Chapter 11

Jon

"You ever seen a mammoth fuck before, Snow?" The man asked with a toothy grin, as they walked.

Jon blinked, stopping to stare. The snow was light underfoot, but the muddy terrain still made movement slow. "What?"

"A mammoth. Ever seen mammoths in heat?" The wildling asked, as others around them snickered dryly. Furs was a short, stocky man clad in a cloak of mottled fox fur, with rugged whiskers, narrow-set eyes and two missing front teeth. "You ever watched two mammoths rutt?"

Jon wasn't quite sure how to reply, or if the man was mocking him. "Amazing thing, really," Furs continued. "Bull mammoths get really feisty certain times of the year. My mum always used to say - when the mountains are a-rocking, don't go mammoth knocking." The wildlings next to him snorted. "I never understood how it worked, really."

"Your mum never told you that one, eh Furs?" Another snorted. Two-Notch Haldur, Jon recalled.

"Fuck off. I just mean, well, mammoths got those tiny little legs and great bodies," Furs continued. "And great tusks too. Those are bound to get in the way. So when the bull has to mount the cow, well… how does it even reach? How does it work?"

The men sniggered. Furs looked at Jon as if expecting an answer. He never replied. "The reason I ask, is well, mammoths I can kinda picture," Furs continued, with exaggerated hand motions. "But I was just looking at that dragon of yours, and well… how does that one work?"

In the distance Sonagon snorted, blowing cool mist as the dragon waded through the river. The look on Furs face made Jon's mouth drop. The large man next to him – Hatch – was on his knees in boisterous laughter. Furs seemed genuinely curious. Furs was vicious looking man carrying a sharpened stone battle axe, with a look of confusion on his face.

"I'm serious," Furs protested, motioning at the dragon. "I mean, you've got the tail, the wings, the bloody spikes on its back… ! How does he even… you know…" He demonstrated with a series of rough actions. The wildlings howled. "So when that monster of yours meets a she-monster – there must be she-dragons, right? – What, does one have to lie on its back or something? They've got wings – do they fuck in the air you think? Maybe flying upside down or what?"

"Oh hells, now wouldn't that one be a sight!" Another roared, banging a hide shield.

Furs paused. "Wait, is your dragon a him-dragon or a she-dragon?" Furs had a perplexed look on his face. "I never thought to check."

Jon recovered his tongue. "Umm, him-dragon," he said, still staring dumb. Jon had come to refer to Sonagon as a male, but in truth Jon wasn't sure. The genders always seemed so… alien as far Sonagon was concerned.

"Really?" Furs muttered, suspiciously. "I ain't seen no cock…"

Furs had the look of a man on a quest as he walked away. "Furs, everyone!" Hatch guffawed - a great bulk of a man clutching a bone spear. "The seeker of dragon cocks!"

Hatch the Halfgiant and Two-Notch Haldur howled. Jon pushed himself to learn the names. The Weeper's warband were all hardened fighters and raiders. He had been with them for less than two days, but he took care to try and memorise every name he heard. Someday, knowing their names might save my life.

The first night, two men tried to kill Jon. They weren't even subtle about it. Two raiders from the northern ice rivers - men with painted purple skin, bone piercings and sharpened teeth - tried to gut him open right in the middle of the camp. Jon still had no idea why they attacked him, because neither of them spoke the Common. Every other wildling just watched quietly as those men attacked him by the campfire.

After that, Jon took care to keep Ghost close, and Jon forced himself to memorise as many names as possible. He figured it would be harder for men to kill you if you knew their names.

There was Hatch the Hatchgiant, Rolf, Bone Erik, Sten, Haldur Halfwit, Rags, Mharka, Lewie, Stump, Crab Mors, Two-Notch Haldur, Furs, Left-Handed Yoldo, Shieldface, and Ulf Three Blades to name only a few. Some names were so queer that Jon wasn't sure he heard them right, and others he couldn't even pronounce. Hatch the Halfgiant was a man so great he could rival any son of Umber, while Rags walked so quiet with a bone dagger that Jon could never even hear him. Left-Handed Yoldo had only one arm (his right) but was still said to be vicious with a throwing axe, and Rolf had walked the length and width of the Haunted Forest a thousand times, while Two-Notch Haldur was a terrible marksman with a bow, yet Haldur could still notch and fire arrows faster and more continuously than any Jon had ever seen. They made a rough company, but the Weeper had plenty of seasoned and experienced warriors in his band.

They were making good time. The wildling warband spread out across the river valley, pushing along the trails running along either side of the Antler. Five hundred men and women. Running down the river, the nine barges floated in the current – laden with supplies and tents, animal hides as well as lumber, hemp rope and salted meat, berries and winter fruits.

The sails on the barges had yet to be built, so instead they let the current take them. The free folk shuffled along the wooden rafts with great poles to push them down the rocky stream. The Antlers was a wide river - not as deep as the Mander or as fast as the Trident, but long and winding as it snaked through the forest, and filled with river trout moving downstream. Chunks of ice still floated downstream from the mountains, and in the shallows the free folk would wallow in the freezing river, dragging fishing nets or pulling their barges on foot.

The wildlings had used the Antler for centuries. Apparently there were - or at least used to be - at least two dozen wildling clans across the same two mile stretch of river. The river clans had spent decades warring amongst themselves for the same short stretches of river.

Even despite the thick willow trees and rocky groves, the wildlings made good time. The men walking along the riverbank would wait for the barges to catch up the stream. The river was so cold that Jon didn't know how they could stand it, but he still saw wildlings easily jump into the water to swim to and from the rafts, or across the width of the water.

They had no horses or mounts and few livestock. They wildlings relied on the huge barges to carry the bulk of their supplies. A few floated on the rafts, while the rest of the number – men, women, couple of children - trekked alongside in the forests.

Even when they were floating, the wildlings were still constructing their 'ships', Jon saw. The barges were crude chunks of wood, but even on the move men were tying hemp ropes or hacking on pine trees. The barges had no sails – those would have to be built before they reached the sea.

It was such a crude form of shipbuilding Jon half-expected it would cause a southern shipwright to squirm. Yet apparently the wildlings have been building boats this way for centuries, Jon thought to himself, they've even become experienced at it.

Still, no one was concerned about the barges. Not when Sonagon splashed in the water, causing great waves against the riverbanks with every swing of its tail.

Jon was a bit surprised to find the dragon quite enjoyed the river. In places, it was wide enough for the dragon to stretch out its wings, basking in the current. The dragon would waddle in the centre of the stream behind the free folk barges, occasionally snapping playfully at fish. The water was rarely deep enough for the dragon to swim, but he would splash and waddle down the centre of the river, enjoying the space away from the trees.

One night, when Sonagon wanted to rest, the dragon simply took a deep breath and exhumed a gust of cold dragonfire - freezing the water beneath him solid to create a nest of ice to curl up on. That had caused quite a stir; the ice plumed outwards so quickly that it nearly dammed the Antler, causing the water to flood outwards over the banks where the free folk were marching. Then, one of their barges had ended up caught in the fringes of the ice, and had to be hacked out with ice picks.

The Weeper had been furious. He hadn't appreciated the delay, and the ice continuously caused no end of trouble in bringing the barges downstream.

By the third day, they reached a joint where the Antlers pulled in one of its branches, and the river ran thicker and faster with more currents and gushing rapids across the stream. The barges needed ropes to the men on the riverbank to hold them steady to stop the rafts rushing off, while Sonagon seemed to enjoy either lazing on the riverbank or splashing in the rapids.

Jon might have been happy for the dragon, if not for the attitude in the warband. For every man that stared at the dragon with awe, there were another three staring with fear, suspicious or anger.

A few wildlings, like Furs, seemed happy to approach Jon, but most others glared at him from the distance.

Jon had seen the Weeper mutter quietly to his men in huddles, and Jon couldn't help but notice how the Weeper kept men with long sharp spears positioned around Sonagon at all times.

They don't trust me, he thought. I don't trust them. They wouldn't survive to Hardhome at this rate.

On the fourth day, hunters caught a boar in the forest - a great fat one. They set up camp for the night while the men skinned, cut, smoked the game with ruthless efficiency. The prime meat was salted and left aside, while the hide was stripped, the tusks and bones claimed for carving, and absolutely nothing was set aside. The wildlings served smoked boar brain and eyeballs that night. Jon swallowed his hesitation and ate the meal, staring at the men hunched over the smokeless campfire. Even at night, the wildlings were never still. Some were trekking forward, while the ones camping now would catch up the next day.

"We'll be meeting up with Marthe of Antlers the next day, at this rate," an aging one-eyed wildling next to him commented. Rolf, Jon recalled. He forced himself to try and learn the names. "That cunt."

"Marthe of the Antlers?"

"The river lord, as he likes to call himself," Rolf explained. "Fucking bastard. Him and his clan claimed Stag's Peak for years now. He's got himself a keep and everything."

"Will he be a problem?"

Rolf just grunted. "As if," another wildling - Erik - retorted from Jon's other side. "Marthe's got thirty or so with him, and maybe half a dozen boats. The biggest clan around here, sure, but not enough to stop us. The Weeper will see him off and take his boats, I expect."

"Probably take his daughters, too," Rolf laughed. "I recall Marthe had a couple of pretty ones."

Jon never replied. It was the first he had heard about meeting a rival river clan, but from the looks of things a warband had already been assembled against Marthe. The Weeper is intentionally keeping me in the dark about the journey.

Suddenly, the sound of angry shouts and yells filled the camp, coming from the river. The wildlings were on their feet in a second. Every man and women kept a weapon by their hand at all times.

"No!" A man roared from the riverbank, shaking a stone maul. "Get back! Get away!"

There was the sound of a low growl. Jon's eyes widened as he saw Sonagon looming out of the water, his snout sniffing at one of the barges.

"Fuck off!" A wildling snapped. "That's our bloody meat!"

Dammit. The supply barges. They loaded up the carcass of the boar, along with the other salted fish and game they kept in the barges. Sonagon must have noticed. Jon tried to stop the dragon, but Sonagon was hungry and in no mood to listen. The dragon never did learn the definition of 'other people's property'.

A few men tried to fight Sonagon off, but then the dragon lunged and they all had to leap away into the river. In an instant, Sonagon's claws were tearing the barge off the water, and his great teeth were gnashing through the meat stored within. There was a snap of wood as the barge tore into chunks under enormous teeth.

Men were screaming. He saw torches and spears and arrows. Fuck.

About two weeks worth of rations, as well as a whole barge, gone in a moment.

Jon tried to run, but he couldn't reach the riverbank in time. He saw a wildling throw a spear through the cold air. Sonagon snarled as the barbed tip caught his snort.

"No!" Jon shouted, but he could barely shout loud enough over din. "Don't…!"

More people were throwing spears, even a few arrows, trying to drive the dragon away from the broken barge. Sonagon snapped - the dragon really didn't like spears or arrows. Jon saw the dragon's head pull backwards, and great gushes of cold mist rise from his throat…

"Don't!" Jon shouted, dragging the first man back, jumping into the shallows of the water and raising his arms protectively in front of the wildlings. "Dont!"

Sonagon looked about two seconds away from demolishing the riverbank in dragonfire. Only the presence of Jon caused the dragon to pause. Jon tried to ease the dragon down, but Sonagon felt too angry to listen.

A few of the wildlings behind him tried to run. "Don't move!" Jon shouted, his voice raw. Don't do it Sonagon, please don't. "Stick close to me, or the dragon will kill you!"

And he might kill us all anyways, Jon thought in panic. The mist didn't stop streaming from the dragon's throat, causing the night air to crackle.

"The dragon ate our meat!" A man roared, still clutching a spear, as if ready to throw.

"And now he's about to eat you!" Jon bellowed, striking the man down with a sharp fist. Strong arms grabbed at him. "Are you ready to die over a boar?"

The whole camp was in turmoil, but Jon had eyes only for Sonagon. The dragon was prickly. Sonagon didn't understand mercy, or restraint. Hurt a dragon and you die. The image of the riverbank frozen in icy spikes flashed before his mind. Please Sonagon, Jon begged, don't do it.

After a long pause, Sonagon snarled, lowered his head and splashed away to the water. Jon could have sighed in relief, but then the wildling was up again, on his feet, and slamming the butt of his spear into Jon's stomach.

The brawl lasted a few minutes, splashing in the cold water in the dark. It was so chaotic he couldn't even tell who he was fighting, or how many. By the time it was finally broken up, Jon had a few more bruises.

The Weeper was furious. Nobody died, but a man broke his leg against the rocks jumping into the water. The loss of a good chunk of their supplies meant that the host would be even more hurt for food.

"You said you'd keep that dragon under control!" The Weeper spat, dragging Jon against a tree trunk. His breath was foul. "You said you'd control it!"

"I can't stop him from being hungry!" Jon said with groan, struggling to move.

"And I can barely feed my own men!" The Weeper roared, his sharp fingers digging into Jon's shoulder like knives. "I got a lot of hungry mouths, and a hundred leagues to go! And your dragon eats more than the lot of them!"

Jon groaned, gasping for breath. He grit his teeth, trying to throw the man off. "I can't control Sonagon when he's hungry…" Jon growled. "And we're not feeding Sonagon enough."

Sonagon hadn't been fed enough for a long time, Jon thought with a grimace. The dragon had a lot of mass to feed, and could be very gluttonous at times. The Weeper's eyes were mad and wide. "And what do you suggest?" He growled. "You expect me to let good men starve to feed that thing? Hells, why not feed people to it direct?"

The Weeper glared, spat, and then stormed, his men casting foul stares at Jon. He was left clutching his bruises. Jon froze, and then cursed. He felt like hitting something.

What did I expect in the north? Food is scarce enough as it is, without expecting them to feed a dragon too.

The next morning, everyone kept their distance from the dragon. There were far fouler stares. The Weeper apparently sent out three times the number of hunting parties, and he gave the order that half needed to go to the dragon. Jon still wasn't sure if it would be enough to keep Sonagon placated.

Still, the Weeper also confiscated bronze and iron weapons from two dozen men in the night. There were raiders with hammers crudely smithing metal over campfires. They are crafting long metal spears or bolts, Jon realised. Weapons that may be sharp and long enough to pierce a dragon's scales and cause some damage. They are starting to think about what might happen if they need to go dragon-hunting.

It was a grim day. They set up camp early and made little progress as they waited for the hunting parties.

After dusk, the night turned frighteningly cold. They kept the camp fires and torches burning continuously, but four watchers on the edges of the camp died when their campfires froze over. Other scouts reported movement in the night. Dark shapes and rustling bodies, the smell of death and cold.

They're testing us. The Weeper was careful and kept a tight perimeter, but the Others wielded cold like a weapon. Maybe the white walkers didn't have the forces for an assault, but they still surrounded the camp at night, like a fog of deadly cold. The fires kept them at bay, but Jon knew the Others were out there. How long before they launch a full-scale assault?

Jon spent the night in Phantom's skin, stalking across the night. Jon could taste the fear, tension and distrust simmering in the camp. That sort of fear had a way of boiling over.

Towards the centre, a brawl broke out in the camp – some dispute or old grudge from the Hornfoots against the Lake Clans – and it ended up sucking half the camp into the chaos. Phantom heard the shouting. The brawl only ended when the Weeper stepped in personally.

The Weeper had little patience. The Weeper executed the man who threw the first punch by cutting off both arms with his scythe. That man lasted half an hour, screaming in the centre of the camp, before he finally bled out. Then, the Weeper picked up a severed limb and beat the second man half to death it. The Weeper was gnashing his teeth as he stormed away. The camp turned very quiet after that.

Jon could only watch in quiet horror. There were no more brawls.

Later that night, towards morning, the Weeper's men – discreetly – gathered the corpses and floated the dead bodies of all the men who had died down the river, for Sonagon to swallow. When Jon stared at him, the Weeper only grunted and said it was easier than burning corpses.

Five hundred wildlings, Jon thought. Five hundred raiders each with their own grudges and hatreds. The far north had been at war for so long.

"Furs," Jon called as they stopped the next day. His leg felt stiff. "How many clans are left in the north? How many warbands, how many villages?"

The wildling shrugged. "Buggered if I know."

"Well what happened after Mance's collapse?" Jon pressed. "How many survived?"

"They said there were a hundred thousand with Mance," Furs mused. "Personally, I don't know who counted them. I reckon at least a third ended up dead on those mountains."

"A third?" Another grunted - a man with a long shaggy white beard. Jon suspected his name was Ulf or Wulf or something. "Try half, I'd say. Place was a slaughter."

Fifty thousand dead in single night, Jon thought. That number was mind-boggling.

"Not so many," an old spearwife argued. Her name is Mo, Jon remembered. "Lots of corpses, but the camp was large enough that the vast majority could get away. Maybe ten thousand died - the rest scattered either west or east. I reckon most survived."

"Ten thousand the first night, possibly," the other said grimly. "But how many died in the snow and cold in the weeks afterwards?"

Jon tried to remember that night. The fear and the panic. Eventually, there were just so many bodies you couldn't keep count. How many wildlings had been in the north anyway? He wondered. He had thought that Mance's host was huge, but it suddenly occurred to him that that might have been nearly the entire population of the far north. Every single man and woman. How many still remained?

It set a foul mood over the group. As they started moving again, Furs mentioned to Jon, "It ain't so grim," he said with a grunt. "The Frozen Shore always had a good number of tribes, and not even Mance could rally the ice lakes to him. They'll be clans in the mountains buried so deep not even the Others could touch them. The gorge clans will be the last to fall, too. I hear some Thenns still hold out in the north, and who knows how many men could be even further north than that?"

Jon looked at him. Furs just shrugged. "You wondering how many the Others haven't killed, aren't you?"

That and how many they were still yet to kill. "Where are you from, Furs?" Jon asked after a pause. It was weird to think of 'Beyond-the-Wall' as a single place, when in fact it must be as big as the north itself.

"Old Mother's Crock," he replied, and then noticed Jon's confusion. "Up by the north-eastern shores. Bunch of rocks in the coast, call them the Old Mother. Good fishing. Five bigs rocks, five different clans on each one. Did you know that my father spent fifty years fighting for that rock? The folk from Old Mother's Bale used to come down demanding our salmon. My family fought those buggers for fifty years - they lived barely a hundred yards away."

Jon blinked. "…I see."

"Meh, you put a hundred free folk in the room, and they'll be a hundred different wars in a week. Maybe that's why most don't keep to the same place, you know," Furs continued. He motioned up towards Hatch, walking in front. "You see Hatch over there? I don't think he ever lived longer than a couple of weeks in one place. Most are constantly moving – you get clans that trek halfway around the north following the elk each year. And don't even get me started on the riverfolk; when the trout come, you get a village of three hundred pop up overnight. That village will be gone in two weeks."

"There were villages around the Wall, in the Haunted Forest," Jon said slowly. To call them villages was an overstatement, admittedly. More like hamlets of a few old shacks in the forest.

"Oh, aye some do," Furs agreed. "You also get some clans that lock down so tight - I know folks that I doubt will ever leave a hundred yards from where they were born. But most keep moving all their lives. What's the word? Migratory. We roam like the giants."

Jon never replied. "You ever seen giants roam, Snow? The giants tribes used to herd their mammoths across the whole world. They would go as far as north goes, to hear the tales. No one ever knew how far they went because none could follow them. My grandfather used to tell me about giants and mammoth herds so big that the ground would rumble with their footsteps." There was a soft sigh. "Doubt we'll ever see the like again. Giants don't roam no more."

Jon stayed quiet. He thought back to that moment, so long ago, in the camp next to Ygritte. I am the last of the giants, they had sung at night. You know nothing, Jon Snow.

He thought about thirty thousand, or fifty thousand, or however many wildlings dead in the mountains. He tried to imagine corpses that thick in the snow. More people than I have ever met, more names than I could memorise in a lifetime. It was a scary thought.

The free folk had no government, no organisation. The south had a chance again the Others, but the wildlings had practically none. It would take strong castles and walls to defend against the Others. Fortifications and organised military. The only thing that the free folk had was Mance, and even he failed.

I might be watching the extinction of every single man, woman, and child north of the Wall, Jon thought. That was a mountain of corpses. That's scary.

In the evening, Jon watched the Weeper gather fifty men to scout ahead, to go raid Marthe of the Antlers and steal his boats. It was probably deserved as well; to hear the tales, Marthe had a nasty reputation. Besides, the Weeper did need Marthe's ships. The raiders were almost eager for the battle, for the chance of plunder.

Tens of thousands have died already, Jon thought after a long pause. I can't let anymore die.

He made the decision in a moment. Jon waddled down to Sonagon by the bank, reaching out to the dragon gently. He clambered up onto Sonagon's horn, shivering slightly from the cold water. The Weeper has to cross the bend in the Antlers to reach Marthe, Jon thought, but Sonagon can just go through the river itself.

The water crashed as Sonagon lumbered upwards, rearing to his stubby legs as his forearms reached out. The river splashed with every flick of its tail, but the dragon powered through the river with ease. Jon heard shouts from the riverbank, but Sonagon was already moving, leaving the camp behind.

In an instant, they were charging ahead. They made good time. Jon heard the shouts before he saw the small isle carved into a joint in the river. Stag's Peak 'Keep' was barely a keep at all – Jon would have called it more a cottage of thatch and pine, with river fishing sloops moored onto the muddy bank, skins covering the walls and great firepits dug into the ground. And at the sight of Sonagon lumbering down the river, Jon heard panic.

An arrow whizzed past his head and bounced into Sonagon's shoulder. The dragon roared.

He saw men running around Stag's Peak. River raiders clutching long harpoons and nets, or willow shortbows and barbed arrows. Jon saw a man who must be Marthe himself – a tall, skinny man wearing the great skull of a stag as a helm, elk furs over his shoulders, standing barefoot in the mud. Jon never even gave them a chance.

Sonagon would have killed them all in frozen fire, but, thankfully, Jon convinced the dragon otherwise. Sonagon's tail whipped around, striking like thunder. The thatch roof of the keep crashed open, sending splinters flying. Men crashed to the ground. Jon heard a babe wailing.

Don't give them a chance to protest. Take advantage of the confusion. In an instant, Jon dropped off the dragon's head onto the muddy beach, Dark Sister in his hand. One wildling tried to stop him, but Jon knocked the man to the ground and swept by.

The fight was as sudden as it was decisive. Half a dozen men against one, but Jon was powering through in a furious arc. Valyrian steel slashed through wooden spears. Two men crashed to the ground, and then Jon saw the stag's skull helm in front of him.

Marthe of the Antlers was staggering to his feet when Jon grabbed onto him and pressed Dark Sister into the man's throat. Marthe garbled something sounding almost gibberish.

"There are raiders coming to take everything you own," Jon said, keeping his voice hard. He dragged Marthe down, holding his blade to his skull. An antler cracked. Other raiders were holding weapons, surrounding him, but Jon held their leader hostage and gave no quarter. "You are going to surrender your ships peacefully, along with half of your rations. In return, I will let you walk away with your lives."

Behind him Sonagon roared anxiously. Don't eat them, Jon pushed. Not yet.

"You surrender now!" Jon shouted. "The raiders will not give you this chance."

The wildlings stared at him with the fear of god in their eyes. Marthe looked at him almost babbling in terror. Jon counted twenty-six wildlings; twelve raiders, seven spearwives, two old wives, four children and one babe.

If the Weeper had attacked, the river clan would have tried to fight back and gotten killed in useless defiance. They didn't fight back against the dragon.

Jon met the Weeper's men clambering into Stag's Peak half an hour later. Jon met the man with Dark Sister in his hand. "They surrender," Jon said. "They'll give you safe passage through the river."

The Weeper's eyes looked furious. "Bugger that, you think I'll trust a stinking river scum? Marthe's a slimehole, Snow. These fuckers die."

You're not one to judge. "I said, they surrender. Take their boats, not their lives."

"So they can ambush us again when our backs are turned?" The Weeper snarled. "I know how these river scum work. I'll give them the same mercy they'd give me."

Jon raised his sword, pointing Dark Sister at the man. The Weeper glared, clutching his scythe as he stomped forward. "… Oh Snow…" He hissed. "If you raise your sword against me you'd better be damn sure you know how to use it."

I could take the Weeper. Jon was a better fighter now than he had ever been. Months in the wilderness had left him strong and lean, and he had fought more life and deaths battles in the last weeks than he had all his life. Jon's leg was still weaker, but he had learned how to compensate for it in a fight. I could beat the Weeper. Probably.

But do I want to take that chance?

"They surrender," Jon said. "And you don't have to trust them, because Marthe's coming with us. He's joining the warband."

Nostrils flared. "You let stinking Marthe into my warband!"

"Aye. Marthe wants to see Hardhome too." The man was terrified to be on the wrong side of the dragon. Jon promised him protection if he joined, and vaguely implied that he'd demolish Stag's Peak Keep if he didn't. "You need men and boats; Marthe's got boats, and men who know how to use them. They're coming with us."

The look on the Weeper's face was somewhere between fury and horror. The man's scythe twitched. Jon stepped forward, so close he could whisper. "Pick your battles, Weeper," Jon muttered, meeting the man's eyes. "He's coming with us."

The Weeper growled. "You think you know Marthe, Snow?" He lowered his voice. "You don't know a goddamn thing. You want to know how Marthe got Stag's Peak? He never built it, he took it. Previous men who used to live here was a family of fishermen."

The Weeper almost whispered in Jon's ear, snarling. "Years ago, see, Marthe was a huntsman. He came along these parts, and traded a stag's corpse in return for shelter for night, and passage across the river. Marthe feasted in those fisherman's home, shared their hearth." His voice was venomous. "… Except that stag that he sold was diseased, boy. Marthe was a huntsman – he knew it. The fisherfolk did not. He sold it anyway. Have you ever seen what greyscale does to a man?"

Jon never said a word. He stared across the isle, looking at the tall man with the stag's head crown. "… A week later, when the disease really started to kick in, old Marthe came back," the Weeper whispered. "The men were half-dead when he cut their throats. The women… well… they weren't dead enough for what Marthe did them."

The Weeper's voice turned into a growl. "Now why don't you have a real good look at the type of man you're protecting here, boy?"

Jon paused for a long moment, staring at the hatred in the Weeper's eyes. Guest right. Some things were sacred even to the free folk.

"… Doesn't matter," Jon said after a while, and hating himself slightly for it. "We need more living men, not more corpses."

"And you really think I would suffer scum like that still breathing?"

I suffer you, Jon almost said. "He lives," Jon said. "He comes with us. If he tries anything I cut his throat; but if you try anything now I cut yours."

The Weeper snarled, with a feral grunt, before lowering his scythe and shoving past Jon. "… Next time you raise your sword to me, boy, you better be damn well prepared to bleed for it."

His voice was angry. The other raiders looked uncertain. "Get these bloody boats already!" The Weeper snapped. "Move! If Marthe even looks at me, I take his bloody eyes!"

Jon took a deep breath, sheathing his blade. He turn back to stare at Stag's Peak Keep. I risked my life for half a dozen rafts, a pantry of dried fish, and two dozen wildlings.

They started moving later that day. They were about three days march from the mouth of the Antlers, but they said that it would get faster once they left the forest and onto the coast.

They feasted at Stag's Peak that night, crammed around the firepits. Jon kept well away from the Weeper, trying to ignore the way the men from Marthe's clan stared at him. The gurgle of the rapids of the Antler was a drone in the background.

"How many river clans are still around here?" Jon asked, keeping his voice low as he thought.

Rolf shrugged, looking at him suspiciously with his single grizzled eye. "A dozen, maybe, that haven't ran yet? Marthe was the biggest of them, but you get clans of ten folk each."

"So a hundred men? Maybe more?" Jon pressed, thinking intently. Probably more.

"What you thinking Snow?"

I'm thinking that there are free folk who are going to die if they stay, but too stubborn to run. "I'm thinking that we could get more men to us if we try to rally the clans," Jon said. "Has the Weeper thought about recruiting them?"

Rolf snorted. "Snow, the Weeper doesn't want more men," he scoffed, crunching on an old bone with grizzled teeth. "Especially not those scum."

Furs sat across the fire, sharpening a bone dagger. "You heard about Val, Snow? Mance's… what do you call it…? Sister to Mance's woman? Goodsister?" Jon shook his head. "After the host broke, that Val tried to regather it. I hear she even got quite a number to her. Maybe ten thousand or more. You want to know what they're doing now? They're starving."

"More men ain't an advantage. Only fools think that," Rolf agreed. "The more men you have, the more injuries, the more weak, the more cripples, the more delays - the slower you go and the faster you starve. That's why Mance failed – he had too many men, the host was so big it couldn't fight properly when they got hit." He shook his head. "The Weeper don't want no more, even five hundred is bigger than he normally takes."

Jon grimaced. The Weeper had been so angry when Jon offered Marthe's clan a place in the warband. "So instead the Weeper will just leave behind any who can't keep up?"

"Leave behind? Hell, the Weeper will cut the legs off any who can't keep up." Furs nodded Jon's expression. "Oh aye, I know. None of us like the Weeper either. Doesn't matter – the Weeping Man doesn't care. He don't ask to be liked. At the end of the day, we're with the Weeper because the Weeper gets results."

"I used to march with Tormund, myself," said Rolf. Tormund and the Weeper had been at war for decades, Jon remembered. Their rivalry was almost as bad as Harma and Rattleshirt. "I'd still say that Tormund was the better leader, personally. Still, the crows took Tormund and the Weeper is the second best."

That is it came down to, at the end of the day: the free folk will follow those they believe can save them.

Jon's hands clenched at the thought, tracing this misshapen stump of his little finger on hand. The Weeper is wrong. He'd leave people behind to face the white walkers, and that's wrong. The Weeper would keep his warband alive, rescue the strong warriors only, and leave the rest to die. It just felt wrong.

Jon looked at the firepit thoughtfully. The smoke seemed to twist and turn in the air, reminding him of how the Antlers traced through the forest. Later, Jon stood up without another word.

He found Marthe of the Antlers quickly. The river raider stood at that back of his keep, staring at Sonagon in the water. His eyes widened as he saw Jon approach. "Marthe. You know every clan around these parts, don't you?" The man looked too speechless to do anything but nod dumbly.

"Good, gather your men, we're taking some of your boats. Quietly." Jon ordered. They were the Weeper's boats now and Jon doubted the Weeper would be keen to part with them. "We're going to rally the other clans. However many there are, they need to come with us."

I'm not leaving any behind. Marthe just hesitated, but Jon didn't feel like giving him a choice. "And take that blood stag off your head!" Jon snapped. "You don't deserve a crown."

He gathered as many free folk who might come with him. It was lucky the camp was busy and distracted as he moved. Jon gathered Furs, Hatch, Haldur, Rolf, Mo, Lewie and a dozen others and made the proposal in the middle of the night.

"I'm going to go on ahead," Jon said. "Quickly. We're going to go rally the river clans, bring more men to us. The Weeper would leave them all behind or kill them if they try to slow us down, but I won't do that."

"You want us to go against the Weeper?" A man said incredulously.

"It's the Weeper or the dragon. Which one would you rather have with you?"

Furs and Hatch agreed in an instant. Rolf and many others spat in his face. They left the camp very quickly that night – Jon, around fifty men, Ghost and Sonagon – before anyone really had time to stop them.

By morning, they were already on their way in the detour. Jon split the group up – sending Furs south and Hatch the Halfgiant north with a dozen men, while Marthe took his boats down the river. Jon rode Sonagon, crashing through the forest early dawn with a groundbreaking roar.

All of the wildlings would spread the word. I want everyone to know. Come west to Hardhome with me if you want to live. If you want the dragon to protect you.

Jon visited half a dozen river clans that day alone, touring Sonagon down the valley. He saw tiny villages of old men and women or green boys. He saw river reavers so savage they never even spoke the Common. Every single one, no matter how tough or savage, reacted the same way in front of Sonagon; fear, shock, even awe.

The wildlings spread out. The message spread like wildfire; come to Hardhome with the host. Nobody gets left behind.

On the first day, it was maybe thirty or so. The second, it was seventy. Then more men they met the faster the word spread.

The Weeper would be beyond furious. Jon stole his men and ran off by himself, but Jon didn't care. The free folk needed a dragon more than they needed another raider.

It was exhilarating. That look on their faces as they gazed upon the dragon… It sent shivers down his spine. Jon barely even needed to say anything, not when Sonagon's roar did all the work.

Marthe sent his boats ahead down the river, to meet up with the wildling raiders on the coast. Jon tried to learn the names of the wildling leaders; men with names like Alvin Whaletooth, Gavin the Trader, Morna Whitemask, Bullden Horn, Gerrick Kingsblood.

By the fourth night, they had two hundred people to them. After talking to a dozen men, Jon expected he could have over five hundred in week. They might well have over a thousand by the time they reached Hardhome.

There are a lot of elderly, starved and frail, Jon admitted. Men and women that refused Mance's call as he gathered his host, instead clinging to their own little territories around the river. The Weeper's force had been seasoned warriors, but this force was frail, old and weak.

"You sure about this one, Snow?" Hatch asked him one night. "We march with this lot, a lot of people are going to end up dying on the way."

Jon had to grimace, but agree. "Yet they'll die anyways if they don't run. They need to move."

"And you're going to lead them all west to Hardhome, and then south to the Wall?"

"Somebody has to."

In the distance, Sonagon splashed with his tail into the water, and then used his breath to freeze the water into a twisted ice shape. There were gasps and screams from the ground.

"They look at that thing like he's some sort of god, you know that?" Furs commented.

Hatch just stared at him. "Are you sure it's not?"

The Weeper caught up with them by the end of the fourth day. Jon hadn't been sure if the man would keep on going without them, but apparently he turned back to search for Jon. Jon saw watery eyes so wide they looked mad, flanked by a dozen men stamping out of the forest. By Jon's side, Ghost growled.

"Snow!" The Weeper snarled. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Making my own warband," Jon replied, folding his arms.

"Your warband?" The Weeper scoffed, staring around the shambles of a camp. "You call this a warband? I call it fodder."

"I'm not leaving any behind. We can escort them to Hardhome with us."

"So I bloody hear," he snarled. "… Snow, if you really want to help these… people, then get to the Wall, and open the gates as quickly as possible."

Jon shook his head. "The Others are on our tail, and everyone we leave behind is another corpse for their army. We clear the river, spread the word – we assemble another host."

"And leave us open targets? Leave us to starve in the meantime?" He stepped forward. "Snow, we could get to Hardhome in a week – if you stop to pick up every bloody stray on the way there, how the long is that fucking going to take?"

"However long it needs to take." He kept his voice hard. His fingers stayed close to Dark Sister, staring at the Weeper's eyes. "I am not leaving them."

The Weeper turned to stare at the men next to him. Furs and Hatch shifted uncomfortably. "And you're going along with this?" The Weeper spat. "Snow is green. He doesn't know these folk, he doesn't know how slow they will move or the disease they will spread. I thought you raiders would have more sense."

Hatch squirmed. Furs just nodded. "My vote's on the dragon, mate."

The raider's face twisted, growling at Jon. "You're a bloody fool, Snow."

"And you're a savage."

"You say that as if it's a bad thing," the man scoffed, clutching his scythe. "… How many do you have already? Three hundred?"

Two, though more are coming constantly. Jon just nodded. "I don't think your dragon is going to be able to protect them. Not all of them, not from all sides," said the Weeper. "I think you need me and my warband."

"I think we both need each other," said Jon. Unfortunately.

"Now that's what I'm wondering about. How useful are you really?" He snarled. "Why the fuck shouldn't I just kill you and be on my way?"

The Weeper had both hands on his scythe, the wicked long blade twitching.

Draw my sword, he thought quietly, fingers twitching. One quick swing. Take the Weeper's head. The Weeper only rules by fear; kill him and take them

The other free folk were watching, but none would interfere. Wildlings wouldn't step in on another man's fight. The free folk would follow whoever survived.

I do need the men. And the Weeper is a monster...

Jon met the Weeper's eyes. The Weeper's fingers were twitching too.

Jon hesitated for a long moment. Then, he shook his head. "No," he said slowly. "I think you want me to try and fight you."

"I want you to give me a reason, Snow," the Weeper growled. He was a short man, but stocky, muscled and strong. "Give me a reason to finally take your fool's head."

That's how he solves all his problems, isn't it? Jon shook his head again. "No," he said quietly. "We're not doing it your way. Either stay here or go on by yourself, but we are not doing this butting heads anymore."

He turned and slowly walked away. Ghost hesitated, but then followed. "I'm on the side of the living, Weeper," Jon said. "Not the dead."

The Weeper looked frothing-at-the-mouth angry, his face twisted until he looked almost inhuman. Jon half-expected to hear the scythe swinging at any moment, to hear Ghost pouncing at the man, but nothing happened.

About an hour later, Jon saw the Weeper's men filing into the camp. The raiders set up perimeter and patrols, secured the area, all of the things that Jon didn't have the manpower to do.

Towards the evening, was it Jon's imagination or were the gazes staring at him just slightly less hostile?

By the time Jon finally retired for the night, his head was swimming with logistics. He had spent hours trying to figure out food rations, the best route along the coast, how to gather enough people. All of the fastest ways to gather the host, the men they could recruit. Sonagon would have to travel – the free folk clans would need to see the dragon before they agreed to join them – but how to move them so many people together?

Right now, they were dealing with hundreds of people. By the time they reached the coast, when they brought in the fishing villages, the forest clans, all the way up to the ice raiders, they could quite easily be dealing with thousands.

But they'll come, Jon thought to himself, of course they will. They'll follow a dragon.

As he settled down for the campfire, he found something wrapped up in his furs. A gift from Furs, Jon guessed, but he honestly wasn't sure whether it was a jest or not. Jon spent a long time staring at the old, slightly shredded black cloak, woven and patched with red fibres.

It took three weeks to get to Hardhome, or at least for the vanguard. By that time the trail of free folk was spread so far that they were days apart. Less a warband and more a column of refugees.

The coast was barren, icy and rocky. Jon stood on the cold, grey sand, staring out at Storrold's Point over the horizon. There was a faint sea mist from the coast, and a bitterly cold salty breeze cut over the beach. Walking over the soft sand was murder on his poor leg.

There are three thousand free folk behind me, Jon thought with a soft sigh. Probably. Everyone who he had asked had always said 'around three thousand'. Too many they couldn't easily count them, and more were coming every day.

They had boats that were sailing to Storrold's Point right now, but a poor southeasterly wind meant that the vanguard of the column on the coast would mostly likely reach there before the ships did. Jon's first impression of Hardhome, from a distance, was that of frozen sand dunes, rocky cliffs, and barren, skeletal trees.

Three weeks of slow marching and backtracking had left him feeling worn, exhausted and weak. He could see the hunger in the eyes of everyone around him. They were relying primarily on fishing boats from the coast for food now, but it was always a coin's flip on whether they would bring back their haul in time.

Jon had spent the journey learning names – so many he couldn't even count. The names of the leaders and warriors that followed him. The word was still spreading, and more clans would be gathering to him.

Jon had seen hunters clad only in bearskins and painted with tree sap, or short coastal clansmen who carved single-man crafts out of tree trunks. There were clans so queer the warriors would cut their own ears in half, decorate their skin with piercings, and drip poison into their eyes to turn them blue. Jon had even heard there had been contact with the giants tribes of the forests – giants very territorial and suspicious, who kept to close-knit families in caves rather than the mammoth-herding giants of the mountains and plains.

They all gathered to him. The sound of the dragon howling over the plains stirred every free folk, even the ones that had refused to follow Mance.

"You know about gods, Snow?" A raider next to him, Bullden Horn, asked. He was a tall, lean man with a scarred face, clad in horsehide furs with a long, spiral horn hanging in a pendant around his neck, and a mammoth tusk spear in his arms. Bullden Horn is a seasoned raider, Jon recalled. A man of note. "Do you worship any gods?"

"Why do you ask?" Jon said, cursing sliently as he struggled over the sandy dunes.

"I hear southrons forsake the gods. You cut down heart trees and bow in temples of stone instead," Bullden commented, pausing as the man around him clambered upwards.

He shook his head. "That's further south than I come from. The Starks of Winterfell keep to the Old Gods."

"Old Gods?" Hatch snorted, lumbering past. "They ain't so old up here."

"Oh aye, many up here pray before a heart tree," Bullden agreed. "But how do you worship them? Do you stick to the old ways – have you ever gave blood to the gods?"

Jon frowned. "Do they demand it?"

"Gods demand a lot of things, even the quiet ones," Furs said, listening in as the band walked. "There are still some that stick to the old Old Ways – the ones that spill human entrails over the heart trees, the ones that water their weirwoods with blood."

"The nameless gods are quiet, but each man interprets their voice differently," said Bullden. "They are the gods of the roots, the earth, and the sky. There are clans in the north that give bodies to the frozen lakes to appease them. The Skagosi would bleed the corpses of their enemies to their heart trees, and consume the flesh themselves. The Nightrunners used to bind children to the weirwood roots in their caves, to leave them to starve in the dark - so that only the children the gods guide out will survive. The Rockhearts in the west stitch weirwood sinews and rocks under their skin, so that each man may be closer to the gods. The elders of Shadowsprigs clans in the eastern forest carve their own faces in the likeness of the gods."

"I didn't know the Old Gods had any faces."

"They don't," Bullden agreed. "They'd cut off their own ears, nose, and lips – to leave themselves faceless."

Jon grimaced. He had seen a few wildlings with mutilated faces, but had never known why. "That doesn't sound like the Old Gods I know."

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

"Gods can make men do queer things," Furs said. "Whether the gods ask them to do so or not."

Jon never replied. The Old Gods were a folk religion; in the far north, there were so many different corners that each tribe could interpret what that meant. Jon stared outwards, looking out over the grey ocean. You would get fanatics in any group.

Hardhome was close. They were walking over the dunes towards on the peninsula, staring out over the great cliffs that loomed over head. A solid wall of sandy cliffs, pocked with holes. When the wind hit the peninsula, it soured over through the cliffs as if the earth itself was screaming shrilly. Skeletal trees hung around them, barren and frozen. It was a hard trek over uneven terrain - along the coast, around the rocks, and towards the settlement cradled by the cliff.

The wind is deadly, Jon thought with a grimace. There was no wind break - when the wind swept across the peninsula it felt so cold it could scour the rocks the clean.

Their outriders had reported a colony of thousands of starving free folk in the ruins of Hardhome, with barely a single shelter between them. Refugees taking harbour in the cliffs of Hardhome, cradling around the ruins of the single weirwood tree that clung to the rocks.

Jon walked with fifty experienced free folk, a vanguard to secure the camp. Sonagon was out in the ocean - the dragon often went on far ahead, and enjoyed swimming and hunting fish. From the reports, Jon didn't expect any trouble from the free folk in Hardhome, but he called Sonagon back towards him in any case.

The group paused at the base of the cliffs for a moment. The screaming cliffs, the Night's Watch called them, Jon remembered.

"I ask," Bullden Horn continued, "because Mother Mole very much keeps to the old ways of worship. She has… followers."

"I thought she was a woods witch."

"Oh she is," said Bullden. "But a better term for you southerners, might be… hmm… priestess? A priestess of the Old Gods."

Jon shook his head. "The Old Gods don't have priests or priestesses."

"They don't. But there's still Mother Mole."

"I heard about her," said Furs. "Loony old hag that used to live under a weirwood tree, eating dirt and roots."

"And she keeps to blood sacrifices to the heart trees," Bullden said as they walked. "Animals, mostly. Rabbits, goats and dogs. She would live in her hole, making prophecies, sacrifices, occasionally treating wounds with poultices and herbs. She had been there long enough that she had a few followers."

"Aye. And then the dead started to rise," another wildling said bitterly. "… and more and more started coming to Mother Mole. And after her sacrifices, wights would stay away from her heart tree, to hear the tales. Her few followers turned to hundreds."

After Mance's collapse, even more people came desperate enough to turn to her, Jon thought quietly. By the time she reached Hardhome, she had thousands. Thousands of men, women and children following an ancient wood witch. "So these prophecies of hers…?"

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

Mother Mole promised salvation at Hardhome, Jon remembered. Looking around the peninsula, he wondered exactly what salvation she had to offer.

Jon could see the clearing that used to be Hardhome. His first impression was more of a ruin; the ancient wreckage of an old settlement, scattered across the rocks and sand. He could see people huddled by the caves; free folk wearing dirty furs, trying take cover from the wind. The stink of crowded bodies, rot and starvation seemed to linger in the air.

The air turned quiet, and grim. Jon saw eyes glaring at them as the group walked into the clearing, but no one said a word.

In the distance, he saw the spindly frame of a white tree; barren, twisted, and curled over itself like a broken man. The face carved into the heart tree was distorted and wide, like screaming in pain. Jon heard a voice speaking to a large crowd huddled around the roots of the old weirwood.

"… and the cold and the wind will burn!" An old voice croned, and the air was so quiet they strained to listen. "… The living will stiffen, and demons will walk the world again. Demons that freeze, demons that burn…!"

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

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

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

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

The crowd was stirring. Jon hesitated, staring around the misty field. There was a long moment of quiet. The bloody branches stirred gently in the whirring wind.

Then, Jon heard the sound of scraping stone. The sound of something large clambering out of the water, wings flapping as heavy footsteps thudded up the coast. The sound of the footsteps sent ravens flocking upwards into the sky.

Jon called, and Sonagon came.

He heard the gasps. Mother Mole was crackling. They didn't scream or run, but instead they just clambered around, mouths open and eyes gaping. The dragon seemed to shadow over them all.

Jon was left frozen by the look on their faces. Desperate, hungry faces, with that look of pure awe, amazement, hope and devotion.

Around them, the cliffs were howling.

"Salvation…!" Mother Mole crackled, nigh hysterical. "Salvation comes…!"

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

Jon's eyes widened as he saw the mood change. Outstretched hands groped towards him. The raiders clutched together, while the followers of Mother Mole roared around them like a tide. One by one, he saw the free folk drop to the ground.

All around him, Jon watched as the wildlings bent, bowed and kneeled.