Arya
As much as she told her father and mother that she understood, she truly didn't.
Why was it Jon that had to be sent on these missions of scouting and apprehending deserters or wildlings? He was the same age as Robb, yet never had he been sent on anything like it. Robb stayed with the family, taking his lessons in swordplay and history, preparing to one day be the Lord of Winterfell.
It was plain to see that Jon was not well liked by mother or Sansa, even if it had gotten better as of late. Jon was a bastard, as she'd been told on more than one occasion, but why was that so important to her mother and other people? If anything, it should be father that was blamed and not Jon.
Jon was her brother, bastard or half-brother, it didn't matter to her. He was kind and understanding, listening to her when she ranted about Sansa and Jeyne being stupid and mean. With him, she could learn to fight with a sword. Needlework and poetry were nothing she wanted to have a part in.
In short, Arya missed him.
She wanted to spend more time playing and learning from him. But those chances had been small lately. Father had Jon out on yet another report of people heading south of the wall that shouldn't be. This time though… it had been serious enough that Ser Arthur had gone along.
The Sword of the Morning was a strange man. Whenever Jon was in the room, Arya had noticed that he always was looking at or around Jon if not otherwise engaged, almost like he was wary of anyone around him. Like a sworn sword watching the back of the one they had sworn themselves to.
If the rumors were true, Ser Arthur probably only acted like that because Jon was his nephew.
He wasn't mean whenever she spoke with him, but the knight always seemed reluctant to be near her for some reason.
Having snuck out of her lessons with Septa Mordane, there was only one place that Arya felt she wanted to be.
With her hand sliding against the stone walls, her steps carefully taken so that she made as little noise as possible, Arya descended the stairs to the lower level of the great keep. Her destination was just another reminder of the unfair treatment her favorite brother received.
Making way to the mid-level platform, Arya kept to the corner where the light was most obscured. There were a few empty rooms here that she could stow away in, if she were close to being found. While the wind blowing through the scarce cracks was chilled, the wall at her back staved off the shiver that she'd otherwise experience. The fire in the hearths and the hot springs beneath Winterfell helping to make her home comfortable.
Arya could hear muffled voices somewhere around another corner from where she currently was, likely one of the store rooms. She was almost thankful to Sansa for once, because the braided bangs would have likely fell to cover her eyes otherwise, as she leaned to peek into the room.
There was no one there, and the voice was most definitely in the same place from what she could tell. With quick and soft steps, she ran to the other side and down the next set of stairs. From here on, the chances of her being found or tattled on where small.
Since the lower level being that of servants, maids or cooks, the odds of her getting scolded dropped significantly thanks to her being a Stark. It wasn't nice to use her position in that way, as her father always said that you should treat others with respect, but it wasn't like she was flaunting it.
With the time of day, there shouldn't be anyone down on this floor unless they were coming from outside, and the door was covered partially by the stone wall. So, if someone came in, Arya would still have time to scamper out of view.
Once she came out of the staircase, Arya turned left and made her way to the far side with strides as long as she could manage. The halls down on this floor had little in the ways of decoration, bare stone walls, lesser quality materials in nearly everything around her. The doors were not the same heavy wood, thinner, some cracked or missing parts of it. The place holders for some of the torches were rusted through age, some hanging precariously from the wall as though they would fall at any moment.
She hated that Jon had to be down here, away from the true Starks. But if she were being honest, she liked the solitude it gave. No one bothered you down here. She and Jon could spend hours together with no one having a clue. If she was to be without her favorite brother, at least she could spend some time in his room, surrounded by the few things he owned. One in particular.
The door to his chamber was only in slightly better shape than the rest. It at least didn't have cracks or holes, but it was still of lower quality than her own.
It pushed open with a small creak, and Arya only opened it enough for her to slip inside before shutting it gently.
Turning around and facing the room, Arya breathed deep. Pine, horses, earth, snow, it smelled like him. Jon didn't have much, a desk that truly had no use here as Jon never used it. The hearth gave no warmth, as Jon had been gone for a while now, but Arya didn't mind.
She grabbed the extra cloak that hung on the back of his chair at the desk. It was of decent quality, furs of grey and black so large that Arya was swimming in it. She pulled it tighter around herself, as much for the warmth as it was to push away that ache of wishing he were here.
His bed sat against the back wall, under the poorly sealed window. The furs on it were still laying thrown about, none of the maids having come to make his bed for his return. Perhaps they would once there was word of him coming back, but she wouldn't bet on it. Jon did things on his own, and he seemed to be okay with it being that way in some respects.
It was the chest at the foot of his bed where her attention stayed. After taking a step forward, Arya looked back to the door and decided that it needed to be bolted if she were to go hold the secret that Jon had shared with her. With the door taken care of, Arya jumped over to the chest with eager grey eyes.
She couldn't believe what he'd shown her.
It took some effort, but Arya managed to pull the chest away. The floorboard nearest the wall, a few inches away from the bed post, there was a small crease where one could pull from. It lifted with some effort, trying to get a good enough grip. While Arya could manage with her hands, Jon had to use a dagger as his fingers were too wide to fit.
There, sitting in the hole was the treasure and secret that Jon and Arya shared. The metallic looking dragon egg. With a careful grip, Arya lifted it out, putting the board back in its place.
Arya sat on the bed, falling to her side and staring at the egg in amazement.
Her brother had found the egg at the Queensgate along the wall. He'd been skeptical of it actually being a dragon egg on his return, but a few hours in the library had ended that.
In a section of the library that saw less use then others, Jon told her that he found a book that detailed the dragons of old and the known eggs at the time.
It was easy to figure out where it came from after that.
Queen Alysanne Targaryen and her dragon Silverwing had journeyed up to the wall, where the castle once known as Snowgate was renamed Queensgate.
The book spoke of Silverwing and Vermithor becoming a mated pair at some point that no one was sure of. There was no other reasonable explanation. The egg must have been laid and either forgotten or hadn't been seen, and whoever was in the castle at the time kept it. The author of the book wasn't able to be read thanks to the poor upkeep of that section, but it had said that Silverwing was named from the metallic gleam of her scales, which was exactly what the egg looked like.
Brushing her hand along the scales, Arya wondered if the egg was truly as empty of life as Jon thought. Dragons were supposed to magical creatures that lived for centuries. So why couldn't that magic keep the egg alive until the right conditions made it hatch?
Jon didn't agree with her, as the book he read said that the eggs were warm to the touch, warmer than a person. But the egg was cold for her, like touching a blade that had been covered in snow and ice. Still, Arya wanted to hope that the egg could still hatch, that her dream of one day seeing a dragon would come true.
She had no delusions about becoming a dragonrider if that were to ever happen. Everyone knew that dragons only let those of Valryian blood ride them. While only stories now, since the last dragons were long dead, there was plenty of history to be sure of it.
Arya smiled to herself for a moment, as an exciting thought came to her.
Jon had said that the egg felt a little warm to him, but nothing like what the book described. He hadn't given it any more thought. But Arya had.
The egg was cold to her, but Jon could feel something from it. It could have been from his time so much further north than Winterfell, and his idea of warm was off. It was well known that being at the wall was a different kind of cold. Arya didn't think that was it.
It was only in this room, or her own, where her thoughts would wander this way. Arya couldn't help but wonder about Jon's mother. If it truly was Ashara Dayne like so many assumed, was there some distant Valryian blood in her brother that had him feeling that minor warmth from the egg?
Could he possibly hatch the egg and be a dragonrider?
Probably not. She never liked the history lessons that she was forced to attend and could hardly pay attention to them for more than a few minutes at a time, but the thought was there all the same. She'd heard a time or two, of how Dorne was different than the other kingdoms. Something about the spicy food, and how bastards were a much more common and accepted thing there.
And all it would take was a single part of his distant heritage to have that Valryian connection. Perhaps there had been a babe born that wasn't from the suspected parents? It would have helped in that moment, if she had paid more attention to the family lines of the Noble houses. If only Septa Mordane wasn't so boring.
With a huff, Arya sat up and clutched the cold egg to her. She wanted Jon to hurry back. There wasn't even a single part of her that thought Jon might get hurt, he was trained by the best swordsman alive, and made Robb and Theon look like fools on the few times she saw them sparring.
"He'll be fine." Arya said, rubbing the egg a little more pointedly. She didn't know why she did it, only that it felt right.
She was going to continue believing that the egg would hatch, and that somehow, Jon was going to be the one to do it.
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Danaerys Targaryen
There was much that had changed since leaving Viserys. The most welcome part was not having to fear 'waking the dragon' as he'd call it. When her brother would go off on his anger filled tangent, often striking herself or Rhaenys. It had taken quite some time to get used to it, and longer yet to not shy away from any man in fear of the abuse they might deliver.
But she was managing, learning to be strong from Rhaenys and Doreah, learning patience from Ser Jorah. He had scared her mind still the night he appeared. Even after he set his sword down, pleading that he meant no harm. She hadn't believed him at first, and why would she? Dany was just a young girl alone in a secluded basement turned home.
There were plenty of stories heard throughout the streets near the brothels, where sellswords often spent their earned coin. After killing the man they were hired for, any woman left unguarded in their presence was often raped. The idea of that revolted her. To be turned into nothing more than a slave for the pleasures of the one more powerful.
A dragon is not a slave.
She'd heard it over and over again from both Rhaenys and Viserys, but with a different meaning behind for the words.
For Viserys, she imagined that it was a way for him to feel powerful, in control of things when in reality he had none. He had no crown, no army, no fighting skill, and the temper of an entitled child. He expected his name to make everyone bow down to him. In most ways, she was glad to be away from him. But he was also family, and there Rhaenys had battered her with the idea that family was important.
Rhaenys on the other hand had often whispered that same phrase to herself, and had told Dany that it was because she had to remind herself that Viserys had no power over her. While the world generally held women to a lower standard, Rhaenys was not accepting of it. Dany had been told on more than a few occasions, not to let a man pressure her in any way just because he was born a man and she wasn't.
Her niece was a source of inspiration, and Dany tried her best to force those submissive feelings aside, to be the force of nature that they both knew they could be.
Dany had started to ask about the dreams that Rhaenys had, the ones that showed their possible future.
"Ser Jorah, should a queen know how to fight?" She asked the man walking beside her, his eyes glancing every which way for signs of danger.
The exiled knight had become a quick source of information for her, especially about their home country. She would even go so far as to say that he might be her friend. He was honest, if a bit blunt. But there was nothing wrong with that. It was refreshing actually. Dany didn't want to be coddled, something that Rhaenys had stopped doing too. And to think that it all started with the truth of how her brother had run away with a woman in secret, rather than making his intentions known.
"I am sure that many would say no, Princess. Many would probably say that a queen should be elegant and poised, her words carefully considered and softly spoken."
As they sat in the place they called home for the moment, Dany didn't miss that he'd forgone giving his own opinion. Instead he'd offered what she imagined the overall opinion of most westerosi.
"And your personal view?"
Those light blue eyes looked up from the glass that he was about to sip from, a snort coming before he could stop it.
"Bear Island trains everyone, man or woman. It is a sparsely populated island and does not have the luxury of being too choosy."
She had asked at least one question per day, most times Ser Jorah had an answer that satisfied her curiosity of the day. Rarely did he ever try to dodge a question like this.
"Do you feel that women are somehow inferior to men on the field of battle?" The words came out with more heat than she'd meant, but if he was affected it didn't show on his face.
"Of course not. My aunt Maege is as fierce as any man on a battlefield, and my cousin Dacey is not someone to take lightly either." His answer seemed honest enough, but Dany still felt that he was holding something back.
"But…?" She prodded further, violet eyes narrowed towards him, willing him to continue. She wanted full transparency.
"But Bear Island is an exception in Westeros. Most would see a woman wielding a weapon and laugh." For a few moments, Danaerys frowned. Though shortly after, there was a gleam in her eye that quite obviously made Jorah nervous.
"Well then, I would think they would underestimate me."
"Aye, that they would."
There was a silence between them, with Dany stuck in her head and Jorah wary of broaching the subject on his mind. Whatever it was that had brought this about, the man knew that he wasn't really in a position to refuse.
"Why the sudden interest Princess, if I may be so bold?"
Dany leaned back in her chair, hands folded in her lap.
"A dragon is not a slave. I would like to be able to defend myself, should whatever guard I have not be sufficient. I will not be held to the untoward whims of a man." Her words were spoken evenly, but not harshly. Jorah however, knew that the young woman across from him witnessed a number of things that someone of her status shouldn't be subjected to.
It was a double standard to be sure, but the idea of commoner women seeing another be taken against her will was somehow different in his mind. Perhaps he was blinded by his time as a sellsword, or through his noble heritage. Whatever the cause, he knew that she would most definitely not like the thought. Not even his status as a knight of the realm swayed this and for a moment, Jorah was disgusted by the thought of how skewed his views had become.
"I do hope that you mean that Princess." A voice, slightly mocking in its tone, called from the stairs.
Neither Jorah nor Danaerys had heard anyone approaching.
"Because I would hate for the Targaryens to fall for a second time, and so quickly after getting my niece back."
Oberyn swayed into the room, a dagger in hand and an approving smile on his lips. The dagger, ornate in design clearly well taken care of, was extended towards her.
"Though I would tamper the thought of being underestimated. Once you are known to be a fighter, only skill will help you."
Dany looked from the dagger and up to her relative through marriage. She saw only truth in his eyes, a hard learned fact through the loss of lives.
"Then I suppose I should get started. Westeros will have its Rhaenys, perhaps it needs a Visenya as well."
Oberyn released the weapon into her hand and wondered, not for the first time, just how much would have to go wrong before things went right. The impending war was not at their doorstep yet, and the events leading up to that eventuality could very well alter the course.
The only thing that was certain, was that war was coming to Westeros. Who fought and for what reasons, had yet to be determined. If he could ensure that Danaerys and Rhaenys were still players in the game of thrones, he would. For the moment he could do nothing for the hidden Targaryen, but that too would change in time.
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Rhaenys
While she was most definitely surprised to see her uncle, having not thought that anyone from Westeros would come to verify her being alive, it was a welcomed reunion.
Oberyn had held onto her in the city square for an amount of time that most would probably think strange. She didn't mind in the slightest. This was a family member, someone that loved her and only wanted the best for her. And that was something that she knew was missing in a lot of families across the known world.
Marriages were so often used for political moves that it was just assumed that when you got married, you either wouldn't know the person before hand, wouldn't have that connection to them that she felt should be there at the wedding, or would come to resent ever having done it.
It was unrealistic to think that she could change that, but it was a thought that lingered.
"Tell me, is there any way that I can convince you to come with me to Dorne?" it was not the first time he'd asked this question during his time here.
Oberyn had stayed with them for near a fortnight before making a venture to Pentos, then Tyrosh, before coming back. He had not come empty handed either. Clothes, perfumes, spices, jewelry had all been part of the gifts lavished on herself and Danaerys.
It was a sweet gesture, but some of it went beyond the life they were trying to make everyone believe they led.
It was a simple ploy, and one that Oberyn had clearly expressed his concerns about. Doreah and herself were a pair of whores that delved into sexual arts that hadn't been seen since the days of the Valyrian empire. Where they learned such things was a secret.
They had made a name for themselves, as much as she detested the idea.
That cooling ingredient that Doreah had, added to the effects of milk of the poppy that they used, gave the patron a dream of such a mind blowing experience that they never questioned having less coin in their pockets than they remembered.
None could remember what they looked like, and the whisper on the street was that they were very selective on who they allowed to use their techniques on. This was true, but not in the ways that most people would think.
"Would we be safe there uncle? Could you tell me with utmost certainty that Dany, myself, Ser Jorah and Doreah would be able to remain undetected?" Rhaenys raised a hand to stall whatever it was Oberyn thought to say.
"I know that you and the rest of the family wouldn't be a problem for myself and Dany. But a northern man in Dorne would be strange, more so after someone recognized him. That would make the usurper pay attention, and possibly try to drag uncle Ned into it because the man had been sentenced to death. Ser Jorah is sworn to protect us, and I agreed to take Doreah with us wherever we went. She's the only reason we've made it this far."
She knew that Oberyn was only thinking of bringing her and Dany back to Westeros when he made the offer, but she had made commitments, and was going to stick to them. Even if it meant having to wait just a little bit longer to meet Jon.
And with every turn of the moon, she was craving that more and more. Not being able to speak to him through her dreams was grating on her patience. Doreah had teased her, saying that she was obsessed with a man that couldn't be as she imagined. She stopped doing that after Rhaenys had told her of the dream that she'd seen Dany in the night previous, then told her to go wake Danaerys and ask her about it.
Needless to say, Doreah now believed that some forms of magic were still lingering in the world.
Oberyn looked her in the eye for a few long moments, before sighing and shaking his head with a laugh.
"You will make a wonderful queen, Elia would be so proud."
"In order to get to that point uncle, Dany and I need to start thinking of a plan. No one would pledge for us if we were to sail without an army. We would just be two women with delusions of grandeur and a bounty on our head."
Rhaenys was a little taken back by the ferocity of the look he gave her then. So eager was he, to join her cause that hadn't even gotten through its infancy.
"Dorne is with you Rhaenys, you know that." While she did not doubt that her uncle would stand by his word, Rhaenys felt the need to ask.
"And Jon?"
There was a moment, so brief that she thought it to be only her imagination. But the tone of his words confirmed it.
"Tell me what these dreams have shown you of him. I've heard of something similar during my time here in Essos, but never as vivid as you briefly described."
For reasons that Rhaenys thought she understood, Oberyn's tone was that of a man at a crossroad.
"You haven't answered my question uncle." She had to be gentle, even though his avoiding her query was souring her mood.
"No matter how much time has passed, the wound is still fresh. Had she possessed a healthier frame, I imagine she'd look exactly like you. Elia and Aegon are dead because of what your father did. Because he ran off with Lyanna Stark. Is it so surprising for me to be reluctant on giving the highest position in the seven kingdoms to the product of our family's pain?"
With a deep inhale through her nose, Rhaenys willed herself to calm. She understood, truly she did. Her mother was dead. Her step-mother was dead. Her brother, and thousands of others, all dead.
"I know what we've lost uncle." She said, eyes closed. "I haven't forgotten. But Jon is not to blame. He is just as much a victim of our father's secrecy as me or Dany. From what I understand, he doesn't even know who he really is."
Oberyn scoffed, not believing for one minute that the boy in Winterfell had it as bad as his niece.
"He is safe within the North and has Ser Arthur Daynethere with him. Ned Stark is not a slouch with a blade either."
"And yet whenever I look into his eyes, all I see is a desperation to feel that he belongs somewhere. I would take all the assassins in the world three times over, rather than not know who I am or where I came from." Rhaenys shook her head. For as smart and capable as Oberyn was, it was he that didn't understand.
But, how could he?
"I remember my grandmother and Ser Willem saying something to me before, and it didn't make sense at first."
It was like only being given half of a riddle. While someone may think that they knew what it meant, there was deeper meaning to it.
"A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing."
Oberyn leaned back in his chair, resting his feet on the table between them.
"I've heard that before. From your grandmother when their only surviving child had been Rhaegar."
Deciding to partake in the wine set on the table, Rhaenys poured herself and her uncle each a cup.
"I imagine that most would think it to be about the stresses of ruling without someone to share the load." It wasn't a Dornish red, but it was a decent enough vintage.
"The phrase refers to something else then?" Oberyn took the offered drink, raising it in toast before taking a generous gulp. It was clear by the scrunch of his nose that he was not a fan.
"Viserys used to say that we were the blood of the dragon. Of course, I took that to mean our sigil and previous standing as dragon riders."
"Ah yes, the beggar king as I hear whispers of him being called." Rhaenys nearly spilled her wine on her dress, sheer as it was, that would have bled through and destroyed it. She had no idea what had happened to him after they left.
"Do you know where he is now? I wish no harm upon him, but I couldn't let Dany and I stay there after he killed Ser Oswell."
No, not with his increasingly unstable temperament. There was no telling what he'd do next.
"I heard that he ran out of money fairly quickly. There were a number of magisters and other Nobles that housed him for a brief time each, before his welcome was inevitably dried up. A magister in Pentos has taken him in and is the longest roof over his head since."
Rhaenys nodded, making a mental note to search for him at some point. He was family still, and she couldn't find it within herself to just abandon him. With Ser Jorah around, Viserys should pose little threat. Even less so if there were others to act as guard.
"As I was saying, that phrase held meaning I didn't see until my dreams became clearer. When Jon sees me, his tension eases, his eyes lose some of the hardened edge. A world away, unable to hear anything I say to him, a projection of the mind, and my presence still soothes him."
Rhaenys was thankful that Oberyn didn't look like he was dismissing what she said. Swirling his glass, it seemed like he was thinking rather deeply on it.
"It is in our blood uncle. Dany and I have each other, but Jon is alone. Sure, he has the Starks near him. But he's being raised as a bastard. From what I understand, the North holds honor a step above the other kingdoms, so I find it hard to believe that he feels like part of the pack."
That was putting it mildly. Ser Jorah had shed some light on how Northmen were. With the lands they lived on, the harsh climate, and the vast distance between settlements, a strict code of honor and ethics was prevalent in the North that the other kingdoms didn't adhere to.
Guest rite was something they all did, but the North held it sacred. If a house broke Guest rite, they were shunned by everyone in the region.
"He needs us."
Slowly, Oberyn was being worn down by the copper stare she held on him. Finally, he sighed.
"What is it that you want Rhaenys?" While she knew what he meant, that he was asking what she wanted him to do in regard to Jon. Once he left, it was unlikely they would see each other for quite some time. There was much to be done.
"In truth, I want very few things uncle. I want to go home, I want to be happy with my family, and I want to be safe. But those three things are impossible to obtain unless we take the throne. I am sure that Dany and I could manage it somehow, but with Jon…" Rhaenys shook her head with a smile.
"You won't understand what I mean until you meet him."
His elbow on the table, palm held under his chin, Oberyn gave her another questioning look.
"For someone you can't communicate with, you seem to know an awful lot about the boy."
"Come now uncle, I thought you of all people would know better than to doubt the intuition of a Dornish woman." The smile he gave her said that he'd made that mistake a time or two.
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Jon Snow
He had no idea why, but the wildlings crossing the wall and deserters from the watch had been increasing at an alarming rate. While the first time he'd set out with a group of men had ended with the death of one of his men, the other three had gone to plan.
This one though? He had a bad feeling about it.
The normal reports would be a small group having either scaled the wall or sailed around. Houses Glover and Mormont had sent a raven, looking to their Liege Lord to help repel the frequent raids. From what Jon had gathered so far, there appeared to be several groups of 20 to 50 wildlings, raiding smaller settlements on the outskirts of Bear Island, Deepwood Motte.
By the writ in his possession, Jon was to take command once again with Ser Arthur at his side. This was a larger operation than he'd undertaken, the knight's presence would be of help to him and to ease the concerns that both Lady Mormont and Lord Glover had.
60 of the men with him were from Winterfell, 30 from the Glover's and 10 from the Mormont's. It should have made him nervous, being in control of so many lives, but that wasn't his issue. It was the unpredictable way the Wildlings were attacking.
3 on Bear Island, 7 near Deepwood Motte, and even a few on the mountain clans. The mountain clans of the North weren't as well-known as those of the Vale, and that was partially because of the positive relationship they had with the Starks. They kept to themselves and bothered no one. The problem must be dire for them to reach out for help as they had.
There was no pattern, though Jon should have expected that.
"What are you thinking Jon?" Ser Arthur stood beside him in the small tent, the lantern the only light available. Jon sat on his bedroll with a map of the north, having marked each of the locations and the approximated order they'd happened.
"It's all over the place. With a series of raids this size, it has me worried that only 1 woman was taken and minimal dead. If the dates given to us are right, then some of these are happening simultaneously. They're gathering supplies, but for the life of me I can't…." Jon paused, suddenly coming to a conclusion that he didn't like.
Looking at the map again, his finger traced from Bear Island and up to the Frozen Shore, then back down along the western edge of the island and then to Deepwood Motte. He did the same from the Shore to the mountains, then back to the seat of House Glover.
"Fuck!" Jon nearly tipped the lantern over.
Settling himself down, Jon peered at the map as though he expected it to speak to him, giving voice to what he wanted to know.
"I'm fairly certain that Lord Stark would not appreciate your choice of words." Ser Arthur gave Jon a crooked smile, not admonishing him in the slightest, and more amused that it had taken this long to hear Jon curse in his presence.
But Jon wasn't listening, his mind was trying to put all the pieces together.
"5 smaller ships from the Frozen Shore, one to hit the North end of Bear Island, another to the mountains, one to Deepwood Motte…It's the only way this makes any sense."
Arthur was starting to feel a sense of Déjà vu, with how Jon was talking.
Before Rhaegar left the Tower of joy for the last time, he too had been studying the maps before him like the battle plans would appear on the page in clear text.
"Ser Arthur, I need Dacey Mormont and Robett Glover. If I'm right, we might be able to stop these raids and get some gods damned answers."
With a raised brow, Arthur waited a moment longer to see if there was anything else. When Jon just continued to stare at the map with a tensed jaw, he left.
Camped as they were to the east of Deepwood Motte, between the base of the mountain range and the Bay of Ice, they might not make it in time to catch the fuckers. That was, of course, if Jon was right.
"This better be good, boy." Robett Glover was a middle-aged, gruff man. His hair was of a lighter brown, showing strips of grey, especially along the balding at the very top. The thick beard on his face kept his face looking annoyed. Jon mused that he was annoyed that he was answering to a bastard boy of 14.
Dacey followed behind him, looking relaxed and not at all put out by being summoned by someone of a lower status. If Jon had to guess, Dacey had to be around 20, and was the tallest woman he'd ever seen. Thin and lanky, Jon didn't doubt that she was still a menace with that mace of hers. She carried the thing around like it were a child delivered from the Gods.
"Lord Glover, when the Wildlings fled, which direction were they heading?" Jon gave the man's tone no mind.
The man's cheek was twitching as he scowled at Jon, how met his eyes unflinchingly.
"West. We lost them in the Wolfswood in the night." Jon nodded, looking back to the map and tracing his finger back through the wood in the direction Robett gave.
"Lady Mor-"
"Dacey, Jon, just Dacey. Cut the shit. We got hit from the North first, then southwest and southeastern points. The only time we saw which direction was when they hit the North, and they fled west." While her voice was pleasant and soft, her eyes and tone were hard as iron.
A true lady of Bear Island. Jon had heard that Dacey was as comfortable in a dress as she was in leather armor. From what he'd seen of her so far, he had no doubts about that. A woman of little fondness for courtesy, preferring to be blunt and to the point. He liked that.
"Before I left Winterfell, I looked at the records of Wildling raids over the past few decades. Nothing matches the scale and timing of these. These are coordinated attacks with a singular purpose." Jon motioned them to look at the points on the map, made by himself.
"I think it's pretty obvious that they set off at the tip of the Frozen Shore, and if I didn't have all the approximate dates for each raid then I doubt we'd find anything before the next one."
Jon didn't anticipate them to say anything, and when he looked to them, he found he was right.
"I suspect 5 teams, maybe 6. Bear Island to the mountains, then to Deepwood. Mountains to Deepwood, then Bear Island. They're bouncing in between the areas and gathering resources. Even with the smaller raids I've seen over the last year, they did more damage, took more lives. The only thing that stays the same with each one, is them fleeing west."
Jon tapped his finger on the map, just a little Northwest of Deepwood Motte.
"If I'm right, they'll have a separate team with a larger ship at Sea Dragon Point to load up everything they stole, then sail back up to the Frozen Shore."
Jon could see that Arthur was trying to bring up a memory, one that he'd already gone over a dozen times since he opened the map.
"And why would they be gathering resources at this rate?" Lord Glover may not like Jon, but even he could see the way this was unfolding. It was logical, made sense with timing and pattern. Most of all, it spoke of more blood that would be shed in the future.
"The last time I saw Benjen Stark, first ranger at Castle Black, he mentioned hearing about the Wildlings gathering in large quantities. Something that has only happened 6 times in the last thousand years. If that's true, it means there's a 7thKing-beyond-the-wall. The last invasion attempt from the wall had 60,000 wildlings, if the books are accurate."
While Dacey and Arthur seemed to think that this was an immediate issue, but certainly one to bring up to Lord Stark and possibly the crown, Lord Glover merely scoffed.
"That's what the Night's Watch and the wall is there for. Boy, you shouldn't let those bedtime stories get you now."
Jon was losing his patience with this man, Gods help Robb deal with those like this man when he became Lord of Winterfell. Although, Jon knew that Robett Glover was just being a prick because Jon held no true position in the world.
"Lord Glover, the Night's Watch is only manning three of the nineteen castles along the wall. Of those three, there are a thousand men spread between them. Six hundred at Castle Black, three hundred at Eastwatch, and just over a hundred men at the Shadow Tower." The words had started firm, but as he progressed Jon became more and more aggravated with the man, gritting his teeth at the end.
"So please enlighten me as to how the North could possibly repel a force of that size when in all likelihood, we'd have no idea they were even coming? Our men would be killed, women raped, castles and keeps plundered before the raven would get to the closest house available. And that is assuming that they weren't being attacked at the same time."
The light was dim enough that only Arthur saw, but as Jon got ramped up, his eyes bled into that same violet that he'd seen before. The other two in the room probably wouldn't think anything of it, having only just met Jon recently and not really being around him for more than a few minutes at a time. If this had happened in a well lit room though? Questions would be asked. And that was not something they were prepared for at the moment.
"I get that Lord Glover is being a total cunt Jon, I do, but a lot of this is speculation. I trust the word of a Stark as I would my own family, but we don't know that's what is happening here." Dacey stepped forward, and Arthur was thankful to see that when Jon blinked, he could see the violet receding.
It was a strange thing, watching his eyes turn like that. If he had to compare, it was like each beat of his heart was pushing the color further into his iris, as though his eyes were becoming bloodshot and his blood was purple rather than red.
"Aye, but there is most definitely something going on here. Wildlings have never organized raids like this without there being someone pulling the strings. We'll need to send a raven to Winterfell and Torrhen's Square for more men. I don't see this ending until they bleed those three areas dry. 50 men from Torrhen's and 80 from Winterfell so they can set out near immediately. That should be enough."
Jon saw Arthur trying to bite back a proud smile and failing. He didn't have time to think on why that was. The man had hardly been anything other than business like with him for years.
"Where do you want the men Jon?" Arthur asked, and Jon had to look at the map again to confirm what he wanted to do.
"We'll split our forces in the camp. Dacey, take your men home and ask Lady Mormont keep a perimeter on the shores if she isn't already. Lord Glover, grab another 20 at least from Deepwood Motte and head to the entrance of the mountain valley. You're closer and would know the terrain better. Winterfell will have 30 head to Bear Island, while the other 50 head to Deepwood Motte. Torrhen's square will send their men to me, at Sea Dragon's Point. They might have the numbers, but they shouldn't know we'll be watching each area. Plus, Wildlings typically only wear furs instead of any kind of armor. One Northmen is easily equal to three or four of them."
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Eddard Stark
Getting that Raven in the middle of the night had put his stomach nearly in his throat. If Jon felt that they needed the men now, and Arthur didn't sway him otherwise, then something beyond frequent raids was going on.
As the Warden of the North, he could hardly let Jon and his Vassal houses handle this on their own. Cat had only given a minor protest to his choosing to lead the men. Ser Rodrick, Jory and the best 80 men they could name had been summoned and saddled within hours.
They would still be almost 2 days travel from each destination, and that was with riding from nearly sunrise to sunset. He hoped that nothing happened within that time.
"Lord Stark, what are we riding in to?" Ser Rodrick asked from beside him, stone-faced and ready.
"Anywhere from 20 to 300 wildlings at either of the points. I'm leaning more towards the 300, otherwise Jon wouldn't have requested us. He's young, but capable."
Jory snorted from a close distance behind. "Capable? The lad's like none I've ever seen at that age. From what I hear, he's got a mind for command as well."
Yes, Jon had been quickly earning the respect of the Stark men-at-arms, but this was on a different level. This was bordering on war. Jon was effectively a commander of troops in a larger war, split off and having to defend multiple points of interest. Thank the Gods that they shouldn't be facing armor plated enemies.
"Aye, but he doesn't have the experience. I don't think he'd be splitting them up without proper cause, but there's always the chance that they missed something." He spoke from experience. He could have written home to ask what his father and Benjen knew about Lyanna leaving. Perhaps Benjen would have come clean then, and much could have been avoided.
"You don't think Ser Arthur would have picked up on anything amiss?" Ser Rodrick didn't look appeased. He was probably the only other one to have a conversation for more than a few minutes with the man.
Ned didn't answer for a few moments. He had to think of how Arthur was seeing this situation. Jon was his king, orders from him were oath binding. But Jon was also his student, considered family at one point.
"Ser Arthur has not dealt with Wildlings as we have. Their movements might look obvious to us, but he's mostly dealt with soldiers." His reasoning was sound enough, just not the full truth. Arthur might give some small push back if he thought Jon was showing poor leadership, but only that. The Sword of the Morning took his vows and his duty seriously.
The first day of riding Ned was thankful for the clear skies, but he was not as hopeful for the next. As they camped, the summer snows were clearly rolling in overnight. The amount of snow wasn't the problem. When they awoke, the winds were whipping over the lands with a ferocity not seen in many years.
Its harsh bite numbing cheeks, and those without gloves were quick to regret it. Hopefully none would be frostbitten before they returned home. Northmen were used to the cold, but they weren't immune.
As the land became less of a flat plain with widespread forest, the ground rose and fell into hills, so too did Ned's stomach.
Bear Island was where the immediate threat was, from the Frozen Shore, from the mountains, and Sea Dragon's Point. So that was where he would personally go. There was no helping the worry that rolled and twisted his gut into knots. He and Jon may not be on the greatest of terms, certainly not to a point that he'd like, but the hidden king was acting much as he would himself.
Lead from the front. Let your men see that you will fight for and with them. Though the soldiers had no idea that Jon was anything but a lad being given an opportunity to prove himself, it would be something they remembered when the time came.
'If he lives.' And that was what had Ned to the point of his meager rations about to make a comeback. He'd promised to keep his nephew safe, but was that what he was doing now, keeping Jon safe? In the long run, Ned would have to say yes.
Rhaenys and Danaerys were alive in Essos, and they would eventually come back home. When that happened, there was little doubt that his parentage would come out. If it didn't happen beforehand. If Jon was seen as someone honorable and trustworthy, it would help his cause and keep him safe.
The sun made its trek through the sky, doing little to alleviate the cold. Once it was low enough for the sky to bleed orange, Deepwood Motte came into view. There was no time for pleasantries, nor did Ned seek them once he saw the frantic pace that some men-at-arms were making their way North to the docks.
He was lucky enough to catch Robett Glover halfway there.
"Lord Robett, what news? It looks as though your men are off to hold back a raid."
The Glover's were a loyal house to his family, but the man in front of him was prickly on the best of days. There seemed to be a scathing remark at the tip of his tongue before he inhaled deeply.
"Aye Lord Stark. Worse than anticipated by the sound of it too. A Raven from Bear Island came not too long ago, they're holding back a long ship of near 100, there's two almost upon us. 4are said to heading to Sea Dragon's Point. We've not heard from the Mountains."
Long ships? Where in the world could they have gotten those? Wildlings didn't typically have anything that could fit 20 men. They were raiders, not sailors.
"Benjen must have been right, and they've either bartered for ships or stolen them. A King-beyond-the-wall that has already set himself apart."
The keep was walked around in favor of getting his men closer to where the fight would take place, archers manning the walls and waiting. If given more time, Ned knew that the Glovers would manage just fine. But it was the random nature of Wildling raids, and the rapid succession of these ones in particular that had them troubled.
House Glover had around 1,200 men within Deepwood Motte and the immediate area, but that meant nothing for an enemy you're not expecting. Gathering your forces took time, something they didn't have at the moment.
"How many men do you have here?" Ned asked as they walked up the battlements. The orange in the sky was fading into blue, deep and dark, and would be hiding a ship if they weren't burning torches.
"350. The numbers aren't the problem, it's that we've had to keep guard from all angles."
"Ship Spotted!" A man called out from somewhere Ned couldn't see, but it didn't take long to find what he was talking about.
The Longship had to be stolen, for it was made of Ironwood. The dark grains could be seen even from where he stood, and Ned felt the twist in his gut again. The sail, already torn and pierced in so many places that Ned wasn't sure how it was still usable, had a crude painting of what could only be the Frost Fang Mountains.
The deck was filled to the brim with men and women holding shields to repel the arrows that would soon be raining down on them. His hands twitched, wanting to draw Ice from its sheath but knew that his position was elsewhere. He only hoped that Bear Island could withstand whatever amount was thrown at them without too much damage and death.
House Mormont was small, true, but they were a fierce breed. As Lady Maege had quipped upon the last time he saw her, those of Bear Island fight with the strength of ten men.
Off to the East, there was another call of a ship approaching.
"The boy you sent in command, Jon Snow-" Lord Robett paused, looking Ned in the eye. To his surprise, there was respect in his expression. "His orders may have just saved many lives, and The North Remembers."
He didn't show it, but Ned swelled with pride. He pushed down the vile thought of what else the North remembers when the truth came out. How often had he whispered apologies into the air for allowing his fellow Northmen to think that Lyanna had been raped?
"Sailing to Bear Island is impossible at the moment, where would you have my men?"
Robett pointed to the ship coming in from the East. Warden of the North he may be, but this was the seat of House Glover. Decisions made for it should be made by a Glover.
"I'll send archers with you, but I'll need most of those men here."
It was said that a wolf at peace, not snarling or baring its teeth was the most dangerous, waiting for the moment to strike. Ned Stark may be called the Quiet Wolf for his demeanor, but it was just as appropriate.
-LineBreak-
Jon Snow
He would have waited, continued scouting what they were up against until the time to strike presented itself.
The scream changed that.
Loud, piercing, young.
They had been told that a single woman had been stolen, not a fucking child likely to be around Jon's age or perhaps a tad younger.
Jon and Ser Arthur saw her first, and by the sound of plated leather gloves tightening, Arthur was just as disgusted by it as Jon was. The stolen girl from Deepwood Motte was a tiny thing, almost sickly looking. Brown shoulder length hair disheveled, several cuts made in her mud splattered dress, one sleeve hanging by mere threads. They had covered her in a mismatched cloak of furs, though it looked to be too thin to really keep the girl warm.
Sea Dragon Point offered little in terms of cover, it's rocky shore uneven and jagged throughout it all. 50 men, including Arthur and himself, were staggered between the far-off tree line and the weather shattered boulders.
His thoughts on them hoarding all they'd stolen onto a larger ship was correct, only it was of far better quality then he'd expected. A ship that could easily carry the 300 Wildlings he'd thought them to have, plus all loot with ease.
Weapons and armor were piled along the shore, being heaved into a longship by men that easily towered over him in height.
It was when the stolen girl was grabbed by a short wildling, grip obviously exceedingly tight around the inside of her furs that she screamed in pain. She was clearly sobbing, even from this distance he could see the shaking of her shoulders.
Jon could never be sure where or who it had come from, the events would forever be blips of the overall battle, but the whistling of an arrow may as well have been a hundred drums.
A Wildling fell, dropping to the ground with the wooden shaft in his neck.
It seemed an instant before the Wildlings pinpointed where they all were, a bird screeching from above as it circled.
Yells from both sides came, and Jon felt himself slip into a haze that he was becoming familiar with.
The sound of his blood pumping, rushing through his veins until there was nearly nothing else, it filled him with heat. His vision pulsed from the near black and white to overly saturated with colors he couldn't describe.
Sea Dragon Point was bleak with its greys and whites, the blue of the sea and the green of the forest behind were all that stood out before.
But now… He could call them reds, or yellows, orange and purple, but that wouldn't be accurate.
The colors shifted, changed at a moment's notice. The point on the ground where a wildling ran pulsed yellow, as if they'd kicked up sand from some Dornish beach. Arrows flew overhead with a blue so deep it neared on black.
He ran with his men, Ser Arthur beside him with Dawn and the unnamed blade in hand, towards the ones who sought to plunder the North.
His blood felt like fire, hands burning in a need for movement. Each breath he took cooled him, as though it was the only thing that was keeping his insides from bursting into flame.
Perhaps a foolish decision on his part, Jon had decided to forego a shield, having become used to wielding two blades. They came into his vision as he ran, the castle forged steel shining like gems brighter and clearer than he'd ever seen. As Jon ran, arms pumping back forth, he swore he saw a trail of light from the blades similar to waving a torch in the night.
This was a dance he knew, one he'd prepared for. Killing was not something he enjoyed, but protecting his home was. And he was good at it.
The furs of the first Wildling rushing towards him pulsed red, like a red light emanated from the man. Axe high in the air, a bellowing yell on his tongue, the man's reach was much greater than Jon's.
Even so, there was no contest in who the better fighter was.
The axe descended with speed and power, but all Jon had to do was twist his body right, pull one blade up with a measure of force. The axe and the hand wielding it fell to ground with a thud that echoed in his ears. His other blade piercing in between the man's ribs. Heart, lungs, veins, it didn't matter what Jon hit. The man would die quickly.
Ser Arthur was art in motion himself, taking two or three out in moments before he continued to prove his superiority.
Profane and unnecessary declarations came from the Wildlings and Northmen both. Belittling one, mocking the other, comments made that were a waste of air in the midst of battle.
He understood it to be a primal urge in the heat of the moment, but each statement was a breath wasted when they should be solely focused on the task at hand.
A war cry of a higher pitch came from Jon's left, a bulky woman with a sword and shield bearing the fist of House Glover.
Jon turned to her with eyes narrowed, insulted beyond reason that she'd attack him with the very armaments they stole. She was slow, clumsy, and it was apparent that she'd never wielded anything like it before. Steel rang out as he met he with a parry, pushing her blade down and sending her balance askew.
The woman tilted right, nearly falling over before catching herself and flinging the shield up in hopes to strike Jon with anything. It was a frantic attempt to avoid injury, but it gave Jon more of an opening than anything else. His left sword flashed out across her neck, blood spraying out in pulsing crimson down her furs and to the stony ground.
After putting an end to the fourth person to be wielding Northern weaponry, Jon was gritting his teeth so hard they might be likely to crack. There was no honor, no respect in their actions, and it contradicted what few interactions he'd had with them.
Pillaging, raping, thieving, borderline savages they might be, but Jon had seen that they respected warriors. But this was so far removed from that previous behavior that he almost redacted his thought of them organizing themselves.
Almost.
That ship, the numbers, the timing, the coordination, it all said that Benjen was right.
The losses his men were taking hadn't entered his mind until he saw the axe cleave right through a man wearing the Stark direwolf.
There were easily 200 Wildlings bearing down on them, and if there weren't so many large boulders acting as funneling points, they'd likely all be dead by now.
The men by the tree line didn't have that luxury, and Jon knew that's where most of the causalities probably were at the moment.
From around another of the jagged rocks came a man almost as tall as Hodor back in Winterfell, close enough that his large handled axe could almost reach.
Jon stepped back and felt the world tilt. An uneven part of the ground made his back-ankle roll. The pain was nothing he couldn't deal with, but it was watching that axe coming towards him that had his focus. Large, sharp and bloodied, it looked intent on separating limbs from his body.
With his body falling back, Jon couldn't ready himself to block with enough strength to do more than slow it down and hope that his fall took him out of its path.
He wasn't sure what piece it came from, but as his blade met the axe, both had parts shatter and break. Just above his eye, Jon felt the sting of a cut and the hot feeling of blood dripping down his face.
The force of the strike pushed Jon to the ground with a blinding thud, stealing the breath from his lungs as he landed on pointed rocks.
The world around him swirled as the pain clouded his mind, heaving agonal breathes in an attempt to keep from meeting the Gods this day.
His opponent stood above him, a shadow of twisting browns and grey, the shaft of his axe now just looking like a stick with a large end. Jon reached back with his left hand, looking for a purchase point to pull himself back, to get room to get to his feet.
The fur registered first, the fur worn by a Wildling he'd killed not much earlier. Then the sticky feeling of drying blood.
Finally, metal. Steel or iron or copper, he didn't care.
It was a weapon, and his had been knocked out of his grasp on his fall.
The edge the serrated and sloping, an axe, like most of the wildlings seem to favor.
The man stalked forward slowly, no doubt enjoying the sight of Jon in pain and scrambling backward.
Jon winced, which was probably taken as a sign of injury from the fall but was really from his index finger being cut open from tip to knuckle has his hand glided down to a point he could grasp it.
The axe's edge tapered off, and Jon pushed his hand back and around the shaft quickly, wanting to get the jump on his would be killer.
Thankfully the shaft was shorter, a one-handed weapon meant for close combat.
The force made him a little nauseous due to still seeing in swirls of color, but Jon managed to throw all available force into chucking the axe forward. It sped forward end over end twice, before a familiar crunch.
The killers shadow stilled, coughed, then staggered back.
Jon's vision was starting to clear but breathing deeply was still difficult. The Wildling sank down against a rock, and Jon saw the bright red flecks with each cough. The axe had hit its mark in a way that Jon probably couldn't recreate if he tried a hundred times.
Its tip sank into his flesh just to the side of his nose, poking up into his eye and down to his cheek. He didn't have time to think of how much force would have been needed to do that.
Blinking away his disorientation, Jon saw that one of his swords was indeed broken, the other lay a few feet away from him.
There were no shields within immediate reach, but there was another axe. This one of steel, supple leather wrapped around the shaft. It wasn't a wildling weapon, likely one stolen in the raids.
Jon couldn't be picky, so he picked up both, thankful to be armed and getting his bearings back once more. The axe had a little bit more reach than his sword but having the slight weight difference between right and left hands was kind of nice.
The clashes of steel and yells of pain were lessening, marks that the battle getting closer to its end one way or the other. Peering around, Jon could only see a select few of his men engaging in a fight, with most of the sound coming from the North of him.
The sun had descended enough now that the sky was fairly darkened, the light it provided fading by the minute. If this continued for too much longer, the Wildlings could flee into the wilderness and get away.
A streak of shadowed movement caught his eye, two figures huddled closely together running towards the line of trees to the west.
There were answers that he still had to retrieve, and the more that fled, the less likely he'd be to get those answers. With careful steps, Jon made his way to follow. His ankle throbbed and protested him being moving so quickly, but he couldn't be brought down by something like a rolled ankle.
Ser Arthur would make sure he'd be black and blue for weeks if that happened.
The boulders became more whole the further he went, less battered by the salty water of the sea and wind. Few patches of grass peered through, but not enough to assure Jon that he could keep his eyes focused entirely ahead of him.
"HELP!" It was the girl! Gritting his teeth in both rage and an attempt to block out pain, Jon ran towards the voice. Every step sent shocks through his ankle and up to his thigh, but all that did was remind him that he was alive. He could still do something.
She came into view, an attempt at getting away from her captor being made.
Just as she turned towards Jon, a fur cloaked figure came from her side as her eyes widened with hope.
The Wildling picked her up and threw her over his shoulder with little effort, turning back to head into the woods and abandon those still alive. Her continued yells for help rose and fell with each of the man's steps pushing his shoulder into her belly.
Jon followed as quickly as he felt he could without risking further injury, his steps hobbled and favored to one side. Coming into the clearing between the rocks and trees, Jon saw Ser Arthur also answering the call from in front of the Wildling.
"Put the girl down!" He yelled, getting the first view of the face of the kidnapper.
Age was hard to make out, as the face was disfigured in a way that Jon couldn't describe. Scarred, rippled, torn and sewn together, there was no reasonable explanation. But the man was a sight of horrors.
His build was rather short and stocky, not packing much muscle and a surprising amount of fat for how scarce he assumed hunting was North of the wall.
"You kneeling cunts don't have authority over me!" His voice was cracking, either from fright or puberty Jon wasn't sure, but the pitch made him think the Wildling was maybe a bit older than himself. That at least explained the age of the girl he kidnapped.
"Perhaps not, but we certainly have you in terms of skill and arms." Arthur gestured with his weapons, and the Wildling looked between the two of them wildly.
The man looked like he was about to bolt into the distance anyway, to try his luck, but the sounding horn froze him in place.
"FOR THE NORTH!" Jon smirked, hearing the beat of hooves coming closer. The men from Torrhen's square were here. It would have been nice to have them earlier, but at least the battle won't have been lost.
"You've lost. Put her down and make this easier on yourself." Jon tried reason once more. The cheers of the Northmen and the screams of pain were easy to hear from the wildlings.
"She's mine! I stole her, you understand?! My steal, my wife!" Jon narrowed his eyes towards him. It reminded him of what Theon had bragged about before.
Stealing women on raids to be their saltwives. It was a barbaric practice, no better than slavery in his opinion.
"Then go steal women from your own people!" His voice was lower then he'd ever heard it, more deadly, dangerous. Jon was done trying to play it nice, to give mercy when none would have been given to him.
Jon and Arthur stalked towards him, each with two weapons in hand and ready to use them.
The Wildling saw this, and slowly lifted the girl from his shoulder. She crumpled to the ground like a lifeless sack, fainting from the adrenaline and fear of the event.
Backing towards the forest, the Wildling had his hands raised in surrender. His eyes shifted from Jon to Arthur and back several times. Lips starting to tremble in fear, Jon and Arthur saw his hands twitch towards himself slightly, like he was about to pull a weapon of some sort.
He came upon the start of grass, still backing away, Jon glanced to Arthur for a moment.
"I've got him Ser Arthur, could you see to the girl?" Whether he was in command of the men here or not, commanding the Sword of the Morning was still something that felt too far above his station. The man had been the deadliest of the old Kings guard, nearly being unanimously declared the best swordsman alive. Arthur Dayne deserved respect for his skill and deeds.
Arthur merely nodded and turned to the side to see to the girl that had been kidnapped.
Jon watched from the corner of his eye as Arthur put his hand near her mouth, checking for her breath. After he saw Arthur relax a little, Jon turned his attention back to the Wildling.
"I'd have words." Jon spoke clearly, maintaining a sense of authority in his voice that he was still getting used to using.
The Wildling stopped, eyes hardened with a resolve to do something stupid, something that would get him killed. He was likely to die anyway, but at least the Lords would offer them a painless death, rather than bleeding out on the ground.
"You fuckin' southerners think you're so much better than us. For what? 'Cause we was born over beyond the wall?" A hand dashed behind his body, coming out with a short sword about the length of the young man's waist.
"Well fuck you and your –" A blur of black came and barreled into him before he could finish speaking. Jon had to blink before he realized what happened, and only the screams of the disfigured wildling helped to pinpoint where he'd gone.
"Seven Hells!" Arthur exclaimed from behind.
Walking into the clearing as if nothing could harm them, a pair of wolves had their eyes locked onto Jon.
Fur thick and ready for the coldest of winters, one a jet black and the other a mix of brown and grey. Jon felt his breath hitch with realization of what he was looking at, his weapons slackening in his grip. They stood impossibly tall, probably measuring with the young horse that Arya had taken as her own.
Muscled and built for both speed and power, lips curled in a silent snarl of warning.
Growing up the Stark household of Winterfell, wolves were no stranger to Jon. It was the sigil he saw anytime they went into the courtyard. It was on their armor, their weapons.
Some even went to say that those with Stark blood were part wolf themselves. Lord Stark often used wolves as reference for lessons for his children.
Having this knowledge, Jon was surprised by what he was seeing.
While the bared teeth were threatening for sure, it was the perked ears that eased him.
"Bloody Direwolves?" Arthur said just loud enough for Jon to hear.
Wanting to not meet the bloody and swift end that the Wildling had, whose blood was still dripping from the muzzle of the black one, Jon slowly let his weapons slide from his hands and onto the ground.
The black one, the male he assumed, took a step forward with a warning growl, tail straight to show how prepared he was to attack.
"Back up Arthur." Jon said it calmly, evenly, so as not to spook the magnificent creatures before him.
How long had it been since a direwolf had been seen south of the wall? 200 years maybe?
"Are you mad?"
"They won't attack without reason, their ears are perked, not slicked back. It's a territorial display."
And thank whatever Gods were listening that he'd remembered that fact.
Jon went to kneel as slowly as he was able, but the rolled ankle sent a greater spike of pain from being bent that way and he fell. The black one took several more steps, giving a growling bark with licked chops.
Dropping his head, Jon bared his neck to the wolves that were the symbol of his home, the place he sought acceptance in no matter the struggle presented to him. His fingers dug into the cold dirt as he slid forward, the gesture being one of non-aggression, of submission to the alpha's territory.
He couldn't be sure how long he stayed that way, but it felt like ages.
His pulse skyrocketed when he heard the heavy padding towards his direction, felt the near magical presence approaching him. The snarling was still coming from in front of him, so Jon assumed that it was the female that had approached him.
He wasn't sure if that was better. One wrong move and he was dead. The alpha male would not take any move against his mate well.
His black curly hair waved in a light breeze, and Jon realized that she was sniffing him.
She did this for quite some time, moving from his neck, to his hair, his shoulders and hands. It got uncomfortable when she went behind him, her nose pressing into his breeches on his backside.
It didn't help his dignity when he heard Arthur snort in an attempt to hold back his laughter.
'Laugh it up asshole, I'm keeping us alive.' Arthur surely understood that, but Jon knew the sight was probably an amusing one that he'd likely never see again.
His arms were starting to shake from how long he'd stayed prostrated before them, his ankle burned so much that Jon had bit his cheek to keep from moving it.
Finally, after what seemed a lifetime, the wolf eased off and Jon felt safe enough to lean back.
His eyes flew open when he saw her before him. Golden eyes glowing and intelligent, staring directly into his soul. She closed the distance between them once more, pushing her head into his chest lightly but firmly. Jon was too unsure on his footing and he fell to his back.
Her face loomed over his, legs straddled over his shoulders and just outside of his hips.
A smile, and a laugh that forced the rest of the air in his lungs out his body came before he could stop it as the She-wolf laid right on top of him.
Protection
She was taking him as her own, to be a part of her pack, her family. Nothing had ever felt so good.
It felt so warm, so comforting and selflessly accepting that Jon felt his throat threatening to bring out a sob.
Who would have thought?
A lifetime of 14 years of being made to feel like an outcast, and in only minutes a direwolf made him feel things he could only imagine a mother would.
When the first sign of tears came, the wolf atop him turned and licked at his cheeks.
His hands couldn't be stopped, they came around the wolf and hugged her, before pressing his face into her thick fur. The symbology was not lost on him.