Friends and enemies surrounding two kings; one king heading north, and the other going south…
Davos
The air was foul. Everything about their journey left a bad taste in Davos' mouth.
The weather was cold, and getting colder every minute. In front of them, the great Wall of ice loomed like a giant shadow, as tall as a mountain. It was like the horizon cut off into a solid looming blackness.
Salladhor Saan's fleet cut across the ocean. The colourful Lysene hulls were a sharp contrast against the bleak landscape. The wind was firm - a constant gust that had followed them all the way from Dragonstone. Melisandre had promised them a good wind, and she delivered on that promise. Sometimes, though, when the wind cut across the bay it sounded like Alester Florent's ghostly screams.
Davos shuddered to think of it. He would never forget the way Alester screamed and begged when his own brother tired him to the stake. The price for their wind - a man's horrifying death.
But they were here now. The Wall.
Davos could only hope he made the right decision.
Eastwatch-by-the-Sea loomed ahead. It was an old, squatting black castle against the towering shape of the Wall, cradled by the harbour and a small fishing village. There were no walls, only watch towers, and thatch cottages scattered right up towards the stone keep itself. It was a large dock, but also empty and almost decrepit. There were only six boats larger than a dinghy at the Watch's harbour. Mostly fishing vessels alongside the black brothers' patrol boats.
The twenty nine ships of Lysene fleet cut through the water. Davos sat at the prow of the Valyrian, watching the fleet closely. The Valyrian was the Salla's prized galleas flagship, five masts and three hundreds oars, but it was flanked on either side by the Bird of a Thousand Colours and the Shayala's Dance . They had sailed in tight formation towards the Fingers, but then the treacherous waters and currents towards Skagos forced the fleet into nearly single file. Hardly ideal formation should we come under attack, Davos thought with a grimace, but there's nothing for it in these waters . As it was, Davos was concerned that the ships towards the rear, the cogs Saathos Saan and Bountiful Harvest, were consistently falling behind, but to turn around and wait for them could be more dangerous.
A fleet of this size in waters like these, Davos thought. Not a situation any sailor envied . It was lucky they had such a steady wind behind them. The north was not a place for easy sailing.
Still, the men of Salladhor's Saan ships were experienced enough. Davos was more worried about Stannis' men at arms who were assisting amongst the sailors. Davos inspected the crew carefully, talked to Khorane Sathmantes, a captain, briefly about making harbour, inspected the rowers, measured the wind, depth and currents, and then checked the charts three times almost obsessively. He passed on messages to the spotters on the other ships, coordinating movements through the signaller on the crow's nest. He was the King's Hand now; he didn't have to do such grunt tasks himself, but a lifetime of sailing had ingrained them into his bones.
And Davos was panicking slightly. Focusing on the ships always help him concentrate when he was nervous.
From the coast, the bells were ringing from Eastwatch. Davos glimpsed figures moving on the harbour. Doubtless their arrival would make quite a stir.
A figure walked across the deck, while the sailors rushed ready to make port. King Stannis Baratheon's face was hard. His Grace had left his last seat of power at Dragonstone behind him to venture to the Wall, at Davos' insistence. Davos liked to think it was wise counsel; answering the plea of the Night's Watch, defending the realm, but part of him was wondering how much of the things he said had just been a last ditch attempt to save his own life.
By rights, Stannis should have executed him when Davos stole Edric Storm to safety. Maybe he still would.
They had four thousand men, twenty nine ships belonging to the Lyseni pirate, and a rapidly failing claim to the Iron Throne.
Stannis and Davos sat on Saan's flagship as it approached the dock, while he kept the Queen and his daughter on the Oledo at the rear of the fleet until he knew it was safe. Melisandre stayed by the King's side, though, her long robe sweeping over her deck as she walked easily across the boat. For a second, her red hair seemed to be the only light in the bleak world.
"I feel it…" Melisandre said breathlessly, staring at the torches on deck. "The power is thick here…"
The ship was heading into the harbour. There were already a group of men waiting on the docks.
"We left an incestuous bastard sitting on my throne to be here," Stannis said, his voice low.
"The letter from Bowen Marsh said that wildlings have amassed in the hundred thousand. That the Lord Commander may be dead and the wildlings were preparing an assault on the Wall," Davos said, trying to sound more confident he felt. "The realm must be protected. We must save the kingdom to win the throne."
Stannis said nothing. For once, Melisandre was in agreement with Davos. "Your Hand is right, Your Grace. We have both seen it in the fires. A great battle in the snow."
"Yes. Your prophecies," Stannis said. "I trust in armies and men more than I do prophecies to win my kingdom. The north is divided. The northern lords must rise up to rightful King, and the Wall will be a good place to start."
I will take my kingdom again piece by piece from the north, Stannis had said as they left, Davos recalled. There had been much dissent from the knights and lords as they left - many called it 'fleeing' to the north - but Davos had made his case well. Melisandre had been practically eager with the idea, calling it fulfilment of the prophecy - that cold and death would come from the north, and the servants of R'hllor must stop it.
"Who commands here?" Stannis asked after a pause.
"Cotter Pyke, I believe, Your Grace."
The ironborn bastard name caused Stannis' gaze to darken. "Go ahead in my stead, Lord Seaworth," Stannis ordered. "Explain our presence here and inquire about the state of the wildling invasion."
"Yes, your grace." He bowed and turned.
Melisandre nodded towards him. "Walk with me, Onion Lord," she offered, holding out her arm as Davos stepped aware. "A word?"
"M'lady?" He hesitated as she wrapped her arm around his, walking down the deck. She felt warm.
"You seem nervous."
Davos felt nervous, terribly so. "The start of a new campaign, m'lady."
"No. This campaign has been coming for a thousand years," said Melisandre, with a gentle smile. Davos had seen few women as beautiful as she was. His wife, Marya, had been a fair woman, but Melisandre put her to shame. Sometimes Melisandre looked as beautiful as she was wicked. "Your King's conquest has been ordained long ago, by the Lord of Light."
"As you say, m'lady."
"You are a sceptic, Onion Lord?" She sounded almost amused by that. Davos never replied. "The world turns in cycles. Like winter and summer dancing around each other. Fire and ice. History repeats itself. Azor Ahai Reborn." Her hand touched her ruby gently. "There must always be a champion of the Lord of Light, to fight in the Battle for the Dawn."
"You are very sure."
"But of course. Since setting out on this path, the fires have burnt all the brighter. My visions have been sharper, my powers stronger. The further north we go, the clearer my prophecies become. Proof from R'hllor himself that we are on the right path."
Davos hesitated, glancing at the shadow of the Wall in the distance. He didn't believe in prophecy, but… "And what do your visions show you?"
"They show the great battle. Not this one, but a one fast approaching. The battle of ice and fire. And they show me the other champion as well."
He glanced at her questioningly. "Yes," Melisandre continued. "You see, the Lord of Light has his champion - Stannis Baratheon, Azor Ahai - and yet the Great Other, the enemy, he must have his champion too. The champion of cold. When they collide, the fate of the world will hang in the balance."
Davos never replied. He wasn't quite sure how to. Melisandre just smiled gently, like he was some dumb child who didn't understand the obvious.
"You don't have to believe," she said soothingly. "Not yet. You will, though. The visions have been very clear."
"Forgive me if I do not convert, m'lady," he said, keeping his face impassive.
Melisandre laughed - a loud, clear laugh that rang out over the deck. A few sailors glanced towards them.
"I have heard men say curse words in the same way you say 'm'lady'," she said, amused. "But you're a curious man, Onion Lord. I am not sure what to make of you sometimes."
"I thought you saw everything in your fires."
"Only the Lord of Light sees all. I am but his servant. He shows me what I need to know." She paused, thinking quietly. "Truth be told, I did not foresee your survival in the flames. It surprised me when you strolled back into Dragonstone after the Blackwater."
Davos stiffened. When I came to kill you. I had the dirk in my hands, ready to cut out your throat. I thought that you had my sons burned in those infernal fires. I'm still not convinced that you didn't . He didn't dare speak.
"I have seen very little of you in the fire, Onion Lord, and yet I feel like you have a role to play. I feel power from you," Melisandre's voice was low. She slowly unhooked her arm from his, sliding across him when she turned. She felt like silk and velvet. The ruby on her throat seemed to shimmer. "… Come to my chambers one night," she whispered. "Let us see if you can become a believer."
Davos froze. Her hair brushed against him as she passed. Red, so red, impossibly red. For a second, he was left staring entranced as she walked down the steps. Davos had to take a deep breath just to focus himself.
Melisandre is fire, he thought. It felt like she burned with every touch .
It took well over an hour for the Lysene ships to dock. They approached slowly, non-threateningly. Three ships came in with the Valyrian, but the rest of the fleet lingered in the bay. Bells were still ringing, but it would be obvious to the Night's Watch that they were coming in slowly - to dock rather than attack. Davos hoped it would be obvious, at least.
The Hand of King kept himself busy. Organising the men, the ropes, the anchor - seeing to every possible task to keep his mind occupied.
Davos was inspecting the rowers on the lower decks, while the helmsman started guiding the large ship in carefully, when Davos saw a man approach him with a goblet of wine in a wrinkled hand, walking easily over the gently rocking ship.
"… So this is the north, I take it?" Salladhor Saan exclaimed raising his hand. "I hear that the Wall is one of the nine great wonders built by man. But I see little wonder, I admit - it's far too dreary and cold for wonder."
Davos smiled, slightly woodenly. Salla wore white samite robes with wide dagged sleeves, sashed in green and gold. A sapphire pendant hung from his neck, with gold rings on his fingers. Even on a vessel, walking among sweaty sailors in rags, Salladhor Saan dressed like a prince. The pirate prince was smiling, almost friendlily, yet Davos recognised the sharp glint in his eye.
"His Grace means to win the war from the north," Davos said, repeating words he had told himself a thousand times. "The north is a land divided, it will rally for its rightful King."
"Oh, I'm sure!" Salla laughed cheerfully. "This land must be full of strong, loyal men eager to supporter his grace. And who has been a more loyal supporter to King Stannis' than Salladhor Saan - His Grace's reasonable and dedicated friend through such trying times? Why, I even abandoned ripe pickings in the Narrow Sea to venture on this voyage with his grace, as his humble servant." He laughed again. "Why, so humble."
Ah . "The rewards when his grace retakes the Iron Throne will be great, my lord."
"I'm sure," Salla agreed. "I have been promised so. Many times. In fact, if promises were gold I could buy the world."
Salla was smiling, but the laughter didn't reach his eyes. He had been pushing more and more frequently for gold promised, and each additional risk made Salladhor all the more uncomfortable. Stannis is asking much of him to risk so many of his ships venturing this far north, Davos thought quietly. But there is nothing for it - Stannis needs his fleet.
"His Grace much appreciates your loyalty," Davos said with forced politeness, struggling to say anything else.
"But of course!" Salladhor exclaimed, holding his arms wide. His tone was jovial, but his eyes were sharp. "Why, I'd have to be loyal to venture this far, risking cold and ice, for nothing but promise after promise."
Davos smiled, but his shoulders were tense as he walked away. He had known Salladhor Saan for many years - they were even friends, to a degree, but there had always been a pit of fear in his stomach towards the flamboyant prince. Salla was the type man that could hug you as easily as he could cut your throat. It took a special type of pirate who was capable of growing old as well as successful.
Add that onto the list to worry about, Davos thought with a gulp. Salla will expect his due .
It took another scrambled forty minutes to set down the gangway and fasten the ropes. Finally, Davos walked with Ser Ormund Wylde and Ser Harys Cobb, both king's men. They flanked him either side, making an impressive and dignified pair in full armour, with the stag of Stannis emblazoned on their surcoats.
They were met by five men of the Night's Watch. Compared to the knights, the black brothers were wearing worn leathers and wool, with pitch black cloaks and hoods.
The man at front hailed them first. "Greetings, we were not expecting you." His voice was low, dour, almost even sardonic. "I am Cotter Pyke, Commander at Eastwatch, and you are…?"
"Lord Davos Seaworth, Hand to the King Stannis Baratheon, First of His Name, Rightful King of the Iron Throne," Davos announced loudly, looking at the men. They all seemed cautious. "We have come answering the plea for aid sent by the Night's Watch."
"Much obliged," Cotter Pyke replied, lowering his head fractionally. He was a tall, broad and rugged man, but lean, hard and wiry. He had small, close-set eyes, a broken nose and a pox ravaged face, as well as a widow's peak and a sparse, rough beard. His eyes were sharp, guarded.
"Stannis Baratheon…" Cotter said. "… Which king is that again?"
There was a small ripple from the knights next to him. "The Rightful King, brother of Robert Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone, King of the Seven Kingdoms," said Davos, all the while taking in their eyes. This is wrong, he thought slowly, they're on guard, cautious of us . From the urgency in the letters, Davos had half-expected the Wall to be falling by the time they got here.
Cotter nodded, but his eyes were still sharp. "You know that Night's Watch takes no part in the affairs of the realm, right?"
There was a mutter next to him, an old maester tugged Cotter's arm warningly. He's being too bold, Davos thought. "We've come to protect the realm," Davos replied, cautiously. Something is wrong.
"Forgive me, m'lord, I just tend to get cautious when a fleet of warships turns up at my door," Cotter said dryly. "How many men do you have?"
Davos was almost reluctant to answer. "Four thousand," said Davos, before adding. "We have come answering your own request - I understand that the Night's Watch is in dire need of men."
Cotter nodded. "Well, you are all more than welcome to take the black," he said, causing the men next to him to ripple. The maester standing beside him looked nervous. This is going wrong, Davos thought, he's too hostile. We should be here as saviours, not threats .
"The last letter we received had said that the Lord Commander was presumed dead, along with the majority of the Watch's fighting men, and that a horde of wildlings was descending on the Wall," Davos said. "Your chief steward, Bowen Marsh, seemed quite desperate."
Cotter's eyes flashed. He looked angry for a second. "… I fear Bowen Marsh may have written in haste, m'lord," he said. "Lord Commander Mormont and his expedition did return safely. He broke the wildling host at the Frostfangs and returned victorious. There is no attack against the Wall."
There was a long moment of quiet. Davos blinked.
Oh, he thought dumbly.
Oh.
Heading north had been Davos' last gamble. It was a gamble that he had just lost.
Cotter Pyke appeared to reach a decision. "We thank King Stannis very much for his support, m'lord," he said. "And we are happy to feed and shelter him for the night, but I'm afraid I must await the Lord Commander's orders before I am able to make any decisions on behalf of the Night's Watch."
The words were polite, but also guarded. Davos wasn't sure how else to respond except to nod. "However…" Cotter continued. "And I'm terribly sorry, but we won't have enough room at Eastwatch for all of your men." His head tilted. "… Would you mind if the rest of your men waited on their ships? Hope you understand, m'lord."
Davos forced a smile. "Of course."
Cotter Pyke forced a smile as well.
The rest of the exchange was awkward pleasantries, and inquiries to how many rooms they would need. Cotter left early with the maester, saying that he needed to send an urgent raven. The other men of the Night's Watch stayed to help Stannis' forces disembark. None of them smiled.
Davos' heart was pounding as he returned to the ship.
Stannis was wroth.
"Excuse me?" The King said in a hard, cold voice. "They don't want me here?"
Davos hadn't used those words, but Stannis picked up on the meaning pretty quickly. "I think they fear that sheltering you will make them a target."
"Remind them of their duty," Stannis growled.
"I think they already know," Davos admitted. "The Night's Watch must take no side in the affairs of the realm - they are neutral, Your Grace. They fear that harbouring you threatens that neutrality."
"We came to help them." Stannis' voice was a snarl.
Apparently they don't need us, Davos thought, but he stayed quiet.
The King paced his cabin - a mostly bare cabin, Stannis had never been one for luxury. "… Lord Davos," he said, his voice turning as cold as steel. "May I remind you that if we are turned away here, that we have no seat to return to?" He glared. "I need a position on which to retake the north!"
Davos took a deep breath. His heart was pounding. My fault. "I am sorry, Your Grace," he muttered.
Stannis looked furious. Davos stared at the ground, words failing him.
We have four thousand men, Davos almost said. If they wanted Eastwatch, they could take it easy enough. Still, they couldn't fight against the Night's Watch - that would be unforgivable. But if the sworn brothers turned us away, where else could we go?
White Harbour, perhaps? What if they received no warmer a welcome there? White Harbour was a strong and thriving town; it wouldn't fall easily, and Stannis would earn himself no friends trying to take it. The north was supposed to be their chance to launch a new campaign, but with nowhere to base it from…
Davos watched Stannis' jaw clenched as he stared out from the captain's cabin. He could tell Stannis was thinking the same things. If the Night's Watch asked them to leave - and they might, if they thought Stannis was a threat to them - then Stannis would have no choice to either fight and stay, or leave without any place to return to. Davos wasn't sure which one would be the worst option.
At this rate, they would either have to hope that the northern houses declared for them quickly, or they might end up on a camped on a coast somewhere, with no shelter and no protection when the Boltons came for them…
Leaving Dragonstone might have been a grave mistake, Davos cursed to himself. His finger stumps grasped at his neck where his luck used to be. I hinged Stannis' only hope on nothing but an old letter and a hunch…
"… I will not let the Night's Watch leave my men vagrant, Lord Seaworth," Stannis said after a long pause. "I need a base of operations, and Eastwatch will do. Make sure you they are aware that we are here to help them."
Or else . "Yes, Your Grace," Davos said, lowering his head.
"It is no fault of your Onion Lord, Your Grace," Melisandre said. Her voice was as smooth as silk as she stepped into the cabin. "He gave you good counsel. We have merely arrived too early."
Stannis glared at her. "Too early for what?" His voice was low.
"The great battle, of course." Her red lips smiled. She seemed pleased with herself. "The fires burn strong here. R'hllor has gifted me a vision clearer than any I've had before."
Her silk robes draped across the ground. The ruby on her throat seemed to glow in the flickering torchlight. "I have seen the enemy that we must defeat - the champion of the Great Other himself. He readies himself now, clad in snow and ice and darkness. When he comes for us, I've seen the sun blocked out and the seas frozen solid. He is the enemy that we are he to defeat."
"What is this enemy?" Stannis said bitterly. "Another one of your riddles?"
"No, Your Grace." Melisandre's smile widened. "The enemy appears as a young boy - about seventeen years of age. He has a solemn face, grey eyes, and bone white hair. He is the champion of winter and darkness, and the foe that you must defeat."
Jon
Eleven days later and Jon was walking through the cold pine forest. The cold never stopped, but Jon could barely feel it anymore.
Jon had heard that only the best rangers could survive beyond the Wall by themselves. It had been nearly three months since the Others attacked the wildling camp now. Jon had already travelled to the frozen wastes and back twice now.
Then again, he had never really been by himself.
He could feel Ghost prowling in the distance. He was hunting a boar over by the river, and hopefully there would be enough meat for Jon too. Game was sparse in these woods, but it was much easier than it had been in the mountains. Phantom was behind Jon, hunting near the rear and watching for pursuers.
The Haunted Forest had been a welcome sight. The forest provided cover from the white walkers, and it shelter from the storms. The Others had never stopped following them, but they could lose them more easily in the trees.
The air was cool and crisp in the morning sun. Jon walked over the fresh snow, staring at the stream dripping through the frosty woods. In a few miles, the stream would feed into the Antler River and lead towards the coast. It was the first sign that Jon was getting close.
His bad leg felt stiff. It always did in the cold mornings. He tried flexing it weakly to work up strength, but he was still limping badly as he moved over to the stream to fill up his canteen.
Jon's goat, Hullen, died five days ago. That had been unfortunate - but a goat, even a large goat, was a poor mount and unfit for carrying a man. Jon had rode him too far and too hard; pushing Hullen to the point of exhaustion and beyond until eventually the goat finally lost his footing, fell and cracked his leg. In the end, there had been little choice but to cut the animal's throat to end his misery, and then burn his body. Jon still shuddered with the thought of feeling the goat's pain like that.
It had been a week of hard travel on foot since. In the water, Jon stared at his reflection and he barely recognised himself. He was unshaven, and rapidly growing a shaggy beard of white hair. The white hair made him look ten years older. His face was still pale and gaunt. Too many restless nights on the move.
Jon took a deep breath, slowing staring at his hand. He stared at the missing little finger on his left hand often. I'll reach Hardhome soon. There will be a chance to rest at the peninsula .
He had been taking shelter every night at a different heart tree. The heart trees were littered all over the Beyond-the-Wall, and something about them kept the Others away. The presence of the Old Gods must still have some power to deter white walkers. It didn't block them, but they still seemed reluctant to approach the weirwoods.
Often, there had been ravens leading him to the heart trees too. There had also been ravens alerting him to any danger approaching. The ravens were always following, giving aid and guidance however they could. The three-eyed crow's assistance was one of the reasons Jon had managed to make it so far.
Jon's hands clenched. It would be the new year soon, if it hadn't already passed. Months with barely any human contact. He could only imagine how Sam, Grenn, Edd and the others were doing. Robb, Sansa, Bran, Rickon, Arya.
And Ygritte…
There was rustling in the bushes. Jon's hand instinctively went to his sword. Something approached.
Not the Others. They never made so much sound .
"I'm telling ya, I saw it," a voice growled. "Biggest wolf tracks I ever saw, right this way…"
He heard footsteps. Jon counted at least four. Wildlings. Free folk.
There was nowhere to hide. Jon never moved. He saw a man's face twist in surprise as he walked through the trees. They stared at each other.
"Oi," the wildling called. "Company."
I've been in the wild for a month. My cloak is more grey than black. I don't look like a crow .
Other wildlings walked out of the bushes. Six of them. They were all armed, but they gripped their weapons loosely. Jon saw axes and mauls as well as spears and bows. Raiders. A warband, maybe.
"Hail," one of the wildlings called to Jon. A broad man with a bushy brown beard, in a sewn sheepskin cloak, clutching a stone axe in one hand a wicker round shield in the other. "Where you coming from?"
Jon paused. His voice felt gruff. "North." That was the truth, at least.
"How far north?" He demanded.
"Too far."
Another wildling scoffed. "You look like you've seen the dead, mate."
Jon met his gaze. "Aye."
They shared glances, a dark ripple going through the group. I need to learn what happened to the wildling army. Last he saw the Others were tearing them apart . The clans must have scattered, but he had no idea had happened to Mance, Longspear or Tormund. Or Ygritte. Ygritte. The three-eyed crow said he'd look after you, but…
"… I rode with Mance Rayder's host," Jon announced after a pause.
The man nodded. "Thought so. A lot of men with empty eyes came back from there. You fled by yourself?"
Jon nodded, and then asked. "What happened to Mance?"
"Dead," he said gruffly, before shrugging. "Most likely, anyways. The host scattered. Mance ran. Last I heard, he got ambushed by the crows after the dead sent them fleeing. The 'king's' head is probably on a spike by now."
"Is there a camp nearby?" Jon asked, trying to sound desperate. He wanted to appear to be just another fleeing wildling. He didn't have to try too hard.
"Yeah, the Weeper leads a force of five hundred of us down by the Antler. We're building ships to cross the Bay of Seals," the man explained, looking at Jon critically. "You know anything about shipbuilding, mate?"
The other wildling, the one with the rough beard, held out his hand. "Hold on now," he growled. "We've already got five hundred and that's a lot of mouths to feed and a lot of boats to craft. I'm not too keen on adding an extra one, myself." He stared at Jon. "Why exactly should we take you with us?"
"I can fight."
"So can a lot of men. You got anything to pay your wage?"
"Leave it, Sten," the other wildling warned.
"Like hell I will," the wildling, Sten, snapped, before turning back to Jon. "If we're going to be the ones to recruit this traveller…" He said the word in mocking. "… into our venture, then I think it's only fair that we get a recruitment fee."
The mood turned dark. Sten hoisted up his axe dangerously. A few of the others did the same. Jon glanced around the group. Some looked more unwilling about the ransom, but none looked ready to object. "… I have nothing to pay," said Jon.
"That's a nice sword you got," Sten challenged, glancing at Dark Sister. It was too far for him to really tell how nice his sword actually was. "Good steel always rare. Nice furs, too."
"Then if I don't want to pay?"
"Mayhaps we just leave you here then." His eyes narrowed. "Or mayhaps we take payment from your corpse."
They were all clutching their weapons tightly. Six against one.
"Let's just leave it," the free folk objected, weakly. "The Weeper wanted as many men as possible."
"Fuck off," Sten snapped. "I want something for myself too." He stepped closer, taking a better look at Jon. "That does look like a mighty fine blade."
Jon took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. His body never even twitched. It was getting easier and easier. "The sword is not for sale."
"And what's to stop me from just killing you and taking it, then?" Sten snarled. He had his axe. It was a big axe.
Jon slowly opened his eyes. He carefully adjusted his stance. "… Well… for starters…" he said, drawing out the words. All weapons were readied. "… I think my friend would object."
"And what friend is that?"
Jon smiled.
They all heard the crash. The sound of splintering trees. The wildlings shouted, flinching backwards. The growl was so low and so deep it rolled over the clearing.
Jon never moved. He felt the cold breath on the back of his head as Sonagon's head emerged from the trees. The dragon growled, with sharp white teeth as long as swords. There was a cool mist steaming from his jaws.
The tall pine trees were barely tall enough to fit Sonagon's body. The forest's trees had reduced the dragon's manoeuvrability significantly, yet the dragon had still made good progress. The white dragon towered over them all.
The wildlings eyes widened in pure terror. He heard curses from the Old Tongue. The wildling called Sten looked ready to collapse.
There was a faint hiss of steam as one of the men pissed themselves.
"Like I said," Jon announced, drawing Dark a smooth arc. "My friend ."
"By the gods…" Sten gasped, staggering backwards. His axe wasn't big enough.
A wildling turned to run. "Nobody move!" Jon ordered. At that moment, Sonagon roared. The roar caused snowflakes to fly off the ground. A couple of men whimpered.
They are big strong men, Jon thought. They all look like veterans of many hunts, many raids and battles… and they are whimpering.
Jon stared at Sten. Wildlings generally didn't scare easily. These men were terrified. "Now then…" Jon said. "Tell me about this camp."
Ten minutes later, when they were done babbling, Jon let the men run away. He didn't care to kill them, and in all likelihood there were others that would have heard Sonagon's roar in any case.
I have to be careful . Five hundred men led by Weeper. The Weeper was a sadistic bastard who never liked Jon from the beginning. Jon doubted anything would have changed there.
Sonagon watched the men run through curious, beady eyes. They were the first living men besides Jon that the dragon had seen. Jon glanced at the dragon with concern.
Right now, Sonagon was more vulnerable than he had ever been. In the Haunted Forest, on the ground, Sonagon was severely restricted. The trees were proving severe obstacles to a dragon of Sonagon's size. They stopped him moving, like a wooden bars of a cage on all sides. The dragon's size became so much more of a hindrance moving through the forest.
If Sonagon was ever attacked from all directions - by strong men who knew the terrain - then the forest could prove the dragon's doom. The dragon needed open areas to fight properly.
A grounded dragon was a vulnerable dragon. A caged dragon even more so.
The Weeper could prove a serious threat if he was so inclined to go dragon hunting. If five hundred strong wildlings attacked the dragon from all sides, using the trees to stop Sonagon from turning or moving properly, then that could be very, very dangerous.
There was no choice; Jon had to keep Sonagon safe at all costs.
But still, Jon thought with a grimace, to backtrack further through the forest could put us in even more danger . Jon had been aiming for the clear path offered by the river for some time now. He needed to get to the coast quickly.
There were five hundred free folk. They were wildlings that might endanger Sonagon, but they could also help protect him. The wights had been getting more frequently. The Others were on his trail already, likely preparing for a large assault.
Jon bit his lip. If I could convince the Weeper that he needs the dragon's aid, if I could turn a potentially dangerous enemy into a friend instead…
There were only two things that any free folk would accept: protection from the Others, and a way to cross the Wall. Sonagon could potentially offer both.
It had been something that Jon had been thinking about for some time now. The free folk might be the best chance the North had to stop the Others - but only if they worked with the Night's Watch on the right side of the Wall.
The Watch needed men to hold the Wall, and the wildlings were the largest army around that might help.
It was nigh-treason, Jon knew. Many of his sworn brothers would curse him for even suggesting it. They had fought against the wildlings for centuries, and now Jon was thinking about ways he could bring them south of the Wall.
"I took a vow," he said aloud, musing to himself. The sworn brothers might insist that he eliminate all wildlings now. The Weeper most definitely deserved death - the Weeper had killed as many rangers as Alfyn Crowkiller ever did. The Weeping Man was said to collect crow's eyes.
And yet I promised the three-eyed crow that I would do whatever it takes to stop the Others . Both the free folk and the sworn brothers are fighting the same enemy .
The true enemy are the white walkers, he thought . The enemy of all living. The problem is just getting everyone else to accept that .
There was choice between either facing wildlings or facing the Others, and that wasn't really a choice at all.
That settled it. Jon motioned to Sonagon, and the dragon was getting better and better and following his commands.
"Come on," Jon motioned, waving wildly with his arms. He knew that the dragon had fairly poor vision at short distances - any hand directions had to be greatly exaggerated.
The dragon's limbs staggered forward. For such a large creature, Sonagon's body was surprisingly serpentine and flexible, but he still had to squeeze through the narrow tree trunks.
The wood cracked and splintered as the dragon lumbered between them, hissing quietly. Jon waved his hands, motioning towards him. Sonagon hissed as he lowered his head and neck down towards the ground. Jon grabbed a rope dangling off Sonagon's horn with both hands, placing his foot against Sonagon's scales as he heaved himself upwards.
He had to make an appearance here. Jon didn't want to be on foot when facing the Weeper. Jon had found that the top of the dragon's head, between the horns and above the crest was one of the better places to sit. It was awkward climbing and an uncomfortable seat, but Jon had even fastened an old hemp rope around one of Sonagon's horns to help him climb up. He had fastened another rope between the horns to give him something to hold on to.
Sonagon was large enough to lift Jon on his head with ease, but it was still a dangerous and uncomfortable position. Sonagon would often sway and lash his head violently, making the seat unstable and dangerous - particularly when Sonagon would bite and snap in battle. The dragon's neck was very flexible and he could move it like a whip. A safer seat place to mount was on the dragon's back, between the dragon's wings, but that was even more difficult to climb onto. It could still be difficult just to get the dragon to stay motionless for long enough to climb up.
Still, Jon suspected that Sonagon was warming too him. By nature, the dragon wasn't kind or soft, but the dragon was snapping at him less and warging more easily. Mostly, it was because Jon had saved his life several times. The dragon likely would have starved if Jon hadn't have used Ghost to find meals for him, or warned him about the Others. Jon had spent long, difficult days treating the wounds on Sonagon's body, or pulling broken arrows out of its hide.
It had been hard, long work caring for the dragon. Looking after a large, injured and starving dragon while an army wanted it dead had proved no easy feat.
Time to for Sonagon to return the favour, Jon thought, clutching on tightly as Sonagon started to move. The dragon's nostrils sniffed at the air. He was hungry again. Hopefully he wouldn't think of humans as food, but it still made Jon a bit more nervous.
There was no choice. He gripped on to the rope tightly as the dragon lumbered and started to move, crunching through the pine trees in the direction that the men ran. It wasn't long before Sonagon picked up on the trail of the camp.
They saw Jon long before he them. He heard the shouting first through the trees - the cries and alarms, both in the Common and Old Tongues - and then later he saw the figures moving through the trees.
The wildling camp had been built into a notch in the Antler, cradled by the river where the two fork met. The current was slow, but the river was wide. Around the camp, there were the stumps of trees and gashes through the forest. The free folk had been lumbering trees by the hundreds.
He saw movement through the trees. Jon grimaced, while Sonagon staggered forward. The great white dragon kept its head low, long neck slithering over the ground, while its legs struggled to squeeze through the foliage. There was the sound of wood crunching all around him as the smaller trees snapped and cracked under Sonagon's size. Each step was long, slow and lumbering.
It was the men Jon was more concerned about, though. The wildlings had set up sharpened spikes stabbed into the ground as palisades to defend the camp. Scattered through them, he glimpsed figures in mottled furs pulling back arrows notched on large bows.
Jon jumped up instantly. If even a single person fired, it could prompt an instant battle. If Sonagon went a wild not even Jon was sure he could stop him - the dragon had a temper. Let's not make this bloody .
"The first person to fire an arrow dies!" shouted Jon at the top of his lungs. He had spent enough time pulling arrows out of Sonagon, he never wanted to remove any more.
There was a ripple of hesitation. All eyes were fixed on the ice dragon prowling through the trees. "Bring me your leader!" Jon demanded. Stay strong. The free folk will only ever respect strength. "I wish to talk!"
Jon kept himself as straight at his awkward footing would allow, urging Sonagon to stay still. The dragon growled softly, but he didn't move. He could smell the hostility from the men.
There were a few minutes of frantic movement. Jon's hands were twitching as he gripped the rope tightly. Jon needed to negotiate from a position of strength, but he was also wide open. On top of Sonagon's head, he was a clear target for bowmen. A single arrow could take Jon down right now…
They shoot me and Sonagon goes berserk, Jon thought firmly. He just had to hope the wildlings realised that too.
After nearly three minutes, Jon saw the figures walking out of the camp. Seven figures, all of them clutching bronze swords or axes. The man at the front had a wicked curved iron scythe that swept backwards. Jon would have recognised him anywhere.
The Weeper looked exactly how Jon remembered; a short, but heavyset man with fair blond hair and a face permanently fixed into a heavy frown. He was constantly scowling, as if his face was fixed that way. He was an ugly man nearing middle-aged, with filthy hair and whiskers. He wore blackened leathers and motley animals skins piled over him, with bronze disks sewn into the tunic. His cloak bore a grotesque of a face painted red; a demonic face with a mouth of fangs and empty, weeping eyes.
The Weeper himself had weak, watery eyes that were constantly crying. The Weeper had been born crying, apparently - some kind of affliction or eye infection. He even occasionally wept blood. There had been many that had mocked him for his eyes, but a life of mocking had turned the Weeper cruel, hard and vicious. There were few raiders as feared - the Weeper kept a chain of human eyeballs from the men he had mutilated.
A favourite game for the Weeper used to be to capture rangers, Jon recalled. The Weeper would cut out the ranger's eyes, and sent them back blind. Watchers on the Wall that couldn't watch, the Weeper was said to have chuckled.
Now, the Weeper's eyes were wide and stunned as he stared upwards at Sonagon with a mixture of disbelief and horror. Even the other free folk next to him, all battle hardened warriors, looked scared.
The Weeper was at the front, clutching his scythe in both hands. "… What is this beast?" He demanded, his voice a roar. "And who are you?"
"This is Sonagon. A dragon," Jon shouted. There was about fifty feet between them, while Jon was twenty feet off the ground atop the dragon's head. "And he will not hurt anyone unless I tell him to."
"You control that thing?" There was just a slight quiver of uncertainty in his voice.
"He listens to me," Jon replied.
A few glances. "What is your name, boy?"
"I'm looking for refuge," Jon shouted, not answering the question. "We've come from far north; we're heading to the coast. I want to discuss terms!"
Watery eyes narrowed. "Terms of what?"
"The cost of our assistance!" Jon hesitated, the words almost catching in his throat. "… If you ever want to cross the Wall, then you will listen to what I say."
That got his attention. Those words made the whole conversation shift. The Weeper gripped his scythe a bit tighter, twisting on the wrapped leather handle. He paused, watery eyes flickering.
"… Then let's talk. Face to face," The Weeper demanded. "You leave that monster behind. Come into our camp alone. And if that monster makes a move, I will put it down!"
Jon hesitated, but there was no choice. The discussion would go poorly unless Jon treated with him face to face. Jon would have to go down there himself. Let the Weeper save face by threatening Sonagon, I need his help here, not his ire.
"Alright," Jon called. "Let's do this reasonably - I want your word on your honour that I will be granted safe passage to your camp unmolested."
"Fine, you have it."
"Good." The Old Ways were strong in the north; the free folk lived and died by their word. Still, Jon added, "… Sonagon will keep you to that promise if the Old Gods do not."
Jon scrambled awkwardly to the rope hanging off the dragon's horn. Sonagon shifted and growled slightly.
"… Easy, Sonagon," Jon soothed, clutching the rope as he started to climb down. "Just stay here. I won't be long and I'll be back soon. Stay here."
It took a few awkward minutes to clamber down. Jon's leg felt suddenly sore, limping worse than usual as he approached. The Weeper's eyes narrowed; taking in Jon's white hair and gaunt face, his bad leg.
Up close, the men were so much bigger than him. Still, they all kept their distance cautiously, staring at Jon if he were some legendary snark or grumpkin. "How do you control that thing?" Weeper demanded.
"I'm a warg," Jon said simply, his hand near his sword cautiously.
"Bah!" The Weeper grunted, spitting on forest floor. He acted as if that word explained everything.
He let Jon walk in front, while the Weeper walked behind. Two of his men stayed behind to watch the dragon, while the others flanked behind and around Jon. They all had to wait as Jon limped slowly with his poor leg.
In the camp, he was met with dozens more warriors clutching weapons, but also many women and children. They were all staring at Sonagon, and at Jon, with hushed voices and panicked eyes. The dragon was a huge white shape looming between the pine trees.
Jon saw free folk from a dozen different clans - there were hornfoots, nightrunners, cave dwellers, men from frozen shore, the lakes. Men from a hundred random clans. They had all just ended up together when Mance's army broke - all refugees who had fled with the Weeper's warband.
The boats that they were building hung by the river's edge. The free folk were poor shipwrights. The boats were barely more than barges built of large logs roped together - eight large barges and a ninth still under construction. Five hundred men, would they try to fit fifty per barge?
Jon supposed the ships were the best chance they had left to get so many people across the Wall now. With Mance's army broken, they lacked the men to take the Wall, and risking the Bay of Seals was the only choice. They had camped by the Antler to chop wood from the Haunted Forest, and when the boats were done they could float them down the river and out to sea, around the coast and to the south. It wasn't even a bad plan - the sea patrols from Eastwatch were very poor of late - but Jon would still be surprised if even half of the people here made it across.
"You avoided giving me a name," Weeper noted, lowering his scythe fractionally as they ended camp. "Who are you loyal to? What clan are you from?"
"I have no clan," Jon replied, stopping in the centre of the camp. There were men gathered around him. "I am loyal to Sonagon, and he's loyal to me. As for the name… My name is Jon Snow."
The Weeper paused. Jon saw the recognition dawn in his eyes. With Jon's changed appearance, he wasn't surprised it took the Weeper so long to recognise him.
He cursed in the Old Tongue. "I know you," the Weeper growled. "You're that crow ."
The very word made the men around them hoist up their weapons a little higher. "That deserter crow that Mance Rayder brought in," said the Weeper. "I should have taken your eyes when I had a chance - fucking Mance was always soft on you."
"If you had done that, you'd have nothing but a pair of eyes," said Jon. "Whereas right now I'm offering a chance to get your people across the Wall."
"And why the fuck would I trust a turncoat crow?"
"What choice do you have? You're going to sail across the Bay of Ice on barges. If you meet a storm, you'll all die. Even you don't, I imagine the cold water and wind will still take most of you. You're gambling with the patrols either way. I'm offering another choice."
The Weeper stormed forward. He wasn't a very tall man, but something about him could still tower. His eyes were wide and wild, with tears leaking down his face.
"… No, no, no…" The Weeper snarled. "I don't buy it. I never bought your fucking story. I never trusted you the minute you came into Mance's camp."
Suddenly, he gripped Jon's collar roughly, pulling Jon's face close. Every weapon twitched. Jon was suddenly staring into the man's grizzled face, noses so close they might touch.
"It's in the eyes, boy. I can see who you are in the eyes, and you've always looked like a crow to me."
Jon forced himself to stay still. The Weeper looked crazy. Jon could struggle, but that would only give the Weeper an excuse to cut his throat. "You should let go off me right now," Jon said quietly, forcing himself to stay calm. Can't let this become a fight, stay calm…
"Oh aye?" He growled. "Why should I?"
Sonagon chose that moment to growl - a long, dangerous growl that rumbled the earth. Jon could feel the rumble as the dragon stepped forward slowly. The Weeper's gaze flickered, but he still didn't let go.
"… I knew you were bullshit the minute I saw you," the Weeper continued in a dangerously low voice. "I knew you weren't one of us, not really. I just never said anything cause I always figured Mance would be the one to get burned by you, not me. I don't trust any fucking crow ." He nearly spat the word. "Give me one good reason why I should trust you?"
"You need me."
"No. Not even close." He looked insane. "It's that… that dragon that I could use, not you. You're totally useless to me."
"I'm the only one who can control the dragon," Jon gasped, feeling the Weeper's hands tighten, so tight he could barely breathe. Jon could go for his sword, but he would be dead before he drew it. Maybe he could have taken the Weeper alone, but the Weeper had a dozen men around him. Jon had Sonagon, but the dragon was further away.
"Maybe. Maybe not. You're not the only warg around, boy. Did you know that Varamyr Sixskins still lives? He's supposed to be the greatest skinchanger alive. Now I don't really trust him either, but I'll pick him over you any day." The Weeper's face twisted. "Now maybe I just kill you right here. Maybe I reach out to Varamyr and get him to control your dragon for me. Maybe you're totally unnecessary right now."
Sonagon was still growling, taking a few warning steps closer. Men were panicking slightly, rushing the defences with bows and spears, while the Weeper kept on gripping Jon tightly.
"Kill me and you'd be dead before I hit the ground," Jon warned. Sonagon was still rumbling closer. Men were shouting, notching bows and running with spears, but with each step the dragon took the earth rumbled…
"I think I'll be dead anyways if I listen to you," the Weeper snarled. "I think you're just trying to use us. Now why would I ever believe a crow when he says he says he's going to help us across the Wall?"
Jon hesitated. Wrong one move and the Weeper really was mad enough to kill him, dragon be damned.
"… I'm looking at your eyes, boy," the Weeper warned. "If you give me any fucking bullshit that you've abandoned your brothers, I kill you right now. Tell me, why the fuck should I trust you ?"
Jon met his gaze, gasping slightly. One wrong word…
"… Because I've seen the real enemy. I've fought the real enemy." Jon's hands scrambled, pulling up his furs over his chest. The Weeper stopped, staring at the ugly red scar on Jon's chest, under his clearly visible ribcage. "… And I've felt the real enemy's blade. You're not my enemy, not anymore…" Jon shook his head. "All men must stand together against the cold."
The Weeper was silent for a long time, staring into Jon's eyes. Then, with a grunt, the Weeper let go of Jon and stepped backwards two paces.
Through the trees, Sonagon stopped growling. Jon felt himself release a breath he never even realised he was holding.
"Alright then," the Weeper said finally, dropping his scythe and folding his arms. "Let's talk. Tell us, crow, how are you going to get us across the Wall?"
"I have a dragon. My dragon has wings. Sonagon could fly us south, straight over the Wall."
The Weeper shook his head. "I can't see it fly. I don't think you'd be walking through the woods if it could fly, in fact. I do see wings - but chickens have wings too and they can't fly. Come on, let's see the dragon fly!"
"He can't," Jon admitted. "Not right now. His wings are wounded, but he's healing. As soon as his wings are healed then he could fly us across the Wall."
"Bah!" The Weeper spat. "So that's your game? You want us to wait and take care of your little dragon while its wings heal. No, I don't buy it. You approached us, crow. You want something from us."
Jon hesitated. "… We're being hunted. The white walkers have been chasing us for a while now, and sooner or later they'll catch up. I got lucky rescuing Sonagon once, but they won't make the same mistake again. We need protection." He paused. "And we need food. Sonagon is hungry - he can't fly, he can't hunt, and I can't feed him by myself. We need help."
Slowly, Weeper's face twisted into an evil sneer. "Oh yeah. That's more like it. That's perfect ." He stared angrily. "Let me get this straight, crow; you want us to lay down our lives keeping you and your dragon protected and well-fed. You want free folk to bleed protecting you and your pet. And you want us to do all that on nothing more than the promise that later you will eventually fly us south of the Wall?"
"You followed Mance on the promise that he would lead you south."
"You are not Mance! " The Weeper's voice was a snarl. Around him, the wildlings shifted. The air was tense.
Don't let him control flow of the conversation, Jon thought with a grimace. Every free folk would make their own decision who to follow, and they would follow whoever looked the strongest.
"I can protect you!" Jon shouted, turning slightly to face the crowd of surrounding wildlings. Everyone else was silent. "We all know that the cold winds are rising! You were there at the Frostfangs when the army broke! They cut through you and their army became larger for it. A hundred thousand free folk couldn't stand up against the dead!" His eyes were hard. "… But the dragon can! The ice dragon might be the only creature left in the world the Others are afraid of! They spent weeks hunting it because they are afraid. Stand with me, and maybe we can stop the cold winds together!"
There were a few nervous glances. The free folk would not bend easily - they would only follow the man. Jon's heart was pounding as he turned, looking at each one in turn. "Follow me and I will get everyone across the Wall!" He promised, wishing that it would be so easy. "Follow me and we can leave the Others behind! Every person we save, that's one less person the Others can kill and raise. Once less body for their army! Let the Others waste their strength against the Wall, and together lets hold back the Long Night for another ten thousand years!"
Every face he stared at was hard, but Jon could feel the mummer going through the crowd. The Weeper scowled.
"Is that right?" The Weeper growled. "We both want to stop the Others, crow - aye, I believe that. That might be the only thing we've got in common. That might be the only reason I haven't killed you yet."
The Weeper took a step forward. "But let's say that I trust you," he said slowly. "Let's say you that keep your promise. Let's say that you don't just fly away and discard us as soon as you can." His face twisted. "Let me tell you, crow, as soon as me and my men arrive south, let me tell you the very first thing that I'm going to do…" His voice turned dangerously low. "… I'm going to murder every fucking crow I can find."
The statement was met by a few cheers from the crowd. Jon's stomach clenched. There was pure bloodlust in the words. Am I making a huge mistake here? Trying to ally with wildlings…
The Weeper was pacing, growling. "In fact, I'm going to storm Castle Black with every man, woman and child I can find. I'm going to butcher every crow in that castle, and I'm going to hoist those gates wide open. And I'm going to fight to my last fucking breath to keep them open for as long as I fucking can." Some of the free folk banged approvingly on their shields. "I'm going to open those gates and I'm going to let every living person in the north go through them. Every single free folk - I'll open the door to bring them south and I'll fight every bloody kneeler that tries to stop me!"
The crowd erupted into cheers. The free folk were banging weapons against the ground approvingly. The Weeper's grin was all teeth as he approached Jon.
"… So my question to you, crow…" The Weeper continued. "… Are you happy with that? "
There was a deathly edge to the question. Jon knew that telling the truth could likely cost him his life. Still, he did it anyways.
"No," Jon admitted. "If you tried to kill the sworn brothers of the Night's Watch, I would be forced to fight against you."
The Weeper's watery eyes flashed victoriously. "… However," said Jon, carefully. "If the men of the Night's Watch led an attack against you, then I would fight against them as well."
The Weeper shook his head. "No. You can't have it both ways, boy. It's us or them. Pick a side."
"I'm on the side of the living. Always the living," said Jon. "Never the dead."
"Bold words. Stupid, but bold."
"… I took a vow," said Jon. The three-eyed crow would hold him to that vow. "I vowed to do whatever it takes to stop the Others. To stop them, we need more south of the Wall, not north of it. When the free folk are south, the white walkers will run out of corpses for their army. Less bodies for them, more bodies to fight against them. To stop the Others, I must save the free folk." He nodded. "The sworn brothers must see that too."
He met the Weeper's gaze. "And we need the Night's Watch," he said firmly. "When Others try to go south, the Night's Watch must hold the Wall. If you are to live in the south, then you will need the Night's Watch too."
"And when the Night's Watch try to kill us?"
"I'll convince them not to," Jon said. Disbelieving silence met the statement. "We make peace with the Night's Watch. We convince them to let the free folk pass, and then together can we face back the Long Night." If Jon said it firmly enough, he might almost believe it. "There are lands south of the Wall. The Gift - they are rich lands that belong to the Night's Watch. They will let you settle on the Gift, and in return we will stand together against the Others."
His face flashed dark. "You want us to kneel ?"
"I want you to survive," Jon countered. "You don't have to bend the knee, but I expect the free folk to fight. To fight against the cold that threatens us all." He met the Weeper's eyes. "You were at the Frostfangs. No army can stand against the Others alone. Only together do we have any chance."
The silence felt deadly. It was the type of silence where Jon half-expected an axe flying through the air at any moment.
Jon focused on the Weeper. The Weeper was the meanest, cruellest raider around. Maybe Tormund was stronger, and Mance had been more cunning, but the Weeper was nasty . Few people ever stood against the Weeper; there were plenty of men that could kill you, but the Weeper was vicious enough to do things worse than death. The Weeper wouldn't cut your throat; he would cut out your eyes, rape your skull, and then leave you to starve.
If Jon could convince him, then the other free folk would follow.
The men of the Night's Watch had always said that the Weeper was an insane, sadistic bastard - but the man wasn't a stupid, insane, sadistic bastard…
"Where are you heading?" The Weeper demanded, his ugly face twisting in thought.
"Hardhome," Jon replied. "The peninsula is one of the most defendable locations around."
The Weeper's eyes flickered uncertainly. There was a quiet pause. Something went through the air at the mention of the place. "… I thought Hardhome was deserted," said Jon,with a frown.
"It was." The Weeper nodded. "Up until about a moon ago. Some bloody wood witch - name of Mother Mole-" He spat. "-she's been harping on about the place. She's been ranting on about some prophecy that the free folk would find their salvation there. Men have been flocking to Hardhome for weeks. Crazy, desperate bastards, following a blithering little hag."
Still, there was just a flicker in his voice at that last comment, as if maybe he wasn't so sure anymore.
"Find their salvation?" Jon said slowly. "How?"
"Who knows? Bloody wood witch."
They faced each other for a long time. In the distance, there was a long, slow growl from Sonagon. A gentle reminder that the dragon wouldn't wait forever.
The Weeper paused for a long time, before finally making a decision. "Alright then, crow," he said after a while. "Let's see how much your word is worth." The Weeper turned to the free folk. "We move out, lads! Gather up as much food as you can carry! I want those barges in the water as soon as possible!"
"But the last one isn't finished yet!" A wildling protested, pointing at the ninth, half-complete barge.
"Then you've got six hours to get it done, or you'll stay behind finish it!" The Weeper snapped. "Everyone else, move it scunners! Strike up the tents! As much food as we can carry, and everything else goes on the barges! We move out before dark!"
His voice left no room for argument, and the wildlings already rushing into movement. Jon could feel the frenzied activity spreading around him. "Snow!" The Weeper ordered. "You bring that beast into camp, and I swear by all the gods that if you can't control that thing I'll kill you myself."
"You're going to help me, then?" said Jon.
"I help me and my own," the Weeper snapped. "But let's see how far our interests align, Snow."
The words were echoed by other free folk surrounding them. Grizzled warriors staring firmly at Jon. "I followed a former crow once," an old wildling growled. "But Mance was the best of us. The worst, too. You've got one chance to prove yourself, Snow. Only one."
The mutters of 'Snow' echoed in quiet agreement. Every face was suspicious and distrustful, staring at Jon, but they were moving, packing up camp. "… We were planning out heading out soon, anyways," The Weeper said after a pause. "We'll follow the Antler to the coast alongside the barges, and we can take you to Hardhome. After that… we'll see." His watery eyes narrowed. "If you are nothing more than the piece of dirt I suspect you might be, than I can always just kill you there and continue on to sail across the Bay of Seals like planned."
I'll take it, Jon thought. It meant that he had until they reached Hardhome to prove to the free folk that they should follow him and Sonagon, and not the Weeper.
Around him, Sonagon started moving slowly, sniffing at every object. The men in the camp stared at the dragon with either open astonishment or scard distance. The dragon was lumbering towards the river, brushing snow off the pine trees with every step.
All of the free folk were staring. Some looked ready to leave the camp altogether. There was muttering in every corner. Jon had no doubt that the word would move quickly across the north. The news of the ice dragon would spread quickly.
Jon was on his way south now. First the free folk would hear of Sonagon, and then the rangers of the Night's Watch shortly afterwards. How long would it be before all the realm was talking about Jon's ice dragon?
The thought sent shivers down his spine.
"To Hardhome, then," Jon said.
"Aye," the Weeper agreed. "To Hardhome."
The free folk were rushing around, gathering everything from firewood, to furs and rope. Sonagon lingered at the edge of the camp, staring at the men scuttling around him like mice. The Weeper hesitated, before pulling up close to Jon and whispering gruffly in his ear.
"If you do mean what you say you do," the Weeper muttered, in a voice for him that was almost gentle. "Then these are your people now. Do right by them."
He stared, turning to face the raider. There was a vicious smile playing at the Weeper's lips. "… And congratulations," he hissed. "You're a wildling now."
Jon knew that the Weeper was mocking him, but still… just that phrase… it still caused knots to squirm in his stomach.
Well, I consider this chapter to be the first of what I'm calling the second arc of the story. First arc was a lot of divergence - setting up the story, introducing the dragon, establishing some pieces - but a lot of it was also Jon lost in the wilderness somewhere, knowing nothing. Now he's heading toward civilisation, and things are going to start changing more. The dragon is heading towards the seven kingdoms, and that means people are going to take notice…
Probably means a lot of screaming, too.