In the dark, Lohgun left a quickly scrawled note for the Umbers, took his horse from the stable, and slipped out the South Gate with a nod to the sleepy eyed guard, and spent the rest of the night brooding within one of the many empty houses of Winter Town.
"Waz she worth it, wee man?" the Greatjon called out on seeing the Badger sitting on the stoop of the Burly Wench Inn.
The wildling shot daggers at the big man, "Who?!" he snapped.
The Lord of Last Hearth pointed at the inn, "Whatever whore tricked you to come out in the moonlight," he replied, paying no mind to his friend's gruff manner. "You were a silly tit to get dragged all the way out here for a shag, man."
"Aye," Donnel Harclay echoed. "T'wer plenny of willin' poon in da 'Fell. Lots of wimmin a missing der regular cocks. Evin da proper matrons all a wet fur sum spoonin'." And from his saddle, the mountain clansman rocked his hips to leave no mistake as to what he spoke of.
Lohgun, betrayer of loyalty and friendship, had spent six wakeful hours wondering why Cat had succumbed to him. The simple loneliness Donnel suggested? Had she truly wanted him? Him? Since when? Since Riverrun? How much was the wine he'd kept pouring for her at the high table? Or, or, or had she felt that same weird scrap of memory? So infuriating, like an itch impossible to scratch. "Fuck that," he answered brashly. "Too many talking arseholes about." He stuck his nose in the air and took an exaggerated sniff. "Funny, the arseholes smelled just like a shitty clansmen and a passel of slop bucket guzzling Umbers I know."
A score of men "ohhhhhhed" in appreciation of the wildling's jab at themselves and their liege lord.
"Why ya …" Donnel started to bluster, only to have the gathering shush him quiet.
In the noise, the Greatjon, from the saddle, straightened his back to its full height and squinted down the length of his long, broken nose, before hollering, "Just a tease who'd never lain with a man before, were she? Too bad for you, Badger. And a right shame for the shy slut, cause would of made no matter if she'd let you rut around insider her with that wee twig of yours; she'd have still woke with'er maidenhead intact."
A hundred men howled in glee at the demeaning slander.
'Keeps getting better and better,' Lohgun thought to himself. He scratched his chin hairs thoughtfully, dislodging a tick or some other tiny vermin. He stood up slowly. The crowd of riders leaned forward, eagerly awaiting the wildling's rejoinder. But Lohgun simply untied the reins and leapt up into the saddle of his oversized pony. "Tchah," he said and off the garon went, heading for the Kingsroad and the South.
"Awwww," several moaned in disappointment.
"Haha!" the Greatjon bellowed, raising both arms in the air and shaking them in victory.
"Bah, dat were nuttin," Donnel Harclay complained about the big man's easy win. "Da Badjur must nae had a dram o'ale yet."
A half dozen miles above Moat Caillin they came across a mixed force of Flint, Locke, and Manderly banners late in choosing to answer Winterfell's call to arms. Their total numbers came in at a score less than two hundred. Ser Rodrik Locke, the youngest son of Lord Locke's youngest brother, was the highest lordling present and had accepted, as much as his affable, casual nature allowed, the leadership of the hodgepodge. A leadership that he, and the men under him, were more than happy to hand over to the Lord of House Umber.
After taking the measure of the seemingly slight fellow, who had yet to explain why he, or any of the others, weren't part of the main Manderly contingent that had awaited Lord Eddard at Moat Caillin six days earlier, the Greatjon asked, "And why did you want to fight the Ironborn, Locke? Not many Krakens in the Bite."
The man's visage puckered, as if in deep thought, "Them raiders will only be stopped by the sinking their Gods damned boats. Most of the North is useless on water, only knowing how to make it, ha! We knows the sea, and ship handling. Lord Eddard'll need men who know port from starboard to keep you land loving shits from getting your pretty arses plunked into the briny, what?"
"Oh, oh, fear not lads," the Greatjon hooted loudly. "Momma seal here is gonna make sure our puppy arses don't get wet."
Rodrik Locke smirked and then warned them, "Walking the deck, even in moderates seas, is like stumbling drunk in a storm."
"We call that Tuesday," shouted Lohgun.
Two days journey south of the Moat brought the disparate group of northerners into contact with another party arriving a tad late to Lord Eddard's summons.
"Ho, Bear!" the Lord of Last Hearth cried.
The main in the middle of the front row of two hundred riders drawn up beneath the banners of the Sable Bear, the Sable Horsehead, and the Crossed Longaxes under a Sable Crown spurred his horse and trotted out to greet them. A shaggy brown haired man and fellow sporting tightly cut blond hair, so light it was almost white, quickly followed after Jorah Mormont.
The hairy man smiled back openly, "Good to see you, Jon," he answered. "It's been two years; and you still smell like sheep dip," he shot with a saucy grin.
"Well I like the taste of mutton, and that ewe I roll in the muck with has given me another big, fine son," he chortled back.
The Lord of Bear Island smiled in amusement at the Greatjon as he gave Lohgun a casual "Badger" in greeting, before turning to the third man. "Welcome, I'm Jorah Mormont, and you are?"
"Rodrik Locke," their companion replied with a smile. "A pleasure to meet you Lord Mormont."
The not so little Bear smiled, "And I'm sure that's the last you'll be calling me lord. Sorry to see you stuck with this disreputable lot."
"Oh there not so bad, on a good morning they can find their arses from their elbows," Rodrik said conspiratorially.
Mormont's two compatriots reined in and knuckled salutes to the Greatjon, the Badger, and Rodrik.
"Torrhen, Edgur," Lohgun replied.
"And who be these fine bannermen of the Rills and the Barrows, eh Badger?" the Greatjon asked.
"The almost bald looking one is Torrhen Stout of the Saltspear Stouts. And the furball is Edgur Brooke of Silver Rill."
The Greatjon's eyes narrowed. "I seem to recall you lot. Ya took three men at the Bells, didn'ya Brooke."
The overflowing mop of brown hair nodded happily to be remembered for his martial prowess.
"And you were Willam's squire in the Rebellion, weren't ya Torrhen. Crypt knighted ya. A shame about Lady Barbrey, we heard on the road she were still sick from the birthin. Is the sprog well?"
Torrhen's smile dimmed at the question. "Young Eddard thrives, milo .. Greatjon. But her ladyship's health continues to ebb and flow, so Lord Dustin chose to remain with her."
The Greatjon twisted his mouth, clearly unhappy to hear someone he regarded a fine warrior prefering to tend a woman rather than make war, but held his tongue on the subject for a rare change.
"So I suppose you'd like to travel under our protection, you big lout?" Jorah Mormont asked.
The Greatjon pretended to frown at the insult, but the free spirited Rodrik played along with it to turn a jape, "Oh thank you good Ser, I was all a fright and worrying about my maidenhood," the man from Oldcastle squeaked in a high pitched voice. "For such a heroic deed, I'll surely grant such a handsome knight my favor to wear," he continued, batting his eyelashes at the hairy man.
Jorah started to turn pink from embarrassment before he suddenly broke out in a laugh that matched everyone else's guffaws at Locke's antics.
At the foot of the Neck they at last caught up with Ned and the army of Northern banners under him. Lohgun's companions took the reunion as a good omen, while the wildling prayed he could wait longer, much longer, to see his friend, perhaps until the Wall melted and the Unending Summer began. But the Old Gods would no more answer that plea than they would his nightly prayer to go back in time so he could unstick his cock from inside Cat's auburn covered mound. He sighed heavily; hating Cat for bewitching him, hating Brandon for catching her heart first, hating Ned for healing her broken heart, and hating himself most of all for betraying those who loved and trusted him. The guilt simmering in him the last two weeks churned ever hotter the closer he got to his friend.
As Lord of Winterfell, custom required Ned to first greet the Greatjon and Jorah, since they were the lords of two of the North's noble houses, and he did so cheerily enough for he both liked and respected the two warriors. But the grey eyed, honorable man then exercised his lordly prerogative and skipped past the passel minor nobles and knights amongst the new come five hundred to approach Lohgun next. Ned guided his horse straight toward the wildling with no hesitation, a smile on his usually reserved countenance, eyes open and unguarded.
'Stryker smite me,' the wildling cursed, 'What have I done? I am an animal,' and his guilt surged to a boil, taunting him to lash out at his fear, at his rival.
(alex)
"Badger," Ned said heartily as he nudged his horse alongside the short man's mount, their knees touching.
Lohgun smiled back, feeling his lips curve into a goofy, stupid, pained grin.
(friend)
Ned leaned far over to slap his friend on the shoulder, and whispered fiercely, "Joy."
"Joy," he rasped, the familiar, symbolic word having to fight its way out of a throat suddenly full of gravel and dark emotion.
(teammate)
Ned leaned back, surprised at the tone he heard in his friend's voice. Concern swept his face as he stared intently at the wildling, reading him, reading his soul.
'He suspects ... something. Brandon would have known. Brandon would have already plunged a dagger in me,' Lohgun thought. The silent, commanding Stark gaze lengthened. 'The fucker isn't going to say anything. He won't ask, he'll just keep staring at me 'til I crack.' He shifted uneasily in the saddle. He cleared his throat. "It's been a long time, Ned."
His friend blinked in surprise. "Barely a year since you last came to Winterfell."
"No, since we last rode to war. A lot has changed."
Ned nodded his head, coolly considering the possibilities of the wildling's statement. "Aye, Badger; we're not as young and foolish as we once were. Some of us have wives, and families. A lot has changed, but not honor or friendship, surely?"
'Tell him, tell him!' "No," he choked. "I'm your man, always." The lie nearly stuck in his craw. "Just … don't be in a gods damned hurry to make young Robb the next lord."
Ned at last gave a knowing smile, "I see. Cat got to you, didn't she? We'll talk more later."
'No we won't,' Lohgun thought with relief and dread.
The smell of fresh cut lumber, sap, pitch, freshly resin waxed sailcloth, and hemp cordage mixed with the charcoal smell of the partially burned and even more partially repaired docks at Seagard. Two and a half months earlier the Mallisters had beaten back an Ironborn force trying to capture the town. The price of the successful defense had been paid not only in lives, but in the seaborn trade ability of the Riverlands only port on the west coast of Westeros. Merchant cogs as well as Lord Jason's small battle fleet had been burned and sunk at their moorings. The residents of Seagard had worked diligently to raise the least damaged ships and make them seaworthy again: one war galley, three long ships, and two cogs. For the past ten days the little flotilla had been taking short jaunts together inside Ironman's Bay. Though mostly just a couple miles north or south of the port and never far from shore, for a score or so of Kraken raiding ships always lurked in the distance, keeping a watery eye on the coast but not daring to come within range of Seagard's heavy catapults. Today, the first contingent of Northerners were being given a taste of seaborne travel in anticipation of the royal fleet arriving so they might carry the fight to the Iron Isles.
"Avast! Avast!" Rodrik yelled at the men on the right side of the boat.
They half dozen men confused at the nautical jargon slowly stopped pulling on the rope, earning them a flash of a smile from the enthusiastic younger son of a younger son of House Locke.
"I came to fight the Iron fucks," the Greatjon snarled, "not learn to talk like a bloody squid."
"Why your high and mighty-ship," the Badger chirped. "Lemon cakes await you on the … poop deck? Leave the salty work to us lesser men."
"Rysman chop off my cock the day my men work harder than me." The Lord of Last Hearth then gave Lohgun a love tap, causing the wildling to stumble. "You go stand in the shite named place and rest yer wee little arms tiny man."
"No shoving!" Rodrik bellowed. "Now the winds starting to come leeward, port side crew pick up the halyard to the gaff rig and hoist away!"
Lohgun, the Greatjon, Torrhen, Edgur, Donnel, and two Umber banners stayed rooted in place watching and waiting for the other deck crew to do something instead of just nervously shuffling their feet in bewilderment.
"Port side crew!" Rodrik screamed. "Port side crew!"
Both crews stared with gaped mouths at the agitated man.
From back on the so called poop, Jorah Mormont's bass voice cut through the light wind and creaking of the cog's hull. "Port means left, not you lot of arses standing nearest Seagard."
Torrhen and the Badger exchanged 'oh' looks before turning to look back up at the hairy bear.
"Halyard is a rope and your to pull the one attached to that square thing we call a sail above your rock filled skulls," he continued.
Lohgun's group shuffled their feet this time and slowly started bending over.
"Now MOVE!" Jorah roared, "or you'll beach on that sand bar!"
"Wished the prick'd stayed on his worthless island," the Greatjon muttered, yanking so hard on the hemp rope it nearly burned as it passed through the hands of the rest of the crew.