Gazing at his own reflection from his blade, Jon could hardly recognise himself. Once it would be a dark brown-eyed green boy staring back at him. Now it was a young man with a growing beard and matted hair looking back.
Jon pushed his shiny dagger back into the scabbard that hung from the leather belt around his waist. The leather belt from a dead wildling, he remembered. He'd shared clothes with Robb (mostly old cloaks) in his youth, but he rarely wore old clothes handed down from other people, or dead people. Now I wear the furs and boots of wildlings that are both dead and alive. Jon recalled learning in his lessons that wildlings often fought amongst each others for food, furs, weapons or even a choice of lovers, but the fighting had ceased recently, in favour of a unified attack against the northern lords and men of the Night's Watch. However, it still seemed that a few wildlings were eager to spill wildling blood and took it out on some of their former wildling enemies.
I am almost a wildling now, Jon thought, pulling a furred hood over his tousled dark brown hair. He made a face. It sounded so wrong, yet it was the truth. Over the last few months, Jon had hunted and killed with Mance Rayder, King-Beyond-the-Wall, and broke bread with his late wife and good-sister. He'd even ate and chatted with other wildlings Mance viewed with high regard, jovial Tormund Giantsbane being one of them. Once I attack the men of the Night's Watch, I'll be a wildling in truth. Jon almost slapped himself in the face. He'd never fight against a man of the Night's Watch.
"You are quite the brooder, Lord Snow."
The flap of the tent opened and a beautiful young woman walked in. A wildling woman. Her blonde hair the colour of dark honey, cascaded down her back to her waist and a glimmer of mischief sparkled in her pale grey eyes. Today she looked like a winter warrior princess, dressed from head to toe in white: white woollen breeches tucked into high boots of bleached white leather, a white bearskin cloak pinned at the shoulder with an old carved weirwood face, white tunic with bone fastenings and a white leather belt where she attached the scabbard holding her favourite weapon, a long bone knife.
A small smile lingered on Jon's expression. "I told you I'm no lord, Val. I'm just Lord Stark's bastard." Lord Stark's bastard nephew in truth. "Jon Snow," he said, a tad bitter. "I was born Jon Snow and I will die Jon Snow." His smile disappeared a second later when the wildling Val burst out laughing.
"Such a southron way to think!" the slender wildling woman declared. "Do you think we all die with the same names we are born with? I once had a friend called Ygritte – we now call her Ygritte the Bloodthirsty, Ygritte the Bold even."
Jon scowled. He didn't want to be reminded of the red-headed wildling.
"If you hate your name, Lord Snow, change it."
"Don't call me Lord Snow."
"I thought you kneelers like being called lord. Milord this, milord that." Val the wildling smirked. Even Jon couldn't resist a chuckle. Before he was captured by a wildling in a battle, he knew this one southron lordling – the fifth son of a Noble House or something – who demanded to be addressed as "my lord," or he would pettily refuse to obey orders. He was a stubborn idiot and Jon was relieved when the southron lordling was stabbed to death by a wildling. At least his family could be told that he died defending the Wall from the enemy.
"Did you hope to capture a lord, Val?"
Val shrugged. "It would've been nice, wouldn't it? I'd be the first to have stolen a southron lord for my own." She eyed Jon. "You'll do though."
Jon bristled. "You didn't steal me. You almost killed me!"
"It's war, Lord Snow. What did you expect me to do? Throw myself at your feet and beg for mercy?" She scowled. "I am no southron flower. If it was up to me, I'd rather die than submit to southron mercy." Her fingers curled around Jon's wrist as she yanked him towards the flap of the tent. "We wasted enough time as it is. I doubt Mance would be happy waiting for us to show up."
"I doubt Mance Rayder chose you to be messenger maiden."
"One of us had to come and fetch you. Half the men believe Mance had lost his wits in trusting you. Alfyn Crowkiller said that trusting a kneeler is like breaking bread with an Other."
Jon arched an eyebrow as he allowed Val to lead him out of his tent and to the tent of the King-beyond-the-Wall. It was no surprise that Alfyn Crowkiller hadn't trusted him or liked him. Alfyn was an infamous wildling leader who was known for slewing the most members of the Night's Watch. He was definitely one of the bloodiest of the wildling raiders. It was also his loud, booming voice Jon recalled hearing first when he had broke through days of unconsciousness. "Send back his body!" Alfyn Crowkiller had shouted. "We'll send it back piece by piece for every man or woman killed! We'll start with sending back his cock!" To Jon's unease, an astonishingly great number of wildlings had agreed excitedly. Thankfully, it was Mance Rayder himself who saved him from a painful death.
As Jon and Val approached Mance's tent, made from white pelts of snow bears and topped with the antlers of a giant elk, Jon felt slightly disconcerted. If Mance was in a good mood, the sound of wildling songs would've already been heard. It was silence that greeted Jon at the flap of the great tent.
"I brought the kneeler," announced Val, once the tent flap closed behind them. More silence. Jon glanced around. He recognised all the wildlings present. All the wildlings in Mance Rayder's tent were clan chiefs. The one closest to Jon was the wildling clan chief Ygon Oldfather, an old, balding man with a bushy white beard. He reminded Jon a lot of Walder Frey (without the weaselly appearance and long, pink neck). Ygon Oldfather was a proud man, a little ill-tempered and unpleasant at times, and had eighteen wives, ten more than Walder Frey. According to one or two other wildlings, the majority of Ygon's clan was composed of his own brood of sons and grandsons. If Ygon's unpleasantness had not reminded Jon of Walder Frey, his clan of kin had at once.
Sitting next to Ygon Oldfather was Harle the Handsome, who led a clan of free folk with his brother Harle the Huntsman. It was astonishing how the two Harles managed to successfully lead their wildling clan when they hated each other. It'd been said that they both had a son with the same woman. Maybe it was good that Harle the Huntsman was out fighting at present.
Adjacent to Harle the Handsome was Tormund Giantsbane who'd greeted Jon with a hearty chuckle, his eyes shifting from Jon to Val and back to Jon. During his short time with the wildlings, Jon considered Tormund to be one of the friendlier wildlings. Tormund wasn't tall, but had a broad chest, a massive belly and a snow white beard. On his massive arms, he wore golden bands engraved with runes of the First Men which had been passed down by his forefathers. Jon noticed that he was armoured with heavy ringmail that was similar to those worn by men of the Night's Watch. It was a common norm for wildlings to don the armour that had at one stage belonged to the black brothers, as was using the weapons they'd stolen from men of the Night's Watch. Some wildlings would even strip their enemies of clothing after they killed them and wear their blood-soaked clothes. The thought of it made Jon shudder.
"Don't just stand there!" Tormund's booming voice dragged Jon away from his thoughts. "Sit down, boy!"
Jon glanced at the King-Beyond-the-Wall who gave him a slow nod. Jon hastily sat down next to Tormund as Val made her way to sit opposite him. Jon declined the cup of mead Tormund offered and waited for someone to speak. As expected, it was Mance Rayder who spoke first.
"We are facing a long winter," Mance Rayder said solemnly, his shrewd brown eyes meeting every wildling's eyes. "We have faced many winters, as enemies, or as allies. We fought during winter, and we had shared meals during winter. None of those winters will be as harsh as this one."
"No."
Jon glanced at the glowering man sitting on Mance's right. The Weeper, he was called, named for his watery eyes. He was known by the black brothers and even the northern mountain clans for being a rather cruel and savage man who took a dark pleasure in blinding his victims (commonly rangers). The Weeper rarely sat with other wildlings and if he did, it was usually with those from his own clan. In strictest terms, he was Mance's ally. Not friend, but ally.
"No," the Weeper said again, fixing his watery eyes on Mance Rayder. "I know what you want, and I refuse to agree to it. You are tired, old man, and you want to sue for peace." He jerked his head at Jon. "That's why you were so adamant in Val keeping him alive rather than having the Crowkiller kill him."
Droplets of mead splashed onto Jon's arm as Tormund angrily slammed down his cup onto the table. "Peace?" he growled. "When we are winning?"
"There are men and women at the Wall!" shouted the Crowkiller. "We have all the men of the Night's Watch at our mercy! Give it all up for peace?" He spat. "I've not expected you to be a coward!" His eyes fell on Jon. "I'll kill you!"
"You do and it'll be your entrails the crows feed on!"
Everyone turned and stared at Val.
"It's Mance's decision wanting peace," Val said calmly, "not Jon Snow's. I know you're itching to kill him for having a crow uncle, but you heard Mance. No one is to harm a single hair on Jon Snow." She looked at Mance. "The crows won't even consider negotiating for peace. They want us dead too."
"We don't negotiate with the crows," Mance answered. "We negotiate with the true Lord of Winterfell." His eyes met Jon's. "Jon Snow's father."
Alfyn Crowkiller spat on the ground again. "What use is that? The bloody Stark lords despise us as much as the crows do. There'll be none of us left if we journey to Winterfell and offer peace. Once we arrive at the gates, we'll all lose our heads, and our entrails will be fed to those bloody wolves."
Val produced a letter from her pocket. "I doubt it, Crowkiller. The kneelers are in no position to refuse peace." She threw the letter to Alfyn Crowkiller, who was one of the few wildlings who could read – not that many of them had bothered to learn in the first place. "Read it for yourself," Val said challengingly.
Questions flew in Jon's mind. How did Val get her hands on a raven from lords of the south? What did the letter say?
To Jon's surprise, Alfyn snorted as he returned the letter to Val. "Kneelers and their pointless wars." He shook his head. "All for a fucking throne!"
"When the true enemy lies north," murmured Mance thoughtfully.
Jon wasn't the only one who gave him a puzzled look.
"What are the terms?" grunted Ygon Oldfather, picking at his teeth with a thin bone. "Not a surrender I hope. If you surrender, I will kill ya myself."
"I will not surrender!" said Mance, with a hint of irritation. "Do you truly think I would surrender? All I want is peace for the winter!"
"And what will we do in winter? Eat, sleep and fuck?"
"We do what we do every other winter, Oldfather." Mance took a deep breath, before addressing everyone again. "I believe if we negotiate with Ned Stark, we'll secure peace that is favourable towards us. Ned Stark's a man of honour and he'll ensure his lords keep peace with us."
"The lords won't have it," Jon heard himself say. "My…father is indeed fair and honourable, but he may bend to pressure by the lords-"
"I knew it!" said the Crowkiller almost triumphantly. "The Starks are weak just like all the other southron kneelers!"
"Lord Stark is not weak!" Jon said sharply. "He is merely cautious. Without the support of his bannermen, House Stark is finished. There will be rebellion and no doubt a new ruling House in the North in a matter of years. I can assure you that no other Northern House will be kind to you. The Umbers will come here to fight until every one of you is dead – they will show no mercy. The mountain clans too will not ever consider a truce with you."
"Hold your tongue kneeler, or I'll happily cut it out," threatened the Weeper. If he was permitted to bring his scythe, he would've no doubt brandished it in front of Jon's face as a warning of sorts.
"Have you forgotten where you are, boy?" growled Tormund, wiping mead off his chin. "Have you forgotten who you are now? You are one of us! You lived with us, you broke bread with us, you even fucking fought with us! You're Val's man!"
Jon gaped at him. "I'm not Val's man!"
The grim-faced Ygon chortled. "We're not blind, kneeler. This camp is small – you must be a fool if you think we couldn't hear you fucking Val in your tent." He smirked. "Or does she fuck you, Snow?"
Jon felt his cheeks burn in embarrassment. It was true that over the last week, he started to fall for the wildling Val's charms and accepted her invitation to bed. Val had admitted she wanted him in her bed the day she captured him. When she first started flirting with him, Jon had refused her advances – he had no desire to father bastards with any woman. Now…it was a different story.
"You might as well be," chuckled Harle the Handsome. "Married yet, kneeler? I believe it was Val who had stolen you, not you who had stolen Val."
"I…" spluttered Jon. "I…"
"We fucked," said Val flatly, "almost every night. That is all."
"Our nights have nothing to do with peace!" said Jon in exasperation. "Why do you care if I make love with Val or…or any other woman?"
"You are Ned Stark's bastard," Mance pointed out, "and our guest."
More like Ned Stark's bastard nephew, Jon remembered with a bitter taste. It'd still been hard to think that he was raised by his uncle, not his father. Now isn't a good time to mope on that. "So?" said Jon testily.
"No!" exclaimed Val. "I refuse to live the rest of my life trapped in Winterfell as a prisoner! I'll be killed in my sleep!"
Jon frowned. What was Val talking about? He listened as the other clan leaders burst into another heated argument, this time with some snickering loudly, their eyes occasionally glancing at Jon. Jon inwardly sighed. No doubt it had been a jest of sorts at his expense. Val being trapped in Winterfell? It was Ygritte who'd been a prisoner there for a short time. Why in the old gods would Val even travel near Winterfell? As an emissary for the free folk? Jon hated to admit it, but noblemen – including northern lords – viewed envoys related to a great lord with much more respect than a diplomat who was a mere household knight or a castellan. Though wildlings were despised in the North, Mance was somewhat acknowledged as the King-Beyond-the-Wall and Val's sister Dalla, was Mance's wife. Dalla was dead a year ago from birthing a son who Jon had never seen.
Before Jon's mind could wander further, something nagged at him. What'd Val said? I refuse to live the rest of my life trapped in Winterfell as a prisoner! Not even a wildling envoy would be kept a prisoner in Winterfell.
Suddenly, the truth dawned on Jon.
"No!" he said aloud. The arguments ceased and everyone looked at him for the second time today. "You can't be serious!" To his relief, Val looked as unhappy as he did. Jon stared at Mance Rayder who had remained calm this entire time. "You can't be serious," Jon said again.
Val nodded. "I'm a spearwife, not a broodmare," she stated coldly. "I rather die than be saddled by any southron kneeler." She jerked her head in Jon's direction. "That includes him too. He is a good lover – for a kneeler."
Tormund snickered. "Did he kneel for you, Val?"
"Val did steal him," remarked Ygon, giving Jon a calculating look. "Technically, they are married already."
"And they have fucked," added Tormund with another lingering smirk.
"I'm not married to Val!" said Jon, shocked and irritated.
"You might as well be," said Mance simply with a faint smile. "Isn't that what a southroner would do for peace, Jon Snow? Marry one's enemy?"
"We're not kneelers!" said Val hotly, her cheeks flushed with anger and hurt. It seemed that though she was close in Mance Rayder's confidence, she wasn't told of his latest scheme.
"How long will this peace last for?" said Jon quietly. "Just the winter? No Stark lord will accept those terms. No lord will. How does Lord Stark know you will be keeping your word? You lot don't trust the northern lords and the northern lords do not trust you. Even if you can promise peace, I doubt all of you will keep your word." He directed his last words to the other wildling leaders. "Given the chance, I'm certain some of the northern lords will still want to kill you."
"I won't mind skinning one of 'em northern lords either," growled Alfyn darkly. He looked at Jon, almost assessing him. "Might start with you."
"You will be happy fighting for the rest of your life?" challenged Mance.
"I'm a warrior Mance Rayder, I've been fighting in the coldest of winters, those hot summers and the windiest of weathers since I was a scrawny boy! What were you doing when you were a lad? Singing and strumming that lute of yours?"
"I fought as much as you have, if not more, Crowkiller." Mance paused and Jon met his gaze again. "The Starks have wildling blood in their veins."
"A lie," Jon said, almost on impulse.
Mance smiled. "Haven't you heard the songs of Bael the Bard?"
"He's only a man of legend, a character in a song even. Besides, if he was a real man as you think, he's no better than a rapist and a raider."
"You are speaking to raiders, Jon Snow. Every one of us present's a raider. The tale of Bael the Bard…a true tale. You have Bael's blood in your veins like we do. I believe it is time the Starks reaffirm Bael's blood in their lineage."
"I'm not a Stark," Jon pointed out. "I'm a Snow, a bastard."
Mance shrugged. "Snow…Stark – it matters not to me. One day this long lasting feud between the free folk and the northmen will end and a Stark with the blood of the free folk will rise. That was what I was told once."
Alfyn snorted. "I did not think you'd fall for a foolish lie." Jon almost nodded in agreement. Seers were usually deceivers who told falsehoods for coin. Where did Mance meet a seer? Jon wondered. Soothsayers and seers are rare in the North – they never come north actually. I doubt they are a common sight in the south either. He remained silent as the wildlings argued. Lord Stark treated me like his son, Jon reflected. He took me in even though he knew whose son I am. He even spread word that I am his son. Thanks to him and Lady Stark, I squired for the Red Viper and I'm now a knight. Mance is right. Even though my name is Snow, I still have Stark blood. I must do my part for House Stark.
"For the sake of peace," Jon said suddenly, breaking the argument between the wildlings. He met Mance's steady gaze. "For the sake of peace," Jon said, keeping his expression impassive, "I'll agree to marry Val. On a few conditions," he added, as Mance opened his mouth.
"Honoured guests don't offer conditions," said Ygon Oldfather grouchily.
Mance ignored him. "Go ahead, Jon Snow. Name your terms." Jon was pleased to hear caution in the King Beyond-the-Wall's tone.
"The war between you and the northmen will end," Jon said promptly. "It will end for good. No false promises. The northmen will share their food and supplies with you – all of you are proud but you must admit that in harsh winters, you will have trouble finding food and to survive. To my knowledge, the black brothers at the Wall are in need of more men. There are plenty of men here who're skilled at defence and hunting."
"You want us to join the Night's Watch?" Tormund howled with laughter. "Jon Snow, you must be japing! I'd rather have my eyes pecked out by a fucking crow than have my cock cut off!"
"The black brothers don't cut off our…cocks," said Jon patiently. "If my father's given the order, they will work alongside you cooperatively. I give you my word." He paused. "Upon my honour," he said hastily, "and life."
"For the sake of peace," agreed Mance Rayder, standing up. "As a sign of…good will, you will return to Winterfell to negotiate with Lord Stark. Your wife Val-" he ignored Val's splutter of indignation "-and Tormund will accompany you. There'll be a gathering at the Wall between us of the free folk, the crows and the Starks. If you do not show up by the agreed time to finalise terms, or you show up without Val or Tormund, we will attack." He looked strained.
"What?" Jon said furiously. "You said you want peace!"
"Indeed, but this is still a war, Jon Snow."
"Don't think it's so easy negotiating peace," said Val coldly. "Many agreements have ended with mass death. Your first task is not convincing the Starks peace is in their best interest, oh no. It's convincing them you are truly Jon Snow. In their eyes, Jon Snow could be dead. Or worse." She leant forward. "Jon Snow could be a wildling now. One of us."
Jon felt his heart slowly stop. Was what Val said true?
"You will leave for Winterfell at dawn," said Mance crisply. "Be ready."
I'm sorry I couldn't upload the chapter any faster. I didn't have writer's block this time, it was more a lack of time. Uni assignments, work and assessments all tumbled on each other and I didn't have time to write. I thought it would be best to put writing on hold until all the assessments are finished - which they are now :D - and then start writing again.
I decided to write a Jon POV because there were a lot of requests for a Jon POV and it was a good time for one as I plan to finish off the Northern arc very soon. I hope you enjoy reading the chapter :)
