Chapter 34 – the 12th day of September, 299 years after Aegon's Conquest
It took them half the night to climb the mountain.
Stonesnake led the way, and Jon had volunteered to follow him. The rest of the scouting party, Qhorin Halfhand, Ebben and Dalbridge, had remained below, watching for their signal. The wildlings' camp was perfectly positioned to spot intruders making their way into the Skirling Pass. A pity they had made the mistake of lighting a fire.
He felt the Emergency Distress Beacon, secured in a pouch of his cloak. It was small enough to almost fit in the palm of his hand, and he had not let it leave his person since departing Castle Black. He had taken the time to instruct Qhorin and the others on its use, though he sensed their skepticism. They were Shadow Tower men, who had never had the chance to meet these 'flying men' for themselves. Even with the Lord Commander's assurances that the encounter had been real, out here talk of flying machines and magic rings might as well have referred to grumpkins and snarks.
Jon himself wondered if he had dreamed it at times, but no. He would nudge the device in his pocket, and reassure himself it was all real. Still, out here in the Frostfangs, it seemed fanciful that any call for help would be answered. Aside from the five of them, Jon had not seen a living man since they had left the woods.
They clambered up the final rockface, until they were now some way above the wildlings. They peered over the ridge into the shallow depression beyond. He counted three figures. One was sleeping. Another was feeding twigs to the fire. The third sat there, watching the pass, a horn tied around his neck. Three. There were supposed to be two.
Stonesnake touched his arm however, then pointed at the wildling with the horn. Jon nodded toward the one by the fire. Stonesnake moved as fast as his namesake, leaping down on the wildlings in a rain of pebbles. Jon slid Longclaw from its sheath and followed.
It was all over in a heartbeat. Stonesnake knocked the horn out of the watcher's hands and quickly skewered him before he could raise any weapon of his own. Jon's target had a second's more warning, and flew at him with a burning branch, but it was no match for Longclaw. Valyrian steel sheared through leather, fur, wool, and flesh. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the sleeper stirring. The wildling twisted as he went down, knocking the sword out of his hand. He felt something fall from his cloak and clatter to the ground as well, but for the moment paid it no heed. Instead Jon went for his dirk, putting it against the sleeper's neck as he grabbed a handful of his- no, her hair.
His hand froze. "A girl."
"A wildling" said Stonesnake. "Finish her."
Yet something in Jon compelled him otherwise. The girl looked no older then him, and he could see blood trickling down her neck from the prick of his dirk. "Do you yield?" he asked suddenly.
"I yield."
"You're our captive then" Jon declared.
Stonesnake was unhappy, but the man did not object further as they waited for Qhorin and the others to arrive. "Do you have a name?" Jon asked.
"Ygritte."
Jon sheathed his dirk and went to pull Longclaw from the body of the man he'd killed. As he did, he noticed the object he'd dropped. His heart skipped a beat. The distress beacon was lying half buried in the snow. He quickly went to retrieve it as well.
"I gave you my name" the girl said, watching him closely.
"I'm Jon Snow."
Yrgitte eyed the beacon warily. Even in the dim glow of the fire, its color stood out. As yellow as a ripe lemon, a thousand leagues from where lemons grew. Nothing he'd seen north of the Wall could quite match it. "What is that?" she asked in fascination, as if quite forgetting she was a captive.
"A gift, from the flying men."
"Flying men?"
Jon might have explained more, but nearby Stonesnake gave a mordant chuckle. "It's the captive supposed to tell things, remember?"
The others arrived at dawn. The Halfhand made no comment when he saw the prisoner, listening to Stonesnake's report. Shortly, he turned back to Jon.
"We have no food to feed her, nor can we spare a man to watch her."
The others stood there grimly. Ebben drew his dagger. "A steel kiss will keep her quiet."
Jon's throat was raw, looking at them all helplessly. "She yielded herself to me."
"Then you must do what needs be done" Qhorin said. He looked at the others. "Come, brothers. Leave him to it."
But Jon found he could not do what needed to be done. When the others had left, he stood over Ygritte, Longclaw held high, but the blade did not fall.
"Go" he muttered finally. Ygritte stared. "Now," he said. "Before my wits return. Go."
That was the last he had seen of her.
Now they were through the Skirling Pass, looking out on the mountains below. A wind-carved arch of grey stone marked its highest point. Here the way broadened as it began its long descent toward the valley of the Milkwater. Qhorin decreed that they would rest here until the shadows began to grow again.
Jon found a place out of the wind, beneath an overhang of rock, and took off his cloak to use it for a blanket. "Ghost" he called. "Here. To me." He always slept better with the great white wolf beside him, but Ghost had merely glanced at him and padded off. The wolf needed to hunt. So Jon had lain down to sleep by himself.
He dreamed of direwolves.
There were five where once there had been six. He felt a deep ache of emptiness. The forest was vast and cold. His brothers were out there somewhere, and his sister, but he had lost their scent. He sat on his haunches and lifted his head. His cry echoed through the forest, a long lonely mournful sound. As it died away, he pricked up his ears, listening for an answer.
Jon?
The call came from behind him, softer than a whisper, but strong too. Can a shout be silent? He turned his head, searching for his brother, but there was nothing, only…a weirwood. It had his brother's face. Had his brother always had three eyes?
The dream was most queer, but suddenly he was back in the mountains. He remained a wolf, his paws sunk deep into a drift of snow, but he must have been miles ahead of the pass. A long v-shaped valley lay spread beneath him, ringed by snowcapped peaks. A vast river of ice plugged the far end, flowing ever so slowly into a cobalt blue lake below.
There were men down in the valley, he saw now; many men, thousands, a huge host. Masses of riders rode astride horses no larger than ants. Their encampment had no plan to it. He saw no ditches, no sharpened stakes. He spied untidy mounds of hay and dirt, smelled goats and sheep, horses and pigs, dogs in great profusion. Tendrils of dark smoke rose from a thousand cookfires.
This is no army. This is a whole people come together.
Across the long lake, one of the mounds moved. He watched it more closely and saw that it was not dirt at all, but alive, a shaggy lumbering beast with a snake for a nose and tusks larger than those of the greatest boar that had ever lived. Its rider was huge as well, except their shape was wrong, too thick in the leg and hips to be a man. There are giants in the valley. The thought was so startling he felt no room yet to be afraid.
A sudden gust of cold made his fur stand up, and the air thrilled to the sound of wings. As he lifted his eyes to the mountain heights above, a shadow plummeted out of the sky. A shrill scream split the air. He glimpsed blue-grey pinions spread wide, shutting out the sun…
"Ghost!" Jon shouted, sitting up. He could still feel the talons, the pain. "Ghost, to me!"
Ebben shook him. "Quiet! You mean to bring the wildlings down on us? What's wrong with you, boy?"
"A dream" said Jon feebly. "I was Ghost, I was on the edge of the mountain looking down on a frozen river, and something attacked me. A bird…an eagle, I think…"
Qhorin came up beside him. "A frozen river, you say?"
"There was a tree with my brother's face. The wildlings . . . there were thousands, more than I ever knew existed. And giants riding mammoths."
"Tell me all that you remember, from first to last" the Halfhand commanded.
Jon was confused. "It was only a dream."
"A wolf dream" the Halfhand said. "Craster told the Lord Commander that the wildlings were gathering at the source of the Milkwater. It may be that you saw what waits for us, a few hours farther on. Tell me."
It made him feel half a fool to talk of such things to Qhorin and the other rangers, but he did as he was commanded. None of the black brothers laughed at him, however. By the time he was done, even Squire Dalbridge was no longer smiling.
"Skinchanger?" Ebben said grimly, looking at the Halfhand. Does he mean the eagle? Jon wondered. Or me? Skinchangers and wargs belonged in Old Nan's stories, not in the world he had lived in all his life. Yet here, in this strange bleak wilderness of rock and ice, it was not hard to believe.
"The cold winds are rising. Mormont feared as much. Benjen Stark felt it as well. Dead men walk and the trees have eyes again. Now they talk of flying men and magic Rings. Why should we balk at wargs and giants?"
Shadows covered the floor of the pass by the time they set off again. Absent the sun's rays, the temperature seemed to drop like a stone. It will be dark soon, and still no sight of Ghost. Jon found himself worrying for the Direwolf almost as much as their own lives. He found himself clutching at the beacon in his pocket. Wild thoughts came to him. Would the flying men help me find Ghost, if I asked?
"Qhorin" Squire Dalbridge called softly after a time. "There. Look."
The eagle was perched on a spine of rock far above them, outlined against the darkening sky. We've seen other eagles Jon thought. That need not be the one I dreamed of.
"The bird's well out of bowshot" Dalbridge advised.
"I don't like it watching us" Ebben protested.
Qhorin sat in his saddle, studying the eagle for a long time. "We press on" he said finally. The rangers resumed their descent.
Jon was about to follow Qhorin and the others when he glimpsed a flash of white between two boulders. A patch of old snow he thought, until it stirred. He was off his horse at once.
As he went to his knees, Ghost lifted his head. His neck glistened wetly, but he made no sound when Jon peeled off a glove and touched him. The talons had torn a bloody path through fur and flesh, but the bird had not been able to snap his neck.
Qhorin Halfhand was standing over him. "How bad?"
As if in answer, Ghost struggled to his feet.
"The wolf is strong," the ranger said. "Ebben, water. Stonesnake, your skin of wine. Hold him still, Jon."
Together they washed the caked blood from the direwolf's fur. Ghost struggled and bared his teeth when Qhorin poured the wine into the ragged red gashes the eagle had left him, but Jon wrapped his arms around him and murmured soothing words, and soon enough the wolf quieted. By the time they'd ripped a strip from Jon's cloak to wrap the wounds, full dark had settled. Only a dusting of stars set the black of sky apart from the black of stone. "Do we press on?" Stonesnake wanted to know.
Qhorin went to his garron. "Back, not on."
"Back?" Jon was taken by surprise.
"Eagles have sharper eyes than men. We are seen. So now we run."
The Halfhand wound a long black scarf around his face and swung up into the saddle. As the others moved to follow him, Jon pulled the beacon out of its pouch.
"Then I should call them" Jon said, holding it out for the Halfhand.
Qhorin looked back. Jon could not read his expression in the dark.
"As you wish."
"They said they would, if we had dire need" Jon insisted, though a part of him wasn't sure if he was trying to reassure his fellow rangers, or himself. "If we found monsters. Giants or dragons or dead men, they will come. We have found them. One of them."
"Then call them Snow" Qhorin turned back to face the path ahead.
The other rangers glanced at him. They still do not accept it he knew. They were quicker to believe in wargs and giants then flying men. Still, as they rode on, Jon followed the instructions he had been told. He opened up the tiny compartment that held the key and placed it in the lock. He turned it, and heard the now familiar beep noise twice. The red light flashed, though he hoped it would be too dim to be seen from a distance. He extracted the 'antenna'. The thin strip of metal that was shorter than a sword, but longer than a dagger. After a few moments the light flashed green, then went dead again.
Jon looked up, as if hoping to see flying machines descend out of the sky immediately, but he knew that was foolish. He held the garron's reins with one hand, the other holding the beacon aloft. He rode that way for a while, but eventually his arm grew tired, and the path was treacherous. He pulled alongside Stonesnake and begged him of some rope, then tied the device to his shoulder. It was not exactly comfortable, and again he felt half a fool, but some instinct told him this was right. It could be our only hope, if there are wildlings hunting us.
All night they rode, Ghost a silent shadow behind them.
The wind grew stronger. Sometimes it was so dark they dismounted and went ahead on foot, each man leading his garron. Once Ebben suggested that some torches might serve them well, but Qhorin said "No fire" and that was the end of that. They reached the stone bridge at the summit and began to descend again. Off in the darkness a shadowcat screamed in fury. Once Jon thought he saw a pair of glowing eyes on a ledge overhead, as big as harvest moons.
In the black hour before dawn, they stopped to let the horses drink and fed them each a handful of oats and a twist or two of hay. "We are not far from the place the wildlings died," said Qhorin. "From there, one man could hold a hundred. The right man." He looked at Squire Dalbridge.
The squire bowed his head. "Leave me as many arrows as you can spare, brothers." He stroked his longbow. "And see my garron has an apple when you're home. He's earned it, poor beastie."
He's staying to die Jon realized. He felt some objection rising in his throat. "If they come…" he said, clutching at the beacon.
The others looked at him with dour expressions. "If" was all Qhorin said. He turned to Dalbridge and clasped the squire's forearm with a gloved hand. "The eagle, if it flies down for a look at you …"
"…he'll sprout some new feathers."
The last Jon saw of Squire Dalbridge was his back as he clambered up the narrow path to the heights. When dawn broke, Jon looked up into a cloudless sky. He saw no flying machines, but he thought it was still so soon. Days they said it could be. How long could they stay ahead of any pursuers?
The only speck they saw moving through the blue was a familiar one. He did not doubt it was the same eagle. Ebben saw it too, and cursed, but Qhorin told him to be quiet. "Listen."
Jon held his breath, and heard it. Far away and behind them, the call of a hunting horn echoed against the mountains.
"And now they come," said Qhorin.
They rode on all day, even when Jon was struggling to keep his eyes open, or keep seated on his horse. Twice the beacon fell off his shoulder and clattered to the rocky ground, until he secured it with more rope. He hoped it was not damaged, that whatever silent call it was sending out could still be heard.
Later they spied the eagle soaring through the dusk on great blue-grey wings and Stonesnake unslung his bow, but the bird flew out of range before he could so much as string it. Ebben spat and muttered darkly of wargs and skinchangers.
They glimpsed the eagle twice more the next day, and heard the hunting horn behind them echoing against the mountains. Each time it seemed a little louder, a little closer. When night fell, the Halfhand told Ebben to take the squire's garron as well as his own, and ride east for the Fist of the First Men with all haste. Back the way they had come, back to Mormont. The rest of them would draw off the pursuit. "Send Jon," Ebben had urged. "He can ride as fast as me."
"Jon has a different part to play."
"He is half a boy still."
"No," said Qhorin "he is a man of the Night's Watch."
When the moon rose, Ebben parted from them. Stonesnake went east with him a short way, then doubled back to obscure their tracks, and the three who remained set off toward the southwest. Jon worried for Ebben as much as anyone else. What if the flying men come for us now? Ebben would be lost, a man alone in the wilderness, but he did not question Qhorin's orders.
That had been four days ago, though in truth the days and nights were starting blur into the other. They slept in their saddles and stopped only long enough to feed and water the garrons, then mounted up again. Over bare rock they rode, through gloomy pine forests and drifts of old snow, over icy ridges and across shallow rivers that had no names.
They were keeping to the valleys as best they could, to make better time, though Jon wondered if that might be a mistake. The flying men would hear him better if he were on higher ground, they had said, rather than surrounded by snowcapped mountains, but Jon could not bring himself to voice this objection out loud. Already they see me as some foolish young boy. Somehow, even in their peril, the thought angered him.
They rode on and on. Sometimes Qhorin or Stonesnake would loop back to sweep away their tracks, but it was a futile gesture. They were watched. At every dawn and dusk they saw the eagle soaring between the peaks, no more than a speck in the vastness of the sky. Every day their pursuers were closer, their horses weaker, their ration packs lighter.
Until one morning, perhaps an hour or two before noon, when Jon heard the rotors.
At first they were just a distant rumble. He had heard it only once before, half a year earlier at Castle Black. His tired mind jumped betweeen several different conclusions. The growl of a Shadowcat? An echo of distant thunder? He looked up in some alarm, but then he saw them. A trio of specks, at once distinct from any eagle, soaring over a ridgeline to the south. Jon stopped his garron. Riding at the rear, Stonesnake almost bumped into him, letting out a muttered curse. Ahead Qhorin continued to plod along for a few moments, until he heard the sound too. Jon meanwhile was staring at the apparations, transfixed, as if afraid he were dreaming. As if they might disappear the moment he looked away.
As the specks resolved into the familiar shapes he had seen, he found a gasp escaping his lips.
Laughing. He was laughing.
Qhorin turned his mount around to pull up alongside them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the two older rangers exchange a bewildered glance.
"What are they?" Stonesnake asked.
"They're flying men" Jon said, a wave of excitement bursting through his fatigue like a dam. He laughed again, like a madman. "They're my friends." The magic is real he thought. It's all real.
The trio of machines continued their flight, approaching at a slight angle. For a moment Jon was afraid they might just pass them by, but a mile or so distant they veered as one and headed right towards them. Quicker then Jon would have believed, three great, noisy, black and green machines hovered right over them. Jon's mount whinnied at the unfamiliar noise, but the horses was scarce less tired than their riders. Ghost padded over and sat on his haunches beside Jon, staring at the machines in apparent shared fascination.
So their party remained rooted to the spot as first one, and then the other two machines manouvered around and came to rest somewhere on the rocky ground around them. A door slid open on the flank of the lead machine, and suddenly green-clad, helmeted men were striding towards them. Their leader stopped ten feet away.
"Jon Snow?" he asked. With his queer helmet and dress Jon took a moment to recognize 'Captain Findlay'.
"Yes" was all he could reply.
"It is good to see you." The Captain looked them up and down. "You are very far north."
Jon had a hundred different things he'd wanted to say, but suddenly he was groping for words. "The Lord Commander sent us to scout."
Findlay nodded at his black brothers. "There are three of you" he observed.
"There were five" Qhorin replied. Through the Halfhand's own exhaustion, Jon detected a hint of anger, as if the older ranger might prefer to turn around and take his chances with the wildlings.
"Ah" the captain replied. He glanced at the beacon, still tied to Jon' shoulder. "Tell me, when did you activate it?"
Jon thought on this a moment. "Six days ago."
The captain nodded at him sadly. "We heard you two days ago." He glanced around at the icy landscape. "Must have been these mountains…I am sorry we were not here sooner. It is good to see you alive though. Do you need food? And hot drink?"
Despite the queer circumstances, Jon could not deny he was hungry bordering on ravenous. Still, he turned to Qhorin for his answer. The older ranger was still looking at the flying men like they were ghosts, but he seemed to swallow his pride and scepticism in that moment. "We would be most thankful" he said.
They dismounted from their horses and found a convenient smattering of boulders on which to sit. Several of Findlay's party joined them. Other 'commandos' spread out, observing the surrounding terrain. Several queer shaped bags, made of a shimmering, transparent material that almost resembled glass, were opened, and Jon found himself munching on unfamiliar nuts and bright colored sweets of some kind. They were even handed cups of a warm dark liquid. This one was sweeter than lemon water. It made him think of Sansa for some reason. Jon found himself gulping it down greedily.
In between mouthfuls they began to tell their story. Everything that had happened in the last half a year since the Great Ranging had left Castle Black. Their arrival at the Fist. The men from the Shadow Tower joining them. Jon volunteering for the scouting party. The subsequent weeks they had spent in the wilderness. Spying the wildling host at the head of the Milkwater.
He left certain details out. The night they had spent at Craster's Keep, the cache of dragonglass Ghost had found, the wildling girl he'd spared. When he came to the part where they'd spied the wildlings, he left it vague. Thousands of them, my lord. A great host of men, with giants and mammoths. He did not mention that he had only seen them in a dream.
When he was finished, Findlay was looking at them sympathetically. "Sounds like you've been through a lot, but I'm glad you called us. We've seen the bones of these giants. I'd quite like to meet a real one."
"A giant would stomp you into the ground" Stonesnake replied, the ranger halfway through a can of Spam. "I am not keen on meeting one. That is why we run."
"We can handle a few giants" Findlay replied. He turned to the Halfhand. "How many pursue you?"
"We are not sure. Could be half a score, or half a hundred men."
"Well we can handle them too."
Beside Findlay, what appeared to be an aide was flicking through a thick folder. It took Jon a minute to realize what the pages were full of. Maps he thought, no…portraits? Taken from the sky? All he saw was green forest, interrupted by rivers of blue and patches of white and brown. Findlay showed them, explaining that the portraits covered the areas beyond the Wall. They unfolded several large examples before the Halfhand and the conversation turned to geography. Where exactly was the Skirling Pass? Which river was the Milkwater? What of the 'Fist of the First Men?'
The encounter was baffling, but Jon soon found himself struggling to stay awake. Even the hard rock on which he sat seemed comfortable, next to sleeping in a swaying sadle. Before he could drift off, he heard Findlay offer to return them to Castle Black.
"No, no" Qhorin insisted. "We must warn the Lord Commander. He has three hundred men against countless thousands. Mance Rayder has giants, mammoths and wargs. The old powers are rising and the trees have eyes again. We must return to the Fist."
"Alright, we can do that for you" the captain replied, accepting the Halfhand's words without complaint. "We have satellite photos of most of the area beyond the Wall now. There's at least twice as much land north of it as south of it. As large as Canada actually…but we don't have many places labelled…" They discussed the matter for a while. Findlay promised there were 'drones' up in the sky, but it could take a few days to find the rest of the Great Ranging. He looked around the bleak landscape and seemed to come to some sort of decision.
"Very well, we will make this our base for now." He turned to the man beside him. "Lieutenant, have first section take the perimeter. Relief at twenty hundred hours."
He turned back to Qhorin. "Your men should sleep. You've had a difficult time of it."
Qhorin seemed to be made of stone. "They will sleep" he said, glancing at Jon and Stonesnake. "I will stay awake a while."
"As you wish."
That was how Jon found himself laying to rest once more under his cloak, Ghost on one side of him and a cold hard boulder on the other. He was instantly asleep.
He awoke after what must have been some hours. A hand was on his shoulder, roughly shaking him awake. He instantly sat up to see Stonesnake beside him.
"Wildlings boy" the ranger said grimly, before moving off.
Jon looked around. The sun was well off to the west, soon to disappear behind the peaks of the Frostfangs. It was at least mid-afternoon. Beside him, Ghost stirred. The wolf stood up, shook himself a little, and immediately padded off to hunt.
Jon followed after Stonesnake. The commandos had erected several small shelters, made of strips of an unfamiliar green material, between the nearby boulders. He found Qhorin and Findlay standing beside one. Next to them another commando operated a device that resembled Jon's beacon, only much larger, with an 'antenna' twice the length of Longclaw. Findlay held a device to his eyes that resembled Maester Luwin's spyglass, though it covered both his eyes.
Jon turned to see where they were looking. He saw no wildlings yet, though only moments passed before he heard the echo of the hunting horn again, closer then ever before. Shortly, there was the baying of hounds. He thought of Ghost, and as if in answer the white wolf came bounding back through the rocks. The commandos watched him warily. Perhaps twenty were gathered around, spread in a loose arc before their flying machines. Most were crouched behind boulders, clutching their ugly looking weapons. The way they were holding them made him think of crossbows, though he did not truly know how they functioned. The others must have spread out around them somewhere.
The wildlings came boiling around the next curve in the valley, not half a mile away. Their hounds ran before them, snarling grey-brown beasts with more than a little wolf in their blood. Ghost bared his teeth, his fur bristling. "Easy" Jon murmured.
"Fourteen" Findlay counted, lowering the device and glancing at Jon. The captain turned to an aide. "Shoot the dogs if they get closer."
Overhead, Jon heard a rustle of wings. The eagle flew overhead, circling the black brothers and flying men both. It seemed to fly overhead several times, then turned and darted back towards its masters. Jon heard it give a scream. Was that a warning?
Warning or not, it came far too late. Jon noticed some of the wildlings seemed to falter, as the trio of parked flying machines came into view. He looked around. The three black brothers, their horses, and a handful of commandos may have been visible, but the rest were well hidden.
Whatever caution their masters had, the hounds had even less. Jon counted maybe eight of them, racing forward with all haste. The nearest was perhaps a hundred yards away, leaping forward savagely.
BANG!...BANG! BANG!
Jon flinched. He barely managed to resist some instinct to throw himself to the ground. Beside him, Qhorin and Stonesnake were looking around wildly, but the commandos had not so much as flinched. Ahead of them, he saw a flash of red, and a hound fell to the ground. Another pair followed. The rest came to a sudden halt. Perhaps it was the sudden smell of blood, as much as the unnatural noise. Some ran back to their masters, tails lowered, while others seemed to pick a nearby boulder to skulk behind.
The hunters approached more warily now. Findlay was right. Jon counted fourteen, with five dogs left. Their large round shields were made of skins stretched over woven wicker and painted with skulls. About half of them hid their faces behind crude helms of wood and boiled leather. On either wing, archers carried small wood-and-horn bows. The rest seemed to be armed with spears and mauls. One had a chipped stone axe. They wore only what bits of armor they had looted from dead rangers or stolen during raids. Wildlings did not mine or smelt, and there were few smiths and fewer forges north of the Wall.
The party came to a halt roughly where the first hound had fallen, looking down on its corpse in some alarm. Only the leader seemed unafraid. He came on alone, riding a beast that seemed more goat than horse, from the surefooted way it climbed the rocky slope. As man and mount grew nearer Jon could hear them clattering; both were armored in bones. Cow bones, sheep bones, the bones of goats and aurochs and elk, the great bones of the hairy mammoths . . . and human bones as well.
Beside him, Qhorin leaned forward. "That is Rattleshirt" he said to Findlay. "A wildling chief. A cruel man."
The captain frowned. Rattleshirt clattered forward until he was within earshot. It was hard to read his expression. His helm seemed to be made from the broken skull of a giant. Judging from the way his head swivelled about, he was having trouble registering what he was seeing. After a few moments his gaze settled on the three black brothers.
"What birds flock with these tricksy crows?"
Jon looked around, wondering who would answer. Findlay glanced at Qhorin.
"Rattleshirt" the Handhald said, icy-polite. "It is best you leave. If you value your life."
The wildling gave a bark of laughter. "To crows I be the Lord o' Bones." He looked over the commandos. Wary, but not quite afraid. "Who are you men?" he demanded.
"I am Captain Findlay, of the Australian army" he nodded at Rattleshirt's warband. "Do you serve this…King Beyond the Wall? Mance Rayder?"
"The Lord o' Bones serves no man. We follow who we please" he replied. Jon thought he saw his eyes narrow in suspicion.
"But you follow him? Mance Rayder?" Findlay repeated.
Rattleshirt's eyes were darting around now, taking in the whole scene. "Aye, perhaps I do. Who do you kneel to?"
"Her grace, Elizabeth the Second, Queen of England" Findlay replied without hesitation. "Could you take a message to your king?"
"What message that be?"
"Tell him we would like to meet."
Rattleshirt was looking around now, taking in the whole scene. Jon thought he could almost see the gears turning in the wildling chief's head. He may well have been considering this request, but three more riders trotted over from the warband. Jon took a moment to recognize two of them as spearwives. The older one held a bloodstained sack that was tied around her shoulder. Rattleshirt shifted around on his mount. He looked back at Qhorin.
"Show the crows" he commanded. The woman unfurled the sack and reached in to draw out a trophy. Ebben had been bald as an egg, so she dangled the head by an ear. "He died brave" she said.
For a moment no one said anything. Jon watched the commandos carefully. Findlay and his apparent deputy, Underwood, exchanged a glance. Qhorin looked like he was about to speak, but another voice broke the silence.
"Are you the flying men?"
Jon glanced at the other spearwife, and gave a start. It was the redheaded girl, Ygritte. Her eyes were going from the black brothers to the commandos and back. Her eyes met Jon. It was Findlay who replied.
"Yes, we are the flying men."
"Can you fly?" she asked, with the enthusiasm of a girl half her age. "Show us!"
Jon heard a few of the commandos chuckle. Jon almost joined them at the absurdity of the scene. Again, it was Findlay who answered.
"Those are our flying machines" he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "We're not flying right now, but we will later."
The wildling beside Ygritte grabbed her shoulder, as if to stop her, but she shook him loose. "Did you fly here?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"It's a long story" Findlay said, turning back to Rattleshirt. "You are the Lord of Bones?"
"That's what I said, ain't it?" snarled Rattleshirt.
Findlay nodded his head towards the black brothers. "It seems you mean harm against these men. I'm afraid I can't allow it. I suggest you return to your king. Tell him the flying men would like to meet. Tell him we come in peace."
Rattleshirt looked back at the Black Brothers. First at Qhorin, then at Stonesnake, then at Jon. His eyes lingered a moment on the slain hounds, before he let out another snarl and jerked around on his mount. "We'll meet again, crows!" he promised. He trotted off, his bones rattling. The older wildling woman followed, leaving Ebben's severed head. The eagle, which had settled on a nearby boulder, gave a scream and flew after them. Ygritte and the man beside her trotted forward a little, apparently unafraid.
"I'll stay with you" she said, looking at Jon as she said it. Jon looked to Qhorin, who looked to Findlay, who looked back at the Halfhand.
"No wildings will stay here tonight" the Halfhand proclaimed.
"We stay where we please" Ygritte said, sickly sweet. She glanced at the commandos. "We mean you no harm."
Findlay was frowning. "It is best you leave."
Ygritte's smile softened a little. "That's Jon Snow" she said, pointing at Jon. "He stole me! Spared me! I belong with 'im."
Despite everything, Jon felt his ears turning red. All eyes seemed to turn to him.
"You know her?" Findlay asked.
"I spared her, in the Skirling Pass…" he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth. "I was meant to be kill her, but…a lady…"
Ygritte had trotted right over to them by now. "I'm Ygritte" she announced to them all. "This is Ryk. We will stay here tonight."
Qhorin and Stonesnake were looking at him. "It is best you leave" Jon echoed.
Ygritte stayed where she was. "I told you of Bael the Bard. Now you owe me a tale."
Jon did not know what to say now. He noticed Qhorin with his hand on his swordbelt. The ranger seemed to be seizing up the distance between him and Ygritte. Before anyone could make a move, Underwood had walked over to them.
"So where are you from love?"
"A village, like most people" Ygritte replied eagerly, turning to face him.
"What's it called?"
"It has no name. Its just a village, and no one dwells there now."
"Why not?" the commando officer asked innocently.
Ygritte's smile faltered again. "The cold winds have come, so everyone left."
Findlay had walked over now. "We've heard talk of monsters, north of the Wall, Ygritte. Have you seen any?"
"Monsters?" Ygritte asked, frowning. "I don't know of monsters, but I have seen a dead man walk, aye."
Perhaps it was the earnest confidence with which she said it. The commandos seemed to stiffen slightly. Findlay turned to Qhorin.
"Perhaps they can stay one night?" he suggested.
Qhorin looked angry again, almost sullen. "It would not be wise…" he said, but the captain was already turning back to the wildlings.
"You can stay here one night, Ygritte, Ryk…if you wish. But try and harm anyone, and we'll have to kill you."
Ygritte laughed. "That's every night, being free." She looked around at the flying men, tilting her head as if trying to decide something. "Are you really a bunch of kneelers? You don't look to be."
Jon could only watch in mild horror then, as the wildling girl dismounted and came over to join them.
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Attentive fans may have noted parts of this chapters are taken quite verbatim from chapters 51, 53 & 68 of "A Clash of Kings". I do so only to pick up Jon's story from where it was in the books (up until this point, things are mostly unchanged). However, from this point on, things will of course diverge quite significantly (he won't have to kill Qhorin Halfhand for instance - but other things will happen instead).
As an aside - I'm posting this right before watching the first episode of 'House of the Dragon'. Hopefully its a return to seasons 1-4 quality for Game of Thrones. Good luck everyone! More to come.