg. The Weeper didn't look up, but Jon felt his gaze all the same.

A few hours later, Jon felt more rested by far. Greensight Hold's underground barrows were comfortable, well-stocked with furs. But he found that the halls outside the room were scarcely any quieter than they had been - which hadn't been particularly quiet at all. They're still feasting, Jon presumed. I'll leave them to it.

No, he would not be returning to the great hall. For good or ill, it was time. Now he had to meet with the clan's matriarch. Branwenn, he had been told.

The young boy he'd seen before, named Sieg as far as he remembered, fetched him. He had been watching his room this whole time, apparently. "This way," the boy said, eagerly moving to escort him.

Jon saw no reason to refuse him, and let himself be escorted.

He was slightly surprised when he found the boy taking him not just one but several levels below in the earth, as if Greensight Hold was nothing short of a termite mound beneath the hills. How large are these barrows? Jon wondered quietly. His eyes took in the pale roots snaking through the walls, dimly shown and ever-flickering in the candlelight. Weirwood roots, everywhere I look. Was this place created by the children of the forest, and the men moved in after?

If so, it would have made a certain sense.

Now that he thought about it, the greenseer had mentioned that the children had abandoned other homes of their kind throughout the centuries. That these barrow-mounds had once been common throughout the land. Perhaps it shouldn't be a surprise that men have taken over one or two, Jon reflected. They do seem comfortable, at least in winter.

Before long he crossed a threshold into a small, dimly lit chamber beneath the heart of Greensight Hold. The room was cloistered, hidden deep within the most central of barrows, far beneath the ongoing bustle of the clan above.

This deepest space of Greensight Hold was smaller than a sept's cloister. The air was thick with the scent of old herbs and burning wood. The light came from a few scattered tallow candles, organized into clumps to illuminate the room's center. Over to the side of the room was a weirwood stump jutting out of the wall, half-filled with a crimson liquid he suspected to be weirwood's sap.

In the center of the room, seated at a low wooden table, was Branwenn, the clan's matriarch.

The moment Jon laid eyes on her, he could see why the wildlings of this clan revered her. She was ancient - so ancient it seemed as though her skin was but parchment over bones. Her pale flesh was almost translucent, gnarled like a raisin's skin. Her hair was a thin, white remnant, and her limbs were like sticks beneath her furs.

But her eyes weren't merely green - they were viridian, like pure cut emeralds, unclouded by age or time's passing. This old woman's body was frail, but she had a presence beyond herself, and Jon knew to step carefully. Another warg, he was instantly certain. He felt that same prickle when he met her eyes. A powerful one.

"Jon Snow," Matriarch Branwenn rasped, her voice an aged whisper. "A Stark of Winterfell, I hear. You've come far to stand here before me. But as friend, or foe?"

Strange and stranger, to hear his family's seat mentioned here, so far from home. "A friend," Jon said quietly, "if you'll have me, lady Branwenn."

"Lady," the ancient woman snorted softly. Her voice was something between a croak and a rasp. "What an interesting address, especially coming from a man many are saying could become the next king. Every would-be king I've ever met has claimed to desire my clan, my people, my friendship. My ancestor's lands, my meat and game, my larders. What makes you different, Jon Snow?"

"Because I don't want anything from you, lady Branwenn," Jon sighed. His eyes drifted briefly to Laisa Threespear, who had already been in the room when he entered, and was staying quiet, watching him. "Because if I have to, I'll leave you behind. You, and your people."

Matriarch Branwenn's eyes flickered. She visibly hesitated. Whatever answer she might have expected, it was not that.

"You don't want anything?" She stared at him, with eyes that reminded him so much of the children of the forest's. Was there some kind of connection? "Then… why are you here?"

"He means to march us south, Grandmother. As I said." Laisa pushed off the root she'd been sitting on, moved to sit beside her ancestor at the table. "Past the Wall. Says the dead are coming." Her tone was light, but her eyes never left Jon's face. She was more serious now than Jon had seen at any point before.

"Hush, child," Branwenn waved a hand faintly. "I would hear his words in his own voice."

"I'm not here to make you kneel," Jon replied to her, giving Laisa a brief nod as he did. "I mean to defend the realms of man, and that includes your people. And to protect you, I will bring you south. If you'll follow me south, I'll bring you to the Wall and the lands beyond. You won't fall to the dead alone, and you won't become a part of their army."

Branwenn and her granddaughter traded uncertain glances.

"Suppose we say no. You'll leave us behind?" Laisa Threespear demanded, stepping forward. Green eyes narrowed on him. "Simple as that?"

"Yes," Jon nodded, bowing his head slightly in respect. "Your home is strong, one of the strongest I've seen on either side of the Wall. Even with my dragon, I can't drive you out by force - you'd just disappear into your barrows." Laisa nodded, but her apparent confusion only grew as Jon continued. "Nor would I want to take your people by force, in any case."

Matriarch Branwenn and her granddaughter exchanged another increasingly uncertain glance, as Jon continued. "If you say no to alliance, I will have no choice. I will leave in the morn, as I've said I would. I will leave you behind. I will go down the river, put Greensight Hold to my back, and you will never see me or my people again. You will have peace. And then," Jon's voice lowered, "someday soon—"

Jon's eyes narrowed. His voice turned harder.

"…it might be weeks, it could be as soon as mere days - but after I'm gone, you will begin to see the dead, and only the dead, because there is no one else left upriver, none. And they will never stop coming, until you and all your barrows are nothing but haunts for ghosts."

Matriarch Branwenn grimaced, closing her eyes.

"They're coming," Jon insisted. "From the wastes. I've seen them with my own eyes. More than you can count, more than you can even imagine. You can't stand against them alone."

"…You're saying that you can stand against them?" Branwenn asked doubtfully.

"I can try, but not here," Jon replied evenly, "My aim is to put the Wall between you and them. The Night's Watch will be forced to see reason," he hesitated. "…By sword, if necessary. From there, with the Wall under our feet, we can fight. That is my vow. The same vow I've made, that I will make to every other leader of the free folk who follows me. To every man, woman and child of the far north. That is my promise."

The ancient woman studied him quietly, and in the silence, her eyes narrowed as if she could see beyond the flesh, beyond the surface of his thoughts. "I have seen you," she murmured. "I didn't know it was you, then, but I see the truth of it now. My visions. A white crow cloaked in ice and shadow, commanding a storm of winter to rise against the cold. I am not alone in this. Many others have seen this vision, or visions like it. Sometimes they see a white wolf, or a white dragon or even a white cat."

Jon shifted uncomfortably. He knew of wargs, wood's witches. And he had also heard of those who bore the greensight, the prophetic power passed down through certain bloodlines of the free folk, but this was different. Numerous people had seen visions of Sonagon or his other skins? How?

"For months," Branwenn continued, "the greensight has shown me the path to salvation. A path that leads south… with you, I think." She leaned forward slightly, her old bones creaking with the effort. "The strongest visions I've had in my long, long life."

Jon remained silent, unsure of how to respond. There was an intensity to her that reminded him of that old, forgotten man, buried deep beneath the earth as he became one with the weirwood's roots.

"Generations ago, my clan was on the brink of destruction, Jon Snow," Branwenn's green eyes seemed to gleam as she continued. "By the mistakes of those who came before me, we were caught in a feud that would have wiped us from this earth. But I was guided through that darkness fifty years ago by a crow with three eyes, who appeared to me in my dreams." Her voice wavered slightly. "He showed me a way out, gave me the strength to destroy the clan that had been sacrificing their children to the cold. I never saw him again, but I never forgot the grace he granted me."

She paused. Her thin lips pressed tightly together. "That crow was my savior, and his existence kept my faith in the old ways strong. For fifty years, I have led my people with that strength."

The greenseer. Jon felt a chill pass through him. He suspected he knew where this was leading, but he held his tongue, letting the ancient matriarch speak.

Branwenn's voice dropped to a near whisper, her eyes piercing his. "I tried to learn more, in the decades after. I wanted to know who my savior was. But I learned little - never even his name. Just that sometimes, certain rare people were visited by a three-eyed crow in their dreams. None knew his name, any that might have known were terrified to even speak it. He has warned other woods witches of other perils, other catastrophes. They thought he was an old god in the flesh, and feared him. But you… you are not a man of fear, are you, Jon Snow?" The ancient woman's hands were gripping the edge of the table, hard enough to turn white. "Do you know him? The three-eyed crow, he was a greenseer, a real one, - I'm certain of it. Do you know who the three-eyed crow is? Are you connected to him?"

Jon let out a sigh. Laisa was staring at her ancestor in confusion, baffled. It didn't matter. He had known this moment would come eventually, and there was no point in delaying the truth further. And he had sworn no oaths to keep the greenseer a secret, in any case.

"Lady Branwenn," Jon began, his voice firm, "the man who has guided my path used many names. If you are asking if he was once a brother of the Night's Watch, then yes, he was. But he left that life behind long ago." He hesitated for only a moment. "If you are asking for a specific name, I can only say that I know the greenseer as Brynden Rivers, and yes, he often appears as a three-eyed crow. He was once known more widely as Bloodraven."

The effect of his words was immediate. Branwenn's ancient eyes widened. Her entire wizened body trembled. Before Jon could react, the old woman's frail hands grasped the edge of the table, and she bowed so deeply and so suddenly that her forehead slammed against the wood with a resounding thud.

"Grandmother— !" Laisa shouted, fussing over her. "Why would you, why— !"

The impact knocked Jon's cup over, sending the drink clattering to the stone floor. Jon ignored that. He started forward, his hands reaching for the old woman - but then he stopped. Branwenn didn't move. She ignored her granddaughter. Her forehead remained pressed against the table, her ancient, wizened body shaking like a little girl's.

When the ancient woman spoke, her voice shook with a mixture of reverence and naked awe.

"Bloodraven," she whispered. Her voice was cracking. "The one who saved me… he has guided you." She lifted her head slightly, her old eyes gleaming with tears. "He… still lives?" Jon nodded, and the awe in her voice only thickened. "His will moves through you, doesn't it?"

Jon wasn't sure what to say. He was shocked. He had never expected this sort of reaction, not from a woman as old and powerful as Branwenn of Greensight Hold. He sat back down in his seat and lowered his voice. "Raise your head, lady Branwenn." She didn't move. "Please," Jon insisted. "I am no lord, no king. I would speak to you eye to eye."

The ancient woman raised her head. Her forehead was red, slightly pouring with blood, and tears glimmered at the edges of her eyes. But there was no pain in her gaze, no hesitation. Only awe. "Who are you to the greenseer, Jon Snow? Please, tell this old woman."

"He gave me a second chance at life," he said, wondering. It was not lost on him how Branwenn had abandoned all ceremony, all station. "He saved me, and he made me swear to do whatever it takes to fight for the dawn. Whatever it takes. He knows the truth of what is coming, and how to fight it."

"…What is coming?" the ancient woman begged. "Tell me."

Jon's voice turned low, quiet, dark. "The Long Night."

Laisa stiffened. Some unspoken question evidently died in her throat. Her grandmother slowly raised her head, her voice quavering with emotion. "Truly? It is here, at last?"

"Yes." Jon said it simply.

"It is the end of days then." Laisa chuckled bitterly.

"Not so," he replied. "I know the path ahead, and the greenseer gave me clear orders. And our way is south. All of the free folk, to the lands south. We will deny the white walkers the army they're creating from the bodies of your people, and from there, with the Wall beneath our feet, we can truly fight. As I said before."

The two women, young woman and old ancestor, shared a glance. Some unspoken conclusion passed between the two of them.

"I have never knelt in my life, Jon Snow," Branwenn said at last, slowly. "My mother refused to kneel to Raymun Redbeard, just as her grandmother before her refused to bend the knee to Ascegan Sevencrowns. And I, in turn, refused to kneel to Mance Rayder. I have never knelt to a man at all, save for my husband, who died long ago." Her voice grew stronger, more resolute. "But for Bloodraven… for the man who saved my people, and for you, his chosen… I will give you more than mere loyalty. I will kneel. Wholeheartedly, hiding nothing. Greensight Hold is yours."

Jon's heart twisted in his chest as the ancient woman, with trembling hands and fragile limbs, began to lower herself to her knees once again. No, I don't want this.

This time, he gently caught her before she could bow fully. "There's no need for that," he said softly, lifting her back to her seat. Branwenn's bones shook under his hands, as brittle as dry branches. But he could feel a certain strength in her, beyond what her withered body should have had. When Jon eased her back into her seat, she let out a long, wavering breath. Her eyes never left his.

"You speak for him," she repeated. "For him."

Jon released her carefully and straightened. He noted how Laisa, the supposed heir to the Greensight clan, seemed rather confused. To say the least. Had Branwenn truly kept her knowledge of the greenseer a secret even from her?

"I am not him," Jon whispered. "I am only a man. But I will not abandon your people."

The old woman's lips curled into the faintest ghost of a smile. "That will do."

By the time Jon finally retired for the night, his mind was still twisting with endless considerations. Hours had slipped away as he pored over maps with Furs and Hatch and the Weeper - counting out the last of their food stores, plotting out the quickest routes along the Lower Antler, debating how best to rally the scattered host so stragglers wouldn't fall too far behind.

The short of it: he needed good fighting men - more men, by far. He needed them quickly, and he needed the food to feed them even sooner.

Greensight Hold's folk could lend support, but they lacked the numbers to make up even the beginnings of the sort of command structure Jon was beginning to envision. An added problem: they were not well trusted by other free folk. The biases against wargs would prevent such a thing. No, they would only be another of the clans following him, if a stranger one than most.

The free folk clans were so, so stubborn. The most reasonable of them might follow him, but only once they saw Sonagon, and even then, for the sake of their pride, they would follow only once he beat their leaders in a duel. The intricacies of the free folk's clan structures, the thousand and more things going into their 'old ways' were a gnarl of complexities he was still learning to navigate.

As for the less reasonable clans, the less said of them, the better.

The shadow of the dragon's presence might tip the balance in his favor, but how to move so many people together was a question that gnawed at him. So many wanted to split off, go further ahead, or linger behind and wait, for any of a hundred different reasons. It was all he could do to stop them and hold the mass together. Even with a dragon, herding wildlings is no easy feat. Might as well be herding cats.

How had Mance managed things as well as he had? He had made an army out of the free folk, been set to lay siege to the Wall itself. Or had the external appearance of unity truly only been an illusion?

Jon set those thoughts aside, and sat on the edge of the chieftain's guest-bed and stripped off his cloak and shirt. The fire crackled brightly in the stone hearth, offering more warmth against the chill than he'd known for most of the far north.

He examined his arm, the fresh bandages stark against his skin. Despite the healing poultice the children had given him - little of which was left now - the wound still throbbed. He knew it would scar, as so many before it had. Just another scar on a body already littered with them.

Sighing, Jon let himself sink into the bed. The crude wool-stuffed, fur-covered mattress creaked beneath him. He reached out with his mind and felt out for his other skins. Phantom prowled the woods beyond the Antler's northern bank, as resentful as ever, but silent and alert, while Ghost stalked along the southern edge. Both direwolf and shadowcat were keeping an eye on the rearmost stragglers among the refugees - and just as importantly, keeping an eye for if the pursuing dead chose to strike.

Jon hadn't seen any wights, but Ghost and Phantom could both sense them lurking somewhere in the northwestern woods, not far from Greensight Hold itself. The dead were near, they were always near - always following. For months, following. Why?

Why haven't they attacked yet? Jon couldn't even begin to figure it out. He had expected a few skirmishes, at the least - but there was nothing. Nothing but a silent pursuit by dead men, a pursuit that never touched them, but at the same time, never ended.

His thoughts drifted to Sonagon, who had consumed an entire stockade of this village's entire winter stock and larder and still seemed unsatisfied. The dragon's hunger was insatiable; he could swallow a mammoth whole, bones and all, and still be peckish after.

Keeping Sonagon fed requires the resources of a lord, the infrastructure of a city - taking care of him isn't something these river clans can ensure for long, especially not in winter.

Yet there was one mercy: the dragon was healing. Slowly, painfully, healing. His wings felt stronger, his movements less pained. Even the dragon's ravenous hunger had less desperation in it now, more simple gluttony than a matter of life or death.

Soon. Not long from now, the dragon would be ready to fly again, Jon was certain of it.

He leaned back, feeling tired. The weight of the day… the thought of the morn tomorrow, it was all pressing down on him. There was still so much to do, so many battles ahead.

But for now, at least, there was a moment of peace.

The fire cracked softly. Jon's thoughts wandered. And in that peace, that moment of silence, he thought of Ygritte.

Jon hadn't seen any ravens from the three-eyed crow for a while now. The birds had been growing less and less frequent, and had stopped coming entirely some two weeks ago. Had the greenseer found her trail? Had he ever found even so much of a hint of her?

Jon's thoughts had just begun to drift to darkness. Ygritte's face, her hair, kissed by fire, and that wild laugh echoing in his memory…

When a soft, but firm knock at the door pulled him back from sleep's brink. He sat up. His hand instinctively brushed Dark Sister's hilt, laid out beside him on a nightstand.

"You may enter," Jon called out, suddenly alert.

Who is it? Does the Weeper or Furs have some emergency to report, or— ?

Laisa Threespear stepped into the room, carrying a wooden platter of food. Her armor was gone, and she had reduced her wear to something more casual, a loose long-sleeved green shift. Her long, dark mane of hair tumbled loosely over her shoulders, and her dark green eyes flickered over Jon before she spoke.

"Thought you'd be hungry, Snow," Laisa said. "Didn't see you at the nightfire. And you did skip the feast."

The only thing I hunger for is sleep. Still, Jon noted that at least she wasn't calling him a crow anymore - then he realized then that he was, as a matter of fact, hungry. Had been hungry for a while now.

…But he had long grown accustomed to the hollowness of hunger, he had needed to focus on Ghost and Phantom, and being around other people at the fire would have been too much of a distraction. Long-range warging required him to center himself, at least if he wanted to pick up any details. But I need food all the same. He had to remember that.

"Thank you," Jon replied politely, his eyes flickering towards the… offering of food? Is this all she's come for? Why come personally, then? "Your clan's hospitality is, truly, appreciated."

"Greensight Hold's best," Laisa said with a suddenly sharp smile. "Only comes out for the special guests." She closed the door behind her with a nudge of her hip. Her steps were disconcertingly confident, deliberate. The smell of grilled trout and browned butter wafted toward him, but Jon's attention was already split. His eyes unwittingly followed her movements. Her existence was distracting - she was one of the more beautiful women he'd seen, certainly from this close.

Moreover, he was suddenly, foolishly, all too conscious of how underdressed he was, how ill-prepared he was to receive any visitors at all. Let alone such a visitor.

"Thank you for the, uh, food," Jon repeated awkwardly.

She set the platter on the table, then turned back with a smirk, as he reached for the tunic draped over the chair beside him. Laisa's hand moved faster, brushing it aside.

"No need to cover up on my account," she said, suddenly smiling sharply. Her green eyes were intent on his as she stepped closer. "You ain't a bad sight like this, Snow."

"I, uh…"

Jon tried to think of a polite way to disengage himself from the conversation. But in that moment of hesitation, she took a step closer. And then she was touching him, lightly.

"I've seen worse wounds than this, but not many," her fingers lightly traced the various scars on his arms, his side, stopping and starting at various old, faded white scars until settling on the outer edge of the white-scorched cut on his chest, where that white walker had impaled him. Her touch lingered there, sending a ripple of sensation through him. "Impressive. Where'd you get that?"

Jon froze. His breath caught slightly in his throat. What was she doing?

He'd been with wildling women before, he knew how forward they could be, but Laisa's boldness still caught him off guard. He glanced down at her hand on his arm, then back up at her face, searching for her intentions - which were certainly clear enough.

"How are your people?" Jon asked, hoping to buy time, to distract her, to… anything.

"My folk?" she snorted. "Less than happy about what we've had to feed your god, let's put it that way," she shrugged. "But they'll manage. If it truly can bring us south, there's nothing to it. It's not even a hard choice to make. These lands are dying. Even before you'd come, we had been debating whether or not to leave. You just took the choice out of our hands."

"Sonagon is not a god," Jon said evenly.

"Tell that to my grandmother," she shrugged, unbothered. "Call him what you like. He's our best chance." Her eyes lingered on him. "And so are you."

"I… answer me this," Jon said, focusing on a curious point. "If you were already considering to march south, why not go with Mance?"

"We're far to the south, as these lands go, Snow," Laisa said casually. "And we rely on the river. Not many of the clan's hunters go north, especially not past the mountains. So we just didn't know enough to believe. We didn't know then how near the dead truly were. We've got bad blood with the Thenns and the mountain clans, so we didn't believe the stories from the north - sounded more like old witch's tales than anything real. Then Mance came. And still we doubted, we delayed, we debated, and then Mance moved on to his fate."

Jon could only nod to that. Reasonable enough, for a clan in their position.

"But now there can be no doubt at all," Laisa continued. Her voice turned fervent, green eyes fixating on his. "The dead are here. The end of days is coming. The gods are rising. And if you're offering us a new future, I mean to take it, Snow. The entire Greensight clan will. And that's a promise."

Jon shifted uneasily. Under her searing gaze, he was all too aware of how he was still sitting bare-chested by the fire - and now, as her eyes lingered for far too long on him, he felt like he was exposed, missing some piece of armor. Then she met his eyes - and she smirked, a grin with a crooked edge. "Besides, you proved you're a man worth following. You fought well today."

Jon snorted softly. "Not well enough to avoid taking a cut."

"And you cut me twice," she said, stepping closer, her warmth brushing against his arm. Her eyes wandered once more over the scars on his torso, lingering on the fresh bandage around his arm. There was a hunger in her gaze that had nothing to do with food. "You owe me for that, Jon Snow."

Jon rocked back for a moment, almost stunned, flushing as he averted his eyes. "But yes, you're hurt," Laisa laughed. She was smirking coyly at him now. "You shouldn't be alone."

"I'm fine." His voice was steady, though his pulse was not. He shifted back a bit, his muscles tightening under her touch. "The poultice is working." His eyes drifted to her side. "And you should see to your own cuts before worrying about mine."

"My cuts," she laughed at that. "Can't even remember the last time that's happened. You're a hard man to keep pace with," her voice turned low. He could feel the heat radiating from her, how the scent of firewood and something sweet-scented clung to her loose, casual garb. "But I like a challenge."

"It was… you, ah, fought well too," he stuttered, trying to maintain control of the situation, but it was hard to ignore the way her touch lingered on his skin, impossible to ignore the unmistakable gleam in her eyes.

He couldn't help but recall their duel earlier that day - her speed, her skill with a range of weapons, how close she had come to besting him. He still felt the ache in his muscles from the match. Laisa was more than formidable; she was dangerous, in every sense. Formidable, fierce, and beautiful, all in the same breath. The sort of spearwife the rangers had told stories of. Half in appreciation, half in warning.

"I did, didn't I?" Her grin turned crooked. "But not well enough." Jon wasn't sure what to say to that. "I thought I'd beat you, you know. Not many men can keep up with me, but you… you're different," Laisa murmured, her voice lowering as she moved closer. Her fingers trailed down from his bandage to the scar across his chest, tracing its edges.

"Uh…" Jon swallowed.

"I don't mind losing to a man like you." She leaned in, her lips close enough that he felt the heat of her words. Her voice turned even lower, to a suggestive, sultry rasp, "Maybe we should have a rematch, hm? One where we're playing with a different sort of spear."

Jon froze like a deer.

"I know you want me," her voice lowered to a whisper, the warmth playing across his ear. "I've seen your stares, when you think I'm not looking. So go and steal me, Jon Snow."

Jon swallowed. His mind twisted with itself, suddenly caught between instinct and propriety.

Should I? Laisa's beauty was undeniable. And it had been a long time since he had last been with a woman: the fire in her eyes stirred something deep within him, something primal.

For a brief moment, he considered it - the weight of responsibility, the exhaustion of running from the dead, the loneliness that had endlessly gnawed at him. He thought of surrendering to his primal wants. Laisa was beautiful and strong, bold and warm and willing, and so very close.

…But then another face flickered in his mind. Ygritte.

"I can't," Jon said weakly. Then he shook his head, and his voice came out firmer, though his heart still raced. "Thank you for the food, but… I'm not that man."

Laisa arched an eyebrow. Her eyes searched his. Whatever she saw, after a moment, her grin faded slightly, replaced by a hint of disappointment.

"You could be," she said, but her tone was less playful now, almost resigned. She tilted her head, studying him for a moment longer before stepping back with a shrug. "Very well, Snow. Thought I'd seen a bit of the wild in you. Your loss."

Jon's voice came out quietly. "I'm sorry."

She turned slowly, her hand brushing his arm one last time before she moved toward the door. "Someone else in your heart?" she asked at the threshold. Jon nodded, silently. "Lucky lass," Laisa muttered. "If you ever change your mind…" she left the offer hanging in the air like a challenge, but Jon said nothing. He didn't even look at her.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and left. The door closed behind her with a soft thud.

Jon let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Then he sighed, slowly.

He moved back to the fire, and stared into the flames far far too long. His mind wandered through memories far from here, distant in time, in place, in life. The words came out as less than a whisper, barely audible over the quiet crackling of the fire.

"…I miss her."

Where are you, Ygritte? What happened to you?

After that, however he tried, he couldn't get back to sleep.

There was nothing more to do this night. He had retired from the feast, sent the sentries to their posts, checked the stragglers, listened to the endless squabbling of the clans. Now all the rest of the men were retiring for the night.

Above him, aboveground, the camp was quieting. He could easily tell that much through Ghost's senses, through Sonagon's. Phantom was ranging afar, farther afield, his first and best sentry against threats in the night. But even from her, he sensed nothing tonight. Only the quiet crackling sound of river ice breaking against the shores. The woods were empty of the dead tonight.

Now, at last, there was silence. Too much of it perhaps. For the first time in weeks, Jon found himself entirely alone, his only companion the quiet hissing and crackling of his fire, as his thoughts and worries crowded in, heavier than armor.

What am I doing?

He had sworn an oath once, in the haunted forest before a heart tree not far from Castle Black. Night gathers, and now my watch begins. He had been only a boy, but he had meant every word. The Night's Watch were his brothers. His duty. His family, he had told himself, when all others had been stripped away.

And yet here he was, far from the Wall, far from his supposed brothers, dragging thousands of wildlings behind him in a ragged host that stretched for miles, trying to herd them south. Where would it end?

I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post.

He still considered himself loyal to those oaths, even if his sworn brothers would spit on him for saying such. Even though he had wavered, deeply, he had in the end taken no wife, fathered no children. The oaths did not prevent brief couplings, taking temporary warmth in another, whatever the more honorable of the sworn brothers would have said. There had to be a reason for that. But as for the rest… already, he was facing accusations of ambition from wildlings, many of them looking as if he were some would-be king. They say I want a crown. He had no interest in such. But still, the accusations kept coming, perhaps they were even inevitable, for reasons he preferred not to linger on. Some of them even want me to have a crown. Those looks were harder to deny. Desperate people who hungered for whatever meager hope he had to give.

His duty had been clear, once. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the shield that protects the realms of men. Simple words, but what did they mean?

The letter of the oaths focused on the Wall. Defend it, man it, die upon it if need be. The spirit of the oaths… that was murkier. To protect men meant more than just the Seven Kingdoms, the greenseer had said. It meant all the men of Westeros, and even lands beyond. It meant the wildlings, a people who could abide no law, obeyed no true king.

A people of unruly, self-prideful barbarians. A people who rejected the very concept of 'kneeling', and yet had no concept, no understanding of what it meant to give leal loyalty to another and were all the weaker for it. A people who saw service to a cause greater than themselves an abasement rather than a test of one's strength of character and the proof of it. A people who raped and raided as easily as they drew breath, who had been the bane of his kin for centuries.

The greenseer swore me to defend the realms of men, he reminded himself, not just the men south of the Wall. That was the greatest oath of all, surely. The threat of the dead demanded no less a response.

Still, his chest tightened when he thought of Winterfell. My father is dead. And yet, as far as he knew, Robb and Arya, Bran and Rickon remained. Nor would he have hesitated to defend Sansa or Lady Catelyn either, whatever they might have thought of him. Theon, even.

My family. They are all threatened by traitors. And here I am, shepherding wildlings.

Ghost stirred faintly in the back of his mind, a white flame in the dark. He had seen the dreams, heard the letters from before he had gone out on his fateful ranging with Qhorin Halfhand. He had already tried to defect from the Watch once, only to be dragged back by his sworn brothers. And his family's situation had only worsened since then. The Starks are scattered, bleeding, hunted. And that was the last he'd heard of them more than four or five months ago. How has their situation changed since then?

Would dragging the wildlings south of the Wall give him the power to keep his family safe? Or would it burden the North with so many mouths and spears that Winterfell itself would collapse under the weight? Was he doomed to start a war in the north, or were there other, better paths?

And there was Sonagon. The dragon was power beyond measure - the sort of power that could tilt Robb's war, let alone what it might mean for the Night's Watch and their eternal war against the wildlings. If he took Sonagon south tonight, straight to Castle Black, instead of wasting time gathering stubborn wilding clans, the Wall might be held. The Watch would rally behind him, surely. His brothers would see him not as an oathbreaker, but a savior.

Even if Sonagon couldn't fly yet, with the dragon's walking speed it wouldn't even take long. Only a few days.

Would they welcome me, truly? He contemplated that question, his thoughts twisting, turning darker with each turn. He clenched his fist around Dark Sister's hilt, knuckles whitening. They would say I broke my oaths. And perhaps I did. The men of the Watch took no wives, suffered no traitors. I lay with a wildling woman, kissed by fire. They would not care for his less hardened interpretation of the oaths of service. I march with the Weeper. I ride with wildlings, fight with them, eat with them. Would the sworn brothers even believe that Qhorin had ordered him not to balk, whatever was asked of him? Or would they turn their blades on him as an oathbreaker, a deserter, a man who had consorted with wildlings and monsters?

And now wildling women throw themselves at me. Who among my brothers would believe I didn't break my vows at every chance possible?

How many sworn brothers had the Weeper killed with his own two hands? I'm afraid to even ask him. Because I need him.

No, the sworn brothers and their interpretations of their vows had no place for men such as him. Can I make them see otherwise? Is it even possible?

Then there was the greenseer. Brynden Rivers. Bloodraven. The man who had plucked him from death's icy blade, who had given him a second chance. Jon had sworn another oath in that cold dark cavern. Do anything and everything in your power to fight for the dawn. He had meant that vow too, just as much as he had meant his oath to the Night's Watch. To fight against the coming of the Long Night, no matter how distasteful the methods, no matter the price.

So what was his duty now? To the Watch, to the Wall, to the greenseer, to his family? Or to the dawn itself?

The fire popped, sending sparks up into his chamber. Jon stared into the flames, thoughts twisting, turning in ever darker directions.

If he left the wildlings to the dead, they would buy him time. The white walkers would feast on them first, and he could strike for the safety of the Wall with Sonagon at his side. Fewer mouths to feed, fewer wildling spears to mistrust. The North might, no, would even thank him for it.

But then he remembered all these clans he had met, the ones yet to come. He remembered the eyes of the giants, the refugees, the ragged mothers clutching their babes, the chieftains leading people too tired to fight but too proud to kneel. He remembered Ygritte's face, fierce and alive, alive somewhere out there, he desperately hoped. The wildlings are people too.

He dragged a hand down his face. His own thoughts clawed at him until he thought they might tear him in half.

Family, duty, honor. The Watch. The greenseer. The wildlings. The dragon.

The words spun endlessly, and he could not find the center of them. But in the end, it all resolved on the greenseer's oath, the threats that he knew were coming, that he had seen through the trees. An endless army of the dead. White walkers in numbers never seen before. A royal white walker, a princess of ice. A white walker king.

You must do anything and everything in your power to fight against the Long Night, the greenseer had made him swear. 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. In return for my aid, you must swear it. Swear it by earth and water, by bronze and iron. By ice and fire, swear it.

Godly words, Furs had said. And damned in the eyes of the gods if you break them, the Weeper had warned. Jon thought of his father, Ice in hand, praying as he so often did in Winterfell's godswood to the nameless, faceless gods of his kin's ancestors. Did the Old Gods ever deliver him the answers he sought, or was father just as lost as I am, in his own quiet way?

A log in the fire split, crackled. At last, Jon muttered quietly into the fire, barely above a whisper. "…how do I obey all these oaths, without breaking one or another? Which do I choose, when I must choose? What is right?"

No answer came. Jon's voice turned even quieter.

"I am the sword in the darkness. The shield that guards the realms of men," Jon's voice came out softer than a whisper, barely even leaving his throat. "But which men? Who deserves to live, and who deserves to die?"

The flames offered no answer. There was nothing there, no answer to be had in them. But at the back of his mind, he could feel beyond himself, even now. His other skins, his companions. He felt a distant wind whispering over his furs, and even more, that steady, endlessly hungry breath of the dragon in the dark.

"…and why am I the one who must make these choices?"

In that quiet moment of darkness, Jon wished he could speak to his father for one last time.

Sleep finally took him.