19: The Court of Hardhome

The Court of Hardhome

Jon

"You blithering craven!" Old Man Harwick roared, slobber dripping down his brindled mane of a beard. "I'll gut you like a pig!"Full novel: Dragons of Ice and Fire — read the rest free on N​o⁠v​e⁠l​C⁠o​d⁠e​x⁠.​o⁠r​g⁠

"Come on then, you hairy old geezer!" Sweety Tyk taunted, spinning his blades in his hands. "You want to dance, come and dance— !"

The crowds rustled as they parted before a white-haired figure, come to put out yet another fire among the clans. "Enough!" Jon bellowed, glaring at the scene. "What is going on here? Answer me!"

His presence caused some stirs, but not a man on either side backed down. There was already a crowd gathering, which was perhaps least surprising of all. The free folk loved a fight, every time.

Old Man Harwick gave a wary gaze at Jon, but he didn't lower his weapon. He was a former raider who had spent decades haunting the eastern coast, and even now he was large and broad-shouldered - an elderly chieftain with a scarred, weather-hardened face that could have been carved out of sandpaper, a braided gray beard that went all the way down to his waist, bound with two dozen different golden rings, a thrice-broken nose, and far too few teeth. "This worthless craven stole my daughter!" He shouted, bellowing in fury as he jabbed his staff at Tyk. "My daughter Holly, and this little thief—!"

"I took her fair and square, Old Man," Sweety Tyk mocked. He was a lean man, slender but quick, with a bronze dirk in each hand. "Maybe if you weren't so busy sticking your dusty little wiener into your wives you could have stopped me!"

"You little— !"

Jon moved as fast as his leg would take him. Now that he wasn't hiking tens of miles a day, his leg was steadily getting better, but it still ached in the very cold mornings. Jon drew Dark Sister in a swift flourish, flashing it between the wildlings. "Enough!" Jon repeated, his eyes hard. Harwick snarled at him, while Tyk glared.

Old Man Harwick was something of a legend among the eastern free folk - he'd had twenty-four wives over his life and currently still had nine (the youngest being sixteen), along with thirty-three living sons, and more daughters than even he could count. The man was a walking fossil, but even at seventy he was every bit the lecherous warmonger he'd been at twenty. The man was old, sure, but he was somehow still in fighting shape. He clutched a solid oaken staff inlaid with bronze, which he could swing as hard as any mace.

Sweety Tyk was the opposite - a cocky raider that had made his name raiding over the bay and stealing women, northerner and free folk alike. Some laughed at him for his clean-shaven and effeminate appearance - even to Jon he looked almost like a girl, with fair blond hair and blue eyes, his skin unscarred by blade or the elements - but he was a well-known fighter, deadly in single combat, lightning-fast with his dirks and one of the best seamen the free folk still had.

Personally, Jon didn't really care if the two men wanted to fight it out - except that it likely wouldn't end with a single fight. Harwick had a whole clan of enraged sons and grandsons surrounding him, all clutching weapons, while Tyk was very popular among the shipbuilders and bay raiders, many of whom were also looking on, equally armed, equally willing to come to blows.

Jon sized up the situation, considering the bad and worse scenarios for how this might play out if it came to blows. If this comes to blood, Tyk's friends will fight against Harwick's sons, and things could turn very bloody very quickly. It could spread to more of the host of Hardhome, if either group starts bringing in their allies.

He had seen numerous similar situations before, over the past few days. Every blow, scuffle or disagreement constantly threatened to escalate. In less desperate times, this was exactly the sort of situation that could have begun a clan war among the free folk.

Jon clutched Dark Sister tightly, well aware that he was standing between two groups each a few dozen strong. His eyes flickered between Harwick and Tyk, trying to judge which one was the angriest, which one would back down first.

Which one do I need in my camp the most?

Eventually, Jon turned to the younger raider. "Tyk," Jon said coldly, stepping in. "Where's Harwick's daughter now?"

Sweet Tyk shrugged. He glanced at a couple of his friends. "I don't know," he said, nonchalant. "Maybe we aren't done with her."

Yep, that did it. Jon approached Tyk, drawing Dark Sister, pointing his blade straight at the man. "Tyk," Jon said in a low voice, not bothering with the man's absurd title. "You are going to bring Harwick's daughter back to him, and then you are going to stay well away from him and his family for the rest of your life."

His face twisted. "And what if I don't?"

Jon's eyes narrowed, and his voice came out as a whisper. "You don't really want me to answer that question, do you?"

A moment of doubt passed over his face. The men surrounding them all went silent. Tyk glared, but then relented. He nodded curtly before lowering his dirks and stepping backwards.

Jon half-breathed a sigh of relief. Jon almost thought they could all walk away from it too - right up until the moment that somebody in the silent crowd laughed. The sound of raucous, taunting laughter filled the air.

Tyk's eyes widened, and he froze in his steps. Damn, Jon cursed.

This bay raider was a young, arrogant fool. He wouldn't stand the thought of someone laughing at him. Not a chance.

Tyk turned around. Just like that - just as Jon predicted, Tyk changed his mind. His heart sank as he could read it in Tyk's body language, clear as day, that the man wasn't prepared to back down anymore. Instead, Tyk snatched up his dirks, twirling them for a moment as he turned and glared death at him.

Jon didn't bother with words. He only prepared his stance, already resigning himself for how this was likely to end.

In the next moment, Tyk charged with a shout, stabbing wildly at him.

Jon slid backward from the strikes, staying out of the range of Tyk's shorter weapons as he sized the man up. His speed, his footwork, his instincts. And most importantly, his followers. Old Man Harwick roared and clutched his staff to join the fight, but Jon held up his hand to stop him. Dark Sister was in his other hand, but Jon waited to attack. He needed to see how many would side with Tyk.

Three of Tyk's bay raiders charged at him, clutching various weapons in their fists. Clubs, swords. Good. If Jon hadn't been here, if they had been fighting Old Man Harwick and his far-too-many sons instead, then Jon imagined more would have joined with Tyk, and it would have only escalated from there. Only four against one - not the worst odds I've faced. Take them down fast.

Tyk swiped downwards. Bronze blades sparked against Valyrian steel. Tyk cursed as one of the blades shattered in his hand. Jon slid around Tyk's followup stab, and turned on the ball of his foot to slam him from the side. Tyk - a smaller man - lost his footing as Jon shoulder barged him.

Three, for a few seconds.

Another man tried to charge him, swinging a blade. Jon parried each blow. Low, high, left, right. He could hear Dark Sister singing as it cut through the air. A second one tried to attack from the same side, yet Jon turned, deflecting the blow and letting the two men crash into each other.

Tyk was already up again, growling as he plunged forward with only his single remaining dirk. Another man tried to charge Jon with a heavy axe, but Jon parried forward, then behind in under a second - first he caught the axe's blow from behind, then he parried Tyk, then he twisted Dark Sister back around.

His blade snapped out - once, twice, three times, sudden slashes aiming for shallow cuts, one after another. The first man - the one with the axe - dropped screaming, with his shoulder cut open. Tyk narrowly slipped away from Jon's next cuts, and then he was trying to aim for Jon's weak leg in retaliation - but Jon was already sidestepping. The two other men lunged, but one took Dark Sister across the hip, while Jon used his left hand and punched the second back into the ground.

Behind him, Harwick erupted in a bout of laughter, and his sons cheered - even while Tyk screamed as he lunged at Jon madly.

He was too slow - Jon spun around, and then the back of Jon's hand caught Tyk in the throat. Tyk gagged and went flailing backwards - stumbling down as he lost his footing for the second time in the fight. There wouldn't be a third. Dark Sister chased after him to the ground.

For a second, Jon was ready to plunge his sword into Tyk's chest. Then, at the last moment, Jon's blade darted to a lower place.

The blade bit into the snow right between Tyk's legs. A fine tendril of blood spurted over the ground. Tyk's scream of pain cut through the air.

"I could have killed you," Jon muttered. "You may wish I had."

The man was already curled on himself, sobbing in agony as he clutched at his nether regions. As for the other three men, their faces were all ghostly pale, all contorted in pain as they fled. Jon pulled himself straight. He looked at the rest of Tyk's men, then at the other crews of bay raiders clutching weapons.

"Anybody else?" Jon demanded.

Nobody met his eyes.

"Then take this fool to the woods witch to get him stitched up," Jon ordered, taking a deep breath as he sheathed Dark Sister. He turned to the three men that had fought besides Tyk - they'd been trying to melt back into the surrounding crowd of bay raiders. "And you three," - Jon eyed each of them in turn - "you will bring Harwick's daughter back to him."

Behind him, Harwick's sons and grandsons were laughing furiously, while a couple of the bay raiders pulled Tyk away. "Har!" Harwick roared. "You are a damn good fighter, Jon Snow!"

Jon panted, still trying to catch his breath. He'd been in more fights at Hardhome than he ever had before, and he had never been more grateful for Acorn's lessons in the wood dance. Still, Harwick seemed in good spirits. Good.

"I should curse you, I suppose, for stealing a battle from me and letting that lil' scunner live," Old Man Harwick mused. "But hells, it was so much fun watching you geld the son of a bitch! Har! You have my thanks!"

Jon nodded, his mouth tight. I had to intervene, he told himself. If Harwick and Tyk had fought, it might have triggered a feud that could tear this part of the camp apart.

Still, tomorrow it would be a different argument, different people, and Jon would have to intervene then. Damn, was this what Mance had to handle every single day? I have only fifteen thousand and it's torturous - what would it be like with a horde of a hundred thousand?

Harwick was still laughing, watching the bay raiders run. "Tell me, Snow, do you like women?" Harwick asked.

Jon blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Well, I've never seen you with a girl." Harwick shrugged. "No harm, of course - each to their own I always say. I dabbled a bit, but I can't say I'm too much keen on the other side myself."

Jon blinked, struggling with how to respond to that. "If you were interested, though, I've got many fine young daughters," the old man offered. "I wouldn't object if you were inclined to steal one or two of them."

Jon forced a smile. There had been too many such offers of late. "Many thanks, but I have another," he said, the image of Ygritte on his mind.

Harwick nodded knowingly. "Ah, a true love?"

"Yes." There was a silent pain in his chest at the thought. The last he saw of Ygritte, he had been pushing her off a cliff.

"Well, take care of her, then. You only get a few of those sorts."

"I will." Jon paused. "Although, if you're willing to help, the stakewalls on the west side are crumbling. Do you have the men to fetch lumber to repair them?"

"What? Oh aye. Aye, aye." Old Man Harwick motioned to a few of his sons. "I'll get your lumber, easy." He was still chuckling, glancing after Tyk. "Har! You're a good man, Snow."

Jon nodded, turning to walk away. The crowd was already dispersing, but there was one figure waiting for him. The Weeper stood with his arms folded and a sneer on his lips. Rolf and Yoldo, two of his most loyal, were standing behind him, with another two raiders on his right he knew less well - Mharka and Shieldface, along with half a dozen others. A wide space was cleared around them - even other free folk didn't want to get too close to the Weeper and his warband.

Jon glared. "You were the one that laughed," he said to the Weeper, after the crowds dispersed.

"Excuse me?" The Weeper replied in 'apparent' confusion - but his expression was a grin.

"You laughed," Jon said darkly. "When Tyk was walking away, you laughed at him from the crowd. You knew what would happen."

"Well, it was pretty funny," the Weeper said, his smirk widening. "Sweety Tyk. Heh. Little cunt won't be so sweet now."

"You provoked him by laughing," Jon said accusingly. "I could have resolved it without bloodshed."

The Weeper nodded. "You're right. You could have. That's why I laughed."

Jon glowered at him. The Weeper just smirked, keeping his voice low. "If you let them walk away, Tyk would have brought back Harwick's daughter peacefully, aye - and they would have all hated you for it. Tyk would have resented you for siding against him, Harwick would have cursed you for not giving him the justice he actually wanted." Jon's eyes flickered, and the Weeper snorted.

"What, don't tell me you actually thought that old cunt cared that much about just one girl - he's got, what, a hundred of them?" The Weeper sneered. "No, it was the insult to his face he wanted answer for. But you didn't see that. You would have created two dangerous enemies, both with friends who they can share their hatred with. But now, Harwick's clan - one of the biggest - is instead cheering your name, and all of Tyk's friends now have a healthy dose of respect and fear for you."

Jon didn't reply. "I did you a favor, Snow," the Weeper continued. "Never let them walk away with a grudge - if you let bitterness sow, hatred grows like a weed. It's best to pull hatred up by the roots, every time."

There was a moment of quiet. Jon hesitated a few seconds, but then turned and walked away. The Weeper just smirked once more and followed him.

"You should just have killed Tyk, you know," the Weeper said from behind him. "Do you think he'll thank you for letting him live like that?"

Jon shook his head. "I don't care," he said bitterly, thinking of the way Tyk had screamed. "Nobody needs to die."

The Weeper grunted. "It's with statements like that you prove yourself still a fool."

Jon stopped on a small crest, staring out over Hardhome. The Weeper stopped by him, seeming content to look out over the peninsula. Fifteen thousand wildlings, Jon thought with a deep breath, taking it all in. And how many more are still coming?

The ruins of Hardhome sat on a sheltered bay by the cape, a natural harbor. The sprawling camp of wildling refugees cascaded across the rocky land like an unending spill of dirty tents and pitfires, starting from the southern caves, sprawling across the rocky remnants of the original settlement lost centuries ago, and ending where the last descent to the beach began, all of it slanted slightly towards the coast, rolling down from the cliffs.

There was a sort of organization to it, if barely: 'streets' winding and narrow, starting from the ruins of the old settlement. Always steeply descending down, down to the broad harbor, where a dozen more crude ships were anchored and a score more fishing vessels bobbed beyond.

It was an easily defensible location; a great cliff loomed above the settlement, protecting them from two of four sides. The only ways to reach Hardhome by land were either by traveling upcoast in the northwest, over the rocks and cliffs, or up from the southeastern shore - which was pocked with hundreds of caves, in which thousands took shelter.

When Jon had first arrived, the wildlings had been taking shelter in the caves - the 'screaming caves,' apparently. Many were still holed up in those cliff-grottos, but now the settlement's needs had reached an entirely different level - too many people, too many bodies and bellies, and not enough food and shelter. More huts and shelters had to be made for all the free folk. Wood was a serious problem this far out on the peninsula; at one time Hardhome had been rich with forests, but those woods were long dead. Instead, now they had to assign entire teams to drag lumber up from the south, or float it from upriver down to Hardhome. Figuring out all those logistical problems had been a long, hard struggle, with too many cold nights.

There were resources here, true - the waters were thick with all manner of fish aplenty for the fishing boats. There were even colonies of seals and sea cows haunting the kelp strands around the coast, and plenty of big barnacles and scallops hiding between the rocks. Walruses rested frequently on the outer rocks, and the caves were a useful habitation. The seas were plentiful with cod and herring, flounder and haddock and lobster and clams, to say nothing of whatever game might be found in the south of the peninsula. But it was hard living - the entire area received viciously cold winds sweeping across the cape from the sea, almost every hour of every day.

There was virtually nothing left of the old settlement that stories and free folk myths said had once been here, nothing except for burnt out husks, square-shaped patterns of decaying stones that might have once been the foundations of buildings. It had been over six hundred years since the destruction, burning, conflagration - whatever it was that had happened to the original town of Hardhome, but it was said that so much blood had been spilled on that day that it stained the ground forevermore, leaving it hard and barren. Cursed by the Old Gods, many said.

Before this final migration, most of the free folk had avoided this cursed place, save for the outcasts among their kind. Now it was a sanctuary, and most of their kind had long-since forgotten about the curse.

But the curse lingered, still. It was in the air, in the soil. Occasionally, Jon could swear that he actually felt it. The way his skin tingled at the sound of the wind blowing through the caves, or when he walked too near the old graveyards. There was something about this place that put him on edge. The only heart tree here was an ancient, knotted and blackened tree, kneeling over itself like a dying man. Would it be possible to find answers from it?

Later, perhaps. His mind was on more practical things and had been for days now. He had ordered stakewalls and fencing built across the cape, and defensive perimeters and patrols around the settlement. He even arranged night patrols, fishing boats and hunting parties, while raiders built boats and barges to take them across the sea. There were fifty-four barges now, and more coming along every day.

It was exhausting work. Managing the free folk was the most tiring task of all. Every single time Jon gave an order, except to the most loyal of the loyalist clans, or the wildlings who had begun to wear white stones, he was met with countless varieties of 'why should I listen to you?' After that, Jon either had to convince each one, or they would walk away. Sometimes they just had to be convinced it was worthwhile, or bribed, coerced, or threatened. Even worse were the squabbles - constant disagreements and feuds at every moment that threatened to escalate.

Still, it felt like he was making progress, as grim as it was. The camp was slowly being fortified, and their food stores were mostly met by various fishermen and fisher clans bringing in hauls to feed the people. There were still a lot of starving mouths, but not so many as there once were.

The annoying part, though, was that Jon knew he could never have done it without the Weeper.

The Weeper kept order as much as he did. There were very few that dared to challenge him. The Weeper arranged the patrols when nobody else did, he led the defensive parties. The Weeper knew everybody's names - who was dangerous, who was influential, and who wasn't. By reputation alone he was capable of keeping even the larger river clans more or less in line, to say nothing of lesser tribes and raiding parties.

Jon had never liked the man - he was a true savage, even by the free folk's standards. He even despised him at times. But he still needed the Weeper. It was even a good partnership, occasionally. Any conflict that Jon couldn't resolve easily, the Weeper would step in, and start maiming the quarrelsome. It made people all the more willing to let Jon resolve it without blood, by contrast. He knew it. And he knew the Weeper knew it too. That was what annoyed Jon most of all.

"How were the attacks last night?" Jon asked finally, after he stopped scowling.

The Weeper shrugged. "Probing, mostly. A dozen wights spotted from near the cliffs. Me, my men and some Hornfoots took care of it."

"We got a couple on the north coast," Rolf reported, motioning at Yoldo. "Shambling things, damp with seaweed. They almost slipped by us, too."

"They are testing our defenses." Phantom had spotted those wights as well. Jon kept the shadowcat away from the camp, but didn't let her run away either. The Others had been attacking every night for the past week, always in a different place.

"Aye," the Weeper agreed. "We can expect a big assault any day now."

Jon bit his lip, staring across the men. They had many good warriors, but it wasn't strength that concerned him. It was discipline. "…We need to start training men into organized groups," he said. Right now, every time they needed a force the Weeper just bellowed at the closest men to follow him. "Set up proper divisions - give each one a shield and a spear and train them how to hold a line. They need to know how to follow orders, and not just from their chieftains. Otherwise, if we are attacked, each warband is just going to run wildly. Men who can't follow orders can't fight a war."

The Weeper scoffed. "Boy, these men have fought more battles than you've had shits. You try to 'train' them anything, you know how that's going to go down?"

"You were at the Frostfangs," Jon said darkly. "You know how lack of discipline could hurt us. That wasn't a battle. That was war."

For once, the Weeper didn't reply. Jon thought about how to actually implement his idea. "Let's try the younger men, then. Not the old warriors, the green boys - the ones that will be less stubborn. Hatch, could you gather up as many untested men as possible? We build up a rank and file from them - they need the training the most, and it gives an excuse to invite more seasoned men to support them."

"You want an army of green boys standing in a line?" Hatch asked.

"I want an army of men standing in a line. Teach them well and they won't stay green for long."

Rolf narrowed his one eye, but he nodded and stomped away. Jon's head was spinning with the thought of everything he would need. Making an army out of wildlings. He would need commanders to support the recruits, officers to drill them, and somebody would have to provide their shields, spears and swords. But can wildlings hold a line in a battle, even if taught?

The rangers Jon had once known had certainly made their views on that question plain. But even before that: They need weapons to even try to hold a line at all.

The wildlings had few armaments as it was; anything more than wooden spears was a luxury, so primitive were they. More importantly, he would have to organize them - the free folk changed warbands at whim, but proper divisions would need numbers and names, and real leadership. Jon had too few leaders he trusted to teach anything resembling real discipline. And obviously there had to be a motivation to join and actually follow orders.

I could offer extra rations to join up, Jon thought. Maybe if I get enough of the clan leaders sold on the idea…

He would have to talk to each warband leader or chieftain in turn, because there was nothing even resembling a proper chain of command among the free folk. Everything he wanted to do of large enough scale would have to be cleared with no less than dozens of leaders, who all had their own interests and demands. The very thought gave Jon a headache. Why do the free folk always insist on making it all so complicated?

The Weeper snorted. "'Rank and file' ain't going to mean nothing with those fortifications the way they are," he said with a grunt. "Those fences on the west are so weak that my granny could break through them."

"Your granny was the scariest hag I've ever met," a raider muttered.

Jon sighed. One thing at a time. Before anything else, before he could even think of fighting, he had to make sure this sprawling camp of mostly-refugees was protected. We need real stakewalls.

"I've got Braithe and Harwick getting the lumber for the walls," Jon said, although even he knew it wouldn't be enough. Harwick's extended family would have trouble with Tyk's men, to say nothing of the disdain that many of the eastern clans had for the beaver men. The problem is that we have a lot of ground to cover, and for some reason the clans capable of building anything are disliked by so many of the other clans. Is it some quirk of their culture? "Could you assist? Order must be kept where they're building."

"'Course I could," the Weeper drawled, rolling his eyes. "You want me to stop the patrols to do that, then?"

"I'll find someone else." The fighters of Greensight Hold, perhaps. They, at least, would follow orders unquestioningly, although their mass embrace of wearing the white stones had discomfited him and a number of the free folk's other clans.

"Fine," the Weeper scoffed. "I'll 'keep your order.' But some of these river clans are worse than cats. And those fucking Frozen Shore tribes have been stirring trouble again by the caves," the Weeper growled, as he stomped off. His raiders all followed. "Keep them in the line or I'll slaughter the entire lot of 'em."

Jon headed alone towards the hole under Hardhome's heart tree. There was already a large group of various wildlings and chieftains waiting to talk - word must have preceded him here. Annoying.

Never a moment to himself, not here at Hardhome.

After this, I've got to find men to fix the stakewall, inspect the barges, convince the fishing parties to go out for another catch, before walking around the camp to make sure the patrols are doing their jobs. Doubtless there would be another crisis or two along the way.

Before anyone around the heart tree could get in a word, he held up his hand for silence. He quickly got himself into the hole under the tree.

Inside, there was a hollow beneath the roots. He found it inhabited, lit by a flickering flame, set about with the sparse, queer collection of items belonging to the owner of this strange little home. She was a wizened woman, not quite as short as a dwarf but close, with a gaunt, leathery face, hovering over Sweet Tyk's body.

The woods witch of Hardhome.

Mother Mole.

"What did you do with this one, then?" the old woman asked, glancing at Tyk. The raider was pale, sprawled out on some furs on the ground, pale and unconscious with bloodloss.

"He was a rapist," Jon replied coldly.

Mother Mole chuckled, mushing up herbs and seaweed into a mortar of granite, and began grinding it with a pestle of the same. But though she was amused, she never met Jon's eyes, nor did she so much as raise her head in his direction. "Every man out there is a rapist, by your southron standards."

Jon grimaced. The wildling tradition of 'taking' women had never sat well with him. If there was any standard of judgement by which the free folk could truly be said to be barbarians, it was in this.

"That will have to change."

"And you'll be the one to change them? To change our ancestral ways?" Mother Mole asked, not with the rancor Jon might have expected, but with simple, deferential curiosity. She still wasn't meeting his eyes.

"If I must." There was no other choice at all; this sordid tradition of theirs would never be abided in civilized lands.

Mother Mole chuckled softly, but said nothing, only giving him a single curious look before returning to her patient, though she still didn't meet his eyes.

Jon didn't speak. He only stared at Tyk's body, wondering how he would keep the man's men in line. Wildling sea raiders were essentially pirates, by any definition or reckoning of the word - though he imagined that if pirates had a hierarchy as these things went, they'd be considered the scum at the bottom of the barrel. What was the best way to keep such men in line?

His education, Winterfell, the sworn brothers: none of it had prepared him for such questions, let alone meeting such problems. Pirates, slavers, rapists - the age-old solution to such problems in the north had always been execution or the Wall. Immediately, with few exceptions, and with even less mercy. Without either of those options at his disposal here, what was he to do?

The silence passed for a time, Mother Mole acting the part of the deferential host, keeping her head bowed as she had been since he had first walked in. Jon tried to recall what few memories he could of how his father and other lords had dealt with scum like this raider when death or other punishments weren't convenient options. True, he had already been gelded, but…

Mostly, Jon was taking solace in this hole under the ground, thankful for the refuge it offered that shielded him from being pestered by the hundreds of free folk on the outside who always wanted something from him. But after a few minutes, the silence unfortunately broke, as the woods witch began to add something else to 'Sweet' Tyk's concoction - weirwood sap, by the look of it.

"Forgive my trespass, prophet, but I have wondered," Mother Mole's voice was quiet, deferential. "You are more than just another warg. All know, all can see it. Even the trees whispered of your coming, and the gods spoke to me in my dreams. Dreams that called you 'the prophet of winter' - that is how I knew to gather the folk. But I've wondered. Can you speak to the trees in turn?"

"…I am no woods witch, certainly no greenseer," Jon said carefully, eyeing her. This wasn't the first time she had asked greater questions of him, much as it wasn't the first time he'd heard that peculiar title - prophet. Had the greenseer been continuing to take action for him? A thought for later. Jon refocused on Mother Mole.

She lowers her head when she talks to me, Jon noted. She never looks at me in the eye. Always respectful, always obedient. Why?

That very question had bothered him for days now. Mother Mole, who had gathered thousands to Hardhome, was as much of a leader as any chieftain on the peninsula - not so much to the raiders, but to many of the rest of the free folk, the rootless and the desperate, who followed her loyally, even fanatically.

Many of the clan leaders disdained her, but she had her allies - the more fanatical clans, clans led by wood's witches and so on, the Greensight clan's folk being just one of several. Mother Mole's followers weren't limited to any one clan; they were spread across many, and desperate folk all clung to her for wisdom.

Whatever issues she brought, she was one of the only leaders who followed Jon without any complaints. She never used any honorifics he was comfortable with, but she gave him the same sort of respect he wished the rest would. Tradeoffs, Jon had oft thought around her. Or, a problem for another time. This woods witch was a decent healer, even a good one insofar as wildlings judged these things, and the people listened to her, so Jon tried to keep her close despite her unsavory aspects. Perhaps even worse, she was curious - often asking him questions that he barely knew how to answer himself.

More importantly, every time Jon had been in a fight throughout this sprawling camp, Mother Mole had been ready, waiting in his tent with poultices to treat his bruised knuckles and small scrapes.

It hadn't been long after he arrived here that she had started wearing a chain of small white stones hanging around her neck, and Jon noted it again now: it was a woven necklace made out of weirwood roots, adorned with bright white stones picked up by the beach. It was a sign of loyalty, so far as he understood. But that didn't mean he trusted her. The… cult, she had been raising in Sonagon's name discomfited him greatly, to say the least. If she represented a problem, unfortunately, she could only be dealt with after the Wall's gates had been opened.

Mother Mole chuckled dryly, perhaps picking up on some of Jon's unspoken wariness, but she never stopped grinding her mortar and pestle. "No, I doubt you have the greensight: we have our own legends of the Old Gods. But you were chosen by one of them, yes? They have not spoken of a man, of any man or woman by name in centuries. I have wondered." She met Jon's gaze now, her eyes gleaming. "Can you speak to them in turn?"

Jon frowned. He wasn't even sure on where to begin with correcting her misconceptions. Brynden Rivers was no god. Just a man who had paid far too terrible a price for the power he did wield. He had outlived his time and every attachment that he had ever known, save for his duty. Jon respected the greenseer's power, but he did not envy it, let alone think it worthy of worship - but saying so to a fanatic of the Old Gods, especially one so essential to keeping order among the free folk, seemed rather… less than wise. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," her voice was insistent. The old woman looked at him now, and her eyes gleamed with fanaticism. "The gods have been silent for generations. The folk pray, but answer has been so, so rare. That they speak now, of you - if you can speak to them in turn…"

Jon hesitated. Then he thought about it. Speaking to the gods. Speaking to the weirwoods. Did she mean…

"I will try," Jon said. He shifted his position where he sat, and placed a palm against a particularly fat root. Mother Mole blinked, her voice suddenly half-strangled. "Now?"

Jon ignored her. He reached out with the wargsense, focusing on the roots. Then focusing on what lay behind them, beneath them. Just as the greenseer had taught him.

He had needed to practice this skill, regardless. If sorcery was a sword without a hilt, then, as the greenseer had said, he had to learn how to swing it. If he ever wanted to contact the greenseer again, he had to learn how to wield this power himself. And it was a better use of time than more damnable talk with all of the wildlings waiting for him outside.

…

At first, there was nothing. Then he tried again. Pushed harder. Still nothing. Then he tried a third time, more softly, taking more time…

Slowly, something began to come into focus.

He could feel… something inside the weirwood. Something nestled deep within the heart of it all. Something with a mind, but… sleeping? What is it? Who is it?

It confirmed this wasn't just a weirwood, but a heart tree - and its heart was buried deeply, perhaps even more deeply than the wills of the ancient, fossilized greenseers under the care of the children of the forest - some of them, at least. Still, Jon reached out. He felt the minutes pass by in his body, but he kept trying. Gently, but with gentleness borne of instinct. Then, the presence, whatever it was, began to rouse itself. Jon felt only an impression of… confusion, and then, fear from it.

This heart tree's heart felt almost scared of him, for lack of a better word. Frightened, lost. Jon decided a more aggressive approach might drive it away. He waited, until—

He saw something. A flash. A fragment of a vision, lasting for only seconds. Small feet, running across a field of flowers and grass. Laughter. A woman, unseen, older, indistinct, but heard - also laughing, calling out from behind.Telling him not to run too far away.

A vision, shorn of all context. He couldn't even begin to say when or where it might have been. Still, a vision. Was that a child? Jon wondered, still uncertain, but he suspected. Why?

The visions shifted. A father, loved. Children, more children. Siblings. Playing in the muddy streets of a swiftly growing settlement, with the six sons and daughters of a free folk leader who wore an entire wolfskin for a cloak. Jon eventually managed to pick out a name. Gorm. Who was that? The child's name, the father's, or the chieftain's?

He saw a fragmentary vision in what had to be late autumn, of the child's father trading herbs for medicines with a maester of Oldtown, of all people. He heard a name. Wyllis?

The visions shifted. Became less fragmentary, more complete. He saw winter come, then spring, then summer. A harvest festival. New clans arriving to the settlement. Celebrations. The longer Jon focused, trying to fit the pieces all together, the more he could see, the more complete the visions became.

Then, disaster.

A free folk child running, on fire, screaming for his mother. The settlement of Hardhome, turned into a pyre of flames. Massive winged beasts flying overhead, free folk running through the streets, burning, screaming. Dying. A shout of a single word in a foreign language that never, ever should have been present on these shores.

Then there was only fire. The vision passed in a haze of ashes.

He was distantly aware of his body's sweating, how it panted for breath. He had almost lost his grip on the vision outright, out of shock - but he had to know more. That word at the end. Dracarys? Dracarys. Hardhome was burned by dragons? When did the Targaryens ever fly this far north, let alone in such force? I saw at least a dozen. Did they ever even have that many dragons? When did this happen? Why burn wildlings?

Fruitless to ask. He had to know.

But when he pushed, pushing hard, trying to reach whatever lay within the tree, he had a sudden sense of something awakening - and it pushed him out. Hard. Desperately.

Jon staggered back into his own skin with a sharp gasp. His hand jerked away from the root as if burned.

The cold air of the cavern suddenly felt like a slap against his sweat-slicked skin. He was back, truly back in his body, but his heart still thundered in his chest.

"You saw something." Mother Mole's beady eyes gleamed avidly, in the gloom.

Jon pressed a hand to his forehead, pained by a sudden damnable headache. "Hardhome," he said hoarsely, after a pained pause. A brief vision, but a most disturbing one. "Burning. Long ago."

The old woman exhaled slowly. "I've seen only flashes of the flame. When I sleep, there are oft dreams of old ruin. I suspected the dead, truthfully. This tree has always been silent for me. They have all been silent."

Jon's throat was dry. "It wasn't the Others. It wasn't the dead." His eyes met hers, dark and searching. "It was dragons."

Mother Mole's beady eyes widened. "Did the Old God speak to you?"

Jon stared blankly for a moment. Old god? That small, scared thing haunting the roots of this heart tree? He had felt its fear, its terror. He had to clarify: "Do you mean this heart tree?"

She only stared at him, eyes wide, uncomprehending. Her voice was more than half-strangled. "The gods spoke to you? Now?"

She's no greenseer, Jon had to remind himself. Just a hedge witch. An ignorant smallfolk, more or less. She doesn't even know what she's talking about. There are no gods here.

Whatever had happened here in Hardhome, it had deeply influenced whatever presence still remained in this heart tree; that lingering will in the roots had been so scarred, full of resentment and fear. No wonder Mother Mole hadn't been able to communicate with it. Such a thing would be influencing the weirwood tree itself, darkening the roots, the very earth in turn. It wasn't evil, no, but scared, twisted by fear and pain.

No wonder the wildlings think this land is cursed, he realized, imagining for a moment how century upon centuries of weak hedge witches might have interpreted such visions, with this twisted tree as their focal point. "This one didn't want to speak," Jon eventually decided on saying. "It is in pain. Afraid," he frowned. "…I do not understand why." Could a single slaughter, however great, have so distorted a heart tree? Or had the dragonriders done… something?

Mother Mole's eyes were still widening. "So it is true. You can speak to the gods. I was not misled."

"Speaking?" Jon frowned. "This tree never did such."

"The gods speak to us though many means, prophet," Mother Mole said, her eyes gleaming. "Even in the old days when they were still strong, true speech was rare. Dreams, visions and portents - that was how they most often shared their will, especially in the last centuries as the silence grew ever deeper." Her gaze turned melancholy. "But once, or so the oldest of tales say, the old gods sang. There are many tales of how they could even speak through the skins of woods witches, wargs. Even ordinary people."

Jon frowned. "You said you tried to speak to them yourself. You're a warg?"

He had sensed something about her, true, but he wasn't certain what. It was a far weaker impression than what he'd felt from true wargs like Borroq or Greensight Hold's leaders.

"What is a warg?" The old woman smiled mirthlessly. "Centuries ago, any woods witch would have known at least a little of how to speak to the gods. Many of them shared their skins with their beast companions as well. But with the silence of the gods, much of that art has been lost. I can only do what little I can. My own companions died decades ago, and I never found new ones."

"I see," Jon nodded, considering that.

He considered as well what he had learned of from the greenseer, from the beaver men and Greensight Hold's folk. The latter two were the only true communities of wargs in the lands Beyond the Wall. Most wargs were isolated wanderers, roaming like Varamyr or Borroq. He knew less about the free folk's witches, but apparently they shared a common root. Could these people be used, in a wider sense? Taught to use their gifts not only for scouting purposes - like eagle warg, Orell, - but to see through the trees as he was slowly learning? There were the legends of the wildling's warg kings of old - could those powers be reclaimed? Made useful?

A thought for later, he considered, dismissing it. Jon made to stand, sparing only a final glance for Sweet Tyk's unconscious form, long asleep now. He'd put off the men outside the hill for long enough. "Tell me when he's active and walking again."

Mother Mole gave him a curious look. "Are you sure you don't want me to let him die? Might be kinder."

"He doesn't deserve to die for being an arrogant fool." Jon sighed. "For being a rapist, perhaps. But if so, he'll die for his people, not by my blade. Not if I can help it."

"Every man out there is a rapist, by your southron terms," Mother Mole chuckled. "Yet you punish this one?"

"He deserved it."

"'Deserve' got nothing to do with it." Mother Mole shook her head sadly. "You should've killed him."

Jon shook his head. "No, he's a good raider and a better seaman. We need him."

"As you wish," Mother Mole said softly, bowing her head. The old woman's wizened hands grabbed a wineskin, but filled with something strong, rank and foul. Then she set it near while she pulled a knife out of the fire - a blade so hot it was glowing. She brought it near to 'Sweety' Tyk's bloody groin, before glancing at Jon.

"Your 'rapist' will live, and you can inform his men of such," she chuckled softly. She was calm, by all appearances. "Now comes the ugly part. I would do your business outside if I were you, prophet."

That title again. Jon still didn't know what to make of it. But he agreed wholeheartedly.

He quickly left her cave. When he back back outside, voices clamored for attention. He looked around the group waiting to talk to him - then he realized there were more of them than ever, and most all of them looked unhappy.

The 'Court of Hardhome' wants to talk. Jon suppressed a sigh, keeping his bitter thoughts bottled up inside.

The first man stomped up to him, and Jon stared up into the scowling face of the Lord of Seals. Even among large wildling men like Hatch, Furs or Halrak, he still would have been considered a particularly large men: near seven-feet tall, with a ruddy face, tangled hair and beard all knotted together, broad shoulders and strong arms, clad in a heavy, patchwork sealskin cloak that draped all the way down his back and legs and across the ground.

In his youth, he had been an accomplished raider across the bay, but then he 'retired' to build boats for other raiders instead. He had made quite a name for himself as the closest thing the wildlings had to a shipwright; every raider who used his boats in a successful raid paid the 'Lord' tribute.

"I hear you've given two of my boats away to those filthy cave dwellers," the Lord of Seals said, double-chins wobbling.

Jon sighed. The Stonetooths? "The cave dwellers need boats too; we're all crossing the bay together."

Unfortunately, the Lord of Seals was the best boat-builder they had, better than even the river clans; Jon had put the man's 'warband' in charge of the construction for the camp's eastern and southern reaches, where he might focus more on fishing the waters and building more boats. A critical role. But apparently, one that had only fed the big, fat man's arrogance.

"Them uplander scum can build their own," he blustered. "Fuck 'em, they're not touching my gods-damned—"

Jon turned and glared. "Those boats are mine," he snapped. "The men that cut the trees are mine, the giants and tribesmen that brought the wood to camp are mine, the men that cut the wood, the women who weave the rope and make the glue and tar, are all mine. And you, who oversee construction, would be best off remembering that."

Silence surrounded Jon, and in that silence, he spoke more quietly. "I am paying you very well for your help, my… Lord of Seals… but stop your whining. Otherwise, I'm going to put Thaldar in charge of what ought to be your duties."

The Lord of Seals growled, his face red, but he turned and stomped away. I shouldn't have done that, Jon thought. He is a prickly man. Still, right now Jon was too irritated to care.

Jon was swiftly becoming aware that threatening a chieftain's supposed rights and privileges by threatening to replace them with another chieftain was one of the most powerful motivators he had for corralling the 'lords' of the free folk. And the Lord of Seals hated Thaldar the Tidebreaker, or more to the point, hated and feared him. He would never take the risk of allowing a choice privilege to fall into a rival's hands.

The second group waiting for him was a group of three giants, led by the blond hill giant Rag Rig Rog Kun Gor, the leader of the giants at Hardhome. Jon had come to understand that his name meant something along the lines of 'He Who is Wiser than Owl' - fitting, because he was the only giant Jon had ever met capable of speaking any of the common.

Men cleared space as the great blond giant approached, looming over Jon, his thick, matted blond fur beard twisting in the wind. His blue eyes, small in proportion to his massive face of beard and fur, narrowed with frustration as he tried to shape words in the common tongue.

"Dre'mar," Rag Rig Rog Kun Gor nodded respectfully, greeting Jon by that particular title in the giant's tongue. Jon still had no idea what it meant. Then Rag's eyes bunched up, "you… go," he rumbled, jabbing a tree-trunk-sized finger toward Jon. "You… take men. Food. You… bring."

Jon frowned. "Bring what? Where?"

The giant exhaled through his nose, a noise that was almost bearlike. No human could have made such a deep, guttural sound. His massive hands gestured vaguely toward the northwest. "Kin. More kin. In… trees. Hill-trees. Near… " he paused, his lips twisting as he struggled for the word. "Near… cold-water?"

"A river?" Jon guessed.

The giant grunted approval, nodding once. "Bring."

"Kin." Jon considered the words. "You want me to bring them here? To Hardhome?"

Rag rumbled again in agreement. "Yes. You bring… kin. Many. Too many."

Jon frowned. "Too many for what?"

The blond giant hesitated, as if searching for words, failing. Jon could only watch as Rag's frustration grew. He shifted on his feet, massive toes digging into the frozen dirt, and then growled from deep in his chest. "Noh! Malg'gar trev'ah, draum nah velk!"

Men and women all around Jon shifted nervously. The words came out sharp, gutturally - he wasn't looking at Jon, but at his fellow pair of giants. Clearly asking for their help with translating. But, after a moment's pause, they shrugged. Rag gave up on them, and his eyes searched Jon's imploringly.

Jon tried to parse the words, keeping in mind that the giants weren't speaking the Old Tongue, but their own tongue - it was even older, even more primitive, but the languages were related.

Malg'gar… He had heard something like that word before, not that word directly, but something akin to it, spoken not between giants, but by Thenns as they counted food stores. Malcar. It had to mean something akin to 'hunger' or 'starving.' The rest was harder to guess, but Jon caught the word "velk" - a term he'd heard before numerous times as welk - it meant 'shelter,' more or less. 'Nah' was almost the same between the giant's tongue, the Old Tongue as most wildlings spoke it, and the common - it simply meant no.

"They don't have food or shelter?" Jon asked carefully, piecing the rest together from context.

"Dre'mar," Rag nodded in relief, exhaling a breath that misted in the cold air. "Yes. Bad. Cold."

Jon could imagine it. A gathering of giant refugees, hidden in the deep forests northwest of Hardhome, scattered remnants of clans that had been driven from their homes. Maybe they had been part of the larger migrations south before the Wall fell, or perhaps they were stragglers who had avoided the Others only to starve in the harsh northern cold.

"How many?" Jon asked.

Rag scratched his chin of beard and fur, scowling in thought. "One… two…" He held up three fingers, then four, then both hands and more. He grunted, clearly struggling.

"Dozens?" Jon prompted, looking up at him. "Hundreds?"

Rag grunted, looking frustrated, and then bellowed, "Nor'k drah mogran rok!"

Jon sighed. "That doesn't help me, Rag."

The giant clenched his fists, before bending down. He slammed his palm into the dirt and dragged it across the frostbitten soil, leaving behind five lines. Then he did that ten more times, before stepping around his own work and dragging his fingers through all of his own work. When he lifted it, a massive, crude smear of earth remained, but the crosscutting lines were readable enough.

Jon blinked. Was this a crude attempt at multiplication, of all things? "That's… a lot, isn't it?"

Rag's eyes lit up. He nodded.

Five, by ten, by five. Jon exhaled, running a gloved hand through his hair. "Two hundred and fifty and more?" Jon hazarded a guess.

"Dre'mar!" Rag chortled happily, slapping another giant on the back. "Yes. Yes."

Hundreds of giants, then. Lost, starving, and freezing in the forests northwest of Hardhome. "What ails them?" Jon asked. "Why can't they get here on their own?"

Rag tried at first to explain in the common tongue. "They… not move. Not go. Trapped."

"Trapped by what?" Jon pressed.

Rag's blue eyes, so small in that vast, fur-covered face, darkened. He struggled for words, muttering something frustrated, something low and guttural under his breath before finally giving up, slipping fully into the giant's tongue. "Morre."

Jon's skin prickled at the sound of it. He had heard that word before, on the long march to Hardhome. It carried weight in the Old Tongue, more than mere trouble or danger. Doom.

Rag growled something else. "Morre vak'gar. Har'gon morre norak!"

Jon didn't understand every word, but his stomach clenched at the ones he did. Doom marches. Doom near. Jon didn't need to understand every word: he knew what Rag was trying to say. He knew. "The Others. The dead."

Morre. Jon exhaled. He'd heard that word before from the giants, and each time, it chilled him more, coming from them. It didn't simply mean death - 'mal.' 'Morre' was doom.

"Dead. Yes. Come," Rag nodded darkly, his voice dropping into a deep mutter. He pointed more west than north this time, his brow furrowed. "Dead. Cold. Blue eyes. They come."

Jon stiffened. "The Others? Do they march as well?"

"Not know." Rag shook his head, growling. Rag's breath gusted out in frustration. He stamped his foot hard, shaking the frost from the trees. "You go."

Jon clenched his jaw, turning his gaze toward the north. If the dead were that close, there was no time to waste. If he delayed too long… he looked around the sprawling camp. All the things he had to do. The countless things that would insist on delaying him. "I will go," Jon promised. "Not now. Not today. But soon. In a few days."

Rag exhaled sharply, relief evident in his massive shoulders. "Good. Good." He reached forward and clapped Jon's shoulder, nearly sending him stumbling forward. "Fast. Morning. No wait. Kin need."

Jon righted himself and nodded. "Aye. I'll gather my men in the morn."

The giant looked down on him for a long moment, his blue eyes unreadable. Then, quietly, almost reverently, he murmured something in his own tongue.

"Dre'mar har'gon dre'marak… brokar nag dor gronnach rok?"

Jon could only guess at the meaning of the words. Something about trust. Something about… fate?

And then Rag stepped back, joining the other two giants who had come with him as they stomped, or perhaps strode away - their gait was not like that of men, with far longer and thicker legs, leaving Jon alone with the knowledge that time was running out for, apparently, an entire colony of giants.

The third party waiting for him was a group of scouts and outriders, staring at Jon nervously. Furs was standing beside the lead scout with a frown. "This scout just returned from the west," Furs said, shoving the man forward. "Figured you should know."

The man looked nervous. He has a white stone pinned to his furs like a brooch, Jon noticed. The scout didn't meet Jon's eyes, instead staring at his feet. "… We've got a big host heading towards us now from the southern trail, prophet. Maybe two days away, but they're, uh, making good time?"

Jon frowned. He had heard of the other remnants of Mance's army gathering in the west a week ago. Now that host was heading to Hardhome too, it seemed. "How many?"

The scout shook his head. "Thousands of free folk. Too many to count. I talked with one of their scouts, one of Rattleshirt's men, he said they had ten thousand."

"Then who's leading them?"

"Who's not leading them?" Furs laughed. "I hear they've got everyone from the newest Magnar of Thenn, to the Lord of Bones, Varamyr and Harma all vying for control."

All of the lords and ladies of the north, then, Jon thought quietly. When they arrive, nearly every wildling leader and perhaps most of the population of the eastern half of the lands beyond the Wall could be at Hardhome.

… I wonder if any of them have red hair, cute crooked teeth and a beautiful smile. Most of the remnants of Mance Rayder's army were with them now; this second host might be Jon's best chance at seeing Ygritte again. If she didn't end up with them, she must have headed north to the Frozen Shore. If she survived at all.

"Don't forget the one who brought them all together - Val," another scout continued.

Jon remembered Val - Dalla's older sister. A tall, blonde beauty who had been close to Mance, who commanded the loyalty of a good number of raiders in her own right, though she was no chieftain.

Still, some of the most vicious chieftains of all were apparently numbered among this host's leaders. Rattleshirt, Harma and Varamyr all together could be a problem. "Do you think they're coming to fight?"

"I think they want to go south, like the rest of us," Furs muttered. "Might be good to boost the perimeter guards, though. Just in case."

Jon nodded, though he grimaced at the thought of bringing even more raider chieftains into his camp. Now, how the hells am I meant to organize them all?

"Alright, then we'll bring some men to meet them tomorrow," Jon decided. "Let's gather three hundred strong fighters - and I'm bringing Sonagon too."

Shock and awe, Jon decided. Sonagon is good at that.

Furs grinned broadly, showing missing teeth. The wildling liked watching the dragon at work.

If he could get these chieftains and all their numbers to his side, then that might be over twenty-five thousand wildlings. It would be impossible to feed so many at Hardhome. He would have to take them all south, quickly.

And I've got to try and do it bloodlessly, Jon thought. He wanted the Night's Watch to open the gate at Eastwatch, and leave the gate intact enough that they could close it behind them.

It was a tall order, but between these sheer numbers and Sonagon, Jon was certain the military problems were manageable - the Watch had never been more weakened and depleted. The problem would be convincing all the chieftains to follow his orders and not slaughter the brothers out of hand.

Jon looked at the scouts. "Rest up, gather what rations you need, and go back out there," Jon ordered. "Make sure you watch them as they come up, see if any are readying warbands."

The scout nodded, clutching the white stone. "O-of course, Prophet," he stammered, lowering his head as he turned quickly to walk, or rather, scurry away. Jon paused, watching him run. He bowed to me, Jon thought. And that title again…

The boy had bowed hesitantly, jerkily, like he wasn't sure whether he should bow or not. But he had bowed, and the rest of the men had all noticed that title.

Other men, leaders of the free folk approached him, all with gripes and complaints of their own. A small man with pointed teeth and a painted face, from one of the cave dwellers, who only spoke broken Common, came to Jon to threaten him about his clan's lack of food. Furs needed to translate. It could have been another fight right then and there when another of the free folk had accused the cave dwellers of stealing chickens - but thankfully, small blessings, the cave dweller in question couldn't understand the common.

After that he very nearly lost his temper. He had to remind everyone that food was to be shared. He promised to look into the stores, even though Jon knew there wasn't enough food to end the complaints.

After one of Barrad Bloodcloak's surviving raiders was accused of poaching and eating one of the beaver men's beavers with his new warband, Jon did lose his temper, and ordered the man to give his sword and other arms to Braithe the Beaverhide or else be exiled from the camp. The situation would become impossible to manage if clans and chieftains started stealing not just food, but work animals from one another - and the beavers were essential for much of the wood being floated downriver.

Then, there was a feud between Bullden Horn and Marthe of the Antlers that came to Jon to settle. Bullden wanted vengeance for two of his nieces, whom Marthe had stolen years ago. Jon sympathized, but if he punished wildlings for every girl they stole, then he would have to punish every single man in his camp.

Instead, Jon had to press Bullden into excusing Marthe, and gave Bullden command of one of the patrols as compensation. Marthe was one of the best sailors they had, Jon couldn't afford to lose him either. Jon would just have to try and keep the men away from each other, positioning them both at opposite sides of the camp. My camp is not big enough, not if I need to place everyone with a grudge away from each other, Jon thought sourly.

The others were easier. A Hornfoot chieftain tried to bribe Jon with a pair of bronze gauntlets to get a bigger barge, which Jon accepted - mostly because they needed another barge anyways and it made the Hornfoots more willing to work with him. There were another two tributes from clan leaders - which Jon learned to accept graciously. Tributes and gifts were the currency of the north.

The worst was an elderly man, a tanner, dragged before Jon bloody and beaten. His wife had died in the cold, but the tanner had refused to burn her body and instead tried to drag her corpse outside the perimeter so she might be resurrected as a wight. The man was in hysterics. Jon ordered the corpse burnt, but he had to fight to convince the free folk not to kill the man for his 'treason'. The man screamed, howled and looked so heartbroken in grief that Jon wasn't even sure it was a good decision. If Jon's men hadn't held him back, the tanner would have killed himself trying to stop them from burning his wife's body.

Death might be kinder, he thought. There were days that he was just left feeling numb, and worn. Most days, in fact.

He had gone through half of those wanting to see him when he heard the commotion from the caves. Shouting, bellowing. Damnit. The free folk seemed to flock towards every fight. Jon cursed, grabbing Furs and half a dozen other men and rushing after them. His bad leg pained him, as he limped over the snow.

The caves were still full of men and women huddled into the brown rock. He saw firepits and makeshift wind barriers of furs. Hundreds of men and women, mostly unarmed, trying to take shelter in the water-logged caves.

Jon recognized the Frozen Shore men; clad in wolf and reindeer furs, with walrus tusks stitched on their helms, and bone spears in their hands. There was lots of yelling. It looked like a scuffle between half a dozen men of the Frozen Shore and three times as many refugees. The refugees were in rags, and mostly unarmed, but the tribesmen looked angry.

"What's going on here?" Jon bellowed, trying to break apart the fight. Suddenly, Ghost was by his side, snarling as the direwolf leapt into the fray. The sound of the direwolf's snapping jaws caused the men to jump backwards. "Back down!"

An elderly man gasped, clutching at a bone dagger in his waist. "… They attacked me… !" The man gasped. "… These… these heathens attacked us!"

Heathens? He turned to the Frozen Shore men, Dark Sister ready. Jon saw a man shouting a rough, guttural language. The men of Frozen Shore didn't speak the Common, Jon thought with a grimace.

He turned to Furs. The wildling blinked. "… Seems here that we have a… um… misunderstanding," Furs translated, listening to the shouting. "… This man… Hunting Seal… seems to have taken offense to this stonemason's work."

The man - Hunting Seal - was screaming bloody fury of the unintelligible kind, glaring at Jon all the while.

The men of the Frozen Shore name themselves after beasts of the region, he recalled. "Offense? How?"

Furs motioned. The old man was begging incoherently, clutching at his wounded side. He has a white stone pinned to his furs too, Jon noted. Then he turned, and saw a large white boulder sitting in the middle of the cave, carved crudely into a statuette - shaped and cut into the likeness of a dragon, its maw open and roaring.

Sonagon, Jon realized.

The old man had been carving a statue of Sonagon. A crude carving, true, but massive: the boulder was so large that it had to have taken ten men to lift something that size into that place, directly in the center of the cave - a place of honor. Even more concerningly, it was a good carving, with plenty of fine embellishments and details; the old man was a genuine artist. Jon couldn't even understand how it was possible to carve something so fine with nothing but crude stone chisels.

He stared around the cave, taking in the scene. The stonemason had been working here, alone, and then been confronted by the Frozen Shore tribesmen, who must have then attacked - but then at least twenty random free folk seemed to have stepped in to resist. Not to protect the old man, even - they were trying to protect the carving of Sonagon.

Jon couldn't understand it. Why would so many weak, unarmed men and women pit themselves against well-armed raiders for the sake of a… statue?

"Why?" Jon glanced at Furs. "Why did they attack?"

Furs translated. Hunting Seal screamed a single word, high and bloody, desperate. "They call it heresy," Furs translated. Jon guessed he was paraphrasing. "… To worship something like that monster is heresy."

Worship? "I do not care who they worship, or what they call their gods," Jon said, baffled. "They don't attack anyone in my camp. No one does, not for any reason. The peace is too important, there is too much at stake. If they have a problem with any of that, they leave."

Furs translated Jon's words back to the subdued tribesmen, in their own guttural tongue. Clearly, they were less than happy about it. Then Jon's men slowly forced the Frozen Shore tribesmen backwards. Ghost kept by his side, still snarling quietly.

Jon wondered if they would leave the camp at Hardhome over this. He would hate to lose them, though - the Frozen Shore tribesmen were good warriors, better than most, and he had too few of such to keep the peace at Hardhome.

"Hunting Seal here says he needs to avenge his ancestors," Furs gave Jon a look. "They are Walrus Men, Snow."

The particulars of the tribes of the Frozen Shore were well outside of Jon's knowledge of the free folk. Even by the standards to which wildlings judged these things, they were savages. "Walrus Men?"

"They follow the Great Walrus. One of the Frozen Shore's biggest tribes." Furs explained. "Other tribes follow the Noble Elk, the Great Eagle, or the Strong Bear, or whatever. There are a few dozen such tribes. These guys basically see walruses as their spirit animals, holy animals to their tribes. The Walrus Men are about the biggest of the lot among all the tribes, though."

"… I see."

Hunting Seal growled a string of words, glaring at Jon with hatred.

"He tells a story his tribe has passed down for, eh, many generations," Furs translated lazily. "Bladdy, blah, blah… Something about a dark night, a storm with teeth, a demon of fire and wings that slaughtered their ancestors years ago. It brought ruin to two dozen clans. Some viewed it as the wrath of the gods. The first Great Walrus declared unending, undying vengeance on this thing, and these guys like their traditions."

…Did this happen four hundred years ago, I wonder? Before Sonagon had been frozen in the glaciers, Jon had little doubt that the dragon might have terrorized the far north. And free folk clans could keep old, old grudges.

Jon still remembered the Frozen Shore clansmen who had tried to kill him his first night with the Weeper's warband. Was there a connection here?

"Basically, he's saying that your beast is a demon, and is ranting about ten thousand curses and whatnot upon you and and all your blood, all its followers and, eh, some more nonsense," Furs scoffed. "All sounds ridiculous, though. Their stories tell of a demon of fire, and you've got an ice beastie there."

The imprisoned clansman kept ranting incoherently. Jon noted that at this point, with more and more free folk gathering here, glaring at them with hostility, even the majority of the Frozen Shore tribesmen were beginning to look distinctly nervous, but Hunting Seal was still screaming and spitting.

Jon let out a sigh. "… Well, make sure he knows that if they have that much issue with Sonagon, then they have to leave, and seek shelter elsewhere. I will not allow anyone who violates the peace to remain in Hardhome."

It took a while for the Walrus Men to get the point. They were outnumbered by far, and now that word was spreading, it seemed the entire camp was turning against them. Eventually, the Walrus Men backed down. Unending vengeance is all well and good, Jon mused, but having shelter and food is far more important in the short term.

Hunting Seal's eyes widened in shock as the other Walrus Men lowered their weapons with reluctance. Jon half-hoped that Hunting Seal would have lowered his weapon too, but instead he lunged at Jon with his spear. Ghost was on him before the raiders had a chance.

The man could barely even scream as the direwolf ripped out his throat. The other Walrus Men averted their gaze. Jon's stomach twisted. Another totally needless death.

"Make sure that they keep well away from Sonagon," Jon ordered, standing over them as they dispersed. "… Give them patrols by the southeast."

"Aye, will do," said Furs. "You know, the Walrus Men might follow orders, but without the Great Walrus there's no one to really command them."

He frowned. "The Great Walrus is a person?"

"Oh aye, it's the name given to their chieftain, you know. Leader of the Walrus Men is the Great Walrus, like their… holy person or whatnot," Furs explained. "The Great Walrus agreed to join Mance's army, but then his tribe scattered after he went missing at the Frostfangs. The Strong Bear and the Noble Elk both refused Mance; the Noble Elk chose to run from the Others, the Strong Bear resolved to fight by themselves."

Jon nodded, mentally trying to make note of the information. The lands beyond the Wall had a wealth of different cultures and history that he was still struggling to learn. Not even the maesters knew much about the wildlings - the knowledge of most learned men ended at the Wall.

"You know there are others that worship similar tales," Furs chattered. "Gods of snow and ice. I heard of one tribe up north that believes in ice monsters - them great beasts that bring winter, giant snakes that carved the great gorge, once burrowed under the glaciers. Then there's some that say their ice gods came from the moon. Some say they still linger in the far, far north, at the top of the world." Furs scratched his beard. "…And that's not to mention the old tales I heard when I was a wee lad, from a wanderer who went way north with a plains giant tribe - says he saw mountains that spat fire, and furry, feathery winged beasties roosting up on them…"

Jon didn't reply. He was still looking over the carving of the white dragon. It was a crude carving, no doubt about it, but also a painstakingly detailed one. Jon had no idea how long it would have taken to carve all the details - like Sonagon's teeth and scales, for instance - without proper tools.

He had Furs' men take the old stonemason to Mother Mole for treatment, but Jon lingered in the cave, still pondering the statue.

…Why does this carving of Sonagon, the look in their eyes, make me so uncomfortable?

What he saw in their eyes wasn't loyalty of the sort that Jon had ever seen or known, neither in Winterfell nor among the sworn brothers. Not like the loyalty a man owed his lord, not that Jon could even claim to be such. These free folk wearing the white stones - their behavior and attitudes were on another plane entirely. Jon could think of no better word for it but fanaticism. It made him feel deeply uncomfortable. I am no lord, and I'm certainly no prophet.

"… The dragon does not need carvings or statues," Jon said after a long pause, turning to the crowd of refugees and speaking loud over the whistle of the wind. "Carvings and statues will not help anyone!"

Still, do I refuse their worship outright, or do I try to exploit it for their own good? He looked around, outside of the cave. Hundreds of free folk, all wearing white stones, set in brooches on their chests - and none met his gaze. Jon sighed. Fine. If this is the only way they will listen.

"If you want to help," Jon shouted, "then the dragon needs protection. We need stakewalls and fortifications! The fencing on the west side of the camp is falling apart and we need men and women to repair it."

The ground rustled with movement. Too much movement.

In the end, Jon ended up with more men and women than he even knew how to coordinate. Too many for him to personally manage. He assigned them to reliable-enough taskmasters, and sent them to chase Old Man Harwick and Thaldar about the lumber coming into camp.

Concerningly, Jon saw even weak, starved or elderly free folk rushing over themselves to try to follow his command. Again, more of the ones wearing white stones.

They're not doing this for me, Jon thought, they're doing it for Sonagon. For their salvation. Jon knew that every night Mother Mole still preached by the heart tree, and every night it seemed like she had more and more of a congregation. Mostly among the refugees, though - not the raiders and fighters.

He spent a long time staring at the white stone carving of the dragon. Despite what he said, the followers wearing white stones never completely abandoned it. Some remained, guarding it. Jon considered it, but in the end he had no reason to demand that they get rid of it, either. Misguided as it was, it gave them comfort, and more to the point, it made them manageable.

By the time he had finally managed to assign the work crews into some form of organization, it was nearly evening. His leg felt numb, tired. Mother Mole had some poultices that seemed to help, all stored back in his tent, but it was relaxation and rest that helped the most.

As Jon limped back to his tent, he saw a man waiting patiently. He was a lean, clean-shaven man with toned arms. Alvin Whaletooth looked past middle-aged, around forty or fifty, but still hard and muscled from a life of manual labor.

"We've spotted a grey whale off the coast of the harbor," Alvin said simply. No greetings, no introduction. None needed for a man like Alvin. "Big one, too, it could feed a lot of mouths for a lot of days. I'd hunt it myself but I don't have the men free - do you think your dragon could help us out, Snow?"

"A grey whale?" Jon asked, blinking in surprise.

"Aye. Big enough for a lot of meat. That dragon of yours could help take it down."

Jon hesitated. "I could do it myself," Alvin continued. "Except my boats are out. The whale could be long gone by the time I gather them. If I've got a dragon hunting it, mind, then maybe we could kill it quick. Figured it was worth a shot."

Using a dragon to hunt whale, Jon wondered. Would Sonagon even share the meat?

"Sonagon freezes his meat before he eats it."

Alvin shrugged. "Let him. So long as there's enough left over for us, I'm happy thawing it."

"I'm not sure it'll work." He had never gone whale-hunting before, most certainly not with a dragon.

"You think it's worth a try?"

There was a moment of indecision. On the one hand, there were many tasks that Jon still had to see to, but on the other hand, even a single whale could be harvested for enough meat to severely help the camp's struggling stores. Plus, Sonagon was happier on a full stomach, and the happier the dragon was, the easier it was to control. In any case, if Sonagon could be worked to help feed the people of Hardhome, then Jon wanted to find out.

"Alright, let's do it." Jon nodded. "I'll have to come myself to direct Sonagon."

"I've got a ship waiting for you, one of my fastest." A smile flickered across Alvin Whaletooth's weathered face. "Heh, whale-hunting with a dragon. First time for everything."

Jon went into his tent to change; switching out his thick giant's fur cloak the children had given him for a more water-repelling walrus-hide skin, and leaving his heavy leathers and bronze disk plate behind for lighter riding leathers and a wool overcoat. Not as thick as what he would prefer, but lighter and safer at sea. He kept his iron-toe capped leather boots since they were the only ones he had, though, and he forced Furs to promise to guard his tent.

The route down to the coast would have been treacherous in winter, but the various tribes and clans working on the boats had cleared a crude road to move lumber down to the icy coast. Down there, Jon saw the dark beach of rough stone, sand and ice - but covered for a good half mile north and south along the coast with men working on dozens of boats, with piles and piles of cut logs and piles of supplies scattered all around. Hundreds of men were at work, constantly - even from his tent he had been able to hear the sound of hacking lumber echoing all day and night.

The shipbuilding had never stopped, not for days now. It really was a roar of activity down here at the beach.

Jon had offered Sonagon to fly the Weeper's warband south, but after considering it more, he realized it just wouldn't work. Even if Sonagon could carry up to a hundred people at once - which was by no means certain, he didn't like it when he was ridden by anyone apart from Jon, especially in numbers past a dozen or so - he had no idea how to even mount them all. The Weeper's warband numbered at five hundred or so men, so it would have taken dozens of flights to manage it, by which point the Night's Watch certainly would have realized what was going on and moved to intercept. And they needed well more than five hundred men to secure Eastwatch from the south, Jon figured. At least without causing a pitched battle that might cause more harm than good: they needed Eastwatch's ice gate intact.

Jon and the Weeper had come up with a new, far simpler plan; they would build boats and barges in quantity, enough to move a true fighting force south over the bay, with Sonagon flying protection overhead. The patrols of the Night's Watch at Eastwatch had stopped such incursions for millennia, but with the dragon in the air, Jon was certain the sworn brothers could be dissuaded from making the attempt. And the less who died, the better.

True, calling the crafts being built down here at the beach 'boats' was perhaps too generous; there were fifty-four of them now, glorified rafts with walls. Large barges of timber and hemp - great, lumbering watercraft that would never survive for long at sea, but over short distances might carry over fifty people each. It would be the worst fleet to have ever invaded the Seven Kingdoms - a veritable fleet of rafts - but it would get the job done.

Smaller boats besides were scattered over the crude harbor by the hundreds. Riverboats from up and down the Upper and Lower Antler, boats of the beaver men, boats and raid vessels donated by the free folk of the coast, of all shapes and sizes from canoes to dinghies. The beach was wide, but it was still cramped with boats of all manner of make along the stony length of it.

Alvin Whaletooth owned four boats himself - all lean fishing vessels crewed by his family. Alvin had made his name chasing down whales. But as he'd said, most of them were currently out seeing to other tasks.

Across the coast, atop rocks protruding from the sea near the other side of the harbor, a large white shape rested over the rocks, tail hanging into the ocean. Jon saw the salt water spray against the rocks, splashing over scales. Sonagon's offshore roost, where the dragon perched on the rocks and hunted along the outer skerries. The ocean was cold, but Jon wasn't certain if the dragon could even feel cold as men did. Sonagon still couldn't fly yet, but the dragon had proved adaptable, a surprisingly graceful swimmer. He would keep his wings furled while his body would slither through the ocean, using powerful legs to propel him forward.

The coast was good for the dragon. The dragon was healthier than ever, between the protection of the free folk and the game in the ocean. There were schools of sea cows and walruses across the coast - all large animals that weren't used to any predator large enough to hunt them. Sonagon had eaten well.

Sonagon had slept most of the day on the rocks, barely visible from the beach. But the dragon was rousing now, sensing what was happenning.

"The whale was spotted off the cape," Alvin said. "We'll take a five man crew on a small boat - get you close enough to direct your dragon. We'll have the wind on our back dragging the carcass back - let's see how quick we can make it. I don't want to be out long after nightfall."

"Good," Jon agreed. It wouldn't do to keep Sonagon away after nightfall. He would leave Ghost behind in the camp to watch matters, while Phantom could spy on the perimeter.

Their boat was a small fir wooden dinghy with a large sail of stitched animal hide. It wasn't a large or fancy vessel but it was smoothed from age and well-built, oiled with whale blubber, with harpoons and rope all along the hull, and bladders of water or supplies hanging from the craft.

They were met by other hardened fishermen from Alvin's crew. Jon nodded at them, but stopped as he stared at one tall, thin man in particular. A man with weathered eyes and a wispy beard. Jon felt his skin crawl as he looked at him. A heaviness, a presence.

The man stopped at his open staring. "Who are you?" Jon demanded, feeling suddenly uneasy.

The other man had a stoic face, one that didn't even flicker at his questioning. Alvin looked surprised for a moment, before realizing. "Ah." He nodded understandingly. "Snow, this is Byrn - he'll be on the crew too."

"He's a skinchanger," said Jon. Jon could feel the man as a skinchanger instinctively, as he had Borroq and the others. Byrn just nodded.

"Aye," Alvin explained. "Byrn wargs into a seal off the coast. I've used him before. He'll help us track the whale."

Byrn never responded. He was a quiet man with narrow eyes. For some reason, he put Jon on edge, but Byrn walked away without a word. "Is he trustworthy?" Jon asked.

"As much as a warg can be, sure," Alvin nodded, before hesitating. "No offense meant, of course."

Jon didn't reply. He was attracting a crowd on the beach. Workers dropped logs of timber to stare at him. He could see men on the ships staring at him. Many of them with white stones on their chest were gathering from the camp. Sometimes, it seemed like no matter where Jon went he attracted a crowd.

"Get that ship into the water!" Alvin roared, over the sound of wind roaring around them. "Snow, get your dragon ready."

Jon nodded, turning towards the dragon in the distance. They were already drawing a crowd as Alvin readied the boat.

Even when the dragon was simply sleeping on the rocks in the distance, Jon saw the awe in the gaze of the wildlings staring. Sonagon came into Hardhome rarely - the last time had been at Jon's command when he had put together teams of free folk with skins to try and patch up the dragon's wings. There had been so many free folk staring in awe, too afraid to even approach the beast.

More and more, Jon saw free folk with smooth white stones pinned to their furs like some kind of brooch, like some sort of religion, or cult. Men lowered their heads as he passed. There were many that regarded Jon with distrust, but there were also those who viewed him as a nearly-religious figure. Jon wasn't sure which group was the majority any more. And he wasn't sure which one disturbed him the most.

Do they see Sonagon as a god, and myself as a king? Jon wondered. The raiders and fighters were much slower to trust or follow, but some of Mother Mole's followers… they unnerved him. Devotees, she called them.

There were men wearing white stones on the beach all around him now. They stared at him with wide eyes as Alvin Whaletooth ordered his men to push the dinghy into the water. Jon tried to block out the people staring as he closed his eyes and reached out to Sonagon.

Food, he pushed gently. Help. Hunt.

He felt Sonagon stir. The dragon raised his head, clambering to his feet. Jon saw his wings stretch out, balancing the dragon as he reared upwards.

The free folk on the beach cheered and gaped as the dragon dived into the water with an almighty splash.

"Come on!" Alvin ordered, pushing the dinghy forward. Jon could barely keep up, yet the men dragged him upwards between the waves. The seawater was numbingly cold, but Alvin pulled Jon into the boat while two other men expertly dropped the sails. Jon fell headfirst into the cramped boat, while the seamen laughed and jumped in easily. At once, the wind hit them and they were being pushed off the beach and into the waves.

The salt water hit him, causing Jon to squint as they shot over the waves. Up ahead, there were shrill shouts as Sonagon broke through the water, twisting like some sea dragon of old. Alvin was shouting orders, but Jon's vision blurred as he felt himself falling into Sonagon's skin.

Suddenly, he was in the water, the cold sea as mild as bathwater, staring out through a vividly liquid vision as his great tail and legs thrusted him forward through the murky gloom, like some terrifically oversized fish. It was almost startling in its clarity.

Sonagon trusted Jon more and more, letting him warg easier than ever. Jon could feel the dragon's presence almost right next to him - powerful and vibrant, but it felt like an old friend the way it wrapped itself around Jon.

Follow us, Jon pushed. Food for you. Food for everyone.

The dragon roared, twisting itself around with a deep breath to dive down again. The dinghy was already tacking, turning through the ocean.

"Keep your dragon back for now, Snow, we don't want to spook it!" Alvin ordered. Jon nodded. "Byrn, you're up. Get your seal to lead us to the whale!"

Byrn nodded and closed his eyes. Jon watched his body sag unconscious as he drifted into another skin. He's not as gifted as I am, Jon realized. Most skinchangers fell unconscious as they warged, but Jon was able to stay in two bodies at once. Jon could even control multiple familiars, much like Varamyr Sixskins.

Twenty minutes later, a dark shape broke the surface. A large, graceful seal swam ahead, barely visible in the waves, leading the boat straight down the coast. The crew pulled the animal hide sail in and followed the shape.

It was shivering cold under wet furs, but none of the other men even seemed to feel it. Jon could only try to stay out of the way as Alvin's crew sailed with practiced ease. It wasn't a big boat, but the men would step over each other fluidly even as the ship shuddered. Each man clutched a rope in one hand and a harpoon in the other.

"So how big is this whale?" Jon shouted - he had to talk loudly over the waves.

"About fifty feet, forty tons, I reckon," Alvin replied. "Good eating all around."

Jon blinked. "Fifty feet? And you're hunting it in a boat like this?"

There was a burst of laughter from the crew. "Our boat not big enough for you, Snow?" Alvin laughed. "We're not some craven whalers that need a huge ass ship. I've been hunting off the coast for twenty years."

Jon grinned. Alvin was a grim, rough man on land, but he came alive when he was at sea. The type of man who lived for the waves. "So," Jon inquired, curious, "how would you take down a whale like that if Sonagon wasn't here?"

"Easy, follow it close, harpoon it when it surfaces," Alvin explained. "You tie logs or buoys to the harpoons to mark the position, and to stop it diving so easily. You need at least three boats to follow it no matter where it goes, and you keep on harpooning with more buoys until it can't swim. Kill it, drag it back to shore."

"You make it sound easy."

"Oh, it takes a while, I grant you. You've got to bleed the whale's strength and stay close. I've been out at sea for two weeks before while chasing a young bull," Alvin chuckled. "But I was a green lad, then. I can throw a harpoon harder now."

The waves rocked the boat. Jon held on tightly, but the sailors barely seemed to notice. Alvin kept a sharp eye on the sea, even as he shouted, "Grey whales aren't even the biggest things you get around here, ain't that right?"

"Oh aye," one of the other sailors shouted. "You get some monsters in these waters!"

"The only monster I've seen is a dragon," Jon laughed.

"Ha! Those landlubbers in camp might stare at your dragon with awe, but I've seen bigger monsters," Alvin said confidently.

"Really?"

"Oh yep. Grey whales aren't the biggest out here, plenty of others as well - we get sperm whales about twice the size some seasons too," Alvin said. "And that's to say nothing about the sharks. Have you ever seen a great ice water shark? Bigger than this bloody boat!"

Jon listened intently. Alvin talked even while wrapping up rope. "But the biggest - the absolute biggest - creature you'll ever see," Alvin continued. "A bloody leviathan."

There were a few murmurs of agreement. "Those monsters can grow over two hundred feet long," Alvin explained. "They cause tidal waves when they surface. Now those are too big for any of my boats, I hear you need Ibbenese whalers to bring those down. They don't come in close to the coast, either, but I've seen a few before when I've taken my boat too far out to sea. Bloody monsters, believe me."

The only thing Jon knew about leviathans were from Old Nan's tales - that the first sea dragon Nagga had been so large it could hunt leviathans out of the ocean.

Sea dragons, Jon thought to himself, thinking about Maester Luwin's lessons. Nobody was sure if sea dragons existed or not, but then again, they'd long thought the same thing about ice dragons. Sea dragons were dragons of the deep, the dragons that couldn't fly but would grew larger than any other creature. The Grey King's Hall on Old Wyk is apparently made from the bones of a sea dragon.

Jon tried to visualize a dragon so big it put Sonagon to shame, and his imagination failed him.

"But do you want to know the scariest thing I've ever seen, Snow?" Alvin continued. "A kraken."

"Krakens?" Jon exclaimed. Krakens were another semi-mythical creature right there. "You've actually seen one?"

He nodded for emphasis. "Oh yes," Alvin explained. "Nine years ago now - I was hunting way off the coast, much further than I should have been, truthfully. There was a fierce storm, but I was riding through - chasing a big wounded whale. There is no weather in the world that can sink one of Alvin Whaletooth's ships," he added with pride. "But right then, a bloody giant wave hit me from the side, and I was washing upwards on the wake as a monster rose up beside me! A kraken! It was almost as big as a leviathan, but with a lot more tentacles and a lot angrier. Damn thing pulled down the whale and half the sea with it." Alvin shuddered. "I'll tell you, I ruined a good pair of pants that day!"

The stories continued as the boat rocked on. Alvin Whaletooth had a story for every day he had been at sea. Jon listened raptly, all the while watching the coast drift by.

"Over there!" A man shouted eventually, spotting something large break through the waves. Jon had no idea how he spotted it through the tumbling waves. The grey whale looked just like a large stone breaking the surface for a brief second. "There she is!"

"Alright, Snow," Alvin ordered, clutching his harpoon. "You're up."

Jon nodded, reaching out to Sonagon again as he visualized the grey whale. The dragon was following from behind. Over here. Food. Hunt.

The dragon swam in fast, darting through the sea so quickly Jon could only see the ripples. When Sonagon was less than three hundred feet away, the whale started to panic. The whale broke the surface, its tail splashing down furiously as it tried to dive, but it was too late. Sonagon was already on it.

Soon, it will be even easier for him to hunt, Jon thought, as he felt a stab of pride. Soon, Sonagon will be able to fly.

The gashes and rents on Sonagon's wings had been closed a while ago. Jon had enlisted the help of every woods witch and healer he could find to stitch them together, bandage them to try and accelerate the natural healing that had already been happening. Still, they were too tender for Sonagon to fly as yet. Jon had seen the dragon practicing recently, extending and flexing his wings wide experimentally. Soon.

Even under the water, Jon heard the whale howl as Sonagon closed in. The whale must be sixty feet long from tail to snout, but the dragon is still at least twice that size. Mind, the whale was bulky and thick, a single long cord of muscle while Sonagon was far leaner in form, so it wouldn't go down easily, but he was just as certain that the dragon still had more mass.

The dragon and the whale collided with an almighty splash. Tails and wings splashed out of the water in a confusing chaos, covered by gouts of water and mist. On the boat, the men cheered and hollered. The boat crashed with the waves. It made for one hell of a show.

Jon had the sense that the whale had been trying to dive, was still trying to flee, and that Sonagon was wrestling it partway out of the water every time, preventing it from escaping.

Through the wargsense, Jon felt Sonagon close in and finally get in a good, hard bite on the whale's rump. The dragon's teeth sank in deeply. The whale shuddered and thrashed madly, but then Sonagon breathed a massive gout of frostfire while underwater.

For at least a hundred feet around the struggle, the water froze instantly. The struggle ended as suddenly as it had begun.

A violent, twisted patch of ice was suddenly covering a wide stretch of sea, tendrils of ice spreading across a wider distance still. And then the ice cracked all over again in a rushing roar of noise as Sonagon dragged the whale upwards in a veritable iceberg of bloody ice. Half of the whale's body had been frozen solid, killing it instantly.

Sonagon roared triumphantly as he snapped off the whale's frozen tail.

The men shouted and wrestled with the oars as they tried to keep the boat upright in the wake of the waves caused by the dragon's thrashing. Bobs of ice floating on the waves kept hitting the boat's hull. Sonagon was still thrashing, but happily now, snapping huge frozen chunks off the whale's tail with his sharp teeth, happily chewing on them underwater.

Ours? Jon asked, reaching out to Sonagon. Share?

The dragon paused a moment, and Jon felt a massive, overwhelming impression of, No.

But not the sort of 'no' that implied true aggression - just snappishness, impatience.

Jon knew the dragon would be protective of his kill, but he also knew how to manage that: he asked again, more cautiously now, half-begging, half-imploring. Respect was the key. Jon had learned he needed to be constantly heedful of Sonagon's pride when reaching out to him, especially when the dragon's blood was running hot.

Sonagon was so unlike Ghost in that respect. Jon could ask Ghost to do almost anything he could put his mind to, while the dragon had far more pride. It had to be convinced into sharing its kill.

I'll lead you to more kills soon. I promise. Sonagon paused for longer this time. Soon.

Then the dragon roared like thunder and swam away. Jon exhaled in relief.

Sonagon swam away still clutching his frozen whale's tail, dragging it away in his jaws. The rest of the carcass was left floating on the waves, a bloody carcass half-sealed in an even bloodier iceberg, mists billowing forth from the supercooled ice - far colder than even the semi-frozen sea.

Alvin was laughing. "Easiest whale hunt I've ever got done, boys!" He exclaimed happily. "Let's get out the harpoons and drag her in, we'll be back at Hardhome before nightfall with a feast!"

Jon was laughing too as they gingerly approached the carcass. That was the hardest part right there, trying to harpoon a mostly-frozen corpse, then attaching and tying their ropes firmly around the carcass despite the wind, waves and ice. One of the men even went so far as to dive into the water to get a rope wrapped all the way around the whale, and despite the purpose-built, tightly stitched and oiled fullbody sealskins the diver was wearing, Jon had no idea at all how the man could survive such cold.

Jon himself tried twice to harpoon the carcass from the prow; missing both times, but the men were all in good cheer about it. They even gave him bawdy tips for improvement, getting bawdier each time in a game of one-upmanship until it started involving sleeping with multiple wives the night before a hunt for good luck, the more wives the better, at which point Alvin ordered them to all focus on their work again.

It took careful sailing as they tacked around to head back. That proved difficult, like trying to drag a hundred ton iceberg behind them in a fairly small boat, but Alvin was clearly experienced. From the size of the corpse, Jon had been skeptical it would even be possible, but Alvin had laughed and said that he had dragged in much bigger kills than this.

The sun was only just about to set as they were heading back. "Let's get back quickly!" Jon shouted. "We're expecting raids tonight - I want us back before dark!"

"Aye aye!" Alvin replied, still laughing. Jon couldn't help but laugh as well.

The only man that wasn't in good spirits was Byrn. The skinchanger was still draped half over the edge, clearly away somewhere else in his seal's skin. Then, Byrn's body jerked as he returned to the boat with a loud gasp. "We've got a problem!" Byrn shouted.

"What?" Alvin said, his voice sharp, glaring at the skinchanger.

"Around the coast!" Byrn shouted. "Ships from the south, coming this way! Big ships, lots of them!"

All cheer evaporated in a second. Alvin instantly fumbled for a spyglass; a carved, hollowed auroch's horn with a dark amber stone inside, wrapped protectively in Alvin's furs. The man cursed after staring for a moment, handing the spyglass to Jon. He seemed baffled.

"Snow, what the shit am I looking at?"

It took a while for Jon to see anything across the dark water and the distorted view of the crude spyglass. Then, he slowly made out outlines in the water. The shape of sails. Banners, flying in the wind.

Ships, Jon thought, his heart racing. He counted over a dozen. Big ones. Cogs, skiffs. Is that - they even have a war dromond? A fleet. The Night's Watch? No, there are too many, and they're too big. Eastwatch doesn't even come close to having such a fleet.

"Cut the harpoons," Jon ordered, still focusing his spyglass on the ships.

Alvin looked aghast. "What?"

"Cut the harpoons, forget about the whale!" Jon shouted. "We've got to get back to Hardhome right now!"

Those are war galleys, Jon thought. Is that a banner of… flames, on the dromond? A lot of them look like the sort you'd find in the Free Cities. And that flagship, what is it? What is that banner?

Jon exhaled, not even bothering to search out more details. It was too dark, the conditions too rough. And he knew what he needed to know. A fleet of ships. Heading to Hardhome, right now.

"What's happening, Snow?" Alvin cried out.

"We're under attack," Jon said lowly, putting down the spyglass.