Jon awoke feeling… different. His dreams had been unsettling. Flashes of fire, sunlight and screams; of white cloaks stained red, buried in hot sands. He tried to return to sleep but was too restless. His tossing and turning had woken up the other occupant of his room.

Val reached an arm over and pulled him flat to the bed. Without a word she twined their legs together and promptly fell back asleep on his shoulder. This was a new development, one Jon couldn't pretend was unwelcome. Settling back in the dark, he allowed himself to relax.

Rayder's band had been on Skagos for nearly four months, long enough to be present for Jon's third anniversary on Skagos. Mance had met with the Great Shepherd multiple times. There was some distaste at first, but the two had become cordial, even somewhat friendly. Everyone now waited for them to be summoned by the Children. Torrhen said he'd observed the proper customs, and his request had been heard. Without much else to do but wait, Mance and Dalla had returned Beyond-The-Wall for a brief period to reassure the Free Folk and keep the peace. Val and a few others had deigned to stay.

Jon, as inexperienced as he was in romance (at least Jon hoped this could be called romance) knew he and Val had been circling each other for some time. Things were tense, in an exciting way, as they grew closer and closer. Val had taken his lips by surprise on a walk to the Godswood, Jon stole his own share of kisses near their spot on the pier. He'd been worried that going any further would be improper but Val had quickly run rampant over his hesitation. She'd snuck into his room one night during a particularly loud thunderstorm. That meeting would have been very awkward if she'd been there to "steal him", thankfully they'd had their own argument about that particular custom a few days earlier. Thinking back, Jon wondered if his vehement disgust with the practice had influenced her decision.

Val had snuck her way into his room not armed with a rope and gag, she'd brought a water sac and some small treats. Her proposition had been quite clear but measured, she had a knack for reading his hesitation. While she possessed the stereotypical Free Folk bluntness, Val was like Mance in that she demonstrated the guile and cunning a people developed when living on the edge of starvation for over seven thousand years. Discussion led to compromise. They'd mutually agreed to take things, as Val put, "slower than a broken sled," so as to "not offend Jon's Southron sensibilities." She absolutely loved pulling that line out, always with a charming wink.

Underneath all the coy jokes, Jon was immensely relieved. Val's "courtship" came with no expectation of Jon, either from his status as a ward of the Great Shepherd or from his family line. She certainly maintained certain standards of him, but they were built from her own preferences and based entirely on Jon. Not the Bastard of Winterfell, not the student of Wolftongue, just Jon… Lord Snow as the Free Folk still called him.

Regardless of the respect that had been drilled into him by courtly lessons and stern talks, Jon was a boy of six-and-ten, Val was almost eight-and-ten as far as she knew.

When Beorn barged in and found Val naked and nestled underneath his pillows, the man chuckled. "I wondered if you'd be able to keep it together past the first planting season," he declared.

When Mance and Dalla returned, Jon had been unsure of their reaction. He was, after all, a "southron kneeler." Mance had laughed his ass off, nearly choked on a rib bone at the same time. Dalla had pulled her younger sister away for the afternoon and said not a word afterwards. The dagger Jon had found stuck in his bedpost that evening had been warning enough.

Outside of Jon's newfound relationship, things were in motion across the North:

Word had finally reached Skagos about the bandits in the Rills; Jon had been relieved to hear about his father's survival.

Travelers coming back to the island for the new year ceremonies said the Merman's Road was finally finished.

Rumors from the coast said that Roose Bolton had taken to escorting his son everywhere. Something about an attempted assassination. Wolftongue would say little on the subject after returning from the Dreadfort.

Robb's last letter had mentioned a strange message from Theon in White Harbour, something about meeting a distant family member. Jon may have disliked the Greyjoy, but he hadn't ever wished him harm. At least, harm outside a few good smacks in the training yard.

A letter from Lord Stark had arrived just the other day, the initial work of digging the Wolfswood Canal was well on its way.

Jon was anticipating his own return home. Father had decided that for King Robert's visit, the entire family should be present. He couldn't wait to reunite with all of them. He'd saved up a whole chest worth of gifts and tokens to bring back.

Two fingers tugged his ear, drawing Jon's gaze down to Val.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Where's Ghost?" she returned.

He glanced around his room and saw no sign of the wolf. Frowning, Jon got up and looked out into the common room. A few men and women were sleeping off their hangovers from the celebration last night, but no direwolf.

Jon turned back, Val had already begun dressing, "Odd, he usually waits for me to wake before going out," Jon mused while putting on his trousers.

Ghost reappeared only after they broke their fast. He wasn't alone. Jogging down the path through the village was Beorn and Mira.

"Jon, Val!" Beorn called, "Where's Rayder?"

"Inside." Val pointed.

Beorn rushed into the house, leaving Mari to watch Val sneak Ghost some choice leftovers from their plates.

"What's going on, Mari?" Jon asked.

"It's the Children," Mari declared. "They've called for a meeting."

Their entire group was awakened and rushed to the entrance of Veiden. Mance was nervous, he paced back and forth, lost in his own thoughts.

Torrhen came out of the valley, dressed in full regalia. He nodded to Mance. "The time has come. We must go to one of the ancient copse on the peaks. They await us."

Mance faced Dalla and his men, giving final orders and loving embraces.

Torrhen turned to the rest of them, "You too, Jon. Your presence has been called for."

Jon swallowed, gave Val and Beorn strong hugs and followed the two men. They walked through the valley, past Stone Heart to the cliff face that walled in the far side of the field. Torrhen stepped up to sheer rock, reached into two small inlets and pulled. A hidden door swung open! An entire entrance carved and painted to resemble the rock wall, hid a cave. Up and up, a stone stairway crisscrossed higher and higher just inside the rock. From the outside it was a normal cliff face, there was no indication of the hidden staircase within. They followed the steps, sustained by hundreds of tiny holes that brought light and air into the cave. After minutes of climbing, Torrhen stopped before another door. This one was ancient, made of iron-wood with bronze fixtures.

Jon was momentarily distracted by the irony of that naming. Iron-wood was just a mistranslation of the Old Tongue name, "metal-bark", by the Andals.

Torrhen carefully swung the door open, the light of the sun blinded all three of them. Manced walked out of the cave without a second thought. Jon hesitated, waiting for Torrhen to proceed first.

"No, Jon." Torrhen said. "The Children were very clear," he frowned then, "only the Climber and the Whitewolf may enter."

Jon blinked, "I'm the Whitewolf?"

Torrhen dropped his shoulders, looking at Jon with a rare pity and fondness. He nodded to Jon's feet, where Ghost finally pushed past Jon's knees and out through the doorway.

"I doubt anyone else fits that description," Torrhen remarked.

Taking a few cautious steps, Jon nodded at his mentor and walked into the sunlight.

/

There was sky, bright sky all around them. Jon and Mance stood on a small plateau high above the rest of Skagos. The flat stone under them had deep grooves, smooth from millenia of rain and wind. Despite the harsh conditions it must be exposed to day in and day out, planted in the middle of the plateau was three shrivelled Weirwoods. White bark so weathered it was dull grey. Broken branches and dead roots surrounded them. A tiny patch of soil underneath them was their only comfort.

Mance looked on, fascinated. "How old is this grove?"

The two men walked closer, drawn to the solemn grace of the trees. Jon noticed there were strange shapes laid out between the weirwoods. No, Jon realized, they weren't laid out between the weirwoods, the roots of the weirwoods went through them.

"Bones!" Jon exclaimed.

Mance's eyes widened. He took a careful step down into the dirt. Leaning forward, he gently drew a finger across the form, clearing the dust and rocks. Bleached bone shone underneath the filth. A curled up skeleton with roots moving through its ribcage and knee joints.

"Were they buried here, under the sky?" Jon wondered. "Did the trees grow around their bodies?"

Mance shook his head, "They were alive," he decided.

The gaps in the skeleton's ribs and joints were not simply separated, they had regrown around the roots, sealing them inside the body. Such a thing required blood and breath for the body to heal. What agony it must have been.

"Indeed."

Mance and Jon snapped to attention. Sitting at the centre of the trees was a diminutive figure wrapped in heavy robes. At their feet was a large wooden bowl.

"Join me."

The two hesitantly inched forward. Standing across the bowl from the stranger, Jon could see small bits of dark earthy skin through the gaps in their cloak. The cloak itself was not made of cloth, or any hide or fur, it was woven of moss.

"Sit."

Each word reverberated inside of itself, layered like an echo. The Child's tone was soft, surprisingly high-pitched, like a bird's call or a fox's whine.

The trio sat. Mance and the Child facing each other, with Jon between them. He looked down into the bowl and found raised channels running the interior. Curved from the rim in a large pattern swirling inwards, culminating in a single point at the bottom.

"Child of the Forest," Mance began, "I've come here as a last resort, to find guidance."

"Speak, Climber. I am listening."

"Dead men walk in the far north. The Others stir." Mance announced.

Jon was frozen, he looked at Mance. Was the chieftain mad? A lunatic?

"The cold's come down from the Lands of Always Winter. The Thenns have fled their valley. No one is left west of the Milkwater. I've gathered as many tribes as I can."

"You have done well, Baelman." The Child complimented.

Mance's face was desperate, an expression Jon had never seen on the always confident leader.

"I must save them. Except," Mance quieted, "I don't want to throw their lives away on a plan that won't work."

"What is your plan?" The Child asked.

"Get past the Wall." Mance said.

Jon's heart stilled. The Wildling was talking about invasion. He was talking about going over, around, under, going past the Wall. The Watch would try to stop him and they would clash. Mance was talking about killing Uncle Benjen.

Before Jon could lash out, the Child spoke, "They must come south."

"What?" Jon whispered.

Mance took a deep breath, ignored Jon, "How? The Lord Commander won't listen to me. Even if we managed to break through and man the Wall, there's nothing to stop the Lords from coming for us. Unless the White Walkers are right in front of them, they won't heed my warnings."

The Child held up a clawed hand with only four digits and spoke:

"Three things must come to pass for hope to be birthed anew.

The Three-Eyed Crow must be freed from their sanctuary.

The Skildva must retake the cursed fort, where the King in the North shall call a council of Magnars.

Old grievances must be paid for and laws must be made with common cause.

Then we shall have hope."

Mance and Jon were stunned.

"It'll be too late." Mance lamented. "I told you. The Night's Watch will massacre us before even sitting down to negotiate. Besides, there's no King in the North, there hasn't been for 300 years!"

"Baelman, you shall bring your people south. Blood shall call to blood. The Gods foretell that kin shall heed kin, no matter how distant or hidden. In the North, a King shall be crowned. The world is waking.

It will not be quick, but Summer wanes. You, Climber, must swear here and now, before the Gods to agree to these terms. If you do not. Your people's corpses shall feed the army of the dead." The Child declared.

Mance rubbed his face in frustration. "The tribes will never agree to this. They followed me because I had a plan but the moment I start talking about negotiating with crows and kneelers, they'll abandon me."

The Child titled their head, "You are the King-Beyond-The-Wall."

"I go back north and talk about this? My people will scatter. The Free Folk listen to me as long as I don't sound too insane. The sane ones realized that I was their only option, the rabid ones were cowed into submission. At this point, the only way the army will stay together is by assaulting the Wall. However hopeless that is. It's the dream they're following, not the man." Mance confessed.

"I don't believe you." Jon interrupted.

Mance looked over at the young man. He'd been quiet ever since the Child had addressed them, his direwolf sat silently at his back. Jon was more at ease here than Mance himself. Strange to think a chieftain's nerves would fray and a greenboy's would hold steady.

"I've read and listened to dozens upon dozens of stories. About Magnars and Kings and Lords." Jon said. "Men who could call upon vast armies and ruled over leagues of land. I also learned about Chiefs and Fathers, who had one tiny hall and maybe a dozen subjects, petty kings and nothing more. Do you know what all those ancient people had in common? No matter their status or wealth?"

Jon stood, Ghost with him.

"When they spoke, others listened. You can be the rightful Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms… or you could be a bastard. All that matters is when you speak, do people listen? That's true power, a voice that is heard."

The Child chuckled, "The Whitewolf speaks."

Mance stared at Jon. He seemed so much taller, starker here in this stone Godswood.

Taking a deep breath, Mance nodded and held out his hand. "In the name of the Free Folk, I agree to your terms."

"The Whitewolf shall be our witness, as kin to the King in the North, he shall bring word to Winterfell."

All three of them leaned over the bowl. A small stone knife, some kind of strange black stone, was passed out by the Child. Jon looked down at the blade and recalled the sword resting in Bran The Builder's crypt. He and Mance cut their thumbs and pressed the digits to the bowl lip. The Child did the same, though their blood was dark and thin. The three trails curved along the channels, painting the bowl a dark rusted tone. They mixed together in the basin. Next, the Child walked to each of the three weirwoods and drained a small amount of sap and added it to the basin as well.

Ghost tensed and lifted his head. For the first time Jon could remember, Ghost howled long and loud. Jon's heart sped up, it hammered in his chest. His vision split. He saw himself, Mance and the Child sitting beneath him. He saw Ghost howling to the sky. He saw a figure in a black, feathered cloak sitting against one of the weirwoods. Jon could only watch as his body moved without his consent.

His eyes misted over to the milky paleness of a warg. A terrible voice emanated from Jon's throat:

"The Rayder and The Speaker are compact, as seen by the Gods.

Let it be heard from peak to pond,

from hearth to grave.

By earth and water,

bronze and iron,

fire and ice."

A pact was made that day.

It would bring forth fortune and doom to the realms of men.

/