Chapter 14
Jon "You blithering craven!" Old Man Harwick roared, slobber dripping down his mane. "I'll gut you like a pig!"
"Come on then, you geezer!" Sweety Tyk taunted, spinning his blades in his hands. "You want to dance–!"
He arrived just in time to stop the fighting. "Enough!" Jon bellowed, glaring at the scene. "What is going on here?"
His presence caused some stirs, but nobody backed down. There was already a crowd gathering. The free folk loved a fight.
Harwick gave a wary gaze at Jon, but he didn't lower his weapon. "This craven stole my daughter!" Old Man Harwick shouted, revealing a toothless mouth 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. His bad leg always ached and locked 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 – he had had twenty-four wives over his life and currently still had nine (the youngest being eighteen), along with thirty-three sons, and more daughters than anyone 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 still in good shape and he clutched a solid oak staff supported 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. They laughed at him for his clean shaven and effeminate appearance, but he was lightning fast with his dirks and one of the best seamen the free folk had.
Personally, Jon didn't really care if the two men wanted to fight it out, except it likely wouldn't end in a single fight. Harwick had a whole clan of sons and grandsons surrounding him, all clutching weapons, while Tyk was very popular among the shipbuilders and bay raiders. If it came to blood, Tyk's friends would fight against Harwick's sons, and things could turn very bloody very quickly.
Jon had seen similar situations before. Every blow, scuffle or disagreement constantly threatened to escalate.
Jon clutched Dark Sister tightly, well aware that he was standing between two groups each a few dozen strong. His sword flickered between Harwick and Tyk, trying to judge which one was the angriest, which one would back down first.
Now which one do I need in my camp the most?
Eventually, Jon turned to Tyk. "Sweety," Jon said coldly, pointing Dark Sister at Tyk. "Where's Harwick's daughter now?"
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 with care, pointing his blade straight at the man. "Sweety," Jon said in a low voice. "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. "You don't really want me to answer that question, do you?" He whispered.
A moment of doubt passed over his face. 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 crowd laughed. The sound of raucous, taunting laughter filled the air.
Tyk's eyes widened, and froze. Damn, Jon cursed. Tyk is an arrogant boy. He couldn't stand the thought of someone laughing at him.
Just like that Tyk changed his mind. Tyk wasn't prepared to back down any more. Instead, he snatched up his dirks, twirling them as he charged, stabbing wildly at Jon.
Jon darted backward from the strikes. 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 the other bay raiders clutched weapons and charged at him. Good. If Jon hadn't been here, if they had been fighting Harwick instead, then Jon imagined more would have joined with Tyk. 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, and Jon twirled to slam him from the side. Tyk plummeted as Jon shoulder barged him downwards roughly.
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 remaining dirk. Another man tried to charge Jon with a heavy axe, but Jon caught the blow even as he parried Tyk, twisting the blade around.
Dark Sister struck – sudden slashes one after another. The first man dropped with his shoulder cut open. Tyk narrowly avoided the second swing, trying to aim for Jon's weak leg in retaliation, yet Jon was already sidestepping. The two other men lunged, but one took Dark Sister across the hip, while Jon shoulder barged the second onto the ground.
Behind him, Harwick cheered in a bout of laughter, while Tyk screamed as he lunged at Jon madly. He was too slow – the back of Jon's hand was already whacking into his throat, and Tyk went flailing backwards and stumbling down. Dark Sister plunged after him.
For a second, Jon was ready to plunge his sword into Tyk's chest. Then, at the last moment, Jon's blade darted to the side.
The blade bit into the snow right between Tyk's legs. A fine tendril of blood splurted over the ground. Tyk's scream of pain cut the air open.
"I could have killed you," Jon muttered. "You may wish I had."
The man's face was ghostly pale, contorted in pain, as Jon pulled himself straight. He looked at the three other men lying across the floor, and that at the other bay raiders clutching weapons.
"Anybody else?" Jon demanded.
Nobody met his eyes. "Then take this fool to the wood 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. "And you three – you will bring Harwick's daughter back to him."
Behind him, the men were laughing furiously, staring as a couple pulled Tyk away. "Har!" Harwick roared. "You are a damn good fighter Jon Snow!"
Jon panted, still trying to catch his breath. He been in more fights at Hardhome than he ever had before. Harwick seemed in good spirits. "I should curse you, I suppose, for stealing a battle from me and letting that bastard live," Old Man Harwick mused. "But hells, it was so much fun watching you geld the son of a bitch! Ha! 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 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 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 see 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 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. "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, ser." Jon paused. "Although, if you're willing to help, the stakewalls on the west side are failing. Do you have the men to fetch lumber to repair them?"
"What? Oh aye. Aye." Old Man Harwick motioned to a few of his sons. He was still chuckling, glancing after Tyk. "I'll get your lumber. Hehe. 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. Hatch and Yoldo were standing behind him, and another two raiders on his right.
Jon glared. "You were the one that laughed," he said to the Weeper, after everyone had left.
"Excuse me?" The Weeper replied with a grin.
"You laughed. When Sweety Tyk was walking away, you laughed at him from the crowd."
"Well, it was pretty funny," the Weeper said, his smirk widening.
"You provoked Tyk by laughing," Jon said darkly. "I could have resolved it without bloodshed."
The Weeper nodded. "You're right. You could have. That's why I laughed."
He 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, and they would have all hated you for it. Tyk would have resented you, Harwick would have cursed you. You would have created two dangerous enemies, both with friends who they can share their hatred with. Instead, Harwick is 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 favour, Snow," the Weeper continued. "Never let them walk away with a grudge – if you let bitterness sow, hatred grows like a weed."
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. "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 to of a small crest, staring out over Hardhome. Fifteen thousand wildlings, Jon thought with a deep breath.
The came sat on a sheltered bay by the cape, a natural harbour. The waters were thick with fish, and there were colonies of seals and sea cows around the coast. A great cliff loomed above the settlement, pocked with cave mouths, at the back of the settlement. A solid wall of rough stone, and the whole settlement was scattered around the beach and rocks leading down to the coast. The whole camp slanted slightly towards the coast, rolling from the cliffs. It was an easily defendable location, at least; the only way through was either around the coast in the west, over the rocks and cliffs, or up from the southeast.
When Jon first arrived, the wildlings had been taking shelter in the caves – named the screaming caves. Many still were, but now there were more huts and shelters to be made for all free folk. The wood was a problem; at one time Hardhome had been once rich with forests, but those trees were dead and instead they needed teams to drag lumber up from the south.
It had been a long, hard struggle with many cold nights. The settlement was plentiful, but it still received viciously cold winds sweeping across the cape from the sea.
There was virtually nothing left of the old settlement that once resided here, except for burnt out husks of decaying buildings, and the occasional rusted weapon. It had been over six hundred years since the destruction of Hardhome, but it was said that so much blood was spilled that it stained the ground, leaving it hard and barren. Before the migration, Hardhome had been a cursed place that most avoided.
Occasionally, Jon could still feel it. He felt his skin tingle at the sound of the wind blowing through the caves. There was something about the place that put him on edge. The only heart tree they had was an ancient, knotted and blackened tree, kneeling over itself like a dying man.
Jon 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, he was met '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 being slowly being fortified, and fishermen 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.
Jon had never liked the man – he despised him at times, even– 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. It made people all the more willing to let Jon resolve it easily. And he knew the Weeper knew it too.
"How were the attacks last night?" Jon asked finally.
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 east coast," Hatch reported, motioning at Yoldo. "Shambling things, damp with seaweed. They almost slipped by us, too."
"They are testing our defences." 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 organised groups," said Jon. 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 the line. Otherwise, if we are attacked each men is just going to run wildly."
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 go down?"
"You were at the Frostfangs," Jon said darkly. "You know how lack of discipline could hurt us."
For once, the Weeper didn't replied. Jon thought about it. "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."
Hatch nodded and stomped away. Jon's head was spinning with the thought of everything he would need. He would need commanders to support them, officers to drill them, and somebody would have to provide their shields, spears and swords. The wildlings had few enough armaments as it was; anything more than wooden spears was a luxury. More importantly, he would have to organise them – the free folk changed warbands at whim, but proper divisions would need numbers and names.
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 one in turn. Why do the free folk 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.
"I've got Harwick getting the lumber for them," Jon said, although even Harwick's extended family would have trouble. "Could you assist?"
"Course I could. You want me to stop the patrols to do that, then?" The Weeper rolled his eyes.
"I'll find someone else."
"And those fucking Frozen Shore tribes have been stirring trouble again by the caves," the Weeper growled, as he stomped off. "Keep them in the line or I'll slaughter the lot of them."
Jon headed towards his tent. There were already a group of people waiting to talk to him. 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 along the way.
He held up his hand at the people waiting as he limped quickly into the tent. The wizened woman, not quite as short as a dwarf but close, with a gaunt, leathery face hovered over Sweet Tyk's body.
"What did you do with this one, then?" Mother Mole asked, glancing at Tyk. The raider was unconscious and pale.
"He was a rapist," Jon replied.
The old woman chuckled, mushing up herbs and seaweed into a bucket. The wood witch was a good healer and the people listened to her, so Jon tried to keep her close. Every time Jon had been in a fight, Mother Mole had been waiting in his tent with poultices to treat bruised knuckles and small scrapes. She has a chain of small white stones hanging around her neck, Jon noted. She wove a necklace out of weirwood roots, with white stones picked up by the beach.
Mother Mole was as much of a leader as anyone in the camp – not so much to the raiders, but many followed her loyally and even the clan leaders respected her. Mother Mole's followers spread across many clans, they clung to her for wisdom. And she was one of the only ones who followed Jon without any complaints.
She lowers her head when she talks to me, Jon noted, she never looks at me in the eye. Always respectful, always obedient. Mother Mole never used any honorifics, but she still gave him the same sort of respect.
"Every man out there is a rapist, by your southron terms," Mother Mole chuckled.
Jon grimaced. The wildling tradition of 'taking' women had never sat right with him. "Disrespect, then."
"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."
"'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's wizened hands pulled a knife out of the fire – a blade so hot it was glowing. The wood witch headed towards Sweety's bloody groin, glancing at Jon. "I would do your business outside, if I were you."
Jon agreed. He quickly left the tent, looking around the group waiting to talk to him. Most of them looked unhappy. Jon suppressed a sigh. The court of Hardhome wanted to talk to him.
The first man stomped up to him, and Jon stared into the scowling face of the Lord of Seals. He was a large man with a beefy face, tangled beard knotted together, broad shoulders and strong arms, clad in a heavy, patchwork sealskin cloak that draped 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 ships away to those filthy cave dwellers," the Lord of Seals said, double-chins wobbling. He was the best boat-builder they had; Jon had put him in charge of the construction for the camp.
He sighed. "The cave dwellers need boats too; we're all crossing the bay together."
"Then those bastards can build their own, they're not touching–"
Jon turned and glared. "Those boats are mine," he snapped. "The men that brought the wood did it for me, the men that cut it did for me, and you, who oversaw construction, did it for me." Jon's eyes flashed. "I brought you in for your help and I paid you very well for your help, but stop your whining otherwise I'm going to ship you out on the same boat as the cave dwellers."
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.
The second one waiting for him was a group of scouts and outriders, staring at Jon nervously. Furs was standing behind the 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 the host heading towards us now. Maybe two days away, but they're 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. "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 Magnar of Thenn, Lord of Bones, Varamyr and Harma vying for control."
All of the lords and ladies of the north, then , Jon thought quietly. When they arrived, nearly every wildling leader and perhaps most of the population 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; the host might be Jon's best chance at seeing Ygritte again. If she didn't end up with them, she must have headed to the Frozen Shore. If she had survived at all.
"Don't forget the one who brought them all together - Val," another scout continued.
Jon remembered Val – a tall beauty who had been in Mance's tent. He nodded. "Do you think they're coming to fight?"
"I think they want to go south, like the rest of us," said Furs. "Might be good to boost the perimeter guards, though. Just in case."
Jon nodded. Now, how the hells am I meant to organise 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."
Furs grinned broadly, showing missing teeth. The wildling liked watching the dragon at work. Shock and awe, Jon decided. Sonagon is good at that. If he could get them to his side, then that could be over twenty-five thousand to take south. It was a lot of bodies.
And I've got try and do it bloodlessly, Jon thought. He wanted the Night's Watch to open the gate and close them behind them. It was a tall order, but he knew his dragon would be there to convince them.
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," he stammered, lowering his head as he turned quickly to walk away. Jon paused, watching him run. He bowed to me, Jon thought, the boy bowed hesitantly, jerkily, like he wasn't sure whether he should bow or not.
The other men dispersed slowly, 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 there when another of the free folk was there to accuse the cave dwellers of stealing chickens.
Jon very nearly lost his temper as 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.
Then, there was a feud between Bullden Horn and Marthe of the Antlers that came to Jon to settle. Bullden wanted vengeance after Marthe stole two of his nieces years ago, but if Jon punished for every stolen girl 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 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 sure 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 all when he heard the commotion from the caves. 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 limping 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 recognised 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 lept 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 offence by this crafter's work."
The man – Hunting Seal – looked like he was screaming bloody fury, glaring at Jon. The men of the Frozen Shore name themselves after beasts of the region, he recalled. "Offence? How?"
Furs motioned. The old man was begging incoherently, clutching at his wounded side. He had a white stone pinned to his furs. Jon turned, and saw a statuette carved crudely into a large white boulder sitting in the middle of the cave, shaped and cut into the likeness of a dragon, its maw open and roaring.
Sonagon, Jon realised. The old man had been carving a statue of Sonagon. A crude carving, but the boulder was so large that it must have taken three men to lift something that size. It was placed in the centre of the cave, a place of honour. Jon didn't even know how they'd carve something like that with nothing but chunks of stone as chisels.
He stared around the scene. The Frozen Shore men must have attacked, but at least twenty free folk seemed to have stepped in against them. Not to protect the old man – they were trying to protect the carving. Why would so many weak, unarmed men and women pit themselves against well-armed raiders for the sake of a carving?
Jon glanced at Furs. "Why?" He demanded. "Why did they attack?"
Furs translated. Hunting Seal screamed. "They call it heresy," Furs translated. Jon guessed he was paraphrasing. "… To worship something like that monster is heresy."
Worship? "I do not care what they worship," Jon said. "They do not attack anyone in my camp. If they have a problem, they leave."
Jon's men slowly forced the Frozen Shore men backwards. Ghost kept by his side, still snarling quietly. Jon would hate to lose them, though – the Frozen Shore men were good warriors and he had few of them at Hardhome.
"Hunting Seal here says he needs to avenge his ancestors. They are Walrus Men, Snow."
"Walrus Men?"
"They follow the Great Walrus. One of the Frozen Shore's biggest tribes." Furs explained. "Other tribes follow the Noble Elk, or the Strong Bear. These guys basically see walruses as their spirit animals, holy animals to their tribes."
"… I see." Hunting Seal growled a string of words, glared at Jon with hatred.
"They tell a story their tribe passed down from generations," Furs translated. "Bladdy, blah, blah… Something about a dark night, a storm with teeth, the demons of ice and snow that slaughtered their ancestors years ago. It brought ruin to two dozen clans. Some viewed it as the wrath of the gods, but the Great Walrus declared unending vengeance on the blight."
Now did this happen four hundred years ago, I wonder? Before Sonagon was frozen, Jon had little doubt that the dragon could have terrorised the north. Some grudges were old. Jon remembered the ice-river clansmen who tried to kill him his first night with the Weeper's warband.
"Basically, he's saying that your beast is a demon, and curses and whatnot upon all it's followers." Furs sighed. Most of the Frozen Shore men looked nervous, but Hunting Seal was still screaming and spitting.
"… Well, make sure he knows that if they have that much issue with Sonagon, then they have to leave."
It took a while for them to get the point. The Walrus Men were outnumbered and against the entire camp. Eventually, the Walrus Men backed down. Unending vengeance is all well and good, Jon mused, but having shelter and food was 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 chatted. "Gods of snow and ice. I heard of one tribe up north that believe in ice monsters – the great beasts that formed winter. There are 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 once heard as a child – them of living storms, giants that carved the gorge, the beasts that once roamed…"
Jon didn't reply. He stood 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 took to carve all the details like Sonagon's teeth without proper tools. He had men take the old man to Mother Mole for treatment, but Jon lingered in the cave.
Now why does that carving of Sonagon, or the look in their eyes, make me so uncomfortable?
"… 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!"
Do I refuse their worship or try to exploit it? He looked around them. None met his gaze. "If you want to help, 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. A lot of them had white stones pinned as brooches on their chests.
In the end, Jon ended up with more men and women than he knew how to co-ordinate. He assigned them to taskmasters, and sent them to chase Old Man Harwick about the lumber. Jon saw free folk, even weak, starved or elderly free folk, rushing over themselves to try follow his command.
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 didn't abandon it. Jon thought about it, but he had no reason to demand that they got rid of it, either.
By the time he had finally managed assigning the work crews into some form of organisation, it was nearly evening. His leg felt numb. Mother Mole had some poultices that seemed to help, but it was relaxation and rest that helped the most.
As he limped back to his tent, Jon 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 labour.
"We've spotted a grey whale off the coast of the harbour," Alvin said simply. No greetings, no introduction. None needed for a man like Alvin. "Big bastard 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?"
"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 thought. He wasn't even sure if Sonagon would 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'd 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 one hand, there were many tasks that Jon still had to do, but on the other hand whale would be enough meat to severely help their struggling stores. If Sonagon could be used to feed people, 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 his weathered face. "Heh, whale-hunting with a dragon. First time for everything."
Jon paused to change; switching his thick giant's fur cloak for a walrus hide skin, and leaving his heavy leathers and bronze disk plate for lighter riding leathers and wool overcoat. Not as thick, 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 was treacherous, but they had cleared crude roads to move lumber down to the icy coast. The beach was rough stone, sand and ice, but covered in men working and logs scattered across the coast. The sound of hacking lumber echoed all day and night. The shipbuilding had never stopped for days.
There had been no choice. Jon offered Sonagon to fly the wildlings south, but that just wouldn't work. Even if Sonagon could carry a hundred people (and that was a big if), Jon had no idea how to even mount them all. Then their numbers had swollen up with so many that not even a dragon could carry them. Instead, they came with a plan; boats and barges were the only thing that could move so many people south. They would be able to sail south over the bay with Sonagon flying protection overhead. If the patrols of the Night's Watch tried to stop them, Sonagon could convince any ships that they met that it would be a bad idea.
Already they had fifty-four large barges of timber and hemp – great, lumbering barges that might carry over fifty people each. It would be a veritable wildling fleet.
Smaller boats scattered over the crude harbour. Fishermen boats and raid vessels donated by the free folk of the coast, of all shapes and sizes from canoes to dinghies. The coast was wide, but it was still cramped along the stony beach. Alvin Whaletooth owned four boats himself – all lean fishing vessels crewed by his family. Alvin had made his name chasing down whales.
Across the coast, atop rocks protruding from the sea near the other side of the harbour, 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 slept most of the day, barely visible from the beach.
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.
Sonagon perched on the rocks and hunted along the beaches. Jon wasn't even sure if the dragon could even feel cold. Sonagon still couldn't fly yet, but the dragon proved 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.
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.
"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 a tall, thin man with weathered eyes and a wispy beard. Jon felt his skin crawl as he looked at him.
He stopped. "Who are you?" Jon demanded, feeling suddenly uneasy. His hand went to Dark Sister.
The other man had stoic face. Alvin looked surprised for a moment, before realising. "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. 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 offence 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 Sonagon 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 the 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 vivid vision as his tail thrusted him forward. Sonagon trusted Jon more and more, letting him warg easier than ever. Jon could feel the dragon's presence 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 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 realised. 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 in his face. "So 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 noticed.
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."
"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 used to be 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 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. Grey King's Hall on Pyke was apparently made from the bones of a sea dragon.
Jon tried to visualise 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. There is no weather in the world that can sink one of Alvin's ships," he added with pride. "But right then, I saw 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." 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 visualised 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.
Jon felt a stab of pride. Soon, it would be even easier for him to hunt, Jon thought. Soon, Sonagon would be able to fly.
The gashes on Sonagon's wing had closed a while ago. Jon had even enlisted the help of every wood witch and healer he could find to try and help them heal. The wings were getter better, but they were still too tender for Sonagon to fly. Jon had seen the dragon practicing recently, extending and flexing his wings wide experimentally.
Even under the water, Jon heard the whale howl as Sonagon closed in. The whale must be fifty feet long from tail to snout, but the dragon was still bigger. Mind, the whale was bulky and muscled while Sonagon was leaner, and it didn't go down easily. The whale tried to dive, and Sonagon had to wrestle to drag it out off the water.
They collided with an almighty splash. Tails and wings splashed out of the water. On the boat, the men cheered and hollered. The boat crashed with the waves. It made one hell of a show.
Jon felt Sonagon close in and bite down hard onto the whale's rump. The whale shuddered and thrashed madly, but then Sonagon breathed ice cold fire into its body and the struggle ended quickly.
Jon watched as the water around them froze suddenly, tendrils of ice spreading around them, only for the ice to crack as Sonagon dragged the whale upwards in an iceberg. Half of the whale's body had been frozen solid, killing it instantly. Sonagon roared triumphantly as he snapped the frozen tail straight off the whale.
Bobs of ice floated on the waves. Sonagon still thrashed, chewing huge frozen chunks off the whale's tail happily with sharp teeth.
Ours? Jon asked, reaching out to Sonagon. Share? He knew the dragon would be protective of the kill, but Jon asked cautiously, half-begging. Jon had learned he needed to be constantly respectful when reaching out to the dragon. Jon could ask Ghost to do nearly anything, while the dragon had more pride.
Sonagon paused, but then roared like thunder and swam away. He still clutched the frozen whale's tail, dragging it away in his jaws. The rest of the carcass was left floating on the waves, steaming gently from evaporation amongst the semi-frozen sea.
Alvin was laughing. "Easiest whale hunt I've ever done, boys!" He exclaimed happily. "Let's harpoon her in and drag her, we'll be back before nightfall."
Jon was laughing too as they gingerly approached the carcass. That was the hardest part right there, trying to attach their ropes to the carcass firmly despite the wind, waves and ice. One of the men even dived into the water to wrap a rope around the whale, and Jon had no idea how the man could even survive the cold. Jon himself tried twice to harpoon the carcass from the prow; missing both times, but the men were all in good cheer.
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 sceptical it would even be possible, but Alvin had laughed and said that he had dragged in much harder kills than this.
The sun was only just about as they were to heading back. "Let's get back quickly!" Jon shouted. "We're expecting raids tonight and I want be there 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 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.
It took a while for Jon to see anything through the dark water and distorted view. Then, he slowly made out outlines in the water. The shape of sails.
Ships, Jon thought, his heart racing. He counted over a dozen. Big ones. A fleet.
The Night's Watch? No, there are too many. Eastwatch didn't have that sort of fleet.
"Cut the harpoons," Jon ordered.
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. They looked like the sort you'd find in the Free Cities. A fleet of ships heading to Hardhome. We're under attack.