The White Wolf grunted as he stepped into the cave.
Warmth did not come to meet him, and he did not expect it to. There was little of it to find this far north, and the Children refused to burn anything within the cave. It was the last refuge for them, and the Three-eyed crow would not want anything to reveal his location anyway. Paranoid was the man within his throne of weirwood.
Paranoid, and mayhaps, the realms' savoir.
As the White Wolf ventured further into the cave, he encountered many more roots of the great weirwood tree that sat upon this cave. Gnarled and twisted, they went on further than he cared to look, all of them cracked and broken yet still alive. Magic was running through the wood and as he ran a hand across the ancient wood, he felt some of it. This magic tried to return a touch to him, to let him see, but the White Wolf refused it, for this was meant for another.
It was meant for the crippled boy.
His feet crunched under the bones of long dead animals as he progressed. Bones of dead Children, birds, wolfs, bears, and even giants lay within the vast cave and its many tunnels. He cared not for any of them and continued deeper within. The message he cared was important and the Three-eyed crow needed to hear it. He cursed the Gods Old and New once again as he plunged deeper within the darkness with a single torch to light his path. He did not ask for this task, to be reborn into this, and yet here he was, burdened with a task he must complete.
If for the sake of no one else, then for his own.
Ragnar huffed out a breath as bumped his nose into the White Wolf's hand. He looked down at his loyal and bonded beast and noted that those red eyes were looking at him unblinkingly. So large he was that there was barely any room for him to move, white fur rubbing against the walls of the cave and roots of the weirwood, yet all the same he joined him in his journey within. The size of a horse he was, so much so that the White Wolf had to reach up slightly to rub the snout of his direwolf, and got his fingers licked with that rough tongue in return.
It almost brought a smile to his lips.
He pushed deeper still within the cave with his direwolf. It was a journey that was long enough that his mind started to wander. The Long Night was approaching once again from the north. Every day the air grew colder, and more and more people were being forced south. The Thenns were pushing south and not for raiding and pillaging, but out of necessity. A hand went to his face and over his left eye, or the place where his left eye should have been, the pain having since long been dulled to nothingness.
The White Wolf cursed the Thenns all to hell as he pushed further.
The man who had taken his eye had lost his head in return. The damn sons of whores were as good as dead if he was concerned, yet they were needed all the same, their survival mattered. Every single body they could deny to the Night's King the better. They all had to get south of the wall before winter arrived in force. Everyone left behind was simply meat for the machine that was the Night's King's Army.
"Cregan… you have returned…"
The White Wolf looked up and realized that he had arrived. The Three-eyed crow sat within his throne of weirwood beside the bridge of stone, his one good eye shot through with red, his other run through with a weirwood root. The man once known as Bryden Rivers looked pale like death, his skin pulled taunt against his gaunt face, and yet here he lived, refusing to meet the Stranger's embrace.
Water from the river below sounded faintly through the cavern and the White Wolf paid it no mind. He simply walked forward until he was met by one of the Children. Leaf or Twig or some such, he could never remember their names, but he did accept the cup of water that she held out. He drank deep and took a seat with the empty cup in hand. His bones were weary and cold, they creaked every so often, and yet he had to go on.
"They are coming north… it is time to meet with the king…"
The White Wolf only grunted in response. A king was coming north, aye, but did he have the strength to do what must be done? There were going to be hard decisions to come and only so much could one man's shoulders bear before they snapped. The War for the Dawn needed heroes, forged within fire and ice, yet did the king who ventured north again have that? The Gods had sent him back here and with a purpose, to change things for the better, so mayhaps this king was not needed, for he would not be here otherwise.
"Take the sword with you… it will be needed in the war to come… young Son of Winter…"
His eyes went to the sword that rested amongst the roots of the weirwood throne. Its scabbard was of leather finely made. The pommel was that of a dragon with eyes of ruby red. Fangs were borne in that maw and the cross guard was like a pair of wings in flight. The White Wolf took it in hand and drew the blade halfway, Valyrian steel meeting his gaze within the dimly lit cave, glowing mushrooms illuminating them all. The blade was one that he knew much of, for how could he not, this blade had once been an extension of himself.
It was as familiar to him as the back of his own hand.
"Keep an eye out for more threats to the north. I have done all I can to slow his advance, yet it is not enough." The White Wolf croaked out, his throat sore and uncommon to use, and a hand went to rub his neck.
"So long as you get them south… behind the wall… it will be enough… they are coming closer each day… Son of Winter…"
The White Wolf belted the blade once known as Dark Sister to his waist. It was both an uncommon weight and one that he had longed for. The bear furs he wore had to be shifted slightly to make room for his new addition. Dragonglass daggers were at his waist, and they made room for the dragonsteel.
"Until we meet again, Lord Rivers."
With that, the White Wolf turned to leave, and started his ascent out of the cave with his loyal direwolf at his side. One of the Children offered him some mushrooms for the journey south and he took them with a nod. They tasted almost of nothing and yet were filling to his stomach. It would have to do for his journey, and he knew that he would not miss their taste once he again met with Mance Rayder, and his mighty host headed for the Wall.
"Until we meet again… White Wolf…"
A small part of Jon Snow was starting to wonder if this was all a big mistake.
Qhorin Halfhand's plan for Jon to act as a mummer and spy didn't seem so sound now that Jon was actually within the wilding camp. Everywhere he looked he saw more of them, wildling men and women both, most of them armed and ready to kill his fellow black brothers. He saw men training with spear and sword, women fletching arrows and also training with the spear, but he also saw children running around and mothers heavy with child. It wasn't so much an army as a well-armed and very large caravan of people, a disorganized and poorly disciplined, but a very large one indeed.
And it was headed right for the Wall and the Seven Kingdoms beyond.
The tent that the King-beyond-the-Wall had was thrice as large as the next one that Jon had seen. Like many of the lesser tents it was made of sewn hides with the fur still on, but Mance Rayder's hides were the shaggy white pelts of snow bears. There was a huge set of antlers that peaked this king's tent and from within came light and music. The sounds were faintly familiar to Jon and yet wholly unfamiliar.
When their little group led by Rattleshirt approached the king's tent, Jon made out two guards. Both men were tall and large with round leather shields strapped to an arm. One of the wildling guards lowered his spear at the sight of Ghost, his fellow guard simply looking at the direwolf with hard eyes.
"The beast stays here."
Jon didn't want to part with Ghost any more than was necessary, but this was a wildling camp and he needed to ingratiate himself with them if this plan was ever going to work. He ordered his direwolf to sit and stay.
"Longspear, watch the beast." Rattleshirt ordered Longspear Ryk as he yanked open the tent flap. He gestured for Jon and Ygritte to step in and the both of them did so with the Lord of Bones bringing up the rear.
The inside of the tent was warm and smoky, the air was hot and thick, and it was almost homely. Baskets of burning peat stood in all four corners, filling the air with a dim reddish light. More skins carpeted the ground. Jon felt utterly alone as he stood there in his blacks, awaiting the pleasure of the turncloak who called himself the King-beyond-the-Wall. It was darker within than without and Jon's eyes took a moment to adjust. When they did, he took in six people sitting within the king's tent and none of them were paying him any mind. A dark young man and a pretty blonde woman were sharing a horn of mead. A pregnant woman stood over a brazier cooking a brace of hens, while a grey-haired man in a tattered cloak of black and red sat cross-legged on a pillow, playing a lute and singing a bawdy tune that sounded familiar to Jon's ears.
"The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun
and her kisses were warmer than spring.
But the Dornishman's blade was made of black steel,
and its kiss was a terrible thing."
A bawdy tune if he ever heard one and something that was not misplaced within the halls of Castle Black. Jon remembered some occasions when the song was sung and the few Dornishmen who were amongst the black brothers took offence to it. Not enough to start any fights or brawls, but enough to send dark looks and the revelers. Old wounds died hard and even more so at the Wall.
From the corner of his eye Jon watched as Rattleshirt took off his yellowed skull-turned-helm. The man didn't look so big with the bone and leather armor off, more like an ordinary man, smaller than some Jon had known. The Lord of Bones had a plain face that was not ugly but far from comely. Knobby chin, thin mustache, and sallow, pinched cheeks.
"The Dornishman's wife would sing as she bathed,
in a voice that was sweet as a peach,
But the Dornishman's blade had a song of its own,
and a bite sharp and cold as a leech."
Other than the singer, the men who took Jon's attention was the one that was sitting by the brazier and eating a chicken and a tall one standing over a map with a frown on his face. The man by the brazier was short but large man with a hen on a skewer in his hands. Hot grease was running down his face with each bite and into his white beard, but he didn't seem to take note of it. Thick gold bands graven with runes bound his massive arms, and he wore a heavy shirt of black ringmail that could only have come from a dead ranger. There was also a peculiar looking dagger at his hip that was made of a black colored glass, something similar to those that Jon and Sam had found at the Fist of the First Men, dragonglass.
The man overlooking the map was taller and leaner man with a leather shirt sewn with bronze scales, a dagger on his waist that was very similar to the one that the bearded man had, and a two handed greatsword slung over his back, the pommel peaking over his shoulder. He was straight as a spear, all long wiry muscle, clean-shaved, bald, with a strong straight nose and deep-set grey eyes. He might even have been comely if he'd had ears, but he had lost both along the way, whether to frostbite or some enemy's knife Jon could not tell.
Both men looked like warriors and the most probable at being the King-beyond-the-Wall. The others within this tent were two women, one of which was obviously with child, while the other seemed more beautiful than anything else, all blonde hair like dark honey that was braided over one shoulder and white furs from head to toe. The remaining two were a comely looking younger man and an older looking singer with his lute. Those two couldn't be king so it had to be the older man with the white beard or the bald man without ears.
All Jon had to do now was figure out which one was Mance Rayder.
"As he lay on the ground with the darkness around,
and the taste of his blood on his tongue,
His brothers knelt by him and prayed him a prayer,
and he smiled and he laughed and he sung,
Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done,
the Dornishman's taken my life,
But what does it matter, for all men must die,
and I've tasted the Dornishman's wife!"
The song ended with no applause, just the sound of chicken being eaten, a fire crackling within the brazier, and men and women breathing. Jon personally thought it sounded rather swell, but the time for bawdy songs this was not, so he refrained from making a comment and simply schooled his features. The bald and earless man looked up from the map once the song had ended and only then noticed that there were more people within the tent.
"What's this? You brought a crow here?"
"The black bastard what gutted Orell," Rattleshirt said. "and a fucking warg as well."
"You were to kill them all." Was the bald man's reply.
"This one come over," Ygritte stepped in to say. "He slew Qhorin Halfhand with his own hand."
"This… boy?" The bald and earless man sounded angered by Ygritte's words, his eyes were narrowed at Jon, his face hard otherwise. "The Halfhand should have been mine. Do you have a name, crow?"
"Jon Snow, Your Grace." Jon said the words, but they felt wrong to him. But he had to do this, to keep his cover and not let the Halfhand's sacrifice be in vain.
"Your Grace?" The bald and earless man looked at the big white-bearded one. "You see. He takes me for a king."
The man with the white beard laughed so hard that chicken flew from his mouth. He rubbed the grease from his face with a huge hand and smiled at Jon.
"A blind boy must be. Who ever heard of a king without ears? Why, his crown would fall straight down to his neck! Har!" He grinned at Jon, wiping his fingers clean on his breeches. "Close your beak, crow. Spin yourself around, might be you'd find who you're looking for."
Jon turned and found himself face to face with the singer.
"I'm Mance Rayder." The singer said whilst putting his lute aside. "And you are Ned Stark's bastard."
Jon Snow was stunned. How did this man know who he was? Sure, everyone in the North knew that he was the Bastard of Winterfell, but surely that information hadn't reached beyond the wall? That this King-beyond-the-Wall knew who he was might not bode well.
"How… how could you know…" Was what Jon managed to get out once his mouth started working again.
"That's a tale for later," Mance Rayder deflected with a wave of the hand. "How did you like the song, lad?"
"Well enough. I've heard it before."
"But what does it matter, for all men must die," the King-beyond-the-Wall said lightly, "and I've tasted the Dornishman's wife. Tell me, does my Lord of Bones speak truly? Did you slay my old friend the Halfhand?"
"I did." Jon didn't feel good about it, but the ranger had insisted upon it.
"A shame, the Shadow Tower will never again seem as fearsome," The king said with sadness in his voice. "Qhorin was my enemy. But also, my brother, once. So… shall I thank you for killing him, Jon Snow? Or curse you?"
He gave Jon a mocking smile that was also somehow tired and pained.
In that moment, the King-beyond-the-Wall looked nothing like a king, nor even much a wildling. To Jon, he looked more like an aged ranger from Castle Black than anything else. The man was of middling height, slender, sharp-faced, with shrewd brown eyes and long brown hair that had gone mostly to grey. There was no crown on his head, no gold rings on his arms, no jewels at his throat, not even a gleam of silver. There too was a dragonglass dagger at his hip. The man wore wool and leather, and his only garment of note was his ragged black wool cloak, its long tears patched with faded red silk.
"You'd ought to do both." Jon said honestly.
"Har!" The man with the white beard gave booming laugh sending more chicken into the air. "Well said!"
"Agreed." Mance Rayder beckoned Jon closer. "If you would join us, you'd best know us. The man you took for me is Styr, Magnar of Thenn. Magnar means 'lord' in the Old Tongue." The earless man stared at Jon coldly as Mance turned to the white-bearded one. "Our ferocious chicken-eater here is my loyal Tormund. The woman-"
"Hold." Tormund said as he stood. "You gave Styr his style, now give me mine."
"As you wish." Mance Rayder said with a chuckle "Jon Snow, before you is the man known as Tormund Giantsbane, Tall-talker, Horn-blower, and Breaker of Ice. And here also Tormund Thunderfist, Husband to Bears, the Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods and Father of Hosts."
Jon Snow didn't know if all of those titles were actually serious ones or not. Speaker to Gods and Tall-talker sounded ridiculous even to him, and then there was also Husband to Bears, which Jon wasn't sure if he even wanted to know about. Though, he had to admit that they all sounded more impressive than Robert Baratheon's titles. Father of Hosts and Thunderfist were indeed more eye opening than Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. The images in his mind that they produced were strikingly different and yet startingly similar now that he was looking at Tormund.
"The good woman at the brazier," Mance Rayder went on, "is Dalla." The pregnant woman smiled shyly. "Treat her like you would any queen, she is carrying my child." He turned to the last two. "This beauty is her sister Val. Young Jarl beside her is her latest pet."
"I'm no man's pet." The man identified as Jarl said with a dark look on his face.
"And Val's no man," Tormund snorted. "You ought to have noticed that by now, boy."
Jon noted that Jarl scowled at that while Val smirked slightly.
"So, there you have us, Jon Snow" Mance Rayder continued. "The King-beyond-the-Wall and his court, such as it is. And now some words from you, I think. Where did you come from?"
"Winterfell," Jon answered. "by way of Castle Black."
"From Castle Black you say? Yet you were up near the Skirling Pass. Rather far for a ranging, no?" The King-beyond-the-Wall asked. Jon moved to answer but he found he could not at Mance Rayder moved immediately to speak with the lord of Bones. "How many were there?"
"Five." Rattleshirt said. "Three's dead and the boy's here. T'other went up a mountainside where no horse could follow."
"Was it only the five of you? Or are more of your brothers skulking about?" Mance Rayder questioned.
"We were four and the Halfhand. Qhorin was worth twenty common men." Jon said back.
"Truer words if I ever heard them." The other man gave Jon a small smile. "But that doesn't explain why a boy from Castle Black would be with rangers from the Shadow Tower."
It was time to put on the real mummers' act, or had he already been doing that? Jon Snow couldn't really tell at this point.
"The Lord Commander sent me to the Halfhand for seasoning, so he took me on his ranging. We found the villages abandoned so we kept going north until we came upon Rattleshirt here." Jon threw a finger over his shoulder at the wildling with the affinity for bone armor.
Tormund snorted at that and the Magnar of Thenn seemed to have an almost imperceptible smirk on his lips, though there was a hint of humor in his eyes, if for only a fleeting moment. Mance Rayder was about to speak again when a horn blast sounded through the air. All eyes went towards the tent flap and Ygritte opened it up to reveal others outside looking towards the horizon. It sounded like an ordinary horn blast to signal riders returning like the Night's Watch used, and soon the sound of a single horn blast stretched on, and it was clear that there would be no second blast, and then everyone within the tent was moving.
"I'll speak to lad alone." Mance Rayder said. "The rest of you leave us and go see about our latest visitor."
Tormund Giantsbane laughed as he stood up and took two more chickens from the brazier and stuff them into his pockets that were sewn to his furs as he left. The wildling woman, Val, looked somewhat anxious as she stood and followed Tormund out, Jarl – looking decidedly nervous – following soon after that. Styr, Magnar of Thenn, did not look at all happy about this latest visitor and left the tent with anger marring his features. Rattleshirt and Ygritte left mostly without notice, and soon enough Jon was left with only Mance Rayder and his wife Dalla.
The two of them shared a look and Jon wondered why this announcement had caused such varied reactions. The King-beyond-the-Wall didn't seem keen on providing answers and Dalla hadn't said a word since he had entered the tent. Jon Snow's curiosity at the entire situation only grew when he heard Tormund Giantsbane's words as he moved away from the tent.
"The White Wolf returns!"
Word of the White Wolf's arrival spread quick throughout camp. She had once heard it said that words were wind and that never seemed truer than right now. These words flew through the wind like no other and by the time they had arrived it seemed that everyone knew that the man had arrived.
Val walked alongside Tormund and Jarl as they made their way towards the growing crowd. Longspear Ryk was still keeping watch of the little crow's direwolf, Val having caught a good look at the beast with the white fur, those red eyes meeting her own. It hadn't even moved when they had all come out from the tent nor when Tormund had bellowed out about the White Wolf's return. Not that they knew it was him who the horn was calling, but Tormund was always a loud-mouthed man at times, and this time his words were true.
Rattleshirt slinked off elsewhere, most likely to where the rest of his band had made camp, and the girl who was kissed by fire, Ygritte was her name, she remained with their little group. The spearwife seemed somewhat attached to the little crow and Val wondered who was going to steal who. She didn't know much about the girl, but it was clear that she meant to fuck that little crow.
"Look at Ragnar! He's gotten bigger! Har!" Tormund bellowed as they made their way towards the one that many called the Warg King. The beast that served as the man's mount had indeed seemed to have grown even larger since the last time they saw of either of them. The massive beast was the size of a horse and much more dangerous than one as well. His fangs were the size of daggers and Val had heard tell of the last time a man had faced the beast, that man no longer lived, his corpse done and burnt. Ragnar's white fur blended in with the snow of the North at times the only thing that gave it away from the snow was those red eyes.
Blood red they were, and they always seemed too knowing for her liking.
As they half pushed half walked through the crowd, Val got a better look at the man. The White Wolf as they called him didn't seem to have changed all that much. His face was still scarred up and his left eye was still gone, no doubt his hatred of Thenns still persisted as well, and his one good idea remained that dark grey color. His black hair was still shorn short and remained half hidden under that hood of his. Nothing else looked different from before, though that blade at his waist did stand out, that definitely hadn't been there before.
It was shiny black compared to the rest of the man.
"Move it! Get out o' the way!" Tormund shouted as they reached the White Wolf. Jarl hung back behind Ygritte, who herself stood behind Tormund. Val stood beside the Giantsbane as they watched as the warg step from his mount. The direwolf didn't even seem to notice the weight and the fistfuls of fur that the man used as reins didn't seem to bother the beast either. Even Varamyr Sixskins didn't have that much control over his beasts, though that might have to do with the fact that he had six of the damn things instead of one. She was not afraid of skinchangers and wargs like some of the Free Folk were. Nor was Tormund, in fact the white bearded man was one of the few that could honestly call the White Wolf as friend.
The crowd that had settled around the Warg King allowed room for their little group. Val stayed back with Ygritte and in part Jarl as the two men met. Tormund gave a hearty laugh as he grasped the White Wolf's hand and pulled him into a hug. A rare smile graced the warg's face and some backslaps were given. Ragnar the direwolf watched it all whilst still standing at the ready, his eyes darting all around at the crowd, and Val felt a small shiver run up her spine. She knew as much about warging and skin changing as the next person, but hearing and seeing were different, and even though she had seen it before it still frightened her slightly at how much control the man had over his beast.
She had never even seen his eye go white like some of the wargs did when they skinchanged.
"Tormund." The White Wolf's voice was raspy from disuse and Tormund offered up a horn of ale from furred cloak. The warg took the horn and drank, his eye lighting with some humor as a two cooked chickens soon followed from within Tormund's cloak. One was handed to him and in moments the man had a breast in hand, the rest given to his direwolf, who chomped on it a couple times before the entire thing disappeared into its gullet.
The crowd had gotten over the excitement of seeing the Warg King return and had mostly dispersed. Many had come just to get a closer look at the direwolf, for Ragnar was the largest one that many had ever seen, and the beast never did act aggressively to anyone other than those who were aggressive in kind. The children were able to go up to Ragnar and pet his white fur without complaint or trouble, the horse sized direwolf just sitting on his haunches and letting it happen, even when his master was no where in sight. But that didn't happen this day as their little group was already making its way back to Mance's tent.
"Wolf, what news do you bring?" Tormund asked in a much quieter tone of voice as they walked.
Val noted that Ygritte and Jarl both kept a ways away from Ragnar the direwolf, though the beast didn't seem to care. Val didn't complain either, Jarl was simply what Mance had said he was, a pet, for the White Wolf was the real prize. Which made it all the more frustrating as the man had yet to even look at her yet, his focus solely on Tormund and whatever they had to speak about. She had expected some acknowledgment from the man yet had gotten nothing. Dalla would be laughing about it once she heard, Val knew for sure.
Val of Whitetree, prettiest of the Free Folk, not able to snare the White Wolf.
She was half tempted to just steal the man herself like she had done with Jarl. A dagger to the throat or the balls and they'd be hers. Yet that direwolf seemed to see and hear all, so there was no way that she could get close enough to the man's tent to actually attempt the deed, and that was when the man chose to sleep within one. Why couldn't he just go and steal her like many others had tried? At times it was like he didn't even see her, and other times he merely glanced at her appreciatingly for long enough for Val to notice, and then his gaze would slide elsewhere.
She liked it and hated it at the same time.
"They're moving further south." The White Wolf said to Tormund in that somewhat raspy voice, the ale doing much to clear it away. "The giants are moving south in stronger numbers then before, and the Great Walrus is starting to move south along the Shivering Sea as well."
There was no need to ask who they were. All of the Free Folk knew who was being mentioned, who they were all running away from, running south. The Others, the white walkers, the cold gods, the white shadows, whatever those demons liked to be called, they were all running away from them. Mance had gathered this great host so that they could get through the wall and behind it. Word that the White Wolf had brought only made those fears grow in Val's mind. They were still far away aye, but they were getting closer and closer, and now the Great Walrus was moving south and the rest of the giants as well.
"Erhm, grim news." Tormund frowned for a moment before slapping the other man on the back. "Come! We've gotten a little crow come fly down from his wall! He's in there with Mance right now!"
The White Wolf tensed slightly at that and looked towards the king's tent. Val followed his gaze and her eyes caught sight of the little crow's white direwolf still sitting outside of Mance's tent. That smaller direwolf with white fur and red eyes looked over at them and seemed to lock eyes with Ragnar for a moment. The bigger of the two merely sniffed once, not breaking stride beside its master. The White Wolf himself didn't seem to mind the other direwolf either, the only reaction that Val could see was a small twitch of the hand that rested on the hilt of that black blade with a curious looking pommel.
"This crow got a name?"
"Aye he does! Har! Jon Snow."
The White Wolf stepped up to the direwolf known as ghost. He knew Tormund and the others were standing besides him but for this moment his focus was on the direwolf and the direwolf alone. It would be easy to force his way into the beast's mind and take it over, but he had no use for another, and Ragnar seldom played nice with others of his kind. Then there was the fact that this beast was bonded to Jon Snow, even if the boy wasn't fully aware of it himself, and breaking a bond between a warg and his animal was potentially fatal if the connection was deep enough.
For now, the White Wolf simply brushed against the consciousness of the direwolf called ghost, and he felt the beast push back. The direwolf's teeth and fangs were bared at him, and that snarl came with it, and they were audible, a departure from the usually silent way the beast acted, and it brought a small smirk to his lips. Ghost was already more loyal to Jon than anyone else. Question was how deep that loyalty was. Was the boy consciously warging into his direwolf yet or were they still just dreams?
Either way, it was a conversation for another time, and the White Wolf stepped into the tent with no opposition. Mance's guards knew who he was, and he had Tormund and Val alongside him. They'd be idiots to stop him and thankfully they did not. The flap was swept aside, and he stepped into the tent to witness the end of the conversation between Mance and Jon Snow.
Both men turned to look at the White Wolf and he noted that Jon Snow looked a lot younger than he expected. This boy had been Azor Ahai the last time the man once called Cregan had lived. That was a lifetime ago and they had all paid a heavy price to win that war, Jon Snow especially, for he had not been ready in the slightest. None of them had been. Standing before him now, Jon Snow looked more like a boy than anything else, sixteen years of age by his count, and certainly still a boy of summer. There wasn't even a beard on his chin nor a hardened look in his eyes from war.
That would need to change quickly if they were all going to get through this alive.
"Mance." His voice was still raspy. Months traveling mostly alone with only Ragnar for company had made his throat act up. Speaking came harder than it should have, and now he could never say too many words less he end up rasping his way into becoming a mute.
"Wolf." Mance Rayder said and turned to Jon. "Jon Snow, this is the White Wolf, call him Wolf if you must. Wolf, this is Jon Snow, formerly of the Night's Watch, and now a just another member of the Free Folk."
Jon looked nervous at meeting the White Wolf's gaze and he should be. He knew that he certainly wasn't as comely as he had once been. Losing his left eye had seen to that, his face scarred up along his left side, and the fact that he rarely had a reason to smile any more meant that he seemed to have an almost permanent frown on his face. He also knew that Jon Snow was acting his way through this all and that his loyalties were still firmly with the Night's Watch.
The honorable fool, he didn't see the threat that they were all facing, and many didn't. That would change soon enough, and whether Jon Snow adapted or died was up to him, for no man was standing in his way towards the Wall. They all needed to get behind it, and that was just the beginning.
"I have word from Lord Rivers." Wolf slipped into Old Tongue so that Jon Snow didn't learn anything he should not. Mance seemed to catch on and said some final parting words with Jon about getting him a new cloak before handing him off to Tormund. Val stepped into the tent as the rest of that little group left to get the aforementioned cloak.
The White Wolf noted the way that the spearwife was looking at him and fought a grimace. He'd need to deal with that eventually. They had a Wall to get behind and a war with the Night's King to win, so he'd best sate the woman's desires now, so that they could all focus on the task at hand.
"What does he say?" Mance asked as he motioned for them all to sit by the brazier. Dalla handed him a cup of something, tea mayhaps, and he took it and drank. The hot liquid went down his throat and seemed to warm him up some.
"We're running out of time." Wolf replied. "We need to get behind the Wall."
"He offers no more words of advice?"
"None. Just to get south."
Mance frowned at that and simply nodded. Getting south was the main task they had to worry about. As many people they could deny the Night's King the better. More bodies behind the Wall would spell fewer bodies for the undead army. It was literally every man and woman on task for this.
He watched as Mance steeled himself and then stood and made his way towards the map within his tent. It was a crudely made thing that wasn't exactly accurate, but it was better than nothing. The White Wolf joined him and the two of them looked over the map. The sounds of the two women in the tent whispering to each other could be heard but he paid no mind to them. He felt through his bond that Jon Snow was walking past Ragnar, and as he slipped into his direwolf so that he could see out of his beast's red eyes, he watched for a moment as Jon balked at the sheer size of Ragnar. As big as a horse he was, right intimidating, and Jon Snow quickly took his leave with Ghost and a laughing Tormund.
"We need to take Castle Black." Mance said as he tapped the map. "It's the closest by far and one of only three open tunnels. The rest have been packed with ice and rock and sealed shut."
"Castle Black, yes, but not just it." Wolf said and tapped another fort. "Shadow Tower, Halfhand is dead, and Mallister is old."
"That journey will take days, you and I both know this."
"Still." Damn his throat hurt. Speaking in the Old Tongue was making this harder as well. He sipped at Dalla's tea some more. "Do it. We will get through the Wall."
With that, the White Wolf left the King-beyond-the-Wall with a solitary pat on the arm, and turned back towards the tent. Val caught his gaze for a moment, and he realized that this was probably the most opportune time to deal with it. They had a long march to get on with towards the Wall and then they had to take the control of and get behind the damn thing. There wouldn't be any more time, and if what he had planned was going to work, he'd need more than just himself to do it.
The White Wolf motioned for Val to come with and then left the king's tent. Ragnar was waiting for him, those red eyes meeting his solitary grey one, and the beast gave a huff of air. No sooner than that, did Val exit the tent as well, and he simply nodded at her before choosing a direction and walking. Ragnar and Val followed and the three of them kept in silence as they went. Himself for his damn throat, Ragnar because he willed it, and Val because he just might be playing into her hand.
He hadn't set up a tent, but there were many caves in the Frostfangs, and some of them had hot springs as well. Mayhaps they might help his throat not be so sore and raw. His bones could use a good soak as well, and he was pretty sure he stunk something fierce, months in the company of wilderness not doing him any favors. Not that Val seemed to care, going by the look on her face, though he was looking at her through Ragnar's eyes.
She didn't say anything to him when they eventually found the cave with the hot springs. Not when he sighed as the warmth of the air hit his face, nor when he shucked his furs and daggers and pack and Dark Sister to the side, nor when he was naked as the day he was born and stepped into the warm water with a sigh. Ragnar stayed at the mouth of the cave sat on his haunches. The White Wolf faintly noted that Val had at one point divested herself of her white furs.
When she slipped into the hot springs' warm water he knew not. His one good eye was closed, and he could almost feel the months of slogging through harsh winter weather and delaying the Others falling from his shoulders. It had been too long since he had a good bath, and it might be his last for some time, so he wished to savor it for the nonce. He scrubbed the dirt and grime from his body as best he could and dunked his head underneath the water. When he resurfaced, he felt a pair of hands on his back, and he had to fight himself to not flinch away, it had been many months since another person had touched him.
What she was getting out of this he didn't know, but Val helped wash his back and then the rest of him, and he did so for her in turn. They didn't speak a single word as time seemed to drag on and filth was washed away. He washed everything about himself from his mouth to his feet as best he could. He might not have a chance to do so in many months to come. When skin wrinkled from the water, he left with water dripping over the stones beneath him, and soon she followed him.
Her patience ran thin after that and soon enough they were both on stone covered with fur. Whose furs was a question for later, as was who had stolen who. It didn't truly matter in the end as they had both gotten what they had came for. The White Wolf was out of practice and Val more eager than levelheaded. The motions were rough and hasty, not at all controlled, more animalistic than anything else.
It didn't matter in the end however, they both found what they had came here for, and once it was all over, they had both found themselves staring up at the ceiling of this cave. His throat was still sore, and she didn't want to speak anyway. Eventually the tendrils of sleep came for them, and the one-eyed man once known as Cregan closed his eye with the thoughts of what was to come racing through his mind, killing and death and walls of ice and dead men walking.