Jon

"Looking over your shulder a thousand times in an hour won't make him come, Snow." Tormund said, not unfeelingly. Jon knew the wildling chieftain was fond of Ghost, as nearly all the Free Folk were. "How many kings have had a white direwolf before, on either side of the Wall?" they were fond of saying. "Besides, he doesn't belong much further south than we are right now. Down in those green lands they piss themselves at the sight of a timber pup- man's like to shit himself senseless at the sight of Ghost." He went back to minding his horse. South down the White Fnife to White Harbor, seat of House Manderly. Jon had explained their significance to the Free Folk among their party. Kicked out of the Reach and taken in by House Stark to guard the White Knife. See, even the South does something right sometimes, Jon thought. He turned to look at Ser Davos, another exceptional southerner. Then again, he's a smuggler. He's not had the cushy life, he's had to hustle and grind to feed his family. No wonder Stannis valued his counsel so. The aging smuggler-turned-knight had survived a lifetime's worth of battles in only a few years and Jon had no wish to see him thrown into the fray again. Alys' horse was free of a rider, the relief for the cart horse in effect, as Alys herself was in Sigorn's arms. Every so often he'd kiss her neck or whisper something in her ear, making her giggle up a storm. The sight made Jon realize he missed Ygritte fiercely. I could have Val in front of me and please her to the bone, but it wouldn't be the same. Then again, if I did love Val, I wouldn't be pining for a spearwives gone years now. Even thinking of Ygritte and Val's big sad eyes made Jon feel guilty. I wish I could do right by her. She wants only to be close, to be warm. She misses her sister and the way things were in Mance's tent, maybe she thought I could be her Mance. Jon's mood did not improve when he thought on why he'd left Winterfell. Now I'm on my way to Dragonstone to bring an outsider into the fold, the daughter of a man who killed Uncle Brandon and my grandfather. Yet Sansa wants nothing more than to woo this faction of barbarians and slave soldiers. When he voiced his uncertainty to Tormund, his jovial manner became muted. "You were at Hardhome, lad." So I was. Sansa had to remind me of that as well.

Then Jon remembered he'd never told Sansa about the Fist much less Hardhome. Ned Umber brought up the rear, trying to hide a yawn and failing. "Don't worry, my lord. We'll only have to camp once before we make White Harbor." Jon said. "Apologies, Your Grace.I didn't sleep well the night before we left. I suppose I'm just a bit wary of going south. I'm the last Umber, I'd hate for my house to fail somewhere on the Narrow Sea or gods forbid on Dragonstone itself. They say Starks don't do well below the Neck, but look at my grandsire. Dead in a cell at the Twins." He went quiet suddenly and Jon looked back to see the boy blushing and staring at the back of his horse's head. "All the better that I've come along then, Your Grace." Littlefinger said. Jon had no illusions. Getting closer to Cersei and further from Sansa makes him both nervous and grumpy. An off-balance Petyr Baelish is good, not letting him run amok in my absence is better. Maybe I'm figuring this out after all. "No doubt you'll find southern courts easier to navigate, my lord. At any rate you'll be able to get warm." Jon replied. Let's see you make mischief among Dothraki and freedmen, few if any of whom speak the Common Tongue. They camped when they met the other fork of the White Knife, laying out behind a knoll to keep out of the wind. Jon was worried for the younger members of their party but Alys had Sigorn and Ned Umber simply crawled under a log. At this Tormund gave a hearty laugh. "There's a clever lad." "Clever enough not to ask who killed his father during the Battle of the Bastards." Jon said quietly. "He knows. I told him the morning before the Free Folk and your lot managed to have our first joint good idea." he slapped Jon's shoulder. "What did he say?" Jon asked, surprised. "He said it was what it was. Certainly he'd have done no good serving a vicious cunt who would have been useless against the cold ones himself." Tormund shrugged. No wroth. No blood feud. No typical northern hardheadedness, Jon thought looking back to the log. Clever indeed, or just ready to turn the page.

Instantly he knew he was warging Ghost. It was appreciably colder and there was no river in sight. Off to the west he could see the mountains that traditionally framed the boundary of the North. No more, he thought with no little joy. But for the Wall and the Others, there was nothing stopping them being a world unto themselves. Ghost trotted off on his own business and Jon found he could just make out the yellow tips of Queenscrown in the distance. Where are we going, boy? Jon asked. He could feel the direwolf's drive, the fire as he brought down a deer. To Jon's surprise he didn't eat it despite his empty belly, instead he dragged it off. Every few hundred feet he checked to make sure he wasn't followed. Slowly Jon got the picture. Have you got a den somewhere, boy? A nice wild girl you're hunting for? At that thought Ghost's mind fled from him and all Jon could see was the Wall. No castles though, and no top that I can see. Then he woke with a start. For a moment he was so disoriented he couldn't stand, so confused he couldn't think. Ghost kicked me out. He hid what he was up to behind a wall and then he kicked me out. The thought that the direwolf could do that, would do that, made Jon's stomach turn. He must not want me worrying about him while I need my wits about me in the south. Dawn had just broken and Jon saw that Baelish had been forced to use his lavish tent more or less as a blanket. Certainly nobody had put it up for him. He got up and worked the stiffness out of his limbs, remembering he'd had to do the same in his first days with Ygritte. No wonder Ghost doesn't want me poking around. I can't get her out of my head, he probably doesn't want her stuck in his. A few sheep had taken up grazing on the opposite shore of the White Knife, placidly trimming whatever grass had lasted through the nightly frosts. Surely if Ghost had been with them the sheep would have never come so close, though the direwolf had never been the frothing voracious beast Jon remembered Shaggydog being. They bleated nervously at Jon's movement, waking a few of the others but realized they had a freezing river between themselves and Jon's party and promptly went back to grazing. "Where's their shepherd?" Ned Umber asked from behind Jon. "Who knows? Fled? Dead?" Jon replied. The Boltons had done no little damage during their tenure as Lords of Winterfell, letting their thugs prey on decent folk to undercut further Stark support in the North. "They look fairly well-shorn so I'd guess they just don't want to get near an armed party. In fact, if I were them I'd be anxious to get my herd back in the paddock. Let's leave them to it." The two went around waking the others, Alys Karstark groaning and burying her face in Sigorn's chest in complaint. As they advanced further south Jon could faintly spot several figures corralling the sheep back east.

Ser Davos spotted the white towers first. Pointing wit ha shortened finger. He had been quiet since they left, a disquieted face enough to convince the others to give him space. "Is it not a friendly city for you?" Jon asked. The smuggler likely had made his share of enemies in the shipping business and White Harbor held a near monopoly on all goods coming into the North by sea. "There aren't any cities friendly to a smuggler, Your Grace. Just an old voice from the past that's been on my mind recently." Jon noticed Littlefinger listening intently without looking to. He's like a squirrel burying every nut he can find for later. No, a rat. "Well, who doesn't have ghosts chasing them when they've lived through what you have?" Jon asked. "Aye." Davos replied curtly before withdrawing into himself again. When they reached the gates of White Harbor they had to wait for the captain of the guard to affirm their identity. Sigorn noticed smallfolk coming and going unimpeded and remarked what made them so suspicious. "Apologies, ser. My Thenn has a brick for a brain but his other bits more than make up for it." Alys said, rolling her eyes while to Jon's astonishment Sigorn blushed red as a maid. While Tormund laughed himself breathless a very fat man who could only be Wyman Manderly's son Wylis waddled into view past the guards. "Your Grace, I owe an apology to my guardsmen. The walk from the New Castle to the gatehouse was a journey in itself and I spent the night there rather than return to my own chamber only to have to roll myself back down. As a result my back is aching and I've been put off my appetite for the first time since I could get down solid food." The fat man's jovial words only made Tormund break out in another laugh, making the guards eye him nervously. Indeed, when Wylis Manderly say Sigorn for the first time his eyes popped. "So. Wildlings come into White Harbor as guests of the Merman's Court." There was not a hint of derision in his voice. He knows what this means, Jon thought. Or at least suspects. The Manderlys were not part of the North the last time the Others came. "Aye. Eager we are to have us a taste of the food that's seen you go so round, merlord." Sigorn replied coolly. Jon could hear his true words loud as a ringing bell. There's much needs having words about and the longer we take the worse it gets. Take us where you will so we can get to it.

To his credit Wylis Manderly made it all the way back up to the New Castle unassisted despite his bulk, an endurance that seemed to impress Tormund and Sigorn. "Fat I may be, but never feeble." he said when he noticed them looking. "Easy enough to stand in one place and swing a poleaxe, particularly when the doughball body you're stuck in is inclined to revolutions." He twirled his finger in a circle. When they reached the Merman's Court, they found themselves facing two full tables of food laid out as well as all manner of white wines. "I'm sure you're eager for a bit of food before we get to court niceties. I'm going to call the worthies of White Harbor so we may discuss matters of import with everyone present. In the meantime eat and drink your fill. If my cooks can keep up with my father and I who may just miss outweighing the seven of you put together, you'll be no trouble." He waddled off. Immediately Sigorn went for the beef and fish. "Cows are difficult to keep without land to graze. Rare a member of the Free Folk gets as much as he likes." he said when he filled a plate with it. Jon tried a bit of everything, noticing the wine wasn't overindulged in by his two chieftains. Either they want to make a good impressions, he thought, or they want to be sober when talk of the Others finally comes up. Or both. Ser Davos stuck to clams and sea fare while Alys and Ned tried to follow in Jon's lead. For Sigorn and Tormund to whom food had never come easy, it was possibly the best they'd ever eaten in their lives. "A bit of food the merlord calls this." Tormund said after eating a whole chicken and sighing in wonder at the sight of three more on the other end of the table. "No King-Beyond-the-Wall ever ate a tenth so well." "Among our kind, anyway." Jon said quietly, looking at a sweet bun on a dish of pastries. The sounds of eating stopped and when Jon looked up all eyes were on him. "What are you inferring, Your Grace?" Littlefinger asked in that soft voice Jon so hated. "They won't just throw a sea of dead at us and call the job done. It's going to take more than a Hardhome full of wights and a single horned shepherd of the dead to invade Westeros, it's fucking huge. They've had ten thousand years to ready for this while we fought and feuded and bled each other dry. It will take planning, multiple fronts and a chain of command. A mastery of war borne from battlefield experience accrued over many lifetimes of men. Or they couldn't do it. Obviously they think they can, so we should be ready to be substantially outmatched in most every sphere."

Those bleak words made the rest of the table pick over dinner in forlorn silence save Littlefinger, who seemed to revel in whatever made others unhappy. Indeed his appetite only seemed to increase and by the time a serving maid called for them to bathe and prepare for court, he had nearly managed a whole chicken himself. By the time Jon had bathed and changed the moon had risen and he had to work hard not to double take when Tormund emerged in a fresh doublet, tunic and field trousers. "Could be worse." he said, as if bothered by the fact that it was likely more comfortable than furs. Sigorn for his part had Alys to help him and but for his Thenn scars and shaved head he could have passed for a northern lord without effort. They filed into the Merman's Court, the hall of the New Castle to find themselves the last to arrive. Jon heard Tormund curse under his breath and smiled. Wylis Manderly began with traditional pleasantries, introducing his wife, Lady Leona and his daughters Wynafryd and Wylla, a scant few years older and younger than Jon respectively. Wynafryd in particular blushed prettily and curtsied when her name was called. Ah, Jon realized. The dutiful daughter trying to please her father by becoming Queen in the North. Wynafryd Manderly was a lovely girl but from what Jon saw she was entirely too used to the comforts of the New Castle and living in the safety of White Harbor. Too much the lady, too much the girl, he thought. Though she was older she had a sort of courtly innocence that reminded Jon of Sansa. Before the world had its pound of flesh from her, anyway. Jon in turn introduced his own party. Littlefinger got more black looks by far than either wildling, a sight which pleased Jon to no end. "Now…" Wylis said before he took his seat. "Not to be rude or question the making of new friends, but I'm sure we're all wondering why wildlings have come to White Harbor, Your Grace. Also, the veracity of rumors that a number of giants have taken to the Wolfswood, mammoths included." The hall filled with murmuring at his words. "Giants!" a little boy called from his mortified mother's arms. Jon waited for the murmuring to die down. "There are giants at Winterfell, my lord, and mammoths too. What's more, there are valemen, mountain clans, even a few stormlanders that made it through Stannis' campaigns. Surely White Harbor is aware that Mance Rayder marched on the wall some years ago, hellbent on getting past it. Unlike raider kings of old, he didn't come for loot or women." The murmuring started again, Tormund and Sigorn's faces resolved. "We came to get away from the Others." Tormund said. Not a person spoke.

"Pardon me, Your Grace, but what exactly is an Other?" Wylis finally asked. "They're why Brandon the Builder put up the Wall in the first place, my lord. He didn't stack blocks of ice seven hundred feet straight up and across the breadth of Westeros to keep a few hairy raiders out, or giants for that matter." he tapped Tormund's shoulder. "Or hairless raiders, Jon Snow." Sigorn said behind him, Alys stifling a giggle despite the mood. The simple truth of Jon's statement was enough to draw looks of unease from the highborn and the wealthy of White Harbor. "They're…" Well, if we knew what they were, we'd not be in this position. "They're a race apart. Out of the Land of Always Winter perhaps, we don't know. They bring cold that can crack bone and freeze blood in the vein and send the dead as thoughtless fodder against the living. Often they carry swords of razor ice. If you saw one and survived, it would stay with you the rest of your days." Jon said, trying hard not to make it any worse. They look at us as a man would look at a mummer's monkey. Their tongue sounds like ice cracking on a lake. "For some time they've been marshalling just out of sight, sweeping across Thenn and the Frostfangs first and hardest. They wanted us out of the way quickly so they could get up to their own cold games right away. Mance thought there could be something in them mountains, the Horn of Winter, that might help us pass the Wall. Might be the Others were keen on finding that same horn. We never found it, the ground was hard and cold and digging was a trial, but it's not so hard to dig when you have blades that go through steel and slaves that neither eat nor tire." Sigorn said. "As they've moved out of the Frostfangs into the Haunted Forest in force, I think it's likely they're about to find the Horn or already have. The Wall won't keep them out much longer, my lord Manderly." Jon said. Though Wylis had a look of grim confirmation on his face, his wife and daughters looked a blend of mystified and aghast. "But they were stopped." a small voice cut through the silence and low murmurs. Ned Umber cleared his throat. "The Others came south once before, before there even was a Wall, and they lost." "The Long Night." Jon nodded. "They came and it took a generation to fully kick them out. We've found that dragonglass goes through their armor as easily as their swords go through ours and creates terrible wounds if it should touch their flesh. If flesh it is, I mean. Also, Valyrian steel seems to do the trick, but as there's not an abundance of it lying around we figure it's easier to just stick with dragonglass. A maester might call it obsidian." "There's a mother lode of the stuff on Dragonstone. That's why we're here, to hop a boat and head south to get as much as we can." This time the murmurs were louder, fullblown conversations. Wylis quieted them with a hand. "You've certainly not been idle, Your Grace, but there's a bit of an obstacle as far as Dragonstone."

Now for the mammoth in the room. "Daenerys Targaryen." The mere name caused the hall to explode with such energy that Alys put a hand on Ned's shoulder to steady him. This time it was Jon who put a hand up. "Whatever else she may be, her army is now of a size with our own. If we could convince her coming north is in her best interests-" "So we can watch her make you kiss her feet?" Wylla Manderly asked indignantly, rosy face going pink. "If she wants the North she can come get it. Lizard-lions grow as the food does or so I hear, and Freys make poor fare. By the time they're through with her army the Neck's lizard-lions will be bigger than her dragons." There was an outpouring of cheers and banging at her words. "Even the biggest lizard-lion cannot breathe fire, Lady Wylla." Jon's words again quieted the hall. "Or fly for that matter. I can't think that the Others would have a counter ready for something they've never seen before. The wights, their dead men, are in particular susceptible to fire. A single dragon could reduce a tide of walking corpses to a great grey ash wind in minutes." "Or White Harbor, or Winterfell." Wynafryd spoke this time. "What if the price for her assistance is the North's fealty?" Jon swallowed. "She wants the North. We need all the knights her southern kingdoms can muster. I would think the way is clear." They stared at him. "After what the Mad King did? After Prince Rhaegar kidnapped your aunt?" Lord Wylis asked, paler by the second. "At Castle Black I met a maester who turned out to have once been Aemon Targaryen, elder brother of Aegon, Fifth of His Name. He was the wisest man I've ever met, one of the few who did not dismiss the notion of bringing the wildlings into the Seven Kingdoms out of hand. I pray Daenerys is the same sort, the kind who sees that left to their own devices the Others will knock her dragons from the sky with icy gales that would have grounded Balerion the Black Dread."