Dragons of Ice and Fire

by Diablo Snowblind

There are things hidden in the far north, secrets buried under ice. Jon Snow faces the white walkers early, and stumbles upon a power that could change the world. It forges a new path for him and everyone around him - and a new journey south, a journey as a dragon. The world begins to change - with steel and snow, fire and blood…

27. The coalition of the lords of the North

The coalition of the lords of the north, and a war is declared

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Jon

The mattress was too soft. Satin sheets, pillows of goose down. The four-poster bed was by far the softest and most luxurious he had ever slept on - a bed fit for an actual king. Naked, doe-eyed mermaids were engraved on the bedposts in gilding of actual silver. The pillows and sheets felt suffocating, as if he was sinking into them. If he hadn't been so exhausted, Jon would not have been able to sleep at all.

In retrospect, perhaps he would have been better off sleeping on the actual floor, he would have only needed a few of the sheets. He found himself waking early, before the first light of dawn, with a bad ache in his back. Though perhaps it was for the best. There's a war to plan, he thought grimly. Kings don't get the luxury of sleep.

Still, his head felt foggy, his eyes ached, and his muscles stiff - he could feel the strain of dragonriding, and too many long days and short nights taking their toll. Perhaps he would need more sleep soon, while he still had the chance to rest.

From the window, he saw the white dragon curled on itself, snoozing atop the Seal Rock at the mouth of the harbour like a great marble sentinel. Sonagon's tail was so long that even with most of his body coiled in sleep, the tip of the dragon's tail dangled down the Seal Rock's fifty-foot cliff and into the water below.

The castle felt half-asleep, but there were still eight guards in green cloaks posted in the outer chambers of his quarters, and then four of his Dragonguard in the inner chambers to watch over the Manderly men in turn. As he passed, Jon noticed that Furs had shaved to fit in with the southerners, and the man looked queer without his bushy brown beard. Too long-necked and weak-chinned.

Jon was to break his fast with Lord Wyman, yet an idea had come to him the night before that he wanted to see to first.

"Bullden," Jon called to the wildling. "Meet me in the solar. We have matters to discuss."

Bullden Horn followed. The solar was unfamiliar to Jon, yet the stewards had left a tankard of wine on the desk. Jon was about to pour a glass, before remembering his audience. He passed the whole tankard to Bullden and spared the glasses.

"What is wrong, king?" his Dragonguard asked.

"How well do you know Skagos?" Jon queried.

Bullden frowned. "Is that a jape?" The man had changed his tunic from the castle's laundry, but no matter what he wore he always kept his unicorn horn hanging around his neck.

"Of course," he said with a smile. "Lord Wyman believes that my youngest brother Rickon might have taken shelter on Skagos. The lord has been unable to mount a search party, but I would like you to search for my brother, rescue him, and bring him to safety. You are familiar enough to search the isle?"

"Oh aye. I've raided Skagos half my life. How old is your brother?"

"Nearly six."

"Then he better be one hell of a tough six-year-old to survive on that isle," Bullden warned. "It ain't place for anything but the tough."

"He has a direwolf with him," said Jon. Shaggydog was always the most aggressive out of the litter. "And he is in the company of a spearwife. Lord Wyman has a witness who said they fled to Skagos." His eyes hardened. "This is important, Bullden. We need a Stark to reclaim Winterfell. If Arya is a hostage, if Bran is missing, then Rickon could be vital to rally the north." And Sansa killed a king and disappeared, and Lord Wyman has only the faintest suspicions of where she could be.

Bullden scratched his chin. "Then why not fly your dragon over there to find him?"

"I can't." Jon shook his head. "Sonagon creates panic everywhere he goes. If Rickon is truly hiding on Skagos, he could be endangered in the chaos a dragon flying overhead would cause. I can't risk flying in blind. A small party on the ground stands the best chance of tracking him down. Find my brother first, and then I can fly in to bring him home. Can you do that?"

"Last time I went to Skagos, I was hunting unicorn," Bullden scoffed, fiddling with the bone horn around his neck. "The stoneborn protect their unicorns viciously, they're… sacred animals to them or whatnot. The best raiders hunt unicorns just to prove that they can. It took me four days to bring that bloody beast down and take its horn, and I had to cut through half a dozen cannibals to do it. Aye, I reckon hunting a child on Skagos can't be any harder than hunting a unicorn there. I can do it."

"Good. Take Eryn and Gerrick with you." Eryn was a sailor from birth, and Dark Gerrick was as fearsome with a blade as anyone. "As well as however many of Lord Wyman's men you think you can move fast with. A ship will take you to Eastwatch, and from there you can cross to Skagos."

"I won't want many of these southrons with me. A few men can move more safely than a dozen. Black sails and small boats are the way to go - I've done that raid a hundred times. Usually from the north, but can't be much different from the south."

"Yes," Jon agreed. "But Rattleshirt will be warned to help however he can. This is - important. If I thought a fleet would give a better chance, you'd have one."

"If your brother is so important to you, I'll get him," Bullden promised. "But how do I recognise the boy?"

"Lord Wyman has a young man in the castle - a boy called Wex Pyke. He survived the sack of Winterfell, and saw my brothers as they escaped the castle. It is because of him that we know the spearwife brought Rickon to Skagos, he knows their faces. Take him with you. The boy is mute, however." Bullden's eyebrows raised. "Yet I'm told that Wex is a clever, resourceful, and eager to prove himself. I've arranged for Wex to squire for you during the journey."

"Squire?" Bullden snorted.

"To tend to your armour and weapons, manage your horses and luggage. An apprentice," he explained. My Dragonguard are elite warriors, they should act like it. Each member should have at least one squire beneath him. As should I, actually.

Bullden shook his head, but didn't object. "Aye, alright. When do I leave?"

"As soon as possible. And there's one more thing; my wolf will escort you." That took Bullden by surprise. "You will pick up Ghost at Eastwatch," Jon explained. "Take him with you on the boat. If Rickon is on Skagos, then my direwolf stands a very good chance at tracking his. Then, if you do find him, I will know through Ghost and I will be able to meet you on Sonagon."

"Wargs," Bullden muttered under his breath, but he nodded. He took a deep gulp of the wine and dropped it on the table. "Aye. Understood."

"Thank you. Send in Hatch when you pass him."

He left. One done. Hatch the Halfgiant traipsed in shortly afterwards. Jon pushed the tankard of wine to him.

"Hatch," Jon sighed. "I have something to ask of you. You won't understand why, but I just need you to do it."

He frowned, but nodded. "I want you to go to the godswood in the Wolf's Den, below New Castle. Make sure you are alone, and sit before the heart tree and describe, out loud, everything that was discussed last night. Mention the need to find my brother, Bran Stark, and ask for help. Repeat three times."

Hatch did look confused. "You want me to pray for you?"

"Something like that," Jon said with a wry smile. "I just ask you to trust me."

Hatch looked puzzled, but he nodded and walked away anyways, albeit frowning. Jon would have done it himself, but then at least two dozen people were likely to follow him and he didn't want to have to explain himself, or turn it into a scene. It was risky to even leave the castle unsupervised. But the three-eyed crow will be watching through the weirwood tree, Jon thought. Let us see whether or not the greenseer can offer some aid in rescuing my family.

Hatch barely left before a servant cautiously summoned him. Jon downed a large gulp of wine himself. So much to do, so little time.

Lord Wyman was waiting in the dining hall. It would be a small gathering, Jon was only bringing Sam, to take notes. Lord Wyman had only brought Wynafryd, his granddaughter, his castellan, and a few of his closest allied and subordinate lords. The only lords Jon could name were Malcolm Woolfield, Lord of Ramsgate, and Lyessa Flint of Widow's Watch. The other four seemed to be the more significant petty lords of the White Knife and lands nearby white Harbour, as far as Jon could tell. A few of the direct subordinate and knightly houses of the Manderly demesne.

Jon had expected a light meal for the morning, but instead he saw lobster, eel stew, buttery oatmeal with berries, omelets of crab and smoked haddock and hard cheeses, and thick blueberry pastries covering the table. The food itself was rich enough to be worthy of a great feast, far beyond his expectations for merely breaking his fast. If this is how the Manderly's house eats everyday, little wonder so most of these lords are so fat.

"Your Grace," Lord Wyman Manderly greeted.

"My lord," it didn't feel quite as tense as the meeting last night, but it was still a long way from being comfortable. Jon would have preferred if it was only the two of them. Still, he nodded to the others at the table. "And his guests. We have a rebellion to plan."

"We do indeed. Have a seat, I find the best plans are ones made over a feasting table."

Jon took a seat, Sam sitting beside him. All eyes were on Jon, but he acted as if the attention didn't affect him. He paused, and then slowly took a slice of buttered bread from the banquet spread. "Let us start with the obvious question," said Jon. "We declare defiance against House Bolton, declare an alliance between you and me. We raise men to bring Roose Bolton to justice. How much support could we expect to raise? And what forces will we face?"

Lord Wyman cracked a lobster's claws roughly. "That… is a difficult question. Lady Mormont will support us steadfastly, and Lord Umber will fight the Boltons to his last breath. We can raise banners for justice, for punishment for the Red Wedding, for the sack of Winterfell, but without a Stark to rally around our odds plummet." He paused. "Will you please reconsider your brother's decree?"

"No." Jon said, his voice was a bit more of growl than he intended. "We recover Bran and Rickon Stark, and we fight for them."

"Then we are fighting for a King in the North that we do not have," Lord Wyman sighed. "But I can guarantee the loyalty of all lands east of the White Knife, from Widow's Watch and Ramsgate to the Sheepshead Hills and the headwaters of the Broken Branch. Malcolm and Lyessa here will attest to that. I have a fleet of fifty galleys and the men to sail them, I can field four hundred heavy horses, fourteen hundred infantry, and a hundred or so trained knights."

"And Lord Umber? Lady Mormont?"

"If Lord Umber is capable of returning to his lands to raise swords? Potentially a thousand. Lady Mormont, I suspect a few hundred or so. Lord Glover has lost his seat and is in a more difficult position, yet he still perhaps can field a few hundred, more if there is dissent among his neighbours, the Tallhearts. There are factions on the sidelines that won't sit quietly, either."

"And the Boltons have…?"

"Houses Ryswell, Dustin, Hornwood, Cerwyn, Tallhart, and Karstark remnants. As well as two thousand of the Frey army that marched north with them. I hear that their forces sit at ten thousand. Whether or not they can raise more, hmm, I cannot say."

"What of reinforcements from the Iron Throne?"

"Very doubtful. The Lannisters fight this arisen dragon, and the Tyrells the kraken. Let us say ten thousand, as a broad guess of what we might face."

"Ten thousand," Jon repeated. "I have five thousand men from Eastwatch already in the field, led by the Weeper and supported by giants. By now, the numbers of wildlings that are south of the Wall has likely exceeded fifty thousand, including women, children and elderly. I suspect that, should I call for them, then at least ten thousand of those would be ready to fight - the free folk have a higher proportion of fighters than any other; both men and women."

"And a dragon."

"Yes. The dragon is well worth a hundred thousand by itself."

There was a dark glint in the fat lord's eyes. I can see why Lord Wyman is pushing so hard for an alliance. Even with the lords Umber, Mormont and Glover by him, White Harbour cannot not match the Bolton forces by themselves.

"Yet there is a catch, my lord," Jon continued. "The free folk are not a unified host. They are not trained soldiers, they do not have formation or ranks."

"Yet they will follow you?"

"They will," Jon said. "But they need supplies. They need food, blankets and rations sent to the Wall. They need armour and good steel."

"I can provide it," Lord Wyman promised. "I have silver in my vaults that I am prepared to spend. There are many silversmiths in White Harbour."

"I care for steel more than silver now, my lord. And for grain more than gold. The need is urgent; there are starving, exposed mouths on the Wall and the weather is turning."

"And there is a fleet in my harbour that could deliver aid," Lord Wyman said. "But right now, I need manpower. I need soldiers guarding my lands, to allow our allies muster their forces."

"As I said, there are five thousand free folk and five hundred giants in the Grey Cliffs, led by my, general, you might call him. The Weeper. I can summon them to White Harbour."

"Ah yes. The same army that half the north has been preparing to fight against. Even I've heard of this 'Weeper.' Any alliance with his wildlings will be dangerous, but…" He thought about it. "I need guarantees that there will be no raiding and pillaging of my lands. I have seen refugees pour into my city from Karstark lands, and I cannot suffer the same. By your word, King Snow; you must keep your wildlings in order."

"Aye," Jon agreed. "The Weeper is a hard man, and he knows the stakes. He will keep order."

"I must hold you to that, King Snow," Lord Wyman warned. "For it is the only way that this alliance has a hope of succeeding."

Jon didn't reply. He wished he felt as confident as he spoke. I must fly to the Weeper, to make sure they're keeping the rules. "You hold the Karhold, do you not?" Lord Wyman demanded.

"Aye."

"And Lord Karstark still lives?"

"As a hostage. Him and his wife."

Wynafryd shifted in her seat when Jon mentioned Alys' name. But Lord Wyman just narrowed his eyes. "I know of Cregan Karstark. A grasping, surly fool, an upjumped lord. His father Arnolf was only castellan, yet Cregan became Lord of the Karhold by forcefully marrying the late Rickard Karstark's daughter - his own cousin."

"Alys," Wyndafryd murmured. But Lord Wyman continued speaking.

"The Karhold's rightful lord should be Rickard Karstark's eldest son, Harrion, but he was being held prisoner at Maidenpool and may already be dead." Lord Wyman thought about it. "If Cregan is a prisoner, then perhaps we can push Karstark forces into our ranks. We merely convince the new Lord Karstark that he is better served as an ally than a hostage."

"Is it needed? I have a second host under Tormund Giantsbane already mustering in the north, and we have something of a fleet stationed at Eastwatch." Jon nodded, deciding not to mention the complication that was the Weeper and Alys for now. "In terms of numbers, it seems we already have the advantage."

"It is not the numbers that concerns me, it is the men. What type of war do you want this to be, King Snow?" Lord Wyman crunched through a pastry roll. "The Boltons will never fight a pitched battle that they cannot win. Do you wish to see burning farms and poisoned wells? Do you want to see riots in every town and village, defiance in every corner? Even if we win, this war could tear the north apart - turmoil and strife, murder until our forces are stretched on every side. No, I will not let it occur. I will not let the Boltons wage a Dornish War in the North. Not with winter upon us."

"Then we are agreed." Jon kept eye contact, remembering maester Aemon's words. "Aye, a thousand pinpricks could hurt us more than a blade."

Lord Wyman raised his brows. "You've read Yandel? Then heed my advice," the fat lord warned. "I know Roose Bolton. The man does not fight a battle without preparing for both outcomes. Before he allows himself to lose, he will turn any victory for us into something bitter. He will scatter his forces, give command to his lieutenants and captains, and turn them into bandits and raiders, following no direction but their own. He will burn crops and slaughter cattle until we all lose come winter. He will incite such violence and discord that even if we kill him, his legacy will be worse than a thousand battles. He might not win, but he could well deny us a victory."

"His own reign will fall apart before that," Jon said. "The other lords will not let him do it."

"Oh, they might. If you are naught more than a wildling invader, then this realm will deny you to their very last. What does it matter what you are, compared to what they see you as? Regardless of your intentions, you could easily become a tyrant invader king, and I the fat, spineless lord that was cowed to support you. Smallfolk will rise against you in every corner." He shook his head, crumbs of pastry flying from his whiskers. "No, if this war dissolves into bitter skirmishes then the damage could be devastating. It must end in battle, or it may not end at all.

"Do not underestimate House Bolton, Your Grace," Lord Wyman warned darkly, as he cut from loaf of bread to slather butter on. "Do not dismiss the grief that a smaller force can inflict, if they are vicious enough. Roose Bolton is as dangerous as they come, and to say nothing of his son…"

"Roose and Ramsay Bolton." Jon's voice was cold. The traitor who murdered Robb. The son, who married and tortures my sister. The entire bloodline is cursed.

"Ramsay Snow," a knight spoke up from the table. Jon didn't know his name. "A bastard born of rape. He is a Snow, no matter what the boy king says."

Jon's hands tightened. "He concerns me," Lord Wyman continued. "Roose Bolton is cunning, but predictable enough in his own way. Ramsay, however?" Lord Wyman shook his head. "There is no predicting him. The Boltons have always been as cruel as they were cunning, but this one seems a beast in human skin. I've known rabid dogs with more honour."

Jon didn't reply. His gaze was dark.

Lord Wyman picked up the knife again to cut a slice of pie. "No, we are not lacking forces. We are lacking legitimacy. The only way to beat Roose Bolton in the long run is to have every house supporting us, to have a rightful claim to Winterfell. To ensure that they are the tyrants and we the champions."

Lord Wyman has his wits, Jon thought quietly. Jon wanted to deny it, but a war was more than just men marching into battle. It wasn't simple, it could never be simple. I tried to make it simple, and I ended up surrounded by the corpses of hostages. I will not make the same mistake twice.

"Tyrants and champions," Jon repeated. "You speak of a war of…stories, then, Lord Wyman? How is that useful?"

"Narratives, King Snow. A war of narratives. We must create a narrative in which it is not only good and true but rational to support our side over the Bolton's. That is how we will convince the North to accept the dragon, accept you and your wildlings. That is how we will win the North, more than any battle fought."

Jon frowned. This was largely unfamiliar territory to him, warcraft distilled to its purest state as a battle of minds, but he could follow the logic, he had been educated in such things alongside Robb, so long ago.

"If you're trying to spin a fable for the North," Jon said carefully, "you need those who are willing to listen to the story, who might be swayed to fight for us in common cause. Are there such forces, then? Who hasn't picked a side yet between Bolton and White Harbour?"

"The great houses have already mostly staked their sides," Lord Wyman admitted. "And yet, there are hundreds of lesser houses, bannermen and petty lords that are still undecided - regardless of their obligations to their liege lords. For instance," Lord Wyman's voice turned lower, his eyes darkening. "The houses of the Hornwood's and the Ryswell's lands have been swearing to both sides, to say nothing of the more distant parts of the North. Nearer to my lands, I'd hoped to sway houses Ironsmith and Glenmore, for instance. That is why we need a strong declaration of our intent, clear to all, with the lands of the Boltons and their allies as incentive. We cannot count on the North's loyalty to the Stark's name alone."

Jon's voice turned low. "I would have expected more of the great houses, you don't believe there are any others who might be swayed to fight with us?"

"No." Lord Wyman scowled, then took a gnashing bite out of his lamprey pie. "I do not. I would have hoped the same months ago, that at least the Cerwyns and especially the Tallhearts would have made the right choice, but the Boltons have since taken many hostages and have the Iron Throne's support." The fat lord's expression grew solemn. He paused, meeting Jon's eyes.

"Rather, you should be thanking your father for the forces you already have. This coalition to restore a deposed paramount house - one that lost a war – would not have happened so quickly in any other of the Seven Kingdoms, perhaps not at all."

"My father?" Jon frowned. "What does Eddard Stark have to do with this?"

Lord Wyman seemed to consider his words for a time, before speaking. "Isn't it obvious, King Snow? Everything. We'd be naught but a pack of conspirers without common cause if not for his memory, his son's memory. The weight of Stark touches on all else we hope to accomplish in my city."

Jon's frown deepened, but he started to feel uncertain. "I don't disagree, my lord."

Lord Wyman paused, mouth open, halfway towards taking a bite out a crab omelet. "Half a Stark, yet you don't quite understand, do you?" Lord Wyman snorted, but not in derision. In amusement rather, as he put his fork down. "Tell me, Your Grace, have you ever considered that the Starks are, in certain ways, the most powerful House in Westeros?"

Jon's skepticism must have been visible, because even before he shook his head, Lord Wyman's lips quirked upwards. "I speak of strength not in terms of gold secured in vaults, nor military power on a field, but rather in the weight of the Stark's name." Lord Wyman set his wine down and slowly trailed his hand before him, jabbing into the air with a fork when he needed to emphasize a point.

"Consider history. For centuries, the Starks have built up the North, and theirs has been a reign of rule without corruption, justice without prejudice, common cause without undue self interest." Jab, jab, jab. "They rarely entangled north with south, never took on undue southern promises or debts." Jab, jab. "They ruled in the North's interests, treated their allies gently and their enemies harshly. And most of all, they set an ideal for their high bannermen and lords to aspire after. There is power in that. Consider deeper history. Consider the Dance of Dragons. Specifically, how it ended."

I see. "The Hour of the Wolf," Jon murmured.

Lord Wyman's snort was deep enough to make all his chins wobble. "A singer's exaggeration. An hour? Ridiculous. Even so, there is some truth in it - because a hundred and sixty odd years ago, Cregan Stark did sit the Iron Throne, and he did end the Dance of the Dragons in a single day of judgements. Imagine that. One day as King's Hand, presiding over grasping green traitors, rendering judgement on the guiltiest of those who tore the Seven Kingdoms apart. The Lord of Stark washed the Targaryen dynasty of his time clean of corruption, and set the Iron Throne to rights for generations after. He sent most of the guilty north to the take the black, and he executed the rest himself with Ice." Lord Wyman shook his head, taking a long sip from a cup of a pale breakfast wine.

"It was a story fit for songs, and yes, there were songs. The Old Man of the North is a nearly a century dead now, yet his tale is still passed down. But what the histories and singers forget is that Cregan was young then, barely past his twentieth year. Think on that. The Old Man of the North was not always so old. By what right was such a young lord paramount entrusted with such responsibility? Not because of Cregan's military strength - but because of the weight of his name, Stark", Lord Wyman said, jabbing at the air particularly strongly with his fork.

"Consider the contrast of thrones. Consider the Lords Paramount of the south. The Arryns are naught but an empty name of the dead Griffin Kings, passed around by whichever of the Vale's knightly houses reign atop their martial ladder in that particular century. There is no substance to them. The Baratheons are no paramount house – their title was given to them by the Conqueror, not seized by their own martial might. Now they are discredited to corruption and sorcery and cowardice, forsaken by their own bannermen. They disgrace the Storm Kings of old. The Tyrells rest atop a foundation of thorns, with hardly more connection to the Gardener Kings than the Manderlys! The Tullys were never kings at all, just trout lords given title paramount by the dragons to make the Riverlands governable. With House Targaryen dead and fled, only House Lannister and House House Nymeros Martell can be said to be peer to the name of Stark, and even then, only barely."

All at the table were silent,

"I make mention of this because I know Roose Bolton, and I knew Tywin Lannister and his ilk. I know the shape of our enemies, what they might be driven to do. And I know their power, however great it may or may not be, is brittle. I would put the Starks above the Lannisters, because House Stark spent centuries cultivating duty and loyalty, enforced by honor, while the Lannisters cultivate greed and self interest, enforced by cruelty. That is the contrast between the houses. There is a certain power to their methods, yes, I admit that, but also an inherent brittleness, a lack of loyalty from their banners and allies that I believe will be their downfall." Lord Wyman took a breath, a bite of his pie, then continued.

"And the Boltons are no Lannisters. They are less, their power more brittle still. If we strike at that power with the proper hammer, with the proper narrative, they may well find the spine of their strength shattered, their banners from the wider North slipping out from between their fingers like sand, no matter how hard they tighten their grip. However," Lord Wyman warned. "That still does not mean the Boltons+ will lose easily."

Jon frowned, even as he picked apart the particulars of the unspooling yarn of Lord Wyman's tale of the North. "Why not?"

"The Boltons descend from an unbroken line of the Red Kings of old, and are not to be underestimated, even bereft of allies. They have rebelled against House Stark more than once before, and lived to tell the tale. Their direct bannermen have served for centuries if not more, and are fiercely loyal." Lord Wyman paused. "I'm not certain about the Bolton smallfolk, it's an but an open secret that they still practice the first night and other barbaric customs in those lands. But I would not test desire to test them in their own lands, not except if you were willing to follow Black Harren's example in the riverlands and shed blood unending to root out rebellion. The loyalty of the direct Bolton bannermen is not to be underestimated; because it means the Boltons have a core of strength among their banners who will follow any order, without oversight. That is the true danger. We must find a way to defeat them in open battle, without allowing them to scatter across the North. Look to Gregor Clegane's campaign in the Riverlands for an example of what such a Bolton campaign upon our lands would promise."

Jon spoke up, then.

"I can't tell if you're seeing the Boltons or the Lannisters as the greater threat, in truth."

"It's complex," Lord Wyman said gruffly, waving a hand. "The considerations are multifarious, lesser and greater. The Bolton's martial strength is on paper far less than the Lannisters, their outside alliances are weak, but the core of their strength—no. Look to Tywin Lannister for a contrast. As soon as the Lion of the Rock died, his legacy, even the core of his strength began to fall apart. His heirs are adrift in a storm of disrespect and disloyalty, clinging to the raft that is the Iron Throne. They are encircled by sharks and disloyal bannermen, beset by enemies. I hear even the Lannisters of Lannisport are less than happy with their cousins atop the Rock. But when Ned Stark died, when his heir died, when every legitimate son of his apparently died, what do most of the Stark's direct bannermen do? They gather, and almost without question were willing to coronate Ned Stark's bastard, and were still willing to do so after said bastard emerged as a King-Beyond-the-Wall. Do you see the contrast?"

Jon grimly nodded. "I do see, Lord Wyman."

"And yet, there is a difference between the direct bannermen and the more outlying lords. The unaligned lords of the north are…" Lord Wyman stretched his words. "Less than likely to follow a Snow leading a wildling invasion, at least not without considerable prodding. They might, however, he convinced to follow a Stark of their own free will, without further incentive.

"Words are wind, Lord Wyman. We could sit here, eat lobster and talk about it until winter comes for us all," Jon said stiffly. "But how do we make it so?"

Lord Wyman hesitated before speaking, but he spoke regardless. "I thought on it during the night, and I believe understand something of your reluctance to obey your brother's decree. You care not for the appearance of power, only for the reality of it, which I admit," Lord Wyman said reluctantly, "is not an entirely unreasonable position for a dragonrider to hold. However, I would advise you to take greatest care in this. Humility in a ruler can easily engender disrespect, insubordination, conspiracy. The truth is that the heart of man cleaves before strength, the more unvarnished the better. A sword is worth a thousand pens. There is a value in the appearance of power, for power itself flows in no small measure from the appearance of it. I do believe this war will be far more manageable, faster, cheaper, less risky and less costly, if we fight under the leadership of a Stark, not a Snow. We will rally more allies."

"We do have a legitimate member of House Stark. Arya Stark." Jon said harshly. "She was forced into marriage under duress, their wedlock is invalid. Without knowing my brothers' fates, she is the Lady of Winterfell, so we gather banners to rescue her."

"You did ask me the question, Your Grace." Lord Wyman muttered, and then swallowed. "And my answer is the same as it was yesterday. Beyond finding a legitimate member of House Stark, our options for rallying the uninvolved factions narrow swiftly. It is difficult to convince distant lords to follow a Snow's war cry. Would you not reconsid—"

"No." If I took the name Stark, would I be damning Arya's rescue as unnecessary? What would come next, in the name of the 'good of the cause'? A wife, children? No, no, no. "Do not ask me again." I don't need them to win this war.

"Then I suggest our secondary options. I suggest marriages," Lord Wyman sighed. "We must seek to arrange as many betrothals and alliances as possible between northern highborn and the leaders among your wildlings."

"That… that is a good idea." Marriages for the free folk and northerners. "Strengthen the bonds to the north." With ties to bind the peoples, why would the free folk need to raid the North? "But they are wildlings. Would any noble lord truly entertain the notion of a betrothal to one?"

"Many won't," Lord Wyman admitted. "But I think we should be considering petty lords, rather than great lords. Each marriage is a thread of string that brings your wildlings, and yourself, closer to being accepted by the realm; we should aim to facilitate as many as we can. Hundreds, mayhaps."

He frowned. "Why would so many petty lords ever consider such?"

"Consider their situation. A small lord and his holdfast may have only a dozen or so fighting men under him. If they hear of a wildling army coming south and threatening their lands, lives and livelihoods, then their circumstances become dire. Such a lord may quite happily consider wedding his daughter to a wildling chieftain or leader, if it would ensure the safety of his holdings." He nodded. "There are many such petty lords in the north, these lands are vast. A strong wildling warrior could make a good match to northern lady, provided there is influence promised and the wealth to provide a dowry, of course. Do you have, ahem, commanders in your army that could consent to such?"

"I have." Although the thought of arranging marriages on their behalf made his head spin. "They may be… difficult matches, but, yes, in the right circumstances."

"The lords of the White Knife will follow my lead," Lord Wyman said, nodding to the lords who silently sat at the table with them. "I know that Lord Holt of Westwood has two daughters that he would see married, the house owns large grain farms and a mill outside of Ramsgate. It is very important to secure our farmland. Lord Dywen Poole has a mature daughter who was widowed in the Young Wolf's campaign, as well as a young son who has proved problematic to betroth. Lord Anders of House Overton is an old man, but a good warrior in his heyday and still an influential name - he may well accept a young wildling bride. Perhaps even our Lord Locke, Lord of Oldcastle, could be convinced to betroth one of his grandchildren for the cause." Lord Wyman paused, glancing at Wynafryd and Sam. "Perhaps our scribes should prepare to make note of this, King Snow?"

"I think that would be best, Lord Wyman."

Sam had been jotting down notes and names throughout the meeting, but he needed several new sheets of parchment for what promised to be a long discussion. On the other side of the table, Lord Wyman had no maester taking notes, as might have been expected for a working gathering. Jon had only learned recently that most of White Harbour's maesters had been arrested, which made more sense when he learned that the New Castle's own maester had been born a Lannister of Lannisport, with questionable inclinations. Substituting for him, Lord Wyman's granddaughter was acting the role of a scribe. Wynafryd Manderly was a lanky but pretty woman in green and silver several years Jon's senior, and she seemed well practiced with reading and writing. She rarely looked at Jon, seeming nervous, but she had an actual quill and pot of ink at the table with her, far better than Sam's rough scratch-pencil.

When Lord Wyman returned, he brought with him his castellan and several older ladies of the court who were more familiar with the minor nobility. Jon called in Hatch and Morna White Mask, who were both more knowledgeable than he on the particulars of the free folk's webs of clans and tribal alliances.

Together, they went through and made lists of lords and ladies who might be willing to accept wildling betrothals. There are so many houses that Jon had vaguely heard of but couldn't even place, with names like Forrester, Lake, Harclay, Ashwood, or Slate.

Scribbled lists were made until the ink spills stained the parchments: the most influential of the petty houses and landed knights, and the wealth, men and influence they might bring. Soon, there were arguments erupting on whether Lord Lake's twice-widowed and dim-witted daughter was still marriageable, or whether House Whitehill would support a second-cousin over an unpopular nephew, or whether House Lightfoot's wool and furs were worth more than House Slate's rockeries.

Jon had to wrack his brain to suggest matches from loyal clans and leaders in the free folk's host. Hatch and Morna did most of the talking for this part. Sigorn of Thenn and Tormund Giantsbane were both brought up as possible marriage prospects, both were unmarried leaders of their own significant clans, though Jon had more hope for Sigorn than Tormund here; Tormund was a widower twice over, and might not be interested in remarrying. Rather, his son Toregg of Jon's own Dragonguard seemed a better prospect. However, both were martial leaders who would have to be married to more northerly brides. Aside from that, Gerrick Kingsblood and his son, Gavin the Trader, and the Admiral of Seals were seen as better prospects for more southerly marriages in the north, closer to White Harbour itself, to better safeguard commerce between the sides.

As for other leaders like Rattleshirt, the Weeper, or Val… Jon demurred on those, refusing to discuss them for now.

It was like every option had to be ranked and matched. The great and old houses, with names like Umber, Karstark, Mormont or Manderly, were by far the most valuable alliances, but Lord Wyman seemed more interested in quantity than anything.

"Threads of string, King Snow," the lord said when Jon asked. "The realm will only accept your wildlings if they become part of the realm. With enough threads of string you can weave a rope."

"And yet shouldn't we be considering great lords as well?"

"We will," Lord Wyman said with a nod. "But the great lords will be more willing to accept wildling betrothals if the petty lords beneath them have done the same. Start from the bottom. There is also the matter of cost - each of these potential betrothals will need require a dowry, and it is far cheaper to pay the dowries for ten minor houses than for one greater one."

Politics. Lord Wyman was bargaining with people's entire futures, and doing so as a matter of fact. The decisions I make at this table could well shape the rest of people's lives. It was an unnerving thought, more so than leading them into battle.

Lord Wyman hunched over parchments, lips muttering as he read back through the notes. "Lord Umber should be involved in here," he decided. "House Umber has more lesser lords sworn to it than any other. Furthermore, we need his cooperation on all manner of day-to-day petty affairs; the lands to the north are the most urgent, the most critical in building relations with your wildlings." He paused. "Mayhaps we could even convince Lord Umber to take a wildling wife himself."

"The Greatjon? Truly?"

"It would go a long way, if it is possible to persuade him," Lord Wyman Manderly admitted. "Lord Umber lost his eldest son and heir at the Red Wedding. He did have two more sons and three daughters, but two daughters were lost to wildling raids and the circumstances of the rest are uncertain after the attack on Last Hearth. The Greatjon could possibly be pushed to accept a new wife for the future of his house and the security of his land."

Jon couldn't imagine anyone pushing the Greatjon, but he nodded in any case. Jon glanced to the side, and saw Sam scribble down Lord Umber's name, underlined several times and with a question mark. Wynafryd Manderly seemed to be doing something similar on the other side of the table.

"What of the lords south of the Neck?" Sam asked suddenly. "Why not reach out to southern lords for alliances as well?"

"We'd be overreaching ourselves to attempt such, I think." Lord Wyman shook his head. "No, if this to succeed we must aim to work for the north. Leave the riverlands to their own conflicts."

"The riverlords supported Robb Stark as well," Jon noted.

"To them, Robb Stark was the next best thing to a Tully king," Lord Wyman shook his head, scowling. "It was the riverlands and their squabbles that damned King Robb. He crowned himself King of the North and of the Riverlands, but an area as central as the riverlands could never be defended, or even governed – see the Frey's insubordination against the Tullys, even before their treason. There was never a force able to unite the Riverlands until the dragons, none but the butcher preeminent Harren Hoare, those lands are too fractured and too fractious. Robb Stark lingered south to protect the riverlords - a noble effort, aye, but also futile. As the war shifted, we all knew the riverlands would have to be abandoned, and yet Robb still lingered for their sake." Lord Wyman's voice turned bitter.

"If only your brother had returned sooner to consolidate his power in the Kingdom of the North, the tyrants of the south would have lost tens of thousands of men trying to break the Neck to end our independence." The lord scow deepened. "No, we need nothing from the southerners, least of all to be embroiled in their conflicts. Dragonfire was the only thing capable of forcing the North to kneel, and now that is no longer a concern of ours," he said with a soft smile towards Jon.

Jon frowned. "It is surprising to hear you say such. Didn't House Manderly originate from the Reach?"

"Aye, for thousands of years we were the lords of the Mander; in the age of the Gardener kings we were one of the most powerful forces in the Kingdom of the Reach. And yet House Manderly was the only major house under the Oakenseat not to claim descent from Garth Greenhand, and so, despite our riches and influence, we were constantly slighted in favour of those with better bloodlines. The Peakes were envious, the Gardeners insecure and the Tyrells grasping. And then a thousand years ago our lands and castle were finally usurped, and we were left exiled." Lord Wyman scoffed quietly. "Yet when I look back through my family's history, leaving the Reach for the Starks of Winterfell was the best decision my ancestors ever made. Winterfell has been naught but good and loyal to us, while the south continues to squirm like a pit of vipers. We are northmen, that is the only loyalty my family knows. The blasted iron chair is nothing to me - White Harbour will fight for independence in the north."

There was an iron passion in his voice, Jon noted. "The north has been part of the Seven Kingdoms for three hundred years," Sam said nervously. "The Iron Throne unites the realm."

"And yet I wager that the Iron Throne will fall within my lifetime," Lord Wyman said, a bite of cold anger in his tone. "It has been falling for the last seventeen years, in fact. Ever since Robert Baratheon broke the Targaryen's dynasty, the Seven Kingdoms have fallen into decline. The rights of succession and order were broken, a once iron-clad reign was shattered and flimsily patched together by a House that barely reigned as paramounts in their own lands. The war proved that, and continues to do so. Each claimant is another hole poked in the broken rule of the boy king, and the claimants just keep coming. Even after one set of contenders falls, another set takes their place. I predict that the southern kingdoms will continue to be afflicted by ebbing and waning tides of rebellion, and that the rebellions will never end until finally the Iron Throne is ground into dust. Southron affairs are best severed before they hurt us further. I would build a Wall across the Neck if I could."

Sam looked like he wanted to object, but Jon just nodded. "And to unite the north," Jon said, trying to push the subject back on track, "what would it take for the lords under House Karstark to accept the free folk host?"

The discussion continued. It turned into the longest meal Jon had ever had. By the end, if felt like they had been through every house in the north and there was still so much more to go. Jon could only promise to inquire on which of his followers could be rewarded with an arranged marriage, and the first of the dozens of letters were drafted. Wynafryd seemed to be taking the lead in that topic, she knew more of the lesser houses and their marriageable young generation than even her grandfather did.

Lord Wyman pressed him on which lands north of the Wall were most desirable, if they could be distributed, used to name new lords north of the wall and raise new houses of allies. Wynafryd pressed him for more details on which wildling chieftains were the best marriage prospects for the highest tier of Northern ladies, matches for great houses, and when Jon reluctantly told her of the Weeper and Alys Karstark, she actually seemed happy about it, which baffled Jon. He kept himself focused and patient, working through each detail in turn. One problem at a time.

Eventually, Jon agreed take both Lord Wyman's cousin, Marrion Manderly, and Lord Locke's grandson, Bennard Locke, as his squires, as well as to consider naming several northern lords to his Dragonguard. Jon donated the gold they had raided from the Twins to House Manderly, while Wynafryd would make inquiries into arranging some of the betrothals. Lord Wyman promised to arrange the captains and ships to move supplies to Eastwatch, provided that Jon could bring the free folk host at Karhold into line.

There was still so much to discuss. Which houses will be burned in dragonfire and which ones will be negotiated with, Jon thought.

"Let us retire for now," Lord Wyman said with a sigh. It was already late afternoon. "Yet we must still write a letter, King Snow. Many letters. To announce our alliance and our intent to the entire realm - let no lord be unaware that the dragon and the wildlings fight for justice, and for House Stark."

"Aye, I agree." Jon nodded. He had seen too much panic and uncertainty already. "That is urgent."

"Then I will arrange a gathering of the nobles in White Harbour this evening. We will need to rally their support, and then we can inform every castle in the north."

"Good." Jon hesitated, slightly. "And to the riverlands," he said firmly. "Especially to Houses Blackwood, Vance and Mallister. Any of my brother's supporters who might have lost kin at the Twins. I must offer my apologies, and promise recompense for their losses."

Lord Wyman flickered. "Your Grace, I would urge you not to. There are absolutely no words that you can offer them that would not seem insulting."

"No." Jon shook his head. "They deserve apologies. I mean to pay the gold price. I will offer houses that lost innocent kin at the Twins coin in recompense for their loss."

"I… I would not," Lord Wyman warned. "Giving gold in return for murder only makes bitterness sow deeper. Do not send them any messages, do not admit any responsibility. Let them think the deaths happened as punishment because they conceded to the Freys. It is better to be seen as ruthless than as making a mistake."

Jon could not be persuaded otherwise. The families of those who died deserve something, Jon thought, they were loyal to my brother to the end. Lord Wyman protested, but he conceded eventually.

"From what I hear, the south faces its own strife," Jon said. "Let the riverlords know that the north are still allies, and we could offer support after House Bolton is deposed."

"Very well. I would, however, also suggest penning a letter to this 'Aegon Targaryen' in the south," Lord Wyman said. "He has recently taken Storm's End."

"Aegon Targaryen," Jon repeated. "I heard of him, the contender who leads the Golden Company. What is there for me to say to him?"

"From what I hear, a short message could be a useful thing. Maybe not an alliance, but at least offer an agreement. Agree to leave him to his campaign and us to ours, so that he might distract any southern reinforcements from the north."

"This Aegon," Jon said slowly. A Targaryen in Westeros - can he bond with dragons too? "Is he genuine? Rhaegar's lost son, is it truly him?"

"Perhaps. I'm more inclined to name him a pretender, the Imp's little puppet, but his army is effective at least. The Golden Company marched through the stormlands swiftly, and Aegon's forces under Jon Connington have won victories in the crownlands, while Tyrion Lannister leads a force of mercenaries west to Casterly Rock," Lord Wyman explained. "So long as the Golden Company is camped outside King's Landing, however, we can safely expect to be free from Lannister involvement in the north. If Dorne declares for Aegon - and I am hearing strong mutterings that they might - then this returned king might well have a good chance of taking the Iron Throne."

"Aye," Jon nodded. "And what of the other one - this Euron Greyjoy?"

"The Crow's Eye, Balon Greyjoy's lost brother. A pirate, I hear, returned from Essos and as mad as they come. He abandoned his brother's invasion of the north for favour of warmer plunder." Lord Wyman's huge moustache twitched. "I will be a strong advocate of scorching the Iron Islands in frostfire from dragonback, but for the moment Euron Greyjoy is distracted reaving the Reach, and they are amongst our enemies."

Sam looked less than happy with that statement. How far is Horn Hill from where the ironborn are reaving? Jon wondered.

"Whereabouts in the Reach is he raiding?" Sam asked. "Ironborn have not threatened the Reach since the days of Dagon Greyjoy. What of the Arbor Fleet?"

"They took the Shield Isles first, and for a time they appeared to be preparing for an assault on Highgarden," Lord Wyman explained. "Meanwhile, Reach's fleet was on the wrong side of the continent, in King's Landing under the command of an uncaring Lannister queen. But since then, the Shield Isles have been recovered by the forces of Highgarden, and the ironborn have moved further south. The most recent news I heard said they had conquered parts of the Arbor, and then Three Towers itself. It seems as if they are preparing for an assault on Oldtown itself."

"Never!" Sam's face paled.

"Aye, he's an ambitious man, this Crow's Eye, but not particularly clever. He failed to secure a foothold against Highgarden, and he is a fool twice over if he thinks Oldtown will be easier prey. The kraken does not have the tentacles." Lord Wyman shook his head. "No, this 'Crow's Eye' will not succeed. He does not have the men, and he faces forty thousand of the Reach's finest to oppose him. Still, so long as Euron Greyjoy is keeping the Tyrells and their fleet busy in the Reach - then that is only good for us."

"But not good for the Reach," Jon noted.

"Does it matter? While the other six kingdoms are preoccupied with their own civil wars, we have an opportunity. To establish our independence before any might break it."

It took two guards to help Lord Wyman to his feet. There were still platters of food left on the table. Jon left with Sam, and Sam promised to sort through the pages of scribbled notes. "Are you happy with this plan?" Sam asked as they walked down the corridor. "To break away from the Seven Kingdoms altogether…"

"No," Jon said slowly. "I don't agree with Lord Wyman on that matter; I think that Westeros is strongest when it is united." He paused. "But he's right in one respect; there can be no unification with the crown as it stands. The Seven Kingdoms are falling apart."

Jon took a detour out onto the balcony, feeling the cold air whip around him as soon as he opened the door. The view from New Castle overlooking the city was stunning, but the coastal wind felt bone-chilling as it swept across the white cliffs. The seagulls cawed out over the coast, but otherwise the city seemed strangely deserted. There were no ships leaving the city.

Even from this distance, Jon could see Sonagon roosting atop Seal Rock. The old ringfort of the First Men seemed a comfortable perch for the dragon. As he watched, the dragon splashed down into the water, swimming towards the cliffs so the dragon could scratch and chew curiously at the white cliffs of the coast. From the docks, he saw figures pointing and staring out across the coast.

I'm a long way from Hardhome, Jon thought with a soft sigh. Today, he had to barter an alliance between great lords, arrange several dozen marriages, secure a fleet of ships to provide aid, and declare independence and rebellion against the crown. Tomorrow, he would wage war on dragonback. Somewhere in between, he would have to figure out a way to save his brothers, and stop a white walker. Those are the stakes now.

But with White Harbour's partnership, there is a good chance. House Manderly had taken a huge risk in reaching out to him, but they were invested against the Boltons and they had much to gain from victory. And with all the resentment against the Boltons after the Red Wedding, the fear of the dragon, they could likely gather allies.

Jon stared out over the city. The Lannister's crowned lion wasn't flying over White Harbour anymore. Instead, once more the Manderlys had raised the grey direwolf of the Starks. He could only imagine the ripples that would be spreading across the North.

He wished he could go down into the streets, to learn what the common people were saying of him. What was the mood in the city? Were they terrified of the dragon lingering at their port? Were they furious at the news of defiance against the crown? Were they plotting to flee or incite riots? Were they cheering at news of an alliance, or celebrating vengeance for the Red Wedding?

But as much as he wanted to go down and find out, he couldn't. He was likely to trigger a riot if he stepped out of New Castle. I am the wildling king, the dragon-warg sorcerer, after all.

Spending so long discussing politics had left him stressed and tense. His head ached from so many thoughts and concerns, possibilities and chances. All the possibilities, the opportunity costs of actions taken or not taken, the webs of potential alliances and enemies and concerns. If this had happened amongst the free folk, even the thought of negotiating for so long would have probably caused a brawl by now.

Somehow, sitting at a table and just talking left him feeling more exhausted than a dozen fights.

Jon paused, thinking of the fat lord and his great dinner table, and the talking that still had yet to be done. He found himself recoiling from the very idea on an instinctual level.

He took a long breath, and rubbed his face to try and clear his eyes. A good spar felt more and more appealing.

Jon only had to turn around to see Ser Wylan Manderly. The castle's castellan seemed to be following Jon around everywhere he went, to ensure he was content. Despite how nervous he was being around Jon's guard, who followed him even more closely, like a second shadow. "The sparring yard," Jon demanded. "Where is it?"

The man directed him into the castle's bailey wards. Jon heard the thuds of tourney swords crashing into one another. Knights and soldiers were drilling constantly for battle. The grounds seemed to quieten as Jon stepped into the courtyard. All eyes looked focused on him, but Jon ignored that pressure. They weren't why he was here.

"Toregg," Jon called to his Dragonguard. "Care to spar?"

Toregg grinned. He was a foot taller than Tormund was, and he fought with a bastard, bone-hilted iron longsword. "Aye, King Snow," he said in a deep voice.

"Tourney swords?" Jon offered with a smile.

"Now where's the fun in that?" The wildling laughed, in a deep boom. Jon could see the similarities with his father sometimes.

Jon drew Dark Sister. A few onlookers stopped to stare at the spar. Metal blades clashed, Valyrian steel against dull iron. Toregg the Tall was a good sparring partner, but not an especially challenging one.

His reach is long, and he's powerful with a strong form. Jon couldn't match him easily in strength. Still, Toregg's footwork was predictable, and he swung his sword like a maul. He would overextend himself on the long swings, and would flail slightly against sudden counterattacks.

After a dozen strikes, the flat of Dark Sister slapped against Toregg's ankle. The tall man winced. "Keep your arms up," Jon warned. "If you're going to fight with no shield, you can't risk leaving yourself open."

"Aye," he said, panting for breath.

"Are you sure you don't want to use tourney swords?"

"Those wooden things? Like twigs. How you supposed to fight properly holding something like that?"

Jon shrugged. The image of Arya flashed before his eyes. "You stick them with the pointy end."

They clashed again. Jon focused on defence and parrying, challenging himself to try and meet Toregg's reach. Jon saw opportunities to counterattack but didn't take them, trying to make the spar last.

"That sword," a voice boomed across the yard suddenly, "where did you get it?"

Jon broke off. He could see the Greatjon looking at him across the yard. The Dragonguard were all staring at the big lord. "From a friend, my lord," Jon replied.

"That's Valyrian steel," the Greatjon said suspiciously. "But I've never seen one so fine."

"Aye. Her name is Dark Sister."

"Dark Sister." His eyes flashed. "A Targaryen sword."

"Once."

That seemed to catch him off guard. "I don't know what the hell you are, 'King Snow', but I don't trust you," the Greatjon said, shaking his head. "The fat lord will stammer and beg to play nice, but don't expect me to."

"I would never ask for your regard, Lord Umber," Toregg glanced at him, but Jon shook his head quietly, "it is for you to decide when to give it." Jon stepped forward. "Would you care for a spar, my lord?"

He blinked. "A spar."

"If you would like," Jon offered, nodding. "You seem restless."

"Do not get arrogant, boy," the Greatjon warned. "Aye, lets spar," his eyes flickered. "Squire, bring me my steel."

The castellan looked nervous. "Please, my lord, perhaps tourney swords inste—"

"No," the Greatjon growled. "King Snow seems to prefer steel."

The Greatjon's squire scrambled for his armor from the armory beside this bailey's training yards. Jon also clad himself, with a mind on a more serious sort of spar. He wore a helm, gauntlets and greaves, full armour or near enough for the spar. Jon debated bringing a shield as well, but then he saw the Greatjon's weapon - a greatsword bigger and uglier than any he had ever seen - and he decided that a shield would be useless. The Greatjon's blade was like a sharpened slab of steel, one of the few blades Jon had ever seen that could compare to his father's greatsword, Ice. The huge man flexed his muscles slowly as he stepped forwards.

Perhaps this wasn't a good idea, Jon admitted silently as they sized up. He had only wanted to make a point. Now, he fully realised that the Greatjon's nearly seven feet of height and heavy muscles presented a different sort of problem; the man could wear more armor than most men would get away with in battle, and he wore it as easily as a second skin, as if the weight was nothing to him at all.

The Greatjon looked like a pillar of steel. All round them, a large crowd had formed. Everyone in the bailey's yards had stopped to watch, and there were faces peering down from the castle's windows. He ignored it all, focusing on the opponent before him.

He's a big man - big men tend to attack fast and hard. Play defensive, survive the first few strikes and you'll have an advantage when he leaves himself open. Watch his footwork, and just don't try to parry against that greatsword…

"Anything to say?" the Greatjon growled, lowering his helm, raising his blade with both hands.

"Let us fight, my lord."

The fight didn't start immediately. For a few seconds they just stared at one another, as Jon maintained his defensive stance and thought through his options. When I have an opening, do I go for his hands, or his knees? Where is his armor thinnest?

Then, with a grunt, the stalemate was broken when the Greatjon attacked first.

Jon could almost feel the ground shake as the armoured, towering lord swung at him. He thought of the actual giants he'd seen. He's a big man, Jon thought, holding his sword high in his defensive stance. But I've fought bigger.

Jon sidestepped the first two strikes, slid around the third sweep. The fourth attack was more of a stab - one that very nearly took Dark Sister out of his grip. The Greatjon stepped into the attack, and then crossguards of their blades were clashing in what would have been a hopeless contest of strength - but then Jon twisted his wrist, barely managing to break the lock to manage a counterattack.

The Greatjon avoided Dark Sister smoothly. For a big man with a cumbersome weapon, he has a perfect form, Jon thought. He reminds me of the Weeper, actually.

Jon attacked first this time, stepping one, two, three times into a storm of quick sudden slashes and strikes. Dark Sister clashed against that ugly greatsword, again and again.

"You seem to dislike me, Lord Umber," Jon growled between the ringing of steel.

"You let wildlings in to ravage my lands," the Greatjon growled as he parried. "My people. My family. Aye, we won't be friends."

"It seems to me the Boltons have been doing more ravaging than anyone."

"And that's the only reason you're still breathing in my presence!"

He saw the Greatjon preparing a massive swing. Jon quickly backed away, but then the Greatjon lunged, taking advantage of his long legs. Jon stepped back out of the main arc of the strike, but he still had to block the end of it with both hands - and the force of the blow still sent him off his feet, and he nearly lost his balance outright.

Jon wheezed as he regained his proper footing, grimacing at the waves of aching pain in his arm from blocking the end that blow.

"I am sorry about your two daughters, Lord Umber," Jon said, panting as adopted his defensive stance again.

"Don't mention my daughters," he warned. The Greatjon was panting through his helm, and he stank of booze and sweat. "They were only babes when the wildlings attacked their caravan. I can name a dozen families that have lost babes and kin to wildling raids. It makes me sick to have to ally myself with someone like you."

Their swords met in another clash. Jon struck three times for every one of the Greatjon's, but even blocking the man's strikes was doing damage to him. The Greatjon was devastatingly strong, and Jon resolved himself to stop blocking, to focus on parries and preferably dodges.

Perhaps the Greatjon was expecting Jon to back away. He didn't. He just adopted his defensive stance for the third time, eyeing the damage the Greatjon's blade was rapidly taking.

"I cannot do anything for your girls," Jon said. "But perhaps we can stop it from happening again!"

"I told you not to mention them!" the Greatjon snarled, swiping and then somehow managing an incredible backswing. Jon sidestepped the first strike, but the backswing… there was no choice but drop downwards as the blade whooshed overhead. Jon fell to the cobbles, eyes wide. That blow could have easily killed him. The strength needed to pull off that kind of backswing, with that kind of weapon – the Greatjon was a true monster.

"My girls were stolen and taken the gods-know-where, and you expect me to give their killers fucking amnesty?"

The Greatjon charged, and then his greatsword became faster. Jon found himself nearly instantly overwhelmed by a storm of sweeps of strikes that seemed to fall from everywhere all at once, coming from low and high, left and right. There was no choice but to meet the Greatjon's dauntless aggression blow for blow. Jon abandoned his defensive posture. Instead he strode forwards into his own matching assault, staying at a close enough range that the huge man couldn't manage any of the giant's swings that maximized the advantage of his strength.

The Greatjon was forced to block again and again, and Jon found himself targeting the man's blade rather than the wielder behind it. Defense is the wrong technique against the Greatjon, Jon was beginning to realize. He's strong enough to break any defense. The key is to match him from up close, and don't let him use his strength. Back and forth they went, Jon testing his superior blade and faster technique and footwork against the Greatjon's monstrous strength and thick armor.

"Let the wildlings be on this side of the Wall," Jon hissed between frenzied blows. The Greatjon tried to shoulder-barge him. It would have knocked him down again, but Jon slid around the charge, Dark Sister leaving a deep cut in the knee-piece of the man's armor.

"If there are raids, we will know who was responsible and then we can bring punishment to them. There will be accountability - punishment against those who commit the crimes rather than the whole people. Give wildlings a chance to learn of law and justice." The Greatjon roared, and steel clashed against steel. Jon pushed with everything he had, trying just to push the Greatjon back onto the backfoot. "Having a Wall between north and far north only serves to encourage more wildlings raiding, by making them different from us!"

The lord recovered by kicking Jon away. Jon had to back off as soon as that greatsword was raised. Still, the greatsword had many notches taken out of it, while Dark Sister remained flawless. The Bloodraven's sword was exceptional, even sharper than Longclaw had been. If this spar lasted much longer, if Jon kept targeting the greatsword, Jon suspected the Greatjon's sword was not up to the task.

"This could be a chance to stop the casualties for good, Lord Umber," Jon said, panting heavily now. "Rather than fighting off one raid and then the next, we could change things for good."

"You want to talk about casualties?" he growled. "Tell me, if they hadn't have moved me from the Twins, maybe if they delayed and left me in the dungeons. Would I still be alive right now?"

Jon didn't reply. The huge lord struck back, hard. "You've got a bloody dragon. We side with you to defeat our enemy, fine - but what about when you decide we're your enemy too?" Their blades clashed again. "What if you decide to take whatever you want, like your wildlings?"

Jon couldn't reply. It took every bit of speed and concentration he had to fall backwards and step around the huge sweeping arc of the Greatjon's blade. His leg was starting to ache, with all the footwork it took to even keep up with the lord's immensely powerful strikes.

"What if I strike a bit too hard?" the Greatjon growled furiously. "What if I accidentally parted your head from your shoulders? Maybe I could get rid of another tyrant, right here and now."

"Maybe you could," Jon panted, struggling to pull himself straight. "But we have a chance for peace or a certainty of war. Which would you prefer?"

The Greatjon's jaw clenched. He didn't reply.

Jon attacked first this time. He could feel his movements becoming sluggish, tired. But he kept focusing on the Greatjon's sword, aiming for the same notched places. "Only together can we actually do something good," Jon panted. "I know what the stakes are here!"

"You don't know a bloody thing," he snarled. "I watched my son be murdered right in front of me. I watched my king shot full of bolts and stabbed by that traitor. They tried to drink me under the table that night and I was left flailing drunk when they came for me. I spent six months being tortured by those murderers." Jon saw wide, bulging eyes under the helm. "And when I escaped, my home had been sacked, my entire family could well be dead. Do you think you understand my rage?"

"I do understand," Jon panted. "This war killed my family too."

The fight lasted a while longer. But the next time Jon hit the ground, he pulled himself up and had to surrender. It was becoming too dangerous to keep avoiding the Greatjon's sweeping strikes, Jon was becoming wearier and wearier, and it took everything he had to deal with those absurd attacks. Jon was panting heavily as he bowed and conceded the fight.

Still, the Greatjon was panting too. He was bleeding slightly from his hand where Jon clipped him, his armor was scored and etched in a dozen places, and Dark Sister had cleaved straight through the steel of his gauntlets at one point. His greatsword looked ruined, fit to snap. For a long time, the Greatjon just stood and glared, still gripping his greatsword.

"You're a fighter, Jon Snow," the lord said finally, as he turned to walk away.

Jon took a deep breath. Gods, if the Greatjon is weakened at all by his captivity, I can't see it. The man fights like a monster.

The Dragonguard helped him out of the armour. Jon saw Sam staring at him with wide eyes. "You nearly had him," said Sam breathlessly. "For a moment, I thought you were going to take the bout. His sword—"

Jon shook his head. "No. He beat me soundly. He is bigger and stronger, and he was holding back."

"But he's the Greatjon!" Sam hissed. "One of the strongest living men in Westeros. You matched him blow for blow."

"Holding back?" Hatch muttered. "Couldn't see that."

Jon allowed himself a small smile. There were others in the crowd mimicking Sam's expression. The Weeper was slightly better, Jon thought, or maybe I was just more tired in that fight.

The fight had stressed his still-recovering leg. His limp from wounds beyond the Wall returned as he retreated back to his quarters. He needed to stretch and relax his leg again, smooth out the cramps. There was a brand-new bruise on his chest, shaped like the Greatjon's boot.

Still, Jon couldn't help but grin. His hands were still shaking, his muscles were aching, but it was a good pain – a great spar could feel almost rejuvenating.

He had barely settled in when he heard a rapping knock on the door. It opened on its own, and he saw a grey-haired, hard-faced woman walk through, her arms folded. Jon ordered the Dragonguard to leave him. Lady Maege seemed to walk everywhere wearing her grey, patched ringmail. Her eyes were guarded.

"Lady Mormont," Jon said, nodding. "What can I do for you?"

"Just wanted to share some words," she said dourly. "Should I call you 'Your Grace'?"

"If you wish."

"Then let's not. You don't appear to be comfortable with the title." She walked forward glancing around the room. "I saw you in the courtyard. You are skilled with a blade, especially for one so young."

"Thank you, my lady," he replied, coolly.

"And Lord Umber was right. That sword is a Targaryen blade - you say it is Dark Sister? Once wielded by Visenya Targaryen, I believe. A slender blade; designed for woman's hand originally, but you swing it with enough grace." Her voice was suspicious.

"Aye, and it was last wielded by Bryden Rivers, the Bloodraven, when he took the black. It went missing north of the Wall and ended up in my possession." That was true, at least, though Jon wouldn't mention the greenseer.

"Indeed." She cocked her head. "You are not what we expected."

"Should I apologise?"

"Don't. Lord Wyman Manderly has been preparing White Harbour for a savage wildling king. For months, the entire North has been hearing tales of the King-Beyond-the-Wall that could curdle blood. I thought our host was a fool when he suggested we may make an alliance with the king that broke the Wall. So did many." She had a piercing gaze. "And yet, here you stand."

Jon didn't reply. When in doubt, stay silent. She met his eyes, critically, and seemed to frown.

"Let me state the obvious. You can guarantee that others are thinking it. You have white hair, you control a dragon, and you wield a Targaryen sword."

"White is not my natural hair colour."

"Nevertheless." The single word hung in the air.

"I am a bastard, my lady," Jon said, answering the unspoken question. "I do not know my mother's heritage."

She paused. "I heard of you, even at Bear Island," she admitted. "Most did. It was a minor scandal when Lord Eddard returned from the south with a bastard. Did you know that the rumour was that you were born from Ashara Dayne?"

That caught him off-guard. "I… I did not."

"Your father met Ashara Dayne at Harrenhal's great tournament, shortly before the war," Lady Maege searched his eyes, and she must seen something of his confusion, because her voice softened. "Most every house worth naming in the Seven Kingdoms was attending, House Mormont included. I saw how quite taken Eddard was with her, many did. Brandon introduced them, and something must have blossomed, because over the next two weeks she was oft seen walking the grounds with your father. I remember how your uncle teased him relentlessly on the trip back." She shook her head, reminiscing. "When the war broke out, even in far Bear Island I heard rumours of the Lady Ashara Dayne's pregnancy. And then he returned from the war with you, and… the timing of it all, it fit."

"Ashara Dayne," he repeated. He had heard that name only by vague mentions. The sister of Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, the finest knight in the realm. House Dayne, one of the most ancient and noble families in Westeros. "I… I don't…"

"Tis a sad tale. Lady Ashara came to the tournament as one of Elia Martell's handmaidens, and, if I'll speak honestly of the dead, she outshone her own queen with every breath she took. She was remarkable, the talk of the tournament. A great beauty, dark-haired with the brightest violet eyes. At Harrenhal's tournament, it was thought by most that she would be the one crowned queen of love and beauty. She would have been, but for Rhaegar Targaryen's great folly, I think." Lady Maege explained. "And then towards the end of the war, Ned Stark rode to the Tower of Joy - a misnamed place if there ever was one - to rescue his sister from the mad prince. He slew Ser Arthur Dayne in single combat, and afterwards returned his body and greatsword to Starfall. And from there, Lord Stark rode back to Winterfell carrying you. A babe. Lady Dayne threw herself out of the Palestone Tower in grief, not long after."

Jon's head was spinning. Ashara Dayne, of Starfall. Does that make me Jon Sand? Did my father really kill my uncle, and my mother committed suicide? Is that what I was to him, a reminder of the love he lost…?

She was looking straight at him. Jon took a deep breath. "Did House Dayne have any Old Valyrian blood in it? Blood of dragonlords?"

"Not as far as I'm aware," she replied. "House Dayne does oft have certain features credited to the dragonlords, silver hair and violet eyes and such, but in their case the blood can be reliably traced to a crown line of the First Men, rather than anything of Valyria. If you were to look beyond Ashara Dayne, if your mother truly was a woman of Valyrian ancestry, then I can think of few options. Some daughter of House Celtigar or Velaryon? It is possible, I suppose." Her tone was doubtful. "As would be some dragonseeds or Targaryen bastards. As far as the crown line of House Targaryen goes, well…" She stopped to think. "As far as I'm aware, there was only one mature Targaryen woman around at the time; Queen Rhaella Targaryen, wife of the Mad King. And she was pregnant. Do you think it's likely that Ned Stark had a clandestine affair with his liege's wife?"

The thought was so outlandish Jon could have laughed. "Of course not!"

"Then I run out of options who could be your mother," she with a nod. "I vaguely recall someone mentioning a nursemaid that Lord Stark met in Starfall, but I cannot attest to it."

Jon shook his head. "I spent my childhood agonising over the identity of my mother, I will not do it any longer. No matter who she is, serving girl or highborn, it doesn't matter now."

"Is your mother why you refuse to accept your brother's will?" Her voice turned sharp. "To refuse legitimisation?"

"No," Jon admitted, wondering how much he should tell her. He settled for the outer edges of the truth. The room was quiet, he kept his voice low. "But I know of the Great Bastards, my lady. I know of the Blackfyre Rebellions. If I took the name Stark, then that would be one more insult my enemies would throw at me. Pretender. Usurper. It is a name that will only divide when we should unite." Jon shook his head, and laughed hollowly. "Just another bastard trying to steal the realm. I will not do it."

For a moment, there was some strange expression he couldn't recognise in Lady Maege's eyes. "Indeed. You are interesting man, King Snow."

"Thank you, my lady."

"I'm not so sure it was compliment."

He smiled softly. "Very well."

"Answer me one thing," she said. "What happened to my brother, Jeor Mormont?"

Jon's eyes flickered. "He is dead. He died on a ranging north."

Her face frowned; not angry, just faintly sad. "I thought as much. Did you kill him?"

"No, I did not. I swear it, my lady, he died fighting the Others, not the free folk." There was no immediate reaction, just a quiet nod. "I'm sorry for your loss," Jon said after a pause, sounding earnest.

She sighed. "My brother was an insufferable, grouchy, little sod," Lady Maege said with a grunt. "Part of me thought he took the black just because he couldn't stand my presence. But he was my brother, and I loved him, wretched fool as he was." After a moment's pause, she frowned. "And what happened to his sword? Our family's sword, Longclaw?"

Jon's face was pained. "It was lost, my lady." It felt like something else needed to be said. "I wish I could have saved him."

"If wishes were warmth then summer would last forever, King Snow," she said curtly, walking towards the door. "But I believe Lord Wyman would see us shortly. There is a war to declare."

"Very well," Jon nodded. He paused, twitching, and then called, "Lady Maege… are you happy to accept the alliance between the wildlings?"

The She-Bear stopped. "Happy? No. Bear Island has suffered more from wildlings than anyone. I grew up losing friends in raids from the Frozen Coast," she said. Her voice was like iron. "But queerer unions have happened. And my brother was too simple to lie; if he said the dead were rising, then I'll believe it."

She stopped at the doorway. "Jeor also said that you could be a good leader," she continued. "In one of his letters, he wrote that he hoped you might succeed him. I'll believe that, too."

When she left, Jon released a sigh he never realised he'd been holding. There was something about Lady Maege that felt as hard as the strictest matron.

Outside, it was already dusk. Gods, where did the day go? Doubtless tomorrow would be just as busy.

He paused as he looked out over the setting sun. Despite what he said, he couldn't stop his head from raising up at the sky. He could see the flickering stars in the darkening red sky. Ashara Dayne, Jon thought. Could I really be the nephew of the Sword of the Morning? Jon Sand, of Starfall?

Jon was summoned to meet with the lords again that night. Minor lords from White Harbour and the surrounding area, not just great lords. They met in Lord Wyman's personal solar, far smaller and more cramped than the Merman's Court. All eyes were wary and red; Jon didn't think that anyone had been sleeping for all the frenzied discussions and talk of war.

Besides Lord Wyman, Galbart Glover and his brother, Lord Umber, Lady Mormont, Lady Flint, and Lord Locke, there were a dozen other petty lords of the White Knife present, some of whom had been present that morning. Jon looked coolly around the room. The Greatjon stood stiffly at the doorway, arms still folded, but there was perhaps something less hostile in his expression.

"We all know why we're here," Lord Wyman announced. "I wish for everyone here to place our seals on a declaration of war. To reclaim our lands and justice for our lost kin."

Nobody spoke first. Jon stepped forward.

"Let us start with what we want," Jon said to the quiet room, after a long pause. He looked between Lord Wyman, Lord Umber, and Lady Maege. "I want security for the free folk, the realm put to rights, and the defence of the Wall. You want justice for the crimes committed by House Bolton, your lands and holds secured. Am I right in saying that no one in the room can achieve their wants unless we all agree to work together?"

There was no immediate reply. "And what's to stop you and your savages raiding our lands if we don't comply?" A man demanded, some minor lord or knight that Jon didn't know.

"Nothing," Jon admitted. "Except that I don't want to."

An alliance is in their best interests too, Jon thought. They're all just nervous.

Galbart Glover demanded that his family was to be rescued at any measure. The Greatjon demanded that Last Hearth was to be recovered, and that there was to be no mercy for those responsible. The matter of citizenship and amnesty for the wildlings caused the Greatjon to spit on the floor, but there were no objections. Maege Mormont was the voice of reason as things became heated, while Lord Wyman came close to expelling one obnoxious lord from the room.

Jon said very little. He remained calm, stoic and patient even though it felt like a few of them were trying to draw him into a fight.

I have the army and the dragon, Jon reminded himself. They need me more than I need them.

The Greatjon made the demand that Ramsay Bolton was to be hung, drawn and quartered. Nobody objected to that one, and Jon found himself agreeing happily as well. As for Roose Bolton, he had killed King Robb Stark with his own hands. There was little debate on the shape of House Bolton's fate, despite, or perhaps because of their millennia of history in the North. Debate on the Bolton's supporting houses was far more contentious. Certain lands were claimed in the event of victory, certain privileges asserted. The map of the North would be changed greatly when this was all over, that was a certainty.

Finally, a tentative sort of agreement was reached. Lord Wyman called a scribe to dictate a letter.

Jon had never known a message to take so long to write. The lords seemed to squabble over every letter of detail, on what to include and disinclude. Lord Whitehill insisted fiercely that the letter should be signed in name of the Seven, while others demanded that the north would only follow the Old Gods. Jon could feel himself becoming more irritated, but he couldn't let himself be drawn into an argument. Stay calm. Stay focused.

Lord Umber wanted to declare the alliance for Bran Stark, but Lord Wyman insisted that it was too dangerous to declare for a King in the North until one was secured. Instead, Jon forced them to declare for the only Stark that they could be sure of: Arya.

It was the hour of the owl before the letter was finally written. The scribes agreed to copy it with all haste, and the ravens would fly at first light. Jon spent a long time reading it over and over again, and when the last line was done and agreed on, the scribe read it out in a voice loud and clear. Afterwards, Jon read it for one final time.

On behalf of all true and loyal houses in the north, I hereby declare Roose Bolton usurper and regicide, his rule unlawful and treasonous, his lordship forfeit for his crimes, and I call upon all good men to bring justice for the crimes committed by House Bolton.

The Red Wedding was planned and perpetrated by Bolton men for their own advancement. We have witnesses Lord Jon Umber of Last Hearth, Ser Wylis Manderly of White Harbour, and Robin Flint of Widow's Watch who can attest to the murders. Roose Bolton murdered the good and noble King Robb Stark with his own blade, in breach of the laws of fealty and hospitality, in conspiracy with House Frey and House Lannister. House Bolton's guilt is beyond question, a coup planned and perpetrated by them from the beginning. They share guilt equally with the Freys of the Crossing and the Lannisters of Casterly Rock for the massacre.

For his detestable crimes, the crown saw fit to name Bolton as Warden of the North – an invalid writ of the invalid, illborn boy that sits the Iron Throne. There is no legitimacy to any of Bolton's claims.

True bannerman of the north renounce the Bolton's rule. The north renounces the Iron Throne. The north remembers.

Their crimes are countless and evident. The daughter of the honourable and true Lord Eddard Stark, Arya Stark, was forcibly and unlawfully wed to Ramsay Snow, Bastard of Bolton. A wedding under force is no true wedding. The whole north knows of the monstrous crimes committed by the Bolton Bastard. His first 'wife', the widow Lady Hornwood, was starved, tortured and murdered in a tower after being wed at daggerpoint. Loyal bannermen of the north must rally to save the young Lady Stark from such a fate.

The Sack of Winterfell, a crime credited to the ironborn, was committed by Bolton men under Ramsay Snow. They torched the castle and put its inhabitants to the sword, another ploy to weaken House Stark's power in preparation for their defiance. Roose Bolton's perfidy began well before his final treason; he conspired with Tywin Lannister's butcher, Gregor Clegane, to create a fable that allowed him to withdraw his own men to the northern bank of the Green Trident mid-battle, forsaking the loyalist Stark forces on the southern bank under Tully and Glover command, abandoning them to the Lannisters' swords. The countless innocents and comrades-in-arms murdered at Bolton hands demand justice.

It falls on the true and noble houses of the North to bring Roose Bolton and his illborn spawn to trial, and to rescue the rightful Lady Stark of Winterfell.

To answer the call, free men from the lands beyond the Wall have been enlisted against the true foe. Warriors from the far north and loyal Stark bannermen stand side by side, united in the common cause of defending the realm. The forces that hold Karhold, that march from Eastwatch, Castle Black and the Shadow Tower are allied with those of White Harbour, Last Hearth and Bear Island.

The white dragon has been tamed and mounted to put the north to rights. The conspiring vermin of House Frey have already been served justice by dragonfire. The Twins were destroyed in the name of vengeance for Robb Stark, and the same dragon stands ready at the forefront of our armies.

Let Roose Bolton and his bastard stand judgement before the lords of the north for his crimes. There will be a trial, or they will be brought to trial. He will be judged by the laws of men, by the honour of the Old Gods and in the light of the Seven.

Signed,

Jon Snow of Winterfell. Son of Eddard Stark, half-brother to Robb Stark. Defender of the Realm, King-Beyond-the-Wall, and dragonrider.

Allied alongside Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbour, Lord Jon Umber of Last Hearth, Lady Maege Mormont of Bear Island, Galbart Glover Master of Deepwood Motte, Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch, Lady Lyessa Flint of Widow's Watch, Lord Ondrew Locke of Oldcastle.

The north knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark.

Jon signed his name to the bottom. He didn't have a seal, so he left the space blank. It went around the room for lords to sign and seal.

"This is your last chance," Lady Maege said quietly, her voice low enough that no one else would hear. "Follow your brother's will, and take the name Stark. Let us sign a different name rather than Snow."

"No." Jon shook his head simply. He could hardly even explain why it felt so wrong to be Jon Stark, but it just…

"What do you think?" Jon heard Galbart Glover ask Lord Wyman, from somewhere behind him.

The fat lord paused. "This letter, with those names behind it, aye, that carries weight. It will cause a stir. I do not imagine any Bolton supporter will be sleeping easily. Lord Bolton will never surrender for a farce of a trial, of course, but it is justification enough to begin a campaign." He paused. "And yet all the ink in the world is useless without the actions to support it."

"And it is signed by a bastard's name," Lord Locke said sourly. "We are giving the realm the choice between one bastard or another."

Jon didn't react. He kept his gaze completely cool and stoic as he looked towards Lord Locke. The room felt tense. They shuffled around in silence. The start of a new war.

"I want riders to leave as soon as possible," Lord Wyman said finally. "Criers to every town and village for leagues around. Let them all know the deal that was struck tonight." He turned to Jon. "You will have your ships to Eastwatch within days, Your Grace. But first I need your vow that the army at Karhold will be brought to order."

"Aye," Jon promised. "I will leave on dragonback on the morn."

In the end, that was what it came down to: promises and vows. The Greatjon forced him to promise that he would try to find out who kidnapped his daughters decades ago, and then also threatened that at the first wildling raid on Northern innocents, all agreements would be made void. Lady Maege needed a promise that all raids on Bear Island from the Frozen Shore would stop, and that the dragon would be ready to defend Bear Island should the Boltons launch an invasion. Galbart Glover only demanded his family be ransomed and recovered.

There was more talk with other lords, and reassurances concerning protection, family, lands and payment. Jon didn't even know many of their names. He found himself growing more and more stoic as he looked around the grim, nervous faces and listened to the lord's desperation, couched behind polite court talk.

There's so much fear and tension in the room. Everyone has so much at stake, and this is war. They've all lost family, and they are likely to lose more still. Why do people talk only about all the battles, not of all the nervous meetings and sweating war council discussions?

"I suggest that White Harbour will become the centre of this coalition," Lord Wyman continued behind him. "We will need steel, sellswords and more from the Free Cities. And my gates will accept refugees and free folk from the north."

"What of armoursmiths?" Jon asked, shaking himself out of his distraction. "Does White Harbour have smithies capable of forging steel in bulk?"

"Armour for your forces? It is easier to purchase it."

"Armour for giants. And armour for mammoths," Jon said, to a few glances. "As well as steel armour for a dragon."

There was more discussion. The Greatjon and Lady Maege were to head out quickly, to raise forces from loyal lords to the north. Galbart Glover wanted to leave for Deepwood Motte, but Lord Wyman argued that the journey would be too long and too dangerous.

Jon just stood rigidly. For all the discussion and tension of the past days, he knew this was only just the beginning. Perhaps when he had been younger, he would have been excited with the thought of marching off to battle, but now he just felt weary at the thought of the campaign ahead.

He wanted to retire for the night, but Lord Wyman insisted on having a feast and a celebration of their declaration. Jon was too tense and too tired to want such a thing, he only wanted to sleep, but even in his exhaustion, a part of him saw the need for his allies to see the King-Beyond-the-Wall sitting peaceably at a dinner table. Summons were sent out, and suddenly the whole castle seemed to be churning with bodies, lords and ladies and knights.

"A feast is important," Lord Wyman insisted, as the lords moved down to the Merman's Court. "We must announce the news in proper manner."

It was very late, and the city was restless, but the castle's gates were opened for the celebration, though only the wealthy and the highborn were allowed inside the New Castle itself. Half of the Manderly's household was crammed into the Merman's Court, along with every noble and rich merchant in the city. Many long tables had been brought in, and they now lay overfilled with meat and game and seafood and winter vegtables, even imported delicacies from the Free Cities, and crowds spilled out through the doorway into the courtyard beyond. There hadn't been time to prepare a true feast, there was no troupe of singers or entertainment to be found on hand in the city, so instead House Manderly just served wine by the casket. The Greatjon drank more than Jon thought would have thought humanly possible.

Jon found himself sitting at the high table on the dais amongst the core Manderly family. To his left was Lord Wyman himself, and beside Jon to his right was a tall, somewhat lanky woman with fine features and pretty dark brown hair, a few years his senior. Wynafryd Manderly, the lord's granddaughter. He had seen her that morning, but they had not spoken directly. The woman was nervous at first, but she quickly began asking surprisingly insightful questions of the lands and peoples beyond the Wall. When she started asking about the dragon, half the table fell silent as they leaned in to listen. Jon kept his answers brief, without the true details of how Jon had found Sonagon or kept the dragon controlled, but even the tiniest scraps of dragonlore seemed to seize the lord's attention like nothing else.

Beside Wyman and Wynafryd, Jon noted Wylis Manderly, sitting to his father's left, and the cousins Wylan and Mardrick Manderly, who served as the main Manderly line's castellan and knight-general respectively. Besides them, he saw Wylis' wife, Leona Manderly, nee Woolfield, and her brother Malcolm Woolfield, lord of Ramsgate, and a few other lords and petty lords of the White Knife and surrounding regions. Sitting next to Wynafryd was her younger sister, Wylla, a pretty young girl of perhaps six and ten with dyed green hair who stayed silent through the meal, but who hardly ever seemed to stop staring at Jon or his Dragonguard. She seemed fascinated.

The Merman's Court was stunned as Lord Wyman announced the news in a booming voice. That White Harbour was allied with the dragon, the wildlings would join them in the fight against the Boltons. Defiance against the Iron Throne, and an army of tens of thousands and a dragon by their side.

There were a few nervous cheers, but there were more confused mutters than anything. Jon felt hundreds of eyes fixed on him.

Jon was sat at the high table, besides Lord Wyman himself on one side, his granddaughter on the other. His seat was as tall as the lord's own throne, which was not lost on Jon.

The last feast I attended, he thought, I was sat in the bastard's chair, as far from the dais as could be. Nobody looked twice at the bastard, hidden among the most distant men. Now, I'm on the high table, the center of the North's attention. Robb was meant for this, not me. Did I ever think that I would end up here, even imagine it?

He couldn't even remember. He felt far too tense for any cheer. The Manderlys served wine in vast amount and variety, but Jon didn't trust himself to drink any of it. He had never known any 'feast' so tense – there was celebration, yes, but it felt as if half the entire hall was muttering and whispering, in the corners and the shadows. Dozens of men approached Lord Wyman to voice their worries - trade from the Seven Kingdoms, supplies in their granaries for winter, the refugees in the city - but save for Wynafryd, no one who hadn't already met Jon during the treatymaking dared to approach him. Mostly, they stared at him from a distance distrustfully.

As for his Dragonguard and Sam, they had their own table near the high dais. But the people of the Merman's Court kept a wide, wide berth around that table. Jon discreetly watched Sam, who stood from his table to try to speak to the New Castle's maester, other maesters attending, but they seemed to deliberately avoid him, as if Sam was a wildling himself, not a sworn brother.

It was late, when a brave minstrel stepped forward to play his harp. The sound rang out over the cavernous court as his fingers plucked in a long, slow melody. Jon slowly recognised the tune as the Rains of Castamere.

He felt the hall tense, but then he made out the words the minstrel was singing.

"And who are you, the late lord said,

that I must respect some feed?

Only a bowl of bread and salt,

that's not the vow I need.

Be a wolf or a leaping trout,

give crossbows to the bards,

And may the north remember this, my king,

the Freys send their regards.

And so he croaked, and so he croaked,

that Lord of the Crossing,

But now the snow sits o'er his hall,

with no one left to sing.

Yes now the snow sits o'er his hall,

and not a soul shall sing."

When he finished, a cheer went up through the court. It was the first time all night that there was laughter breaking through the tension. Lord Wyman laughed and even applauded, stamping his great feet under the table as he chortled.

Jon didn't smile. He just sat and watched. A few other bards and singers followed suit: changing words, adding new verses, turning it into a glorious victory ballad. "The Frayed Crossing", Jon thought quietly, as watched what would someday become one of Westeros' most famous songs take shape.

---

Val

Eastwatch-by-the-Sea was unrecognisable.

The entire castle's grounds had transformed into a boom town, a second sea of tents stretching for miles north and south along the coast south of the Wall. In the weeks since she had last passed through the castle, the entire area had transformed into a thriving tent city, with ever more ramshackle structures going up by the day. Some even had the look of being the beginnings of permanent structures. She saw the smoke of countless fires, thick out to the horizon. She heard the sounds of cattle and goats and sheep and shouting women and squealing children and more bustling from every direction, a cacophony of life born of the free folk's exodus south. Even from a great distance, she saw the shapes of giants and mammoths at the fringes of the camp.

The free folk had dug and erected defenses, with palisades, ditches and spike walls stretched over the countryside. The harbour was filled with ragtag boats, ships and barges, all of which were plying the waters for cod and haddock and char every day.

Once, there had been a small village of stone buildings and thatched roofs on the outlying parts of Eastwatch's grounds, but those buildings had been taken by a motley of various free folk chieftains while the rest of the tens of thousands spread out into the overflowing tent city. As for the castle itself, its entrance was flowing with bodies, entering and exiting.

"How many do you think?" Val asked, as her small group approached Eastwatch. Her band rode hard-bred pounceys at a trot through the snow, bringing with them two wayns of blankets, arrows and rusted iron weapons for the Eastwatch forces.

"Thirty thousand?" a free folk said with a shrug. "Likely more."

And the majority of them have white stones on their chest, she noted as they entered through the earthen defences. Nearly all of them, actually. The Lord of Bones had ruled as the lord of Eastwatch since the castle's taking, but he was not uncontested now. Mother Mole and her followers had recently moved through the Wall, and her dragon cult's numbers were legion and growing.

She headed into the castle itself. The crow's towers of grim stone had been completely decorated with the free folk's art and runes, even spreads of bright paint that covered the walls. The castle had been a grim pillar before, more mausoleum than home when she had first walked its halls, but now it felt as lively and hectic as any place she had ever been.

The castle's courtyard was now dominated by a hulking structure of oak. Mother Mole's dragon cult taken over the courtyard's center, erecting a giant wooden hut, and inside there was the carved remains of an entire weirwood tree, cut down and shaped by woodsmasters into the likeness of a white dragon. Sonagon's statue was a hulking, winged serpentine figure, with its jaws open and a whiter shade of white painting the insides of the mouth, as if it were about to breathe frostfire.

The statue had smoothened obsidian shards for eyes, and it was painted up and down with crimson filaments of cinnabar paint, tracework streaks of crimson like blood.

Riding the dragon bareback was a far smaller figure, a doll of a man in black armor, with white hair and a crimson sword thrusted towards the sky.

A temple for the ice dragon and its master.

Somebody felled a whole weirwood tree to carve that thing, Val thought, as she looked at the dragon's eyes. The free folk didn't used to chop down weirwoods - the trees used to be sacred.

Val met Garth in the middle of the Eastwatch crowds, as he overlooked the huge gate through the ice. The older man looked more tired and worn than she had ever seen him. "Garth," she called, smiling. "How are you, old friend?"

"Val," he said with smile and sigh. "Lady of Val of Whitetree, I hear."

"Don't you start," she scoffed, moving to pull him into a hug.

"It is good to see you. You look well."

"As do you," she lied. "How goes it?"

"Long days and long nights," Garth said. "King Snow appointed me 'Warden of the Exodus', along with two other men and women. It was our job to bring as many living south of the Wall as possible, and gods if I had known it would be so hard."

"Hardhome?" she asked.

"It'll be deserted by now. The very last of the folk there will be sailing down the peninsula now," he explained. "We could not move them all quickly enough in the cold, so it had to be done step by step so we were not left undefended."

She cast a cautious eye of the crowds and sprawling camp. She saw hungry mobs, and cold, hard eyes trudging through the frozen mud. It did not look like a safe place for a young mother and her child. "What of my sister?"

"Dalla will be arriving by ship shortly," Garth promised. "The sky was calm and wind steady, and with her babe we thought safer to go by sea rather than make the trek. Less risk of the dead attacking."

Good. Mance had tasked with her bringing Dalla back safely. She meant to see it through.

"Were there any attacks?"

"Four," he said grimly. Her eyes widened. Gods, no wonder he looks so weary. "But none so bad as that night. We never saw any white walkers, just the dead. And King Snow left his direwolf with us, for protection."

She blinked. "His direwolf?"

"Aye, the beast is hunting north right now. The wolf warns us before attacks, but more importantly, the King watches through it. When it matters, the King is always with us. The wolf never abandoned us, and I can't tell you how much it reassured my men that we could have called the dragon to aid us, if we had truly needed it." Garth paused, and then added, "Is it queer that I think the Others were aware of that too? They didn't… their attacks seemed more probing, testing. They never seemed willing to risk pushing us too hard."

"Wargs." The word had so often been used as a curse, but now she said it with a touch of uncertainty.

"I won't deny their use," Garth said with a shrug. "King Snow promised status and protection to any skinchanger that came forward. And he might be the most powerful skinchanger of all. I've never heard of a skinchanger who can wear a skin so easily, over so far a distance."

She glanced behind her, at the ice dragon temple. It was crowded even now with shuffling bodies of cultists, wearing white stones and white robes. A mother and her babe prayed together at the base of the statue. Val noticed more carvings than just those of the dragon and its rider; there was a wolf statuette of cream oak with red eyes, and a feline statuette of ebony pine with amber eyes, both standing at the base of the dragon. Garth noticed her looking.

"You see there?" He pointed to the west of the castle, and a stubby tower on the walls. "That's the Hook Tower, reserved for the king. Right now, the only creature there is the king's shadowcat, and the man himself hasn't been to Eastwatch in months. That's a whole tower, just for a shadowcat. That cat is kept better fed than most folk too."

"So even his pets are royal too."

"Aye, even his pets," Garth agreed. "Word spread around that the king favours those who gift him animals. First it was Kyleg Stonehand bringing a great snow owl. Then Marrik One-Foot and his clan spent four days capturing and reigning in a big brute of a bull auroch that they intend to present to him. Not to be outdone, Aki Twentysons and his family vowed to capture a snow bear for him, one bigger and stronger than Varamyr ever had. Larrs the Pretty took the challenge - he started bartering with one the of the giant clans, so he could bring King Snow his very own mammoth."

Val stared incredulously. "These people are fighting for their lives and they're worried about gaining favour with Snow?"

He nodded. "Aye. Take a look at that temple over there and tell me you're surprised."

She pursed her lips. Her eyes darkened slightly.

Everywhere she looked, she saw pale faces, gaunt expressions, and wide eyes. Even now, there were more people trekking through the great gates. The line of free folk never stopped. Perhaps an army could be raised from this rabble, but it would be a weak, exhausted and very hungry army.

"And now they're coming south of the Wall," Val said after a pause. "How do you intend to feed them all?"

Garth shrugged. "Isn't that why we've got a king?"

It was only the next day when she realised what he meant. She was awoken at first light by the sound of shouts and horns. They spotted the white dragon flapping in the distance, circling around the coastline. Shortly later, there were cries of sails on the horizon.

Ships, Val realised, big ones. They were galleys of dark oak, each with three sails and entire banks of oars. Big southron ships, she realised. Enemies? The ships flew twin banners, one of a green half-fish figure, the other a grey direwolf's head that could have been carved out of steel.

But the dragon isn't attacking them, she realised. They're coming north with the dragon.

Sonagon flew in slow, lazy circles above the vessels - escorting them. She heard the mutters ripple around her as the crowds gathered. Some were rushing for weapons, but not many.

It was noon by the time the dragon finally came into Eastwatch. It dropped itself onto the low part of the beach, and Val saw cautious figures climbing down from it. They used ropes to clamber down onto the sandy, icy shore.

There were so many men and women rushing forward to meet King Snow that Val could hardly even get close. The free folk pushed, shoved and neighed like cattle, all calling for their king's attention. It was so hectic that the sudden rush through the gates threatened to crush those in the middle.

Between the shoving bodies, Val didn't even try to get close enough to see the man, but she heard his voice as he shouted to the crowd from the castle steps. "White Harbour has allied with us!" King Snow shouted over the chaos. "They will support free folk settling in the north, and fight alongside against those who will not! These ships bring food, blankets and iron. There will be more coming behind them. I cannot promise feasts, but I promise that nobody will starve!"

The shouting of the mob reached a fever pitch. But it was not aggressive, rather… worshipful. Some free folk shouted questions, but Val saw a sea of ten thousand wide-eyed faces, filled with stunned hope and devotion.

Something started. A movement in the crowds. She didn't see where it started, , but slowly her body felt the pattern, recognized it through the pounding of the air. She heard the sound of stomping feet, and the chant from at first a dozen lips, then a dozen thousand. "King Snow! King Snow!" The cry spread around the crowd, growing louder. "King Snow! King Snow!"

Bloody kneelers, Val thought angrily, turning to walk away. The supplies were a good thing, and he deserved respect for this, but they'd be kissing the very ground he walked at this rate.

She could hardly even explain why the thought left her so bitter. The thought of her lying in his bed, and that word - shameful - flickered through her memory.

The ships docked that afternoon. So many crowded around the harbour that it took the king's personal attention and his Dragonguard to keep order. Huge boxes and barrels were unloaded by nervous sailors. Most of it was taken into the castle by Rattleshirt and his men, but they were already starting to distribute crates of turnips, fish and grain by the beach.

Val had very little to do with it, she only gave the scene glances from afar. Instead, she moved around the camp, enquiring after her sister, the giants and people she knew. More than once, though, she heard the phrase "the blessings of the ice dragon". She even saw men and women wearing white furs and with the shape of a dragon's body painted or tattooed onto their cheek - the most devout of Mother Mole's followers had taken to dedicating themselves to their god, tattooing their bodies with its likeness. The dragon's worshippers.

No doubt there'll be more joining the cause after tonight, she thought darkly. Right now, they had one temple. Soon, there could easily be more.

Even after dusk, the camp didn't settle. The king hosted the sailors from the ships in the castle, while Eastwatch's outside tent city became one endless celebration. Huge bonfires were raised, with the sound of singing and chanting filling the air. Whole queues of men and women formed at the castle gates, pushing and shouting for an audience with King Snow. The Dragonguard had to huddle to keep them all back, while men uselessly bellowed for the king's attention.

Val set up her tent and retired early for the night. It was a full moon, pale light shimmering over the smoke and fires around Eastwatch. She saw the dragon's scales glint in the moonlight, as it roosted atop the Wall.

It's a new age, Val recalled Mother Mole proclaiming. An age of people bowing and whimpering at the ice dragon's feet, Val thought darkly, adding her own thoughts to the hag's exaltations.

The night stretched out, but there was no sleep to be had. Then, she saw a hooded figure in black armor walking towards her tent. The figure went straight for the door. She reached out for her knife.

"You walk towards a spearwife's tent and you lose an appendage," Val warned, drawing her blade. It was late, but she wore furs and leathers at all times, wrapped in her white snow bear fur cloak.

"Val," a familiar voice said. He lowered his hood, and she saw bone white hair. "It's me."

She didn't lower the knife.

"Snow," Val said curtly. "You've got crowds wanting to see you."

"Furs will keep them back," Jon sounded tired. "I'm in no mood to stand before any of them."

"And here you are. Is it normal for kings to have to sneak away from their… what is it?… subjects in the dead of night under a hood?"

"Perhaps not." He smiled humourlessly. "But there are only so many problems I'm capable of handling in a day."

She didn't return the smile. Her knife was still held high. "Well, where are my manners? I should be curtsying, should I not?" she asked, sneering. "Or do you want me to turn around and hide myself under a blanket, so I do not tempt you into anymore 'shameful' acts?"

"Val…"

"Or perhaps you just want to continue where we left off?" She continued, speaking snidely. She knew she was being aggressive, but she was angry enough to be beyond caring. "Another tumble in the furs, after bedding me and dismissing me as a mistake? I hear in the south you have those 'silent sisters', so perhaps you want—"

"Val," he said, with a low sigh. "I'm here to apologise. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have reacted how I did. It was cruel of me, to say that."

Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't speak. She lowered the knife, and her arms folded over her chest as she listened.

He smiled ruefully, gaze flickering. She saw the dark circles under his eyes. "I… I enjoy your company," he said hesitantly. "I enjoy spending time with you, I… I enjoyed spending the night with you. You're beautiful, and… I didn't mean to - it happened fast, and I don't want to…"

His voice seemed to trail off. She let the silence linger for a good while, before finally asking, "what do you want, King Snow?"

"I don't even know," he admitted. His expression felt softer. There was none of the iron demeanor he put on when others were watching. "I want to do my duty well. I want to protect people, I want to keep my promises, and I…" A pause, a sheepish gulp. "I've made a lot of promises recently. I promised a lot to even just get this far, and then I promised more to get this alliance. Too many oaths, promises, debts to even remember. I don't want to add to that, I don't want to make another promise that I can't keep, another person that I fail, but I would still…" He sighed. "I would really, really like it if I could spend more time with you."

The silence returned. Val kept her face stoic, but her heart betrayed her with a slight skip.

His face looked pained. "And right now," he admitted in a quiet murmur and with wide, honest eyes. "I would really like to just go to sleep. I have been working on half a day's rest for the last week, and I am so tired. I couldn't even sleep in that ridiculous fucking bed they gave me."

Her posture broke. A chuckle broke through her lips, and she felt herself smile. She moved her hand upwards, scratching at her chin. He seemed different, more vulnerable, more… weary and exposed.

"How many women have you had, Jon Snow?" Val said finally, keeping her voice quiet.

"Just one. Ygritte," he replied. His gaze flickered to the ground. "And she… Ygritte pursued me quite forwardly. Even when we first lay together, I did so because… well, I did so because I thought I had to fit into Mance's host. I loved Ygritte, I did, but I… gods!" he cursed, breaking his ramble. "I suppose what I'm saying is that I don't know much on how to do this."

"With women?"

"With anything."

Her cheeks twitched. There was something of a young, lost, little pup in his expression. It made a change from the cold, quiet and strong wolf she was used to. She took a step forward. "It's really quite simple," she whispered. "Kiss me."

She could feel the air between them, a rising heat between their eyes. He took a step forward too. She could see every detail of his face; the lines around his eyes, the faint grey stubble on his chin. Dark eyes and white hair. She felt him leaning in, and his breath on her lips.

The kiss was soft, light and chaste. Val didn't know why, but that made her giggle.

There was a long moment of quiet. Suddenly, all of the noises from outside didn't seem to matter.

They paused, their breaths hushed. His arms wrapped around her slowly, but still he seemed to hesitate. Like there was something else he needed to say. "I pushed Ygritte off a cliff," he muttered, eyes pained. "The Others were coming for us and I needed to get her away, but I… I promised to protect her and then I pushed her away."

She paused. Ah. That was bad. "You don't need to promise anything to me," she muttered. He felt his hand stroke her hair. He had nice fingers. Her hand touched his chest, tracing the line of his scar. "Let's go to bed, Jon."

He nodded. His lips moved forward to kiss her again. Her hands slowly unfastened his tunic. Then, they wrapped themselves in the furs of her tent, curled up together, and soon, they both went to sleep.