16: To Hardhome, Part 6

To Hardhome, Part 6

Jon

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

That evening, the vanguard made camp above the frozen shore beneath Tidebreaker Hold.

Jon's original intent - to establish a disciplined holdfast for the night, before moving on with the morn as a single column - took only hours to become utterly impossible. The camp steadily became more and more of a sprawling, chaotic mess as hundreds, and soon thousands of refugees from the rear column finally reached the coast and congregated in the wide, open space of this stretch of coast. And with them came nearly all of the surviving chiefs of the Antlers and the Antler.

All the available driftwood anywhere within sight was collected. What few trees existed in the area were swiftly cut down, and as the sun set, campfires were set away from the frozen shoreline by the dozens. Tidebreaker Hold had opened its larders, and it wasn't long before, for some baffling reason or another, the men began to make merry.

Jon paid a distant sort of attention through his second skins, preferring to linger in his own tent rather than go out and see anyone. He didn't want to overpressure his strained leg, and in any case he needed privacy: he had to focus on his warg and bring Sonagon back before the dragon wandered too far.

…It didn't take long for Jon to give up on that task.

As far as he could tell, Sonagon was happily sleeping on some island far out to sea. The dragon had eaten much in the last days, and between the several dozen ice river clansmen and their few hundred dogs and gods only knew how many walruses he was if anything oversatiated for the first time in living memory.

Nothing to be done about it. Jon sighed, hoping the dragon would listen to him more tomorrow.

They had finally reached the coast, and this long journey to Hardhome was nearly done. Nothing but to rest and sleep off all the riding and arguing and fighting of the day. So much of it, every day, and doubtless there would be more of it tomorrow.

But, through the furs of his tent, he overheard singing.

They were making merry. Truly, as though this were a harvest feast in some warm green southern hall and not a windswept shingle at the edge of the world with winter howling at their backs. Through Ghost, he saw that Thaldar's larders had been flung open - grudgingly, Jon did not doubt, likely only because the old chieftain had judged the alternative worse - and the free folk had fallen upon the salted meat and fish, onions and neeps, honey and butter and all else like they'd been starving - which Jon knew they damned well had not been.

Somewhere out there, Thaldar's clansmen were sharing a fire with the Lord of Seals' raiders. Not six hours past, they had been trying their level best to kill eachother. Not far away, almost close enough to hear with his own ears, the Weeper's men were bellowing a filthy marching-song at a gaggle of Hornfoots who didn't even speak the Common - and the Hornfoots roared along regardless.

It made no sense to him. None of it did, how wildlings could go from blood feuding to…this. Within the span of a single day. Changing their minds on matters of life and death as easily as turning over a woman's hand.

Ygritte had been cut from the same sort of cloth, in retrospect, but on such a smaller scale. What would she say if she were here? That I still know nothing, of course. Of course she would say that…

Then someone stepped into his tent. Someone familiar.

"Gods, but it's grim in here," Furs said in his rough voice, but not unkindly - more bemused than anything. "You've got the whole camp out there singing your beastie's praises. Yours too, Snow. And here you are all by yourself, brooding or warging or whatever. Silly."

Jon, wishing he could just be left alone for a little, eyed him, standing there at the tent flap, with perhaps more annoyance than he intended. "What's happening, Furs?"

"Chiefs asked me to ask you to come out and drink with them," Furs nodded. He spoke with a sort of frank assessment. "It'll not hurt you to be seen among them, man to man. Might even do some good, what with all that's still ahead of us. Chiefs gotta do chiefly things, aye?"

For a long moment, Jon considered it. He wanted to say no, take advantage of this rare chance to rest. But Qhorin Halfhand's voice whispered to him from beyond the grave, as did his father's. To lead men you must know them, and they you. Don't ask your men to die for a stranger. And for better or worse, these wildling chieftains were his men now.

Slowly, and mindful of his leg, Jon pushed himself up off the bedroll. "Fine," he said. "All right. Lead on."

The chieftain's campfire had been burning for a while before Jon arrived.

A firepit had been dug into the upper beachhead a bit away from Tidebreaker Hold, where the wind coming off the sea had prevented snow from entirely covering the sand. Thankfully, the wind was mostly quiet this evening, which allowed the smoke to rise high until it thinned and vanished. Logs of wood spitted and crackled, the fire's sparks rising and disappearing into the dark.

Even at first glance, the gathering was larger than he'd expected. At least two score chieftains and secondary leaders were sitting around it, talking. As he approached, Jon noticed he didn't even recognize all the faces. He saw chieftains he had personally brought in like Braithe the Beaverhide, Marthe of the Antlers, Halrak Stonetooth, Devyn Sealskinner, Laisa Threespear - and of course Thaldar, who was acting the host for them all.

But there were others he didn't know. Chieftains Jon knew only knew by reputation, who had joined his host only recently and without his direct say. He guessed the one wearing a red cloak was the aptly named Reddas, the oldest son of Barrad Bloodcloak - who he had heard the Weeper had brought in. There were a pair of Frozen Shore chieftains he didn't recognize at all, who must have been taking refuge with Thaldar, savage-looking figures with half their faces dyed red and blue.

Rag Rig Rog Kun Gor was impossible to miss, of course - the giant was sitting on the ground like some great, shaggy blond boulder, still so tall that he loomed over everyone standing, taking almost an entire side of the campfire on his own. But he was quiet, watching everything without comment and doubtlessly listening in his own way.

The Weeper sat near the fire, but despite that, it was as if he was apart from the others, or perhaps the others were loathe to approach him. None sat close to him but for Rolf and Furs - Furs had somehow acquired a plucked chicken on a stick and was currently roasting it over the fire.

Jon approached and took a place Furs offered near the fire, beside the Weeper. Ghost padded after him and settled at his feet. A few eyes flickered to the direwolf, then away. The Weeper only grunted at his presence.

"Well met," Jon politely greeted the chieftains around the fire. He nodded once to the circle, and said nothing. For now he was content just to listen.

A few chieftains stared for a moment at the two of them, or at him in particular, but only briefly.

For a time, talk resumed without him.

The chieftains spoke of routes south. Not the path the refugee host would take, for their course south to Hardhome along the coastal trail was set. They spoke of routes Jon had no knowledge of, inland forest paths that the outriders were currently scouting. Many of those rivers and valleys were choked with snow, and their few ponies, mules and garrons capable of being mounted and ridden for the task were almost worth their weight in gold.

Along those paths, deeper in the peninsula's forests, there were certainly clans and refugees who still needed to be brought in. A thought for later.

Then the conversation moved on to their supplies, which wouldn't last for long. Halrak argued with Thaldar for stockpiles and shelter. There was some arguing, but compromises were reached. The Weeper spoke curtly of scouts and watchers. Jon listened more than he spoke. When he did speak, it was brief, practical; he pressed the need to keep moving, to avoid letting the dead mass against them.

That earned a few dark looks, but no one argued. The refugee column had been taking in other survivors of the devastating battle in the Frostfangs of late, and the bedraggled survivors had confirmed that the Others were consuming the more northerly tribes quickly now, that even the northern haunted forest itself was no longer safe. They spoke of how the Night's Watch had struck the survivors fleeing the mountains, killing and capturing many of the free folk in Mance's host, likely including Tormund Giantsbane, and Mance himself.

That rumor provoked a round of discussion in its own right. Other rumors of things near and far were brought up, like the matter of another refugee host that was supposedly being assembled further to the south, supposedly led by Val and Harma Dogshead, or the rumors of a third host converging at the mouth of the Milkwater far to the west, near the Bridge of Skulls - that one was most likely led by Thenns.

Then, nothing to be done about any of it, the conversation moved on to quieter things after the chieftains ran out of matters of import to discuss. For a time they traded stories of their various homes from across the far north, tales of things near and far… until eventually attention settled on him.

"You've been quiet, Snow," Halrak Stonetooth said at last, scratching his beard. He chuckled. "Quieter than most would be, what with this many eyes on them."

Yes, he had felt how some eyes had lingered on him in particular all day long, and especially here, and now he felt it as surely as a shift in the wind. These people were leaders of wildlings, long used to weighing threats, measuring men. And Jon Snow - the white crow, warg and dragonrider, son of Eddard Stark - would have been an odd thing to them by merit of any one of those things. All together, and it was like his responsibilities were pressing down on him like a physical weight. No wonder they were still getting used to his presence.

Jon inclined his head slightly. "A spearwife liked to tell me that I know nothing. She would say so frequently, often, and quite thoroughly." That earned him a few brief chuckles. "Until I learn more of your people's ways, I find listening more useful than speaking."

"Sounds like a smart lass," Halrak grinned, leaning forward. "Where's she at now?"

Jon sighed. If only I knew. "I haven't seen her since the Frostfangs."

"Like as not she'll show up again," Thaldar said curtly. "We've been seeing many folk who survived the battle in the mountains coming by the overland trails."

I hope so, Jon thought quietly. But the chieftain of the Stonetooths scratched his beard. "Leave the matters of tomorrow for tomorrow," Halrak said. "For tonight - stories, Snow. You must have one. Something heroic, or tragic. Near or far. Or anything worth the hearing."

The Weeper snorted. "Find Kingsblood if you want tales. Snow's a quiet one."

"I'd prefer to hear the refusal from his own mouth, Weeping Man," Halrak scoffed. The Stonetooth's chieftain returned his attention to Jon. "I ask again. Do you know any stories, Jon Snow?"

Jon hesitated as dozens of eyes settled on him. Damn. Only a few years ago he had been the Bastard of Winterfell, the castle's resident outcast, the shadow and shame of the Stark family. Those days were still so near, near enough to hurt. A certain, small, secret part of him had craved attention ever since he was a child - but now he didn't really know what to do with it now that he had it. They're all looking at me.

Even now, he typically found himself more comfortable watching others from the sidelines. But for half a hundred different reasons, he couldn't do that anymore. No, for better or worse, he was now a leader of wildlings. But it didn't make him one of them; it only made him a man with a name and a task, and people who expected things of him.

"I…" He let his gaze travel around the circle. A bastard had to learn to notice things, to read the truth that people hid behind their eyes, and a bastard he would always be. But he saw… nothing. These people simply didn't care. These weren't lords judging him; they simply wanted something to pass the night.

Halrak pressed the matter. "You must have some tale to share."

Jon considered the words. "Is there a kind of story you would wish to hear, my lord?"

He tried to sound easy about it, though a part of him dreaded the request. He half-expected the man to demand tales of the true south, faraway lands and cities he'd never seen such as King's Landing, Dorne, the Summer Isles: places he'd only ever heard tales and legends of. Even worse, they might demand tales of his brother Robb, who as far as he knew was still fighting to avenge their father in the riverlands.

"I'm no lord, boy," Halrak snorted through his mane of a beard. "Just a bored man on a cold night. I'd prefer a tale of your home. If you've another, I'll take it all the same."

A story of home, Jon frowned, thinking to himself. Odd, but better that than a request of almost anything else he might have been asked. Most likely the chieftain of the Stonetooths was trying to be helpful, in his own way - or perhaps he was trying to sate his own curiosity. It is now in their best interests to know me, just as it is in mine to know them.

Either way, he had to speak. He looked at the fire, frowning to himself.

A story. Jon's thoughts twisted. Robb should be here, not me. Robb could have spun a tale until the rafters rang with laughter. Theon could lie so smoothly even his Drowned God might have believed him. Both of them had a rare sort of talent, the power to make something larger than life out of words. They thought on stories, elaborated and spun on sparse details, could make something complete and entire out of patches.

But Jon had only the memory of Old Nan's old, cracked voice in his head, and he wasn't even certain if he remembered it all - and less certain that he had the talent to give proper life to her tales even if he did.

But the chieftains of the free folk wanted a story, and he would have to oblige. But what kind of story?

He considered the tales he knew. Jon had grown up on stories. Tales of brave kings and the monsters they fought, tales of knights so heroic that their names had become eternal. But most of those stories were far removed from here. The tale of Daeron Targaryen, the Young Dragon? That story had always been his favorite. The young conqueror of Dorne. Or Aemon the Dragonknight? Surely there would be merit in that story, for the Dragonknight had been one of the prior wielders of Dark Sister, and Daeron's greatest and most noble friend. Or the tale of Serwyn the Mirror-Shield, perhaps? Another legendary knight, who had slain the fearsome dragon Urrax with a shield carved out of a mirror of silver.

He looked around the circle of chieftains again, all of whom had been his enemies until not long ago; any of whom might be so again as easily as the flip of a coin.

…no, perhaps a tale of a dragonslayer was not the best choice. Still, there were any number of stories he remembered well from his boyhood: ones that his father had told him. Should I tell the tale of Torrhen Stark, who knelt to Aegon the Conqueror and his dragons? …no, that tale would be too bold a choice by far, likely to be misinterpreted by these chieftains. Or the tale of Cregan Stark, who ended the Dance of Dragons? Perhaps. But it felt unsatisfactory.

"What use would a story be?" Jon asked at last, trying to demur. "I doubt I have one worth your time."

"Hah! What use would a story be, the white crow says?" Laisa laughed.

"How do you think free folk pass the winters, Snow?" Halrak grinned. "When the snows are thirty feet high and the skies are black with another thirty feet still to come, a clan might spend entire moons curled up in whatever hole they've got, living on rations in the dark. You think cave dwellers are the only ones who might live without seeing the sun for months at a time?" he snorted. "How do you think we pass the time for all those months? When the sky goes dark for weeks on end, and the only light comes from whatever candles and fires you've got that're keeping the frost from taking your fingers?"

"I honestly can't imagine, my lord."

The older man laughed again, but not cruelly. "We tell stories, Snow. We trade them like others trade furs or salt. We fight, we fuck, we boast, and we trade tales of the world we'll never see. Of forests warmer than summer, seas that glitter green instead of grey, cities where the walls are taller than mountains. We tell them for the same reason you southerners pray - because it keeps something in us alive."

Another voice joined in, an older woman wrapped in patchwork furs and beads. "The children need to hear words when the world turns to white silence. When the wind howls like the dead and you've eaten the last of your stores, a story is the only thing that makes you remember you're not ghosts yet."

"We trade stories, Snow. We fight, we fuck, and we trade stories of the vast world outside of our caves. All the horizons we haven't seen, and want to live to see."

Jon flushed hotly. "I know stories from the south. I'm just not good at telling them."

His expression turned challenging. "Oh?"

Robb should be here, not me, Jon thought again. "My brother was a good storyteller." He wanted to linger on that thought of home, of Winterfell. But there was no time - almost thirty people were watching him with careful attention - too much attention - and Jon felt it press on his chest like a physical weight. Don't stammer like a child, he swallowed. Gods, get on with it.

"There's an old woman in Winterfell who used to tell us many stories," Jon began. "We called her Old Nan. She told us stories of the kings on the Iron Throne, stories from all six of the lower Seven Kingdoms. Stories of the north, of the Stark's kings of winter and the Kings-Beyond-the-Wall. Stories of the three great Brandons: Brandon the Builder, who built the Wall and whose blood is said to run in the veins of all Starks. Brandon the Shipwright, who built fleets to explore the world, and Brandon the Burner, his son who burned them all. Stories of the Grey King, who killed the sea dragon Nagga and took her fire for his own. So many stories. I thought she knew all the stories in the world."

The wildling chieftains were all quiet. They weren't all looking at him, to be sure: many were staring into the bonfire's flames. But they were sitting still, and he did think they were listening.

"…But, out of all these stories, there's one that I would put above the others," Jon continued quietly. "Not because it was the best story, but because it was the worst. I think it was the only story that truly frightened me."

That drew the attention of the gathered chieftains. He saw almost thirty pairs of eyes settle on him, an almost physical weight on his chest. He cleared his throat, struggling not to stammer like some child. Why was it so much more difficult to just… talk to these people? Commanding came far more easily to him.

"Not long after Brandon the Builder completed the Wall," Jon spoke slowly, dredging the story from his memories, "a fierce warrior was named the thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. No one's sure who he was. Some say he was a descendent of a Barrow King, or a Red King. Others say he was a son of one of the Bear Kings or Stone Kings, perhaps the Marsh Kings or the Hill Kings, but…" Jon hesitated.

"Go on," Halrak said, now smiling.

"Old Nan said he was a Stark," Jon admitted. "That he was a son or brother of a king of winter in his time. That the Starks shared blood with him." Meaning that I share his blood as well, he thought, far more quietly.

None of the faces staring at him responded, gave any indication of reaction. He pressed on. "This warrior liked to stand watch on the Wall, watching the lands beyond. But he was more than just a watcher - he was a ranger, he often rode out beyond the Wall to hunt slavers, or raiders, or… something. The stories shift." Jon frowned, chasing that thread of his memories. "He was brave. Strong. Fearless, Old Nan said. A warrior who knew no fear. She said that was his tragedy, his great undoing in the end - that a man cannot know courage, real courage, if he does not know fear."

"Wise woman," Furs grunted.

"The Wall was smaller back in those days, not quite so high," Jon continued softly. "But he was a capable Lord Commander, and like those before him he was building the Wall to new heights. He liked to watch the lands north from those heights, especially on dark nights." Jon's voice turned lower. "…But on a certain night, a night with a full moon, he saw a woman watching him. A woman with skin white as the moon and eyes like blue stars. The loveliest woman in the world, watching him from the forest below." Several figures leaned forward, listening more closely now. "And against all warning from his brothers, against anything a man of sense would ever consider, he descended and chased her into the haunted forest." Jon took a breath, trying to remember everything he could of the tale.

"It wasn't long before he caught her - or…" Arya never liked that part, Jon remembered suddenly: 'What kind of a stupid lady would just just stand there waiting to be chased? Maybe she wanted to be caught?' "…Or it might be he was the prey and never realized." Jon hesitated with the next part, even though he had no good reason to; he was no longer a maid.

"…When he caught her, he found the woman's skin was as cold as ice, or so the story goes: but even so, he lay with her and loved her as a man does a woman, and when he filled her with his seed, she took even more - she also stole his soul."

There were scattered laughs and chortles around the fire. "Stole his soul with his seed, eh?" Furs grinned. "I've known some lasses who could claim to such."

Jon flushed. "It's… it's a figure of speech. Anyway. She…" Jon frowned. "If she ever had a name, it was probably lost to history. Same as his. She…" Jon struggled, reaching for more detail where he couldn't remember any from the tale. His experiences filled in the blanks.

"Her hair was like white diamond, spun into the finest thread. She wore armor like crystal, armor that reflected the light, and she had a sword finer than any ice. She was almost ethereal, more beautiful than any true woman should be, striding over snow that remembered no trace of her, leaving not a footprint behind. Her eyes…" Their eyes were not like stars, Jon thought uneasily, as his mind caught up to the words tumbling out of his mouth. Stars twinkle. Their eyes… burn. Blue fire trapped in ice. But the story carried him onward.

"…Her eyes burned as she looked upon him. And it was only then, after he'd given her his soul, that he realized he hadn't lain with a woman at all, but with something else entirely - with one of the white walkers of winter. With one of the Others."

A few figures around the campfire shifted uneasily. Not many, but a few. He wanted to shiver as well. Here in the lands beyond the Wall, especially after having seen the white walkers for himself, this no longer felt like some story, like a mere child's fable. And yet somehow his patchwork memories of the old tale continued to pour forth.

"But the thirteenth Lord Commander did not care, and by then, could not care. He took her back to the Nightfort, where he declared his new bride a queen and himself king. It's said the Night's King taught her the ways of men, and she in turn taught him the ways of her kind, the darkest arts of the Other's magic. He became a master of evil sorceries, and for years he ruled at the Wall not as its Lord Commander, but as its king. A traitor to the realm, a betrayer to humanity." Jon took a breath, then continued.

"Years passed. Thirteen, Nan said. The Nightfort became a tomb. The rangers stopped ranging - except to take slaves. The builders stopped raising the Wall, and started to build vast dungeons beneath the earth. As for the stewards… no one knows. When Winterfell sent riders, they found the gates barred, with black banners flying over the gates. With no other choice, they left - and unknown to them, within the castle's walls, the Night's King was building an army of the walking dead and the living who might as well have been dead, for his black sorceries had bound the minds and bodies of all the sworn brothers of the Night's Watch to his will."

A few figures around the fire swallowed, nodded. Jon nodded as well.

"The Night's King grew in strength through this time, the stories say. They say his dark army threatened the lands both north and south of the Wall, they say his pale queen sang to him until his heart forgot the sun. The Nightfort, which should have been the realm's greatest defense, had instead become its greatest threat. The seat of a dark kingdom, with a high throne of ice forged of sorcery, built by a pale queen for her mad king. The two of them had turned the Nightfort into a house of horrors, and they were the greatest horrors of all, the Night's King and his pale queen ruling beside him, with her belly swollen—"

He caught himself. That part wasn't Nan's. That was Robb whispering to him after she'd gone, a child's speculations. 'What if she was pregnant, Jon? She was a queen, after all. What if the Others are their children?' Robb had asked him.

Perhaps they are, Jon thought bitterly, thinking of what he had seen in the greenseer's cave. Yes, the greenseer had said the children of the forest had first created the white walkers… but Jon suspected that, whatever the primordial beginnings of those strange beings, there was more to their tale now. The city of ice beyond the frozen wastes. He doubted Robb would be pleased to learn he'd likely been right all along.

"…Until finally," he carried on, "the king of winter went to the King-Beyond-the-Wall, for the madman's ambitions threatened the lands north and south. Brandon and Joramun made an alliance and together they defeated the Night's King and his white walker bride, burning them within the Nightfort until only ash and stone remained."

Jon clenched his fists. "After it was done, King Brandon was declared the Breaker King, the savior of the realm. And he found proof in the ruins that the Night's King had been in league with the Others - that he had been making sacrifices to them. The Nightfort was abandoned and remained so for centuries. He tore down all the walls around all nineteen of the Watch's keeps, and decreed that none may ever be rebuilt, so that the Night's Watch might never rebel and threaten the lands south again."

"They tore down all their walls? Why?" Halrak asked.

"What would they need their little walls for, Stonetooth?" the Weeper grunted, with a dark expression. "Their big Wall's all the crows will ever need. Done well for 'em so far."

"Right," Halrak muttered, apparently enlightened.

Jon nodded. "Afterwards, Brandon the Breaker declared the Night's King attainted - not just his body but his very name was destroyed, would remain stricken from history's pages for all time. Him and his pale queen." Jon took a breath, spoke more softly now, adding something more personal. "Every boy in the north learns this story. It serves as a grim reminder to them, and to the men of the Night's Watch - to never forget your vows, to never trust the things beyond the Wall, and never let love for women or lust for power corrupt your duty."

It was silent for a moment. Several chieftains eyed one another. The silence stretched for too long, until Jon felt he had to add one last thing.

"…Even today, the sworn brothers still say the ruined Nightfort is haunted by the Night's King and his queen," he said quietly. "That their dying curses still stick to the stones like tar, that the castle drives men mad. They say this is why the castle has never truly been rebuilt even after thousands of years."

Edd had said as much. Once, at any rate. Jon wasn't sure if all of the sworn brothers had similar thoughts, but if not, he didn't think the man would mind the exaggeration. And perhaps it wasn't one at all.

The chieftains shifted, many still staring into the campfire's flames. Then a boy Jon didn't know raised his hand. He looked like one of Braithe the Beaverhide's younger sons, judging from his buck-toothed look. "Why did your Breaker King erase the Night's King's name?"

"…Old Nan said it was so that he could never be summoned again by speaking his name," Jon admitted. This part he hadn't wanted to say. "The legends oft say that names hold power for dark sorcerers. She said that when wildlings or smallfolk somehow find his name again, in some old book or grave or another, it won't be long before the longest, darkest nights return again, that the Night's King will return on the moonless nights, riding on a pale horse, seeking his lost queen."

When he finished at last, there were no more questions. The other chieftains around the fire remained silent, many of them staring into the crackling of the campfire. Wood in the fire split, crackled. Waves softly broke against the frozen rocks below the beachhead.

The silence stretched on, heavy and dark. Some chieftains stared at one another with inscrutable expressions.

Jon's stomach twisted. I botched it. The story had poured out raw, too close to his childhood. Parts of Old Nan's tale as he'd heard it as a child told it had been mixed with Robb's and Arya's childish speculations and his own more recent, cynical questionings like some motley patchwork. That and he'd replaced some of its more nonsensical details with the far more terrible truths he'd seen - what the white walkers looked like in person, the things he'd seen in their city of ice, the terrible, frighteningly real mysteries thereof.

He had tried to add to the story. But in seeking to add detail, how far had he unwittingly departed from the spirit of Old Nan's tale? How much of that did I just make up on my own, out of nothing but whole cloth?

He'd meant to honor Old Nan, to give them something of Winterfell, but had ended up inflicting on them nothing but his own incompetence as a storyteller. He'd given them a tale far darker, far more grim than he'd intended. And it had already been a dark and grim tale.

The results were plain. The good cheer that had been in all the faces around the fire was subdued now. The chieftains were all still silent, their expressions remaining unreadable. Their eyes were mostly all still fixed on the flames. Halrak's gentle encouragements felt like a lifetime ago. Had he shamed them by his incompetence? Offended them? …Frightened them? Surely not.

He braced for mockery, but none came. The silence only stretched on, pressing on his chest like a stone.

"…I would have told the tale better, if I knew how," Jon said softly, breaking the silence on his own initiative when it grew to be too much to bear. "But I'm not a storyteller."

"Ah, come off of it. You didn't screw the story up, crow," Halrak said, expression suddenly breaking out into a grin. "It's just interesting to hear your side of it, is all."

My side? Jon blinked.

"Aye, wasn't a bad telling," Thaldar added. "Details are the trait of a good storyteller. Things for the mind to catch on. What was it you said? Skin as pale as the moon, with armor like crystal reflecting the light. Striding over the snow with blue eyes. He closed his eyes as he spoke, as if to better picture it. "I'll remember that."

"I've seen the white walkers in person," Jon admitted. "Several times." His voice turned lower. "Fought them, even. There is no storyteller's exaggeration there. That is what they look like, my lord."

That caused a brief chill around the camp, as various chieftains eyed one another with a range of worried expressions. Jon had gathered that very few wildlings had actually seen the white walkers in person and lived to tell the tale - just their wights.

"There are no lords here, Snow," Halrak said after the pause. His eyes crinkled in amusement. "Just men, listening to tales to pass a cold night. Now, you ain't Bael the Bard reborn, but you ain't bad either."

"Aye, seconded," Furs said gamely, chiming in. "I haven't heard the southerner perspective on that old myth before either. I doubt most of us had. It's just… my clan knows that story too."

Jon felt his interest rise. "Really? How is it different?"

Furs scratched his chin, suddenly awkward. "Eh. I'm no storyteller. Best ask someone else." Jon frowned, looked around the fire to the other chieftains.

"Yeah, I'd say most of the clans have their own telling of that old tale," Halrak answered for Furs. Then he frowned. "Or rather, tellings, I should say. My experience is no two woods witches ever quite agree on the details. But as the man says, it ain't an uncommon tale in these parts." The chieftains around the fire shifted. Some nodded, others exchanged glances. "That old tale's a famous one, as ancient as ancient gets," Halrak leaned forward, looking at Jon levelly. "But ours goes different."

"How so?"

He grinned. "Ours comes from Joramun's line, not your Builder's. Ain't a kneeler's tale. A cursed tale, many call it. But… would you like to hear it?"

A different perspective of the same myth? Jon had not expected this. He hesitated, but his curiosity was running hot. He nodded faintly.

"All right," Halrak said, suddenly cheerful. He looked around the fire. "We need a good woods witch."

"I'm sure Greensight's got one," Braithe the Beaverhide muttered.

One of the first words the chieftain of the beaver men had willingly uttered in Jon's presence. Jon's attention briefly passed over him, but he saw little of note apart from that Braithe was one of the only chieftains to willingly sit next to Marthe of the Antlers - proving once again that outcasts flocked to outcasts, in the same way that scum congealed to scum. His attention moved past them. His curiosity had sharpened now, even as relief that he was no longer the focus of attention twisted in his chest.

Eyes all around the fire converged on Laisa Threespear, who had sat silent this entire time.

She visibly hesitated at all the attention, then laughed awkwardly. "Nah, nah, boys, I ain't no woods witch." She waved her hands in front of her face. "Spent years roaming around the north, returned to the clan not long ago. We'd, uh, need my grandmother."

"You must know a bit of it," Furs said amiably.

Laisa shook her head, hesitated. "Just a bit. A wee bit." She looked more awkward than Jon had seen her before, almost ashamed. "There's an art to it, learning the same words spoken by our ancestors thousands of years ago. Saying the same tales with the same words, the same meanings. So, uh, yes, my clan's got a telling of that tale, as most clans do. I just don't, ah, got that art. But…"

Jon focused on her, his curiosity rising.

"…In some tellings," Laisa said after another moment's hesitation, "the Night's King wasn't just some southron lord. They oft say he wasn't an ordinary man at all - that he was a warg, a powerful one. As strong as a warg king out of the old days, some of them clans said: almost a greenseer. There's disagreement. The tales differ from clan to clan. But a few said he had skins all across the land: wolves and direwolves, shadowcats and snow bears, maybe even a griffon's. And he didn't see his corpse queen from atop his Wall - he used his gifts to spy on the northlands. And it was like that, in one of his second skins that he first saw her - her and the rest of the Others. Learned to speak to them. Made deals with them, yes…" she hesitated. "But for peace, not for war."

Many figures around the fire scoffed. Absurd, Jon thought immediately. But then he hesitated even in his own thoughts. Observing, even speaking to the Others via the power of skinchanging…

That feat, at least, is not impossible. Not from what I've seen. That memory, above all others, made Jon decide: "What is your clan's version of the story?" he asked, perhaps too quickly. Then he paused, added politely. "I would hear it, if I could. In full."

Laisa looked intensely awkward at the probing. "Uh, yeah. I'll go get my grandmother," she said immediately, standing and striding away without another word.

After she'd gone, it was quiet for a moment. The fire crackled. Rolf grunted skeptically. "We'd really trust the tale of that clan of wargs and witches?"

"Greensight's one of the oldest. Definitely the oldest clan that's marching with this host," Furs muttered. "Doubt any of us got a truer telling. Except if you're up for it, Stonetooth?" he said, nodding to Halrak.

"Nah," Halrak chuckled. "Already know my own clan's telling. More curious to hear theirs."

Rolf's next grunt sounded particularly skeptical. "It'll be different, at least. Never know what nonsense they'll add in."

"Still can't believe we're marching with them witches and worse," a chieftain Jon didn't know snorted, giving the direction Laisa had gone in a baleful look. "I'll take a beast in the woods over a warg at my side any day. At least the beast only bites when it's hungry," he spared one last scornful glance for Braithe. Several other chieftains chuckled at that. "No offense meant, Snow," he added, giving Jon an entirely different look.

"None taken," Jon sighed. He had known that the Greensight clan's name held a wary, almost superstitious reputation among the rest of the wildlings, to say nothing of other wargs - he had hoped it wouldn't be a cause of conflict. But for now there was nothing to it but to wait. The circle of chieftains passed the time with smalltalk, rumors of various goings-on around the far north, mostly idle speculations and hearsay.

After a few minutes, Laisa returned with her grandmother.

The matriarch Branwenn was, by far, too old to walk. She was being brought to the circle of chieftains held aloft in a weirwood litter by half a dozen strong clansmen. An impressive entrance, in its own way.

After some grumbling from the chieftains, she was set beside the giant Rag. Even while sitting, the giant had to duck his head to look down at her once they settled her litter down near him.

"Hrrm," the giant's ridge of a brow furrowed in recognition. "Bran-wen. Greensight oldmother," he chuckled softly. "Long time. Long walk for small bones."

The old woman's voice was dry. "Ain't like I walked, you big lug. What's it been? Twenty entire years?" she peered up at him through cloudy eyes. "You look heavier, I think."

"Heh." Rag patted his belly with a hand like a slab of fur. "Yes. Many winters. Many thoughts. Thoughts grow heavy too." The old woman chuckled at that, and the giant smiled, showing a wide grin of flat white teeth. "Why you come so far?"

"Because I'm still breathing, and because fools keep doing interesting things," she snorted, tugged her furs tighter about her shoulders. The ancient matriarch was settled snugly by the fire, half-sitting up in her litter, half swaddled up by it. "Mostly because I heard you were here. You never did learn to come visit me yourself, you big lug."

A low, rumbling chuckle shook Rag's chest. "Rag walks many paths. Visits many hearths. But Greensight hearth… long time. Rag wondered. Rag thought death take Bran-wen."

"Not yet," Branwenn chuckled.

The chieftains eyed one another. "I didn't realize you two were acquainted," Furs leaned forward, interrupting their smalltalk.

Branwenn waved a dismissive hand. "Strange folk get to know strange folk, raider. It's the way of the world. Now - it's best time I get on with it, isn't it?" she huffed. "My granddaughter tells me I'm here to tell an old story," her eyes flickered back to Rag for a moment, fondness softening her forbidding green eyes. "We'll argue and remember later, you and I." Then she turned, gave Jon a brief, but deep nod, almost a bow for how deep it was - which several of the chieftains evidently noticed, judging from the expressions that crossed their features.

And then, without further preamble:

"Long ago," she began, "in a time so distant that old grandfathers could still remember an era before the crows and their Wall, in an age so long past that the far north's clans could still remember the freedom of an open land under the endless blue sky… in an age before that great prison of ice cut the world in two, splitting families apart… a southern lord rose to become the lord of the crows. A man unlike any other." Branwenn's tone turned lower, darker. "A man whose name shall never be spoken again. A man whose name must be forever forgotten."

Strange, the wildlings have the same tradition. It could not be a coincidence. Why? But Branwenn went on and his question died unspoken in his throat. Even he could tell it was too soon to interrupt with questionings.

"Back then, the crows of the Night's Watch weren't the black devils they are now," Branwenn said, in her aged croak of a voice. "They were something more akin to a wandering brotherhood, a loose band of protectors who roamed the lands north. They weren't chained to castles yet, or even to the Wall; they were free, in their way, guarding all men against the cold and the dark, following the lessons of the Last Hero and his band."

Jon frowned. Is that true? He saw other frowns around the fire, figures shifting uncomfortably at seeing the black brothers praised, but none spoke yet.

"This was a grand age, the ancestors say," she went on. "An age of heroes and devils. An age of great men fighting and conquering, killing and being killed, always unto glory for clan and king. An age of sorcerers and greenseers, when the blood of the world still ran thick and hot beneath the land," Branwenn shifted, hugging her furs closer to her withered form. "In this age, the ancestors say every clan had a warg or ten, and man and beast might share the one skin as easy as breathing. A strong enough warg could wear a dozen skins and never once forget which was his own, and the greensight itself was not uncommon. In those days, griffins still nested in the high crags, and the glacier lions walked the Frostfangs, and the children of the forest were not yet entirely gone. And of all the lands of this age, ours was the land where the greatest of warriors and sorcerers came to hone themselves. Where warriors sought to become heroes, and heroes became legends. Ours was the land beyond the reach of kings." Her gaze moved slowly around the fire. "Ours was the land for those who would not kneel."

Figures around the fire sighed wistfully, or followed along alertly, settling into the portrait of the past that the old wood's witch was drawing, as the soft, croaking voice of the old woods witch went onwards in the dark.

"…But they also say this era was crowded with crowns," she croaked. "That there were too many kings, kings beyond count, a king for every mountain and river and stream, always demanding that folk kneel." Jon saw several figures around the fire spit into the snow or grimace in dislike at those words. "Aye," the ancient woman nodded. "There were too many kings then. Hundreds of kneeler's kingdoms, stretching from the hot red sands of the farthest, most distant south all the way to our lands. But our lands were different - for in these days the far north still remembered the Age of Beasts," she explained faintly, looking at the figures sitting around the fire. "This was the farthest land of Westeros, the only land that kings had not yet claimed. Any that tried were pushed back by the clans."

She's speaking of the Age of Heroes, Jon realized. When the Night's Watch first arose. He also vaguely recalled Maester Luwin calling this the Age of the Hundred Kingdoms, a lesser-used alternative preferred by historians. Of course the wildlings wouldn't know it by that name. That, at least, made sense. But what is this 'Age of Beasts?' He had no memory of such a time in his histories. And yet all around the fire the chieftains were nodding, some smiling faintly, as if this was a tale every child in these lands cut their teeth on. Even Hatch bobbed his head. They all know this, Jon thought, keeping his face still while the exclusion prickled at him.

"And in this era," Branwenn's voice turned low. "A man greater than any other was born; a man who rose to fame in his time, and died in infamy, cursed by all who live - by all who will ever live." Her eyes flickered to Jon. "We will call him the Sword of Winter. A truer name than most - for that's what he was and should have stayed: a swordsman sworn to become winter's bane, who instead tried to befriend it - and in so doing, died in damnation." Branwenn took a faint breath. "This is his tale - a tale of glory and ambition, of love and honor… that ended in tragedy and monstrosity. The tale of a hero who went wrong."

Jon's doubts grew. He looked around the circle of chieftains, searching for any sign of confusion or scorn, but he saw none. They know this story, he realized. Or at least in part. Well enough they weren't arguing with it yet.

"The ancestors say the Sword of Winter was the south's finest sword," Branwenn croaked. "Before his twentieth name day he'd fought every champion the green lands offered and found them wanting. But he had secrets too. The truth was, a sword was the least of him." Branwenn's voice sank lower, and the fire caught in the lined hollows of her face. "He was a seeker, too. A man sick with hunger - not for gold, nor land, nor a crown, but for magic. He wanted to bring a true end to winter. He sought to become the greatest hero of all. He sought to succeed where the Last Hero had failed."

This is not Old Nan's tale, or anything like it. Jon listened, quietly stunned that the old wildling was painting this dread myth in so different a light from what he had known.

"What does that mean?" A chieftain Jon didn't know ask. "A true end to winter? The Long Night was over."

"…Where the last hero failed?" Halrak asked, bemused.

"I know not the meaning of that part of the tale," Branwenn's voice was sad. "My ancestors didn't pass that down, or if they did, the chain was broken at some point. All I know is what my own mother told me. That the seasons were, in some ancient time beyond time… different. That, long ago, there was an age when winter didn't last for years. A gentler world. That this was what both the Last Hero and the Night's King truly sought after."

Jon's skepticism was running thick. "Absurd," a chieftain scoffed, as numerous others agreed.

Branwenn shrugged. "True or not, the Sword of Winter believed. He was a peerless sword, who also sought to become a sorcerer. But he'd drunk dry every wood's witch and old tome he could find in the south and found their magics weak. So he rode north, where the old powers yet lingered, and the children were said to still live. He met the black brothers and took up their black cloak for his own, for in those days that was simply what the greatest warriors and champions did - from both sides of the Wall."

Meaning the Watch once recruited wildlings? Jon wondered about that. Could it be true?

"The Sword of Winter was no fool at first," Branwenn said softly, as the flames of the fire crackled. "His eyes, sharp as glacier ice, saw further than most - past the feuds of wildlings and kneelers that even then were beginning to break out, to the true threat. Although the Long Night had ended a few generations before, vestiges of the cold still remained. The Others who hadn't yet returned to the white wastes. And in them, in this time of a long, cold spring, he saw the worthy challenge he hungered for. He rode out to meet the Others with a burning blade in his hand and an even hotter fire in his heart, seeking to inspire by example. The ancestors say he slew many in those early years - cut them down with that great blade of his, left their broken forms steaming in the snow. He believed, as the Last Hero once believed, that the cold ones could be killed, that they could be pushed back forever if a man was strong enough and brave enough. He gained followers, fighting men who were loyal to him alone. A crow apart from the other crows."

A few of the older chieftains nodded slowly. They had heard fragments of this before. Jon for his part was frowning at some of these details. A burning blade? Perhaps she was mixing up parts of this old myth with others.

"But the dead do not tire," Branwenn continued. "And the Sword of Winter did. He lost brothers to the cold, to the wights that rose behind every victory. He lost horses, lost friends, lost hope that the Wall - however high it grew - could ever truly hold them. The Others were too many, too patient, too powerful." She leaned forward, the fire painting her lined face in shifting orange. "But what bothered him most of all was that he didn't understand them. He wanted to know them, wanted to understand what they wanted. Why were some of them still lingering in these lands, when most had returned to the frozen wastes. For what did they fight?"

"And then, one night, as he practiced his magics, seeing into the lands beyond the Wall, he saw her - a pale woman, fair and hidden, glimpsed through the trees. Leagues and leagues separated them, but she watched him as well through her magical arts. He took up his blade, and descended into the forest. He meant to end her as he had others of her kind." Branwenn's voice grew quieter still. "And they fought, and in that battle she used arts of magic far beyond any he had previously known. In the end, he defeated her - but in the last moment, he hesitated. For in her, he saw an opportunity to gain the answers he sought. And he was a man like any other, and the fate of all men is to be captivated by beauty," Branwenn took a breath. "And in that hesitation, she spoke to him."

"The ancestors did not pass down what the Sword of Winter and his cold woman spoke of. But he and she would speak, multiple times. And in time, he met others of her kind - not to fight, but to talk. The Sword of Winter came to believe the Others weren't just monsters of winter, but a different sort of people. He learned their icy tongue, shared tales of the south, and offered them knowledge - how to trade with people, how to strike bargains for goods rather than merely taking what they wished."

The circle of chieftains around the fire was quiet. A log split and crackled at the edge of the coals.

"The Sword of Winter began to see a different path from war," Branwenn continued sadly. "He dreamed of spring, a peace to end the bloodshed between the free folk, the Night's Watch, and the white walkers." Jon leaned forward despite himself. "That was the bargain: he knew they could command the weather. He wanted them to give him the power to end winter forever."

Jon heard a few figures scoff. Furs whistled. "Bold bargain."

"Fool's bargain," Halrak muttered.

"For a time, it worked," Branwenn continued, though Jon could feel the rising skepticism from the listeners. "The blizzards softened, and the Nightfort became a haven, a crossroads where free folk and crows north and south could trade for goods and guard the land together. And the cold ones came too, trading for goods as well: and promising that as long as none raised a blade their way, the dead would stay sleeping." Her cloudy eyes found Jon. "For thirteen years, the peace stood: The Sword of Winter stood shoulder to shoulder with his followers, learning the ways of magic, guarding a fragile peace. His enemies said that he was sacrificing to the Others, but that wasn't true: he was trading with them. Parleying with them, fairly."

It was that last word that drove Jon to finally raise a protest. "You speak well of the enemy," he said, making his skepticism plain. "But how much can you believe of this old story? How reliable is it?"

"Only the ancestors could say, Jon Snow," Branwenn shook her head faintly. "But if you ask around this fire, you will find many clans that agree in one thing: that their legends say it was once, in days long gone by, possible to talk to the cold ones," she sighed. "But no longer. Something has changed. They no longer care to listen to men. Many chieftains have tried in recent months and years - and died for it."

Jon looked around the fire and saw several chieftains shifting uneasily, some bowing their heads, others averting their eyes. He met the Weeper's ever-wet gaze, and the savage gave him a brief, curt nod.

Jon frowned, and his thoughts flickered to the rumors about Craster he'd heard of late, other tales of dark accords. Branwenn herself had mentioned such a thing back when they'd first met. Something to consider for later. His focus flickered back to the old witch. "Go on then."

Branwenn nodded. "After great effort, after taking his cold bride, the Sword of Winter made a peace. But even in prosperous times, peace is a frail thing. And this time of the Cold Spring was no such time. Men still lived who remembered the last of the Long Night. Tensions ran hot and fast, and kneelers hate what they don't understand. And what they can't understand, they will destroy. Such is their way."

Jon saw several figures around the fire nod darkly to that.

"Word drifted south on raven's wings, merchant's tongues," Branwenn's voice was faster now, close to the end. "When they learned of what the Sword of Winter had done, the lords in their stone castles recoiled in horror. They sent their envoys, demanded their explanations. The common people spread every manner of malign rumor and twisted them further. And finally, the so-called 'King of Winter' on his bloody wolf throne heard too. Heard of a crow who treated with the ancient enemy. Heard of a pale woman without footprints walking the battlements. Heard of a peace he had not granted. And he called it treason."

"The Sword of Winter tried, he did. But one by one, doors that should have been open for him closed. For every step he took forwards peace, two steps of the bridge he was trying to build crumbled under his feet. His enemies called him mad. The people shied away. Even some free folk turned on him, fearing the gaze of the cold ones. One by one, his friends fell - some to lack of faith, others to the spears of frightened free folk, still more to southern blades. All around him, the Sword of Winter's dream crumbled, and with it, his spirit."

Branwenn's voice fell low. "And the kings of winter, those wolf-lords who'd rather chain the north than set it free, who betray the old ways with every breath they take, marched with their banners and their blades. They rejected the Sword of Winter's attempts to negotiate with the white walkers, who they called the 'Others,' and named him a traitor to humanity, the ambassador he was hosting the proof of his treason."

Several figures around the fire glanced Jon's way, but whatever his internal thoughts, he gave no outward reaction to hearing his father's ancestors so besmirched. This was not the place.

"All his life," Branwenn went on in her sad, soft, aged voice, "the Sword of Winter had sought the deepest magic for one purpose: to defeat winter forever. To lift the cold from the world for all time. It was why he'd bled, why he'd loved a woman of ice, why he'd made his peace with the enemy of all living things. But cornered now, alone in the Nightfort, besieged by foes from all sides - Starks in the south, free folk in the north, and forsaken by the Others who saw his failure as betrayal - he descended into madness. In desperation, the Sword of Winter's once-clear eyes grew wild, his voice a howl in the night, cursing a world that wouldn't listen."

"And then, he didn't just break his oaths; he shattered them. He took up a crown of ice and declared himself a king. He bent his hard-won sorceries against his sworn brothers and reached further into the coldest, darkest arts than any man before or since. He raised the dead to march at his side and bound the living to his will, and created an army of the damned, cloaked in black. But there was a terrible, inevitable cost to his methods," her cloudy eyes swept the circle. "He'd thought to answer the king of winter's army with his own, but his rebellion and his methods drove away his allies, and for every new soldier his dark arts won him, another three slipped away. The man who'd sworn to be winter's bane instead became a monster of winter - a king of ice upon a throne of ice, colder than the queen who sat beside him."

"But even then, his mind was not yet entirely lost. Knowing his end was near, the Sword of Winter summoned Joramun: the King-Beyond-the-Wall of his age, and one of the last of the free folk who still trusted him. In the shadowed depths of the Nightfort, the Sword of Winter pressed one of Bran the Builder's great treasures into Joramun's hands, a magic horn that could break the Wall. But when he passed the treasure, it came with a warning, one meant to endure for all time." Branwenn took another breath. "'This is our last chance, brother,' the Sword of Winter said. 'Keep it secret. Keep it safe. Only blow it when all hope is lost, when the world forgets what we fought for.'

"And Joramun swore. He swore a solemn vow, a vow sworn on earth and water, on bronze and iron, on ice and fire: that he would never use the horn, that only his descendants might use it - and only if there was no other way to save their people from the cold. That they were to try all other means first, no matter how foolish, no matter how desperate. To only use the horn as the final resort of all."

"After swearing, Joramun begged his friend: 'Throw off your blacks, leave your cold bride. Come north with me. Be my sworn brother only, not theirs.' But the Sword of Winter never broke a vow. Not even his worst one. He clung to his post and his dream, though it was already dead. Chose to stand and fall with it, rather than admit the south was the true enemy."

"Not long after," Branwenn said softly, "the 'Breaker King' broke the Nightfort. He stormed its defenses, and then his legions of kneelers made a pyre of it. Burned the Sword of Winter and his queen not just in body but from history itself. And then, even as the stones were still cooling, they gave him a new name. Night's King. Painted every grey part of his story black and chiseled their lies into history's stones. They wove a tapestry of lies to make him a traitor, declared he was a monster who succumbed to the dark arts of the far north. But we say he was a hero who gave his life to a foolish dream of peace and was betrayed. He chose to die with his dream, rather than wake up and see the real truth: that the south is the true enemy."

Jon grimaced at the last part, silently wishing she hadn't said that.

Branwenn looked around the fire, the gathered chieftains. "My clan remembers him as a fool and a hero both. A fool who tried to mend a broken world the wrong way. A sorcerer who reached too deep for magic's promises, heedless of how the costs of his magic claimed him. And without him, the crows forgot their true purpose - the Wall that should've been a shield turned into their prison-fence, keeping us penned away from the green lands. The crows slowly forgot what it was to be winter's watchers, and turned into nothing but vultures that know only how to prey on free men who do not kneel. And now, every time the cold winds howl, we remember the death cry of the Night's Queen, and we know her husband's spirit still watches, waiting for the day the free folk tear down the Wall and finish what he started."

The chieftains were silent again, but then Halrak snorted and raised his skin of mead. "Tearing down the wall? Aye, hear, hear to that!"

Not just several, most of the other chieftains clapped their legs or raised their drinks in eager agreement. Too many by far for Jon's comfort. That last part of the story, when it had veered into hatred of the south, had found far too eager an audience in this circle.

Jon could feel the Weeper's eyes on him, measuring and assessing, but Jon couldn't care less right now. He withdrew into himself, considering.

This story explains too much. So different from Old Nan's, fabulous or farcical in many of its particulars; but many elements were eerily close to the truths he'd glimpsed beyond the Wall. Starting with how it explained why he had sometimes heard stories that wildlings had tried to make deals with the Others. Because they have their own tales of someone who has done it before.

He wondered if Joramun's horn still lay buried somewhere. Mance must have believed this story, or a version of it. A horn that could break the Wall. Easy to see how such a myth could motivate any King-Beyond-the-Wall. No, not just that, she said it could wake giants from the earth. The vow of the Night's Watch. The horn that wakes the sleepers. A coincidence in phrasing? Did Bran the Builder truly have such a thing?Why? Why have a tool to destroy your own greatest work?

Jon suddenly wished he'd paid more attention to those ancient myths from home, asked deeper questions. But he knew Bran the Builder was said to be the founder, the first ancestor of House Stark. The builder of the Wall. The maesters and their books had believed the man behind the myth had never existed, or if he had, 'he' had actually been several ancient Brandons whose myths had been conflated and combined. And yet here, now, was an oral myth that likely dated back to the Age of Heroes - one that held no trace of such confusion. How reliable was this tale?

The Others on the glacier were hunting me. Me, specifically.And I woke the dragon.

The horn that wakes the sleepers. A horn to wake giants. Sonagon was a giant buried in the earth. Was there a connection there somewhere? He didn't think so, he suspected the dragon wasn't quite so old as that, so perhaps it was just a coincidence, but…

Furs broke the quiet. "That was a good telling of the tale, woodswitch," he gave Branwenn a nod. "And you, Snow. I'd like to hear more of your Old Nan's tales sometime." He grinned. "Though perhaps a happier one next time. One with chickens."

Jon blinked, as Furs raised a fried chicken leg. "To the Night's King and his Queen. May their names stay forgotten."

After that, there were few more villages, no more distractions. Just another grueling four days of marching along the eastern coastline to finally reach Hardhome.

A sea mist wafted off the sea with the rise of morning, and it clung stubbornly in the air - even as a bitterly cold breeze swept in from the ocean, sharp with the tang of salt. Each gust cut through his cloak and stung his skin, biting into him with a ferocity that made him pull his furs tighter. The soft sand shifted underfoot beneath his mount, each movement of his wounded leg provoking a grimace. His leg had been getting better, but even on a mount - a pony donated by one of the lower river clans - this final leg of the journey had been arduous for his poor leg.

Maybe six thousand free folk behind me, Jon thought with a soft sigh. Probably.

It was impossible to know for sure. He had tasked good men, good with numbers, to try and count - but everyone he'd sent out to try had only been able to report back with vague estimates of anywhere from five to nine thousand, a loose estimate that grew more uncertain with each day. There were too many stragglers to count easily, not all of them stuck to the common trail by the Antler's banks, and more arrived from the outlying forests every passing day, drawn by the promise of safety - or at least by the dragon they had heard of. Jon had even heard rumors that some surviving plains giants and their mammoth herds were beginning to converge in the back half of the refugee's column.

The river fishing boats - some were closer to glorified rafts, really - that he had sent on ahead were already sailing toward Storrold's Point, but the poor southeasterly winds meant the vanguard marching along the coast would likely reach it before the ships did. From a distance, Jon's first impression of Hardhome was bleak: frozen sand dunes, rocky cliffs, and skeletal trees that reached toward the sky like twisted, bony fingers.

Days of slow, punishing marches and constant backtracking along a twisting coast had worn him down to his bones. His body felt hollow with exhaustion, and the constant hunger gnawed at his insides. He saw the same hunger reflected in the faces of the men, women, and children around him. They were surviving mainly on what the coast could offer - fish brought back from the sea in small, unstable boats that had never been meant for the open sea - but every day was a gamble. Some days the boats returned with full nets; other days, they came back empty-handed.

Throughout the journey, Jon had made a point of learning names. There were too many to remember all at once, the chieftains, warriors, and clan leaders who had pledged themselves to his cause. So many names. Word of the dragon had spread, and more clans were still gathering to join him, even now.

He had seen a bewildering array of people in recent days, tribes and clans that he hadn't even personally recruited. Bearskin-clad hunters painted in tree sap, short, stocky coastal clansmen who carved single-man boats out of tree trunks, and warriors from far northern tribes who cut their own ears in half and pierced their skin with bones. Some clans went so far as to drip poison into their eyes, turning their irises a haunting shade of blue. There had even been rumors of contact with the giants of the forests - territorial, secretive creatures who lived in caves and kept close to their families, unlike the mammoth-herding giants of the plains.

All of them had gathered to follow him. The dragon's roar had stirred something primal in the free folk of the far north, even in those who had refused to follow Mance Rayder.

"You ever think about gods, Snow?" Bullden Horn asked, breaking Jon's reverie.

Bullden Horn is a seasoned raider, Jon recalled. A man of note.

The tall, lean man had only recently joined the Weeper's warband, joining up along the coast with a band of his own men. He had quickly distinguished himself for his experience and reliable demeanor. He walked beside Jon's pony, looking up with bright black eyes and a weather-scarred face further scarred by battle. He wore furs like horsehide, bright scarves from half a dozen clans, and a long, spiral horn hung from his neck. A carved mammoth's tusk spear rested crosswise in a holding strap on his back, a testament to his prowess.

"Why do you ask?"

"I've heard it said that southrons forsake the gods," Bullden continued, his tone casual, though his eyes gleamed with curiosity. "That they cut down heart trees and bow in temples of stone."

Jon shook his head. "That's further south than where I come from. The Starks of Winterfell still keep to the old gods."

"Old gods?" Hatch scoffed as he lumbered past, his massive frame making short work of lumbering up the sandy dunes. "Ain't so old up here."

"Aye, many still pray before heart trees," Bullden agreed, his breath visible in the frigid air. "But what about you? You ever give blood to the gods?"

Jon frowned, his leg aching even from atop his pony. It bothered him far more than the cold. He had walked too far these past few weeks. "Do they demand it?"

"Gods demand all sorts of things, even the quiet ones," said Furs, walking nearby and listening in. "Some still hold to the old Old Ways - the ones that still spill human entrails over the heart trees, watering their weirwood's roots with human blood."

"The nameless gods are quiet, but each man interprets their voice differently," said Bullden. "They are the gods of the roots, the earth, and the sky. There are clans in the north that give bodies to the frozen lakes to appease them. The Skagosi would bleed the corpses of their enemies to their heart trees, and consume the flesh themselves. The Nightrunners used to bind children to the weirwood roots in their caves, to leave them to starve in the dark - so that only the children the gods guide out will survive. The Greensight clan drinks weirwood sap, it's said they get hair and eyes like the heart trees, white and red and green. They know queer things, remember more about magic than any other clan. The Rockhearts in the west stitch weirwood sinews and rocks under their skin, so that each man may be closer to the gods. The elders of the Shadowtongue clan in the eastern forest carve their own faces in the likeness of the gods. Or carved, I suppose."

Yes, Jon had seen many of those signs on his journey. "I didn't know the old gods had any faces."

"They don't," Bullden replied with a wry grin. "That's why the swampfolk carve off their ears, noses, and lips - leave themselves faceless."

Jon grimaced. He had seen a few wildlings with mutilated faces, but had never known why. Shadowtongue stragglers or exiles who hadn't descended into the deeps, then. "That doesn't sound like the old gods as I know them."

Bullden laughed hollowly. "What, did you think those faces on the trees were nice?"

"Gods can make men do queer things," Furs said. "Whether the gods ask them to do so or not. Men can find all kinds of madness well enough on their own."

Jon didn't answer. Rather, he thought the matter over, silently. Pondering.

Worship of the old gods didn't particularly differ much, from one corner of the north to another. The old gods had been worshiped in the north for time beyond memory, and practices had standardized.

But the far north was different. The savagery Bullden described felt… foreign. There were standards, traditions, laws, limits to how the gods were worshipped, at least in civilized lands. The more savage practices, the Old Ways, had fallen out of practice - or were outlawed on pain of death.

If the old gods of Winterfell were silent, distant watchers, then here in the far north, their worship was wild, unstructured, and deeply personal. Every clan not only seemed to follow the Old Ways, but interpreted them differently, and their manners of worship all too often became as savage as the land itself. Jon had seen the truth of that, time and again throughout his journey. Every little clan or tribe might worship their gods differently. There were so many different corners of the far north that barely communicated with one another - each tribe could interpret what worship of the old gods meant to them in particular, with no higher authority at all to tell them no if they were to fall to madness.

And far too many did, in fact, fall to madness.

Fanatics can arise in any group, Jon thought grimly, his eyes fixed on the grey expanse of the ocean. But here among the free folk, they're bound to be even worse.

Overall, he preferred his father's way of worship: there was a certain peace in Eddard Stark's regard for the old gods as distant watchers, the nameless, silent lords of wood, stone, and stream. There was a gentleness, a caring to his father's faith that these wildlings utterly lacked, and they as a people were not any better for it - not even as fighters.

Hardhome was close. The dunes were giving way to cliffs, skeletal trees reaching up like frozen sentinels. The wind screamed as it passed through the rocky outcroppings, a high, piercing wail that sent shivers down Jon's spine. The cliffs were pocked with caves, and the path ahead was a treacherous climb over uneven ground. Somewhere beyond the cliffs lay Hardhome, or what was left of it.

The wind is deadly, Jon thought with a grimace. The wind was relentless here, with no forest to cut its unceasing fury. It could cut through an unprepared man's furs like a blade, scouring the landscape clean and leaving no shelter from its fury. But, supposedly, there was something in the way of a settlement here - the ruins of a town, almost a city - the one true settlement that had ever been founded in the lands Beyond the Wall. Hardhome.

The histories said that the town had been destroyed by some unknown calamity over six hundred years in the past. Not even the Night's Watch had known the truth of whatever had happened here. Whatever it was, all that the records could agree on was that the settlement had been destroyed so suddenly it had seemed to happen overnight, and perhaps it was no seeming, perhaps it had even literally been destroyed overnight by a great calamity of fire and smoke, ash and ruin - and that there had been few if any survivors.

An hour later, Jon's outriders had reported a desperate colony of free folk huddled in Hardhome's ruins. Thousands of starving people, he was told: most without proper shelter, most living in pathetic hovels that clung to the cliffs, taking refuge in the caves near a single ancient weirwood tree that clung to the rocks.

Jon marched on the final approach with a vanguard of fifty experienced free folk, raiders and woodsmen, their task to secure his warband's place in this camp. Sonagon was currently far out in the ocean, hunting sea cows, turtles, walruses and groupers and whatever other large prey the ocean had to offer around here. The ocean wasn't simply a far better source of food than the river had been - Sonagon seemed to truly enjoy swimming and diving, chasing prey like a hundred-some foot long shark.

Still, Jon called Sonagon back. He didn't expect trouble from the free folk in Hardhome, but he wasn't taking chances.

As for the Weeper, Jon had him securing the outlying areas. Hardhome would be their rallying point before they moved on to the Bay of Seals and the Wall, so they would need to remain here for some time, to rally all the refugees and gather all the clans near the coast that had yet to move.

The group paused at the base of the cliffs, the wind shrieking through the jagged rocks above. The Screaming Cliffs, Jon remembered the Watch's rangers calling them.

Bullden Horn's voice broke the silence. "I spoke of the old gods," he said, "because Mother Mole keeps to the Old Ways, Snow. And she has… followers."

"I thought she was a woods witch," Jon replied, frowning.

"Oh, she is," Bullden said. "But a better word for you southerners might be… hmm… priestess? A priestess of the old gods."

Jon shook his head. "The old gods don't have priests or priestesses."

"They don't," Bullden agreed with a shrug. "But there's still Mother Mole."

"I heard about her," Furs muttered, off from Jon's other side. "Even upriver. Loony old hag, lives under a heart tree, eats dirt and roots."

"She eats the roots of the heart tree, and drinks of its sap and mud. And she keeps to the old Old Ways, Snow - blood sacrifices to the heart trees," Bullden Horn clarified as they walked, his voice growing somber. "Animals, mostly. Rabbits, goats and dogs. Mostly. Still, she's not a monstrous sort. She lives in her hole under her heart tree, making prophecies, sacrifices, occasionally treating wounds with poultices and herbs. She's been there long enough that she's gotten herself a few followers. Other would be woods-witches, learning from her."

"Aye. And then the dead started to rise," another wildling said bitterly. "…and more and more started coming to Mother Mole and her prophecies. Her few followers slowly turned to hundreds. Now, fuck only knows how many."

"And after her sacrifices, wights would stay away from her heart tree, to hear the tales," another wildling added.

"She had no interest in Mance's call, and stayed here with her followers," Bullden Horn said. "And here she still is, promising salvation to her followers at Hardhome. Only now, she's got many thousands."

"How many thousands?" Jon asked.

"Many," Bullden Horn shrugged. "Too many."

Jon grimaced. "So these prophecies of hers… ?"

"She's made a few. Some of them have even been right."

Mother Mole promised salvation at Hardhome, Jon remembered. Many of the lower river clans had whispered of it. The free folk take stock in prophecies. They believe. And after Mance's collapse, forget thousands, tens of thousands might have come, desperate enough to turn to her.

But now, looking around this desolate peninsula, Jon wondered exactly what kind of salvation a wood's witch could possibly have to offer.

Madness, all of it. "We'll have to find a way to keep them fed, then," Jon said softly. He glanced up at the cliffs. Salvation at Hardhome, Jon thought again, as they walked. But what kind of salvation?

As they crested the final rise, Hardhome came into view. Jon's first impression was one of desolation. The remnants of an ancient settlement were scattered across the rocks and sand, broken and forgotten. Hundreds of free folk huddled near the cliffs, inside a few of the more intact buildings, their dirty furs and habitations barely shielding them from the wind. The stench of rot, starvation, and despair seemed to linger in the air.

The air turned quiet, and grim. Jon saw hundreds of starved free folk, glaring at them as his group walked through the outlying and central settlement and into the clearing at the center, but no one said a word. It was an eerie, silent procession.

Jon's eyes were drawn to a twisted, spindly weirwood tree at the heart of the camp, growing from the top of a small hillock. The ancient tree looked like it was screaming, its branches bent and gnarled, its face contorted in silent agony. Around its roots, a crowd had gathered, listening to a voice that echoed through the wind.

"…and the cold will burn beneath his winds!" An old voice crooned, and the air was so quiet they strained to listen. "…The prophet will wield winter itself against the cold, and living will harken to his call or join the cold in death. The Old Ones will rise, from earth, from sea, from ice and fire! Demons will walk the world again. Demons that freeze, demons that burn! The gods are waking from their long slumbers… !"

Jon saw an old, wizened woman, bent over a gnarly staff. A short woman so old and so pale it looked like her wrinkles were carved from bark. Mother Mole's quavering voice seemed to echo. "… Yet there will be salvation… !" She crowed. "… All holy men - all who bow, and suffer, and bleed for the gods - shall be led to glory! Their devotees shall conquer the world, and the gods will rise again! Those who deny, those who forget, they will die! The Old Ones are rising, and the gods have teeth!"

There was a murmur around the crowd. Jon walked forward, hesitantly. Red, glistening lines weaved over the lower branches of the weirwood atop the hillock. Entrails, Jon realized. They scattered bloody entrails over the heart tree. Various animal skulls were grouped around the trunk and the roots, white bone blending into bark.

"…The winter storm takes form! The white bark of gods is given flesh! It has been foretold!" Mother Mole preached. "The fury of the Old Ones will rise again, and we will be led to salvation! The final exodus is beginning! It is coming… !"

Her voice quaked. The old woman's body trembled, turning up to stare at Jon. He saw wrinkled gums split in a grin. "… The cold will swallow the fire - the fire that would devour us…" Mother Mole muttered, limbs clicking as she shambled upwards. She was staring straight at Jon. "…Salvation comes…. !"

The crowd was stirring. Jon hesitated, unsure of what to do next. There was a long moment of quiet. Around him, the free folk stirred, their eyes wide with fear and desperation. The heart tree's bloody branches stirred gently in the wind.

Then, the sound of scraping stone echoed across the cliffs - the sound of something massive clambering up and out from the water. Wings flapped as water poured in great falls from white scales. Heavy footsteps thudded up from the beach, and their quaking trembles sent ravens flocking upwards into the sky.

The entire crowd gasped, and for a moment, the entire camp was frozen in awe. The dragon's shadow loomed over the ruins as it approached, its wings sending gusts of wind through the camp as the dragon flicked off streams of seawater.

Jon had called, and now Sonagon had come.

Mother Mole was cackling in triumph. Her wildlings didn't scream or run, but instead they just clambered around, mouths open and eyes gaping. Sonagon's presence overshadowed them all, larger than life, larger than myth.

Jon's eyes widened as he saw the crowd's mood shift entirely. They weren't just looking at Sonagon. They were looking at him. Thousands of desperate, hungry faces, now changed entirely, with that look of pure awe, amazement, hope and devotion everywhere he could see.

Around them, the cliffs were howling with echoes.

"Salvation… !" Mother Mole cackled, nigh-hysterical." Salvation comes… !"

The other wildlings took up the cry, hands outstretched to Jon and Sonagon. "Salvation…" They chanted."… Salvation… Salvation… !"

Jon's eyes widened as he saw the mood in the crowds change, from desperation to wonder, from fear to awe. The chanting spread like wildfire, until the cliffs, the land, the ruins were filled with nothing but wildlings shouting libations towards the sky. Towards him. Outstretched hands groped towards him, by the thousands. The raiders clutched together protectively around Jon, while the followers of Mother Mole surged around them like a tide, roaring, screaming. Chanting. Chanting, their faces filled with hope, hunger, and devotion.

"Stop!" Jon shouted, suddenly realizing what was happening. They're kneeling to the dragon, not to me. They're kneeling to a monster. "I'm not a savior— !"

But his voice was either ignored or unheard. Perhaps the wind had swallowed his words, or perhaps their faith was incapable of being shaken so easily. None gave the order, not even Mother Mole - and yet, one by one, the chanters began to kneel. Rank upon endless rank of desperate, hungry people. All around him, Jon watched as over ten thousand wildlings bent, bowed and kneeled.

And the cliffs howled with the wind, as the dragon's roars echoed across the land.