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…

29. The beginning of the war for the North

Diablo Snowblind note to readers:

Readers - I ask for your patience with the process of re-uploading Dragons of Ice and Fire. I've been editing the story all over again, and re-writing certain scenes to improve this Bolton War arc. My intention is to fix some of Serpentguy's original mistakes and to bring this story to a new level of quality. It takes dozens of hours of work per chapter to bring these chapters up to the quality levels you see here. I hope that you enjoy, and I'd appreciate critical comments/reviews pointing out if I left behind any typos or lore errors.

I will get the rest of the story uploaded, I only ask for patience. It takes an immense quantity of effort and research to even edit a story as ambitious and sprawling as Dragons of Ice and Fire, and I'm not exactly being helped by how Serpentguy also deleted all of his worldbuilding and faction notes and excel spreadsheets that were behind this story (he had many).

Cheers.

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A day in the march of King Jon Snow, and the road to Winterfell…

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The Crimson Dragon

He saw the dragons explode into the sky. They burst upwards from their rocky perches, scales of all colours glittering in the bright orange sun, from deep blue to glimmering gold to pitch black. The youngest were barely more than hatchlings, the oldest a great grey and brown behemoth with a wingspan twice the size of his own.

The largest of the dragons, the dominant, the preeminent of their brood perched atop the peaks of the mountains while the lesser dragons lingered on the crags and hills around them. There was a social structure, almost a feudalism to the dragons scattered across the mountain range. The broods functioned almost like clans, each one a pack under a single alpha ruler, jealously guarding their territory while looking with avarice on the territory of the others.

He, however, was a roaming dragon, a wanderer who held no territory, and had no interest in it. His only desire was to test his might, again and again.

The waters of the mountain lakes reflected his own body. He was huge, lean, his scales a deep, blood-red crimson. A hundred battles had marked his hide, but he was large, lean and formidable. Not the biggest of the wanderer dragons, but close, and vicious and strong enough to hold his own against any foe, even the old broodlords.

Every full moon, dragons flocked to the central mountains, to mate and fight. To prove dominance or to be dominated, to establish their hierarchies and even form new clans. Some moons were more important than others: sometimes a few clans fought, other times every wild dragon gathered from across the peninsula. Each one a vicious beast eager to prove its strength - a dance of dragons that blocked out the sky.

The first of the spars was already ignited. A great plume of scorching flames exploding from one maw, other beasts meeting them in kind. Beneath them, the bleak grey mountains caught fire, until the fires lit the sky. The rocks themselves melted and burnt.

The heat and power… it was incredible. As was the force beneath his wings as he flapped upwards, a great shriek exploding from his throat.

His target was the big grey and brown dragon. The biggest and eldest, with bleak dull scales that looked starch and cold compared to the bright colours of others. The grey dragon was twice his size, but he of crimson had no intention of submitting to anyone but the very strongest.

The two immense beasts collided in mid-air with the force of a storm, meeting fire with fire and teeth with teeth. All around them, the other dragons were shrieking, crying out and flapping around their duel.

For all that he was outmatched, the crimson dragon held his own. He was smaller, but his flames were hotter and his jaws more determined. He snapped forward and bit down on the bigger dragon's neck - not at full strength, this was just a spar - but hard enough for black teeth to leave a mark against the hard scales.

Right now the red dragon was the weaker one, but the flock knew someday he would transcend. He was growing faster and flying farther than any other wanderer, taking territory where no other dragon was brave enough. He had flown across the seas, far away from the burning mountains, and returned with greater strength. The number of dragons - of any brood - that could match him was steadily decreasing.

All around him, hundreds of wild dragons danced through the air. The sound and the heat was so immense it could have been a fifteenth flame on the peninsula.

Then, a shriek burst through the air. One of the hatchlings, crying in panic. The cry was echoed by others. At once, the dance stopped. Every dragon forgot their duel, abandoning the fights in a single moment.

From the south, he smelt a large group of more dragons approaching. Dragons that smelt of humans.

The dragon 'lords'. Dragon slavers. A bloodthirsty growl broke forth from the crimson dragon's throat.

The silver-haired humans. They hunted the wild dragons relentlessly; pathetic humans that were constantly eager to steal eggs or fill their cages. They had grown bold to interrupt a dance of these numbers.

Many of the wild dragons fled the humans, but not all were so easily cowed. For every two that fled in panic, one would roar in anger. A great cry broke through the tribes as the dragons swarmed to meet them.

He saw them. The tamed and enslaved dragons wore black, spiked metal armour wrapped around their bodies, especially their necks, and they carried men on saddles on their backs, protected by sorcery. The humans' dragons were outnumbered, but they flew in formation. On the ground, he smelt human armies marching with them, bringing siege weapons, nets and bolts. A trap. They prepared an ambush to interrupt the dance. The wild dragons didn't care. Dragons were the superior, not humans. This was a challenge of dominance, and the great beasts met them in kind.

In a single lunge, the great grey dragon snatched another out of the air, crushing wings in its teeth like a fly. The red dragon followed suit, lunging downwards against an armoured dragon and forcing fire into its throat. Its metal plate bubbled and melted under his breath, its body thrashing. No mercy towards those corrupted and enslaved by humans.

Humans were shouting, screaming, a buzzing of insects compared to the dragons' roars.

And yet the dragon slavers didn't relent. They fought back with flaming lances and whips of pure fire. They used arrows and nets and wires. Even when their dragons were outmatched, the armies supporting them launched great boulders and bolts into their wings. Dragging wild dragons to the ground, shredding their wings. A grounded dragon could be overpowered by their unending armies. If the dragon slavers had to sacrifice ten thousand men for one caged dragon, they would. The humans' armies always needed more dragons.

In the air, the mounted dragons focused on the weakest first, and they matched raw fury using formation and tactics. The thick smoke, the stench of burning flesh and the immense shrieks filled the air.

The crimson dragon fought against two smaller beasts at once. Unyielding, merciless. The dragons he could handle, but the men… the men wielded unnatural fiery whips that would lash against his hide, so hot they burned even through his scales. Their whips spun into great lengths, hissing and snarling like they had lives of their own. A few of them, the commanders, wielded dark lances and swords that glowed with darker fire.

And then there were the shadows, clinging to his scales. It was the men's doing, somehow. Shapeless voids, shadows with claws, wraiths flying on formless wings to clutch at the dragons' bodies, snaking around their wings, digging inky black tendrils into open wounds and biting…

He could see bodies failing out of the air one by one. The human armies could not be stopped. Still, the dragons fought.

The grey great dragon was trembling, struggling to keep in the air, despite the burning lances and arrows through its wings. He heard the humans chanting something, their voices were weak, meaningless on their own, but they resonated with the world itself and were further empowered by blood sacrifices. They summoned fierce, grounding winds, and unleashed black flames that devoured the spirit, and stank of corruption. And then a thousand slaves were sacrificed, and those winds of the void coalesced in the midst of the wild dragons, creating a second sun of darkness. A black sun that compressed, and then—

A great boom shattered through the mountains. Dragons screamed and fell. Pain rocketed through his body, his wings spasming.

Then the humans sounded a horn. He saw it for a moment, carried by the dragonlord riding the largest dragon, a horn carved from a elder dragon's skull and covered in runes and glyphs of darkness. And when it sounded—

It was more than a noise, it was like a tear through the world itself, a scream sounded from thousands of damned, bound souls united to a singular purpose. It was agony, it was the idea of slavery itself, distilled and hammered into the shape of a sound. And when that hellhorn's sounding hit him—

He reeled through the air, floundering like a kite with its strings cut. The horn's magics - they felt like they cracked through his very bones to set the marrow aflame, scorching his eyes from the inside out…

The red dragon fought the hellhorn. He fought for as long as he could, but the horn's sounding could not be matched. The whole world seemed to explode into shadow and fire. Ahead of him, he saw the great grey dragon collapse, falling to the earth with enough force to shake the mountains, and then everything turned—

---

Jon

"Wake up, Your Grace. They are calling for you."

Jon gasped, struggling to process the phantom pain in his head. In the distance, Sonagon stirred—the dragon woke at the same time as him.

Wide eyes stared at him. "The host is to move out, Your Grace," his squire said nervously. "I was told wake you."

Jon was still blinking repeatedly. "Urgh, aye. Aye. Bring me a skin of water." The squire did so, and Jon washed his face, and gulped down a long draught of water. "Thank you, Marrion. Prepare my horse."

"Your horse is already readied, Your Grace," Marrion Manderly, one of the boys of the Manderly's branch house bowed his head. "I will fetch water."

Jon's head was still spinning. He remembered fire, flying, and dragons clashing in the air. A dream, he told himself, then he shook his head. No, why would I—that was a warg-dream, it must have been. Was that Valyria of old? Those were Sonagon's memories?

Focus. The army had been marching hard, and there was little time for rest. All around him, six thousand men stirred. The sound of horses and boots filled the air.

He washed his face roughly, wiping cold water into his eyes. Too many long weeks of marching had left his body sore. Jon knew they were close and could hardly quit now, but his body yearned for rest and comfort. Weeks since he'd had a decent night's rest. More and more he found himself daydreaming of Val's dark golden hair, planting soft kisses across her neck while her…

A horse neighed. Jon shook himself alert. "I will break my fast in the saddle, Marrion," Jon called. "Any news of the Dreadfort?"

"Lord Umber says we are three days' march away," the boy reported. Marrion Manderly was a young boy of thirteen, podgy and stoutly built, though a dutiful squire. "And, um, Lord Giantsbane has sent three parties ahead."

Jon smiled. His squire brought his riding leathers. "Lord Giantsbane," he repeated. "Have you called Tormund that?"

"I… I haven't, Your Grace?"

"Best not. The man doesn't need more titles."

Another night, and the Greatjon and Tormund still haven't killed each other, he thought wearily. That is a success in its own right.

Jon stepped outside of his tent. The plains were thick with snow, though the camp had stomped it into a muddy slush. The weather made progress slow, but they were moving forward. He could see the frozen headwaters of the Weeping Water's eastern fork in the distance.

From his Dragonguard, Toregg the Tall and Gregg Sheepstealer both stood outside his tent. Jon's second squire, Bennard Locke, had his destrier ready and waiting for him. Bennard was a dark-haired and grim-faced boy of fourteen, attentive, quiet and keen-witted. He wore a surcoat with a crude stitching of a white dragon on a grey background. Jon hadn't yet decided on a coat of arms himself, but his men were increasingly choosing one for him, and this squire proved a quick hand with a needle.

"How goes the march? Any more attacks?" Jon asked as he mounted his horse.

"Not that I've heard," Toregg replied. "But we still can't find that supply escort that got attacked. My pa has been hunting the bastards that did that for the week."

"Where is your father?" Jon asked. "Is he still with the outriders?"

"Naw, he came back last night. He'll be up in a bit, man's getting old."

Jon nodded. A few weeks ago, he had marched forth from White Harbour with an army of three thousand five hundred or so Manderly and coalition soldiers from White Harbour, and had secured most all the land between the eastern shore of the White Knife and the Hornwood's lands - which had mostly been a bloodless process, the Boltons had given up those lands rather than fight for them. Insofar as he had been delayed, it had been by his Manderly allies putting various Hornwood petty lords who had collaborated with Ramsay Bolton to the sword, though most had not been present in their lands.

After that, Jon had ridden ahead with his cavalry to Last Hearth, where he linked up with Tormund Giantsbane's host coming out of Castle Black.

Tormund host numbered four thousand or so free folk, who had marched south along the Kingsroad before cutting east at Long Lake to envelop and securing Umber territory from the north while Jon and the Greatjon came from the south. The things they had seen in Last Hearth…

Now both hosts were fully together, marching eastwaards. The combined free folk/White Harbour host had made up a large host of almost eighty-five hundred, though Jon had left behind a thousand or so Manderlys and their bannermen to occupy and bring to order the Hornwood's lands.

Now, Jon had roughly seventy-five hundred soldiers and free folk in the southwest, and another five thousand or so in the northeast under the Weeper that he had to link up with.

The problem was that such a large host couldn't easily be supported by their logistics. The snows were thick, and supplies were proving a problem. That was why Jon had left behind a decent portion of his force in the Hornwood's lands – supplies would have to be efficiently brought up from White Harbour and then through those lands to the warfronts around Winterfell and the Dreadfort; the safety of their lines of supply against Bolton sympathizers and insurgents had to be assured.

Tormund Giantsbane emerged from his tent a few minutes later, carrying an entire brace of roast chickens spitted on a stick. He and Toregg broke their fast together, and soon Jon found himself sharing a chicken with Hatch while he and Tormund and the rest of his Dragonguard conferred.

"We have food to last for now," Jon said. We can restock when we meet the Weeper's host. Until there's an alternative, we can't delay the march. These small Bolton attacks at our flanks, they're trying to distract us away from the Dreadfort."

Tormund grunted. "A hungry march, then. Our lines of supply are only barely keeping up as it is."

"Not so," Gregg Sheepstealer grunted. He was one of Jon's Dragonguard, a stout, fat-bellied man with thick arms, not a raider so much as an expert bowsman and tracker. "The southerners brought horses to eat, didn't they?"

Jon grimaced. Not ideal. My army is mostly free folk - they have survived harder marches than this. But—

"Don't be fuckin' daft, Gregg," Toregg muttered, even as his father scowled. "We need the damn horses, otherwise we've got nothing to deal with Bolton harassment but the dragon."

"Then our march will be delayed," Gregg warned.

"The Dreadfort isn't the last battle," Jon said, and eyes from around the fire slid towards him. "We need the horses, it's not just about the Bolton's outriders. Winterfell awaits us afterwards. If we need to wait a bit for the supply lines to catch up, we wait. It does us no good to make a few days extra time now if it costs us weeks later, when the winter will be even deeper."

Behind him, Sonagon stirred. The dragon rested at the very centre of the camp, but all the men kept their distance. "Better get the dragon in the air, king," Gregg warned. "We don't want to be caught by any raids like the other day."

"Aye," Jon agreed. His grey destrier shimmied slightly beneath him. "Fetch Ser Marlon, Lord Umber, and Tormund. We move out quickly, and I'll send Sonagon ahead."

He closed his eyes and stretched out the warg towards Sonagon. It was accepted easily. The dragon was still tired and sluggish, but they had been bonding more and more easily during the march.

Come now, Jon pushed, as forcefully he dared. His vision blurred, his senses shifted. Fly. Hunt.

Huge wings flexed outwards slowly. The great shadow fell over the camp. Even after weeks of Sonagon being with them, there was still a minor panic every time the dragon burst into the air.

Jon felt himself rising up into the cold air, the wind howling under his wings, snow drifting across his body. All around him, there was the stink of men marching into the Lonely Hills. Jon's host of over six thousand seemed so formidable from the centre, but it was left a small shapeless blur from a dragon's eye.

Head towards the hills, Jon pushed. Find the river. Look for any armies amassing.

Sonagon flapped southwest, before twisting and circling east. Then, his nostrils flickered as a sharp scent hit him on the wind.

He heard the cries from over a mile away. Sonagon smelled the cold tang of blood. A faint slurry of snow rolled over the forests, and then blobs of figures appeared in the snow, as small as ants. Wrestling bodies in the middle of a battle between the pines.

The boom of wings cracked through the air. The men below all heard it. Jon watched hundreds of figures quiver - actually quiver - as the white shape roared above them like a hurricane.

There was no shock quite like Sonagon's roar. Ant-like figures fell down in the snow, panting desperately as if their hearts were collapsing in their chest. A dragon brought out a primal fear in all men - it could turn even the bravest into scurrying little rats.

It's the sense of scale, Jon thought. No man likes to see how little they are.

Sonagon roared. The blob of men on the ground scattered, half of it broke away to flee eastwards. The dragon circled for a time, Jon watching the ground confusedly through Sonagon's eyes. It was only when the sides fully broke apart and a cry of victory arose from the ground that Jon could tell friend from foe. By the time Sonagon turned to sweep low across the hills, the Bolton men were already running into the trees.

He would have chased them sooner, if it were possible to recognise ally from foe.

How can you tell which side are allies when they all look like bugs? Jon cursed. It was lucky that one side ran, because Sonagon was left useless trying to intervene in a pitched battle.

Chase them, Jon gently commanded Sonagon, though at this point it was mostly pointless. Probably food.

If they were running from the dragon in that circumstance, they were probably enemies. Still, the moment of indecision had cost Jon – the dragon was only able to blast the stragglers of the Bolton's force before they escaped into the forest.

I need large banners, Jon grimaced, something that a dragon's eyes can make out from great distance. It's too difficult to tell my men from the Bolton's.

As the dragon descended to eat, Jon took a deep breath, feeling himself shudder as he let go of the warg-connection. His senses blurred, and slowly he fell out of the dragon's skin. Snow whipped at his face. Beneath him, his grey destrier snorted.

Jon blinked repeatedly, trying to refocus on the here and now. Then he shouted. "There's fighting in the Lonely Hills! Bolton forces attacking our forward parties!" then he turned to look back down on his squire. "Marrion, pass the word to Greatjon and Tormund."

"Yes, Your Grace," the Manderly boy said hurriedly, turning to run over the snow.

A figure wearing the Manderly sigil rode towards him. "How many?" Ser Marlon Manderly called. One of Marrion's uncles, all from the Manderly's branch house.

"Hundreds or so." Damn, it was so hard to count from above through Sonagon's eyes. "Their forces scattered as soon as they saw Sonagon, the dragon only got a few of them."

"Again?" a free folk raider grumbled, by Jon's side. "Isn't going to be much of a battle then."

"Aye, but I don't want to let them get away," Jon said. The Bastard of Bolton could be with them. "Gather up five hundred mounted men, we move out quickly."

"What of your dragon?" Toregg asked.

"The Boltons scattered into the woods. Sonagon can't easily track them through the trees." They knew what they were doing, choosing a battle near a woods of soldier pines, which carry their leaves even in winter. Their tactics are based around making it inconvenient for the dragon. "We need mounted men if we want to stop them getting away again."

Most of their cavalry were from White Harbour. In the host, there were over twice as many free folk as northmen, but the free folk were primarily infantry, lightly armored, while near all the northern soldiers wore plate or at least chainmail, and were led by a core of several hundred Manderly knights. Jon heard Ser Marlon shout as he prepared the riders.

"Bloody hells," Tormund Giantsbane grumbled as he came trotting forward on a large, shaggy winter pony. He chose a mild and comfortable mount, but he still sits uneasily in the saddle. "What are we chasing this time?"

"Skirmishers in the hills," Jon ordered. Sonagon was still in the sky, soaring through the low clouds. "I saw them ambushing one of our groups."

"Boltons? The fools. How did they expect the fight to go when that dragon is in the air?" He guffawed.

"The dragon is not always in the air. If I hadn't spotted them it could have gone badly for us," Jon said stiffly. My men take the dragon for granted, and that's dangerous. "That warband shouldn't have gone so far ahead."

"Aye, that'll be bloody Gerrick Kingsblood," Tormund snorted. "I bloody warned him not to go too far, but him and his warband were all eager for a fight."

Horses were stirring, riding from the camp. Bennard Locke brought him his helm and shield, but Jon didn't want his squires with him. He needed to move quickly. "Come on," he ordered. "I will not allow Ramsay Snow a chance to escape."

"You saw the Bastard with them?" The Greatjon growled darkly. He rode a huge, dark warhorse, with his greatsword over his back.

"No," he admitted. "But someone must be leading these attacks. It could be Ramsay Snow. I intend to find out."

"Then move," Lord Umber snapped. "He will not escape."

"Oh aye," Tormund agreed, hoisting up his maul. "This Bastard of Bolton seems like a scunner who ought to be losing his limbs."

Their horses marched out, all of them were strong northern breeds to manage the snow. Jon gave orders for his Dragonguard to bring the infantry and follow as quickly as possible.

Ahead of them, the Lonely Hills stretched out ahead of them. Jon saw the streams that led down to the Weeping Waters trickling over the landscape. The ground was thick with snow, and the sound of galloping hooves.

Sonagon swept over the sky, the huge shadow passing over the ground. Horses around Jon whinnied, and the riders had to struggle to control them. "I see them scattering south and west," Jon called. "Ser Marlon, ride around the hills, try to cut them off!"

"Of course, your Grace!" Ser Marlon called, and he shouted to split off with a hundred men.

Jon pulled on his rein looking for the officers. "Ewan Bole," he shouted at the northerner. "Take fifty men along the streams, in case they try to double back."

Ewan Bole just nodded. He was a heavily bearded man, one of Robett Glover's sworn swords. "Aye, Your Grace," he shouted gruffly over the sound of horses. "Riders, on me."

Beside him, Tormund scoffed. "'Your Grace'. Now why does being king suddenly make you so graceful, I wonder?"

"Just go left through the hills," Jon ordered. "They're on foot and they've scattered."

They circled around, striding through the snow. Jon had his forces split again. The Lonely Hills earned their name; they were desolate and barren hills and rough and empty countryside. Large, but lightly sloping and scattered, leading down to the Weeping Water and the Dreadfort. Jon heard that sometimes the wind blowing through the hills sounded like wailing.

"If this is Ramsay Snow," the Greatjon called, riding next to Jon, "then we take him alive. We take him alive so he gets to die slowly."

Jon just nodded, casting a wary glance at the big man. The Greatjon had recovered Last Hearth a week ago. It hadn't been difficult; there had only been a skeletal Bolton force holding it, most of whom had tried to flee. The entire keep had been ransacked bare.

Inside the castle, the Greatjon found his youngest son, a boy of six, nailed to the keep's wall. Ramsay Snow had signed his name, using the boy's own blood as ink.

They had also found one of the castellans, Mors Umber, with a spear through his gut and lingering beside death's door. It was doubtful the Crowfood would survive much longer. Some of Lord Umber's other family may have fled. There was no sign of Hother Umber.

Or of my brother, Jon thought with a grimace. Bran.

He could see a dark, simmering anger in the Greatjon's eyes. What happened at Last Hearth, what they had seen… it had been savage. A barbarity, a crime against the north. The sooner the Bastard of Bolton is caught, the better everyone will be.

They met up with Ewan Bole's force again quickly, who reported that none of the Boltons had slipped away towards the streams. After securing the foothills, they rode to meet up with the forward party. Jon saw the wildling warband atop the snowy field. They were cheering, celebrating. That made Jon's fists clench as the cavalry rode up to meet them.

"Gerrick Kingsblood," Jon shouted. "What the hells do you think you're doing?"

The broad, red-haired man grinned. He could have passed for a southerner, with his hair shaved and wearing chainmail and leathers provided by the White Harbour fleet. "Victory, that's what," Gerrick laughed. "We saw those bastards fleeing like cravens!"

There were bodies littering the snow. More wildlings than Boltons, it seemed. "They fled from Sonagon. Not you," Jon said curtly. "And if the dragon hadn't been there, I would be burying your corpse right now."

The man faltered slightly. "But we won!"

"You let your bloody warband get ambushed. You got lucky that Sonagon was in the air, there were no guarantees he would be," Jon said angrily. "You went ahead of the main host and left yourself exposed."

Gerrick bristled. "You gave the order to secure villages around the Dreadfort, I went and did that."

"Did I tell you to walk into a Bolton ambush?" His voice turned cold.

His eyes were wide, his shoulders tense. Gerrick opened his mouth to object. Tormund pushed his horse forward. "Stop talking now, Gerrick," Tormund warned. "Bow your head and step back if you know what's good for you."

Gerrick's face twisted, but he didn't speak. Jon let his gaze linger on him quietly. "I'll handle it here. Gerrick, you are relieved," Tormund offered. "Snow, you go chase the cunts responsible."

"Aye," Jon muttered, turning his horse and signalling the men to follow. They rode down the hill, following the footprints in the snow.

The Greatjon looked at him with a scoff. The horses didn't stop their quick trot. "Your wildlings aren't soldiers."

"They know how to fight."

"That bloody well ain't the same thing, and you know that." The Greatjon grunted, as he shimmied his horse away from Jon's.

From Jon's other side, Ewan Bole moved his horse closer towards his, cautiously. "Lord Umber has a point, Your Grace." the man noted, in his very rough voice. "I do not doubt your wildling's strength, but there's a reason why no King-Beyond-the-Wall has ever succeeded." Jon turned his gaze on him, but the man's tone was just observational, not aggressive. "The wildlings are not trained. They can fight, but can your wildlings hold a shield wall? Can they set battle lines and keep to them? Can they mount a siege, or brace against cavalry? Their raiding parties are fearsome, but their hosts are less so. Historically, even when the wildlings have had the far greater numbers, their armies have been bested easily enough by those of the Night's Watch or House Stark."

Jon hesitated. "These warbands are from forest clans, river clans. They can learn what they're missing, but it's true, they're raiders and spearwives to a man, discipline isn't their way."

If the free folk had any group who could be truly said to be trained in discipline, it was the Thenns. However, Sigorn, the new Magnar of Thenn was still mustering his new force at the ruins of the Shadow Tower. It might be a month or more before they were ready to march south. In the meantime, managing these more… free-minded bands of raiders was like herding cats, many of them weren't comparable to randomized groups of soldiers, but were instead based around the fighting men of individual clans, or in the larger cases such as Kingsblood's, more complicated webs of tribal alliances comprising multiple clans, who only reluctantly bowed to a king's outside authority. It was small wonder that Mance had such trouble controlling them, back then.

As for Rattleshirt's host, it still hadn't departed from Eastwatch – the host at Eastwatch was especially difficult to control, there were more chieftains lingering there than any other place, and they were contending with a second warfront against Skagos as well. The Admiral of Seals would need to be brought into line, the next time Jon could spare the time to fly up there.

"Then I hope your wildlings learn quickly," Ewan Bole warned. "Too many make the mistake of focusing on the number of men, rather than the type."

He's right, Jon thought. Bringing the northmen and the free folk together had highlighted some fairly large flaws in Jon's army. "Yes," Jon said, suppressing the sigh. "Thank you for the honest counsel, ser."

He laughed brashly. "I am no ser. I ain't no friend to wildlings, either, but I lost kin at Winterfell and then again at the Red Wedding. Between wildlings or Boltons, I know which one I hate more."

Jon could believe it; the northman had a strong, honest attitude to him. Jon had been keeping an eye on which of his men had been distinguishing themselves, and Ewan certainly had. "Joining forces will help greatly to patch our weaknesses. And good commanders like yourself will aid even more, if you're willing to work with them," he said. He tried to measure the man's reaction to that comment. "Right now, they're overconfident. We've been winning every battle we've fought, and that makes men like Gerrick brave enough to do something stupid. Or become lazy."

"You do have a dragon," Ewan noted.

"I have one dragon. And when there is more than one battle happening, my dragon can't attend them all." Jon shook his head. "The Boltons have proved they aren't willing to fight a pitched battle when Sonagon is involved, but they're still trying every other type of conflict."

"Aye, they've been a nuisance. But we cut them down piece by piece and sooner or later they run out of places to—"

The man's voice was cut off by a horn blast over the hills. Ser Marlon's men. At once Jon's riders turned to change direction. He reached out and summoned Sonagon back towards him.

The horses galloped, but by the time they arrived the battle was already practically over. Jon saw some fighting on the ground through Sonagon, but he had to hold the dragon back. Sonagon would hurt his own men as much as the enemy if he intervened in tight rank skirmishes.

"We found them," Ser Marlon called to Jon as the reinforcements arrived. The last of the attackers were being subdued. "Mostly Bolton men, some Karstarks and Hornwoods among them. They tried to fight, and then they surrendered pretty quickly when they saw our numbers."

It wasn't much of a battle. They had been fleeing the dragon on foot and Ser Marlon's men were all mounted. "How many?" Jon demanded.

"Sixty or so surrendered. Another twenty died in the fight."

Jon shook his head. "No. I saw at least three hundred ambushing Gerrick's men."

"Yes," Ser Marlon agreed. "But these are the only ones we caught."

Jon could see the soldiers gathered in the middle of the riders. They didn't have enough rope, so instead the prisoners were held at spear point, forced to their knees in the snow. He saw the flayed man of Bolton stitched on their hauberks. Gods, Jon thought, they all look so scared and cold. Why is it easier to think of enemies as faceless foes in uniform rather than as cold and scared men?

"We think the rest of their force must have scattered between the three villages around here," Ser Marlon explained. "Or maybe they have hideouts in the woods."

"No, it'll be the villages," the Greatjon grunted. "They run to the villages and they hide their swords and helmets; all of those soldiers pretend to be farmers and smallfolk. When you go chasing after them, they'll shrug and say "who, me?" - and when you walk away they'll pick up their swords and stab you in the back."

Jon was reminded of Yandel's book on the First Dornish War. Dammit, I do not want that type of war. "And what do you suggest?"

"Put the Bolton villages to the sword." The Greatjon's eyes were grim. "Make sure they know the punishment for harbouring soldiers."

Jon smiled humourlessly. "Wouldn't that just encourage more villages to resent us? Give them reason to hate you and they will learn how to hide soldiers better, how to make their ambushes more effective. That is the catch, Lord Umber; you lose no matter which way you fight it." Jon shook his head, turning to Ser Marlon. "No, try to find out where these soldiers went. Question the smallfolk - carefully - but the rules haven't changed."

Ser Marlon nodded, moving off to gather up his men. The Greatjon stood stiffly on his mount, arms folded.

"We cannot punish smallfolk, Lord Umber," said Jon. "Not even Bolton smallfolk."

"I might have agreed," he replied darkly. "Except then my home was razed because my uncles were too generous in which 'smallfolk' they let through the gates."

Jon didn't reply. He turned to inspect the prisoners, the first of which were already being interrogated. Perhaps some would have useful information, but Jon doubted that common soldiers would know much of Lord Bolton's plans. And it is impossible to weed out the lies from the truth in any case, Jon thought bitterly. It's hard to trust anything they say when it might be a desperate lie or a deliberate ploy.

I have the larger army and a dragon, yet they are still making things difficult at every chance. The Boltons know how to harry a force from all sides.

"Sixty prisoners," Lord Umber noted. "That's sixty more mouths to feed out of our rations. And another delay to our march."

"We're not executing prisoners, Lord Umber. Not because they're inconvenient."

"Half-measures, boy," the Greatjon warned. "They'll kill you every single time."

The Greatjon refused stubbornly to ever call Jon king. Jon wasn't fool enough to call him out on it; their alliance wasn't so secure.

Afterwards, outriders reported movement to the west. The rest of the attackers were fleeing from the hills. Jon closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and in the sky Sonagon twisted around with an almighty flap. The dragon will become irritated, flying like this without hunting, Jon thought with a grimace. There was a limit to how much Sonagon would allow himself to be controlled. I cannot keep using him indefinitely.

Jon's infantry caught up with them towards dusk, as they moved over the hills. He had done his best to try and organise them, but even from a distance he could see the lack of rank and file in the sprawled, black blob of men. His host of six thousand men, mostly wildlings with some northmen mixed in, stretched over the snowy fields. Tormund had brought the wildlings south from Castle Black, and Lord Umber had rallied what he could from the Umber lands, and the rest were Manderly men that had rode up from White Harbour alongside Ser Marlon and Ser Wylis. Robett Glover and a small force of men had joined them from other houses of the east coast.

We will meet up with the Weeper's force from the Karhold soon, Jon thought. The Weeper brought five thousand wildlings, some Karstark men, and five hundred giants with mammoths. The plan was to converge on the Dreadfort together, from the west and northeast. They would be nearly ten thousand strong. Whatever Bolton force was waiting for them at the Dreadfort, it stood no chance in battle.

Of course, that's little reason for them to fight a battle, he thought grimly.

Later, Ser Marlon returned. The knight was grim-faced, his horse breathing heavily as he rode towards them. "We gave chase for as long as we could, Your Grace," Ser Marlon reported. "We only caught ten of them. The rest slipped away. There was little luck scouring the villages. The village's headmen refuse to talk."

"Chasing bloody ghosts," Tormund spat, grumbling as he walked towards Jon. "They'll have us chasing our tails at this rate."

"But they are folding," Jon insisted. "They are losing ground, and the worst they can do is slow us down. They can't stop us. We are days away from the Dreadfort, and they don't have forces to even try to stop us."

The Greatjon scowled. "If we march on ahead with those villages to our rear, we'll see Boltons 'emerge out of nowhere' to harry our supply lines. I guarantee it."

"Aye, and am I the only one who thinks that's queer?" Tormund folded his arms, nodding to the Greatjon. "They know they're losing territory, why've they still got their fighting spirit? We've been marching all the way through Bolton lands and barely a single bastard is even trying to challenge us. The ones who are, aren't treating this like a losing fight."

"So the wildling has some wits," the Greatjon grunted. Tormund glared at the lord, sizing up against him. The Greatjon was head and shoulders taller, while Tormund was short and stocky. "He's right, we haven't even seen a tenth of the opposition we should expect."

"They're scared of the dragon," said Jon.

"If they're that scared, then why don't they surrender?"

Jon didn't reply, but there was something bothering him too. A suspicion.

"I think the Boltons are making a trade, giving up territory out of design," The Greatjon said. "Their strategy reeks of it. But what are they getting out of the trade?"

No fruitful answer came out of the meeting, apart from the certainty that that the Boltons were trying to entangle their supply lines. Jon had to order more of his men to stay behind and garrison the villages, to ensure they stayed compliant. Which represented even more men who wouldn't be available for the fights that mattered, but Jon wasn't willing to kill innocents.

It was only at the hour of ghosts when he learned of their next setback. Outriders arrived from the east, reporting a battle on the banks of the big fork of the Weeping Water. The Weeper's host, the one that had been coming down from Karhold. Ambushed as they tried to cross the river.

The second Battle of the Weeping Water was over before Jon or any others even heard of it.

It was too dark and cold to safely move men at night, but Jon readied their mounted men to head out at first light. He brought his Dragonguard with him and top commanders with him, and summoned Sonagon to follow. He could see the frozen banks of the Weeping Water in the distance; in spring it was a long, slow and gloomy river, but now it was frozen scar cutting through the snowy plains. Jon smelt the smoke and blood in the air before their horses even got near.

"It was a bloody distraction," the Greatjon growled, echoing Jon's thoughts. "They ambushed your outriders and led your dragon on a merry chase to the west. All the while a larger force ambushed your second host in the east while the dragon was busy."

"Aye." They're learning. Testing us, poking for weak spots.

Jon saw the bodies littering the valley. There were corpses with arrows in them, half-buried under the light snow. They spotted a bloodied corpse of a mammoth, with spears through its hide, as it lay collapsed through the ice in the trickling river.

Jon saw the smoke of the Weeper's camp, surrounded by wooden spike fortifications in a typical wildling defence. Besides the mammoths, the Weeper's force was on foot. Thousands of men all huddled together in the bend of the water. Likely around four thousand, Jon thought. Maybe less.

The Weeper's army wasn't moving, the camp felt bloodied. Wounded. Horns blew as they approached, and the Weeper met Jon and the riders as they rode into the camp. Jon saw the shadows of giants, sniffing in the air cautiously. Wildlings lowered their heads or bowed to Jon as he passed.

The Weeper didn't bow. Even in steel and hard leathers, the man looked just as hard and worn as ever. His armour was grimy, and blood trickled down his cheeks.

"About bloody time you arrived," the Weeper grumbled as Jon pulled his horse to stop. "I was thinking I would have to win this whole bloody war by myself."

"Weeper." Tormund spat the word. "Why aren't you dead yet?"

"You think anyone has the stones to kill me?" The Weeper's voice turned taunting. "Fucking 'Giantsbane'. You've lost weight. Did the crows not feed you after you lost the battle at the Frostfangs like a—"

"Enough!" Jon snapped, glaring between the Weeper and Tormund. Old wildling grudges had no part to play here. "What happened here, Weeper?"

He grunted. His scythe was covered in dried, cold blood. "The flayed men ambushed us crossing the river last night. They came from all sides, with arrows and horses."

"How many?" Jon demanded.

"Five hundred. Maybe more, all mounted, all wearing plate. I could only count the corpses, but enough of them ran away. We fought them off."

"So we won?" Ser Marlon asked. Jon didn't look too convinced.

"And how many losses did you take?"

The Weeper's eyes flickered. Dammit, Jon cursed. The camp stank of blood, the air of heavy with weariness and the cries of the wounded. He saw giants with the stubs of arrows still sticking out of their furs.

"Where the bloody hells was that dragon?" the Weeper demanded. "We could have used him here last night."

"Distracted," Jon replied icily. Lured away. "Sonagon can't be everywhere. I didn't even receive news of the battle here until it was too late."

The Boltons are learning, trying to find weak spots in my campaign. They're learning how to fight around the dragon rather than face it.

"How many managed to flee?" the Greatjon demanded. "And who was leading them? Was it Ramsay Snow?"

"Hundreds or so," the Weeper grumbled. "And I didn't bloody have a chance to ask."

"You let hundreds escape?" Tormund guffawed. "You must have had five times their number."

"Aye, five times as many weary and tired. They were fucking prepared," the Weeper snapped. He glared angrily between them, bristling aggressively. "I gave chase and they hurt my men coming over the hill for it."

The battle would have gone poorly from the beginning, especially as the wildlings were struggling trying to cross the river. The Weeper was a ruthless and capable leader, but of course he would always attack. When a prudent man would have fallen back, the Weeper must have tried to lead an assault up the valley.

Wildling warbands didn't have formations - in open skirmishes that wasn't so much of a disadvantage, but in any fortified clash it was disastrous. From the state of the camp and the battlefield, Jon expected that at least ten wildlings fell for every Bolton man. Maybe a thousand dead. We only 'won' because of numbers and giants.

"What of prisoners?" Jon demanded.

The Weeper's lips twitched. The grin was bloodthirsty. "What prisoners?"

Dammit. But not now. "Where did the Bolton men retreat to?" Jon demanded, quickly changing tack.

"South. The southerners ran back to their little castle."

"Then we follow them," Jon ordered. "The plan hasn't changed; we bring our hosts together and march on the Dreadfort. We split our mounted forces. Tormund and Ser Marlon, return to the camp with half our horses. March on the Dreadfort from the west. The Greatjon and I will stay with the Weeper's forces and march from the northeast."

"Yes, Your Grace," Ser Marlon bowed in his saddle. His men turned and rode away, along with Tormund.

"'Your Grace'," the Weeper sneered, glancing at Jon. "So while I've been fighting a war, you've been getting those southern dipsticks to bow at you?"

"Just be careful with the way you speak to me," Jon warned. He kept his voice very low. "I will only tolerate so much."

The Weeper only snorted.

He's been fighting more battles than anyone, Jon told himself. He's weary and tired. As gruff as the Weeper was, Jon could hardly ask for a better front-line commander. The Weeper had fought off both Umber and Karstark forces ever since the crossing at Eastwatch, and fought all the way down to take Karhold itself. The Weeper's five, now four thousand men were all battle-tested, veterans of a dozen battles. And this battle has likely been his worst.

"We need rest for our horses," the Greatjon grumbled, glaring around the wildlings. Jon noticed how nervous many of the northmen were at the sight of giants. The Weeper motioned and waved for one of his men to handle it.

"To me, my lord," a deep voice called. Jon saw a short burly man with a balding head and a mouthful of broken brown teeth step forward. He wore thick iron plate, carrying a large, ugly longsword over his back. "I will arrange for them."

Jon's eyes narrowed. The man did not sound like a wilding. He had a southern accent. "And who are you?"

"I am Ser Clayton Suggs, Your Holiness," the man bowed. He had a white stone on his chest. He smiled, but there was no humour there. Eyes like a pig. "Formerly of King's Landing."

A knight? Jon paused, making the connection. "You served Stannis at the battle of Hardhome."

"To my shame. I was deluded by false gods and fake prophets." Ser Clayton was respectful, but Jon didn't like his expression. "I see the truth now. For the glory of the ice dragon, Your Holiness."

"Indeed," he said, icily. "You converted fast."

"Lord Weeper vouched for me." Ser Clayton Suggs' grin widened. "He said that I have talent. Talent better served on a battlefield rather than a prisoner. I serve faithfully, I swear it on my honour."

Jon didn't reply, but he dismounted and let Ser Clayton take his horse. The southern knight's eyes lingered on him. Looking around, Jon was surprised to see that quite a few of them weren't wildlings.

Karstark men. Most averted their gaze, but he followed their eyes towards a group of four men, huddled together.

The only one who met Jon's stare had the look of a lord. He was a strong man past fifty, with brown hair, a beard and thick moustache, wearing dishevelled clothes. Jon stepped forward.

There were bloody dark bruises over the lord's face, Jon noticed. Some of the bruises were old, others fresh. Gritting his teeth, the man lowered his head jerkily. "King Snow," the man choked. "I am Lord Cregan Karstark of Karhold."

Ah. "Thank you for supporting our cause, my lord."

His jaw clenched. "I will do what is best for my family," Lord Karstark said. He was a strong man, but his voice was strained. "And for my house. Your Grace."

"Your family," Jon repeated. "Tell me, where is Lady Alys?"

Lord Karstark's gaze was dark. "On a ship heading to White Harbour. Along with my brothers, sons and nephew. Arranged by the… by Lord Wyman's granddaughter."

Jon frowned at the man's tone. "Your father, Arnolf Karstark. He's at Winterfell, allied with Roose Bolton, I believe?"

"Aye." Jon could see the anger and emotion hiding behind a faint layer of civility. Civility reinforced by fear, though. Karstark has not been treated kindly. "And I fought against the wildlings that invaded my lands, I did. I will not lie and say I would not do it again, even. But I will act as is best for my house and my people - and if that means resolving this war with you, gods forgive me, I will do it. I will fight alongside you and so the name Karstark will survive. My lands, my castle, my family will be kept safe."

"I see." There's no loyalty with this one. The only reason he is with me is because he knows he will not survive being against me. But perhaps that is enough?

From the looks of things, Lord Karstark was being kept under very close supervision by the wildlings around him too. It didn't escape Jon's notice that Cregan Karstark was missing a sword on his waist.

"That was the pledge you forced from me, Your Grace," Lord Karstark spat the words. "And I will even uphold it. However, should anything happen to me or my wife, then the whole realm will know you a liar and oathbreaker. Just like your accursed brother - a man that would wipe his ass on vows and loyalty. So just keep your dogs away from me and my men."

Jon's frown deepened, and he considered his next words very carefully. There was a long pause. "Thank you for your loyalty, my lord," he said slowly. "Your loyalty will be rewarded, should it remain true. However, I would advise you to consider the way you address your allies more thoughtfully, with more respect to your position." Jon paused, then added. "Should I hear you speak that way of Robb Stark again, you may find your position changing once more."

The man's face twisted. He had to close his eyes, and force the words out of his throat as if they were bile. "I apologise, Your Grace," Lord Karstark growled, taking a gasped, deep breath. The words seemed to physically pain him. "I will mind my tongue."

How many times must the Weeper have beaten the man to put that sort of fear into him?

He looked around the camp. The free folk were loyal, even the White Harbour men had come willingly, but the other northerners that were filling their ranks? How many have only joined because of the same fear?

The thought felt like a lump of iron lodged in his chest.

Jon walked around the free folk, trying to recall the names of the leaders that left with the Weeper. Everyone was worn and tired, but he still saw many wearing white stones. Jon's squires looked terrified at the sight of giants and mammoths lumbering near the water. Several giants approached to stare at him, and in the Old Tongue he heard them muttering, "King, King."

He met the Weeper by the water's edge, washing the blood off his face in the icy water. "I got headcounts from the war chiefs," the Weeper called. "We lost a bit over six hundred in the battle last night, another five or so hundred too wounded to fight."

"Then we must find the men to burn the bodies. Leave none untorched," said Jon. "They've bloodied our noses, but this is still a Bolton defeat. Combined, we will still be over eleven thousand strong. We will take the Dreadfort, and then the Boltons lose their seat."

"Eleven thousand," the Weeper grumbled. He was bare-chested as he washed, but he didn't seem to mind even despite the freezing cold. His back was covered in scars. "And most of those free folk. You've got what, three thousand southrons with you? Less?"

"For now. The northern lords are still rallying."

"And so are the free folk. I hear Rattleshirt is mustering another host from Eastwatch. Sigorn of Thenn is doing the same from the Shadow Tower. We're still getting refugees trickling south through the Wall, and they're likely coming through faster now that we've got all three gates. There could well be an army of over fifteen thousand free folk fighters gathering for you."

"What's your point?"

"Fifteen thousand." His voice was low, warning. "Just remember which side you need more, king. In a choice between these southerners and the free folk, I expect you to choose the free folk."

"It doesn't have to be a choice. It's not us versus them."

"And once again you prove yourself a fool."

He still sees all southerners as enemies. Jon met his gaze. "What did you do to Lord Karstark, Weeper?"

He scoffed. "That filth? I bent him over and I showed him the butt of my scythe a few times. Maybe more than a few. The man was stubborn."

Jon's fingers twitched. "You did what?"

"Hells, you told me to convince Karstark to declare for us," the Weeper chuckled. "I convinced him to declare for us."

"And can you not show restraint?" Jon snapped.

"He's still got a head, doesn't he? That was my restraint." He pulled himself up by the river's edge, scowling. "That scum should count himself blessed he's still breathing. I would have happily killed him, except I knew you would have a hissy fit over it."

"And how do you ever expect his loyalty after bloody beating him?"

"Who the fuck cares about his loyalty? I don't need him. He shouldn't be alive," the man snarled. "Cregan didn't have any choice but to join me. At every fight, I put Karstark men on the very front ranks. I don't trust any of them, I don't give any of them a chance to betray us. You can sure as hells bet I have men ready to kill them at a moment's notice if they even look treacherous."

Jon thought of Ser Clayton Suggs. The Weeper recognised 'talent'. "And how do you expect that's going to work in the long run?" he challenged. "We will lose if we try to rule by fear, Weeper."

"Fear is the only thing men like Cregan Karstark understand," he grumbled. His hands twitched as he turned to face Jon. Without his armour, Jon could see the ugly, bloated red scars across his neck from the white walker's grip.

"And fear will only sow more hate," Jon muttered, stepping forward. "We will not do it. We will conquer the northern way, not the wildling way."

Weeper's bulging eyes narrowed. "You see, that's what concerns me," he growled. "Consider this a friendly warning, Snow. It surely as hell seems like you're abandoning the free folk in favour of your new southron friends."

Jon stiffened. "What are you talking about, Weeper?"

"I hear you've been selling free folk daughters to your 'noble houses'," the Weeper spat. "Your marriages."

"And I've been buying highborn brides for free folk warriors," replied Jon. "They are alliances that help bring us together."

"And also rewards for those that serve you," he sneered. "Making proud warriors want to be treated like dogs. Forcing them into all your northern games for what? Your favour?"

Jon didn't reply. There had been only five confirmed betrothals so far - two of Old Man Harwick's granddaughters to minor lords of the White Knife, Ygon Oldfather's son to Lord Forrester's third daughter, Gerrick Kingsblood to Lord Holt's eldest daughter, Soren Shieldbreaker's daughter to Lord Bole and Baldor Icewall's daughter to Ser Ian Poole - but the news had spread and there were two dozen other potential matches up in the air.

The Weeper rolled his shoulders as he stepped up from the riverbank. "Me?" the Weeper muttered. "I might start wondering why I should have to be given a woman at all. Why not just take one?"

"That would be a mistake," Jon warned darkly. "Actions like that, that'll make them all unite against us. There are still more of them than there are free folk."

"Oh aye, I know the score. Separate them, and conquer one by one. So I've followed your rules, I've kept these free folk in line, half of em were raider less than a year ago. You ordered 'no raids', and, hells, I've followed. Not a single warrior has pillaged from my warband without losing his own head for it, I dare you to find to find living soul that can say otherwise." The Weeper grinned. "But now I'm starting to wonder what I get for all my efforts."

There was an edge to his voice. "What do you want, Weeper?"

"Karhold. I took that castle, I took that castle, I get to keep it."

"Karhold is the seat of House Karstark."

"A family that betrayed yours before we even came south, from how I hear it," the Weeper said. "They fought us every step of the way south until I got my hands on that cunt. Now why should a bunch of traitors get to keep a castle like that? It's a nice castle."

Jon's lips pursed, but he nodded. Good allies needed to be rewarded. "I can make no promises right now," said Jon. "But I will bear it in mind."

"And I also want the girl," the Weeper called. Jon stopped. "She's a pretty girl. Alys Karstark. I want her."

His eyes turned hard. The Weeper folded his arms. "Is that not how you southerners do things? You marry the right woman and you take the castle?"

"Alys Karstark," Jon said stiffly, "is already married."

"Not because she had anything to do with it. I spoke to her. If you take that Cregan cunt's head, I imagine she'd be cheering the loudest in the crowd."

"Lord Cregan Karstark is an ally now. He agreed to support us."

"Not willingly. He conceded only because we didn't give him a choice."

"That's not the point." Jon took a step forward. "There are rules here. When a lord surrenders to you, you can't kill him afterwards. Otherwise no lord will ever surrender again. How do you think the northern lords would react if I executed a prominent northern lord and gave his wife away?"

"Fuck them. Cregan Karstark is a nasty little parasite. World would be better off if he never had a head. I should have killed him already." He folded his arms, shaking his head quietly. "Did you know that Alys asked me to? Back at Karhold - she suggested it. She wanted me to kill him for her, and I wanted to do it. But I decided to be really reasonable", he spat the word, "and wait for your permission. Sometimes there are hard choices, Snow. This here ain't one of them; let me kill the sod and take the girl."

No, Jon thought, not so simple at all. There was a nasty glint in the Weeper's bulging eyes. Jon twitched. "And why," he asked slowly, "why do you want Lady Karstark so badly?"

"I told you. She's pretty."

"I heard what happened to the last woman you stole, Weeper. The fisherfolk's lass," Jon said icily. "Tormund told me the tale."

"Fucking Tormund. He talks too much. But so what? Aye, I've had wives before."

"And the last one was a girl of seventeen. You cut out her eyes."

The Weeper's smirk only grew. "Well, she had pretty eyes. I've still got them somewhere, I think."

It took everything Jon had to keep the revulsion off his face. His hands clenched. The Weeper is not a good man. He's never been good. Even among the free folk, the Weeper is feared for good reason. He's an evil psychotic fiend who just so happens to be my strongest ally.

"Why?" Jon growled. "By the all the gods, why would you do that to a girl?"

He only scoffed. "What, can't a man do whatever he likes to his own wife?"

And I argued for amnesty for all crimes north of the Wall. I defended all of the wildling's crimes.

A castle was one thing, but Jon couldn't give the Weeper a wife like Alys. The Lady Karstark didn't know what she was asking for, calling on a man like Weeper to help her. It was a disaster waiting to happen. How many of the Hornwood's banners had declared revolt against their lord, Ramsay Bolton, following his treatment of their lady? Jon's nostrils flared.

"You will not touch Alys Karstark," Jon warned. There was no anger, his voice just turned cold. "You will not harm any woman. Any rapes - any missing eyes - and there will be no peace. No peace between us, no peace between the lords." He shook his head, unblinking as he met the man's gaze. "I will not tolerate it. Ever."

The Weeper took half a step forward threateningly. "Boy", he muttered. His voice turned low and his eyes bulged. "I let that fat lord's get take her to this white city down south, so I could act all reasonable for you. If I wanted to take Alys Karstark the free folk way, I could done it. Maybe I still will. She was asking for it."

"She doesn't know what she's asking. You won't take her." Jon shook his head. There was a pause, and then he turned to walk away. "I've got to believe not even you are that mad."

"I could have fucking killed you in those woods!" the Weeper snapped. "I could have killed you at Hardhome."

"Yes," Jon muttered, not turning around. "You could have."

"If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't even be here! You would never have made it this far!" the Weeper shouted. "Just remember that, boy."

Believe me, I am. I am.

It took a long time for Jon's temper to cool. He needed deep breaths, trying to shake the image of the Weeper cutting out a young girl's eyes from her skull. I will raise commanders and officers from White Harbour amongst the free folk, he thought finally. Men who could be trusted to watch the Weeper carefully, and enforce order. But for now, I can't risk reprimanding and alienating him. The Weeper scowled when he saw Jon later, but neither of them said anything. He knew the matter was shelved, but not forgotten.

It was snowing when the host set out again. They used mammoths to carry rations, and the crowds of wildlings with spears set out over the Lonely Hills. They spent a full day marching hard along the branch of the Weeping Water, and then the next morning they saw the high red walls and triangular merlons, like sharp teeth, appearing over the hills.

The Dreadfort wasn't comparable to Winterfell's sprawling immensity. It was just one castle; albeit a large, strong one, with squat, square-shaped outer walls and higher inner curtain walls of light red granite that appeared pink in the weak sun, with four high, looming towers made of the same material at the corners of the inner curtains, and an even higher central tower overlooking all else. From atop that tower flew the Bolton's pink flayed man, a banner that must have been fifty entire feet long. The castle was large, and Jon had been told that it was even larger below, with sprawling dungeons and tunnels.

The Dreadfort sat astride the Weeping Water, the river ran almost directly beside the castle. Though they were far upstream, the river was still nearly thirty feet across, wide and gentle enough that in more peaceful times river boats could have docked at the Dreadfort. Now, however, the river was frozen solid, though there was evidence of recent ice fishing.

A castle as old as Winterfell, Jon thought. A strong and formidable castle by any measure.

The Weeping Water joined streams by the castle, and water from the Lonely Hills gushed over the frozen banks. A large town, called the Weeping Town was scattered around the Dreadfort, but it all looked eerily abandoned. The mills that lay astride the forks of the Weeping Water looked broken, the village abandoned. There was a smell of char in the cold air.

Jon saw Tormund's men and the Manderly host already in position. The armies surrounded the castle from the east, north and west. Jon called Sonagon towards him again, but from the first sight he knew that there wouldn't be a battle here; the Boltons had already retreated. The gates were sealed and the castle was fortified against a siege instead.

The moat around the Dreadfort was filled with spikes. The drawbridge was raised. There were men on the walls hidden under wooden huts, shield walls already in position. Jon caught the glint of scorpions scattered around the keep and walls, and faint shapes of what looked mangonels in the courtyard. All of the scorpions were angled upwards towards the sky. They prepared themselves to face off against a dragon.

Sonagon would still win, of course, but there was a more of a risk here. A small risk, perhaps, but not one that Jon was comfortable with.

The Weeper gave orders to his men to prepare stakewalls and spikes for defences, and then followed beside Jon as he headed into the town. There were only ruins, streets and streets of ash and cinder amidst the snows. Scorched earth warfare. It all stank of old smoke. The Boltons burnt the town and the homes rather than give us any advantage, he realised. But where are the people?

Ewan Bole and a small escort met him with word from Robett Glover, that the commanders were waiting for him.

Jon and the Weeper met the Greatjon, Ser Marlon Manderly, Ser Wylis Manderly, Robett Glover and half a dozen others again in the ruins of a mill they took for a command centre. The walls and ceiling were charred black from the fires, but the main timbers had survived; the structure seemed repairable. Lord Karstark wasn't present, but Jon knew that lord had no place in their war council. Or within earshot of it.

"My lord," Jon nodded at the Greatjon. "How goes it? Were there any attacks?"

"A few stragglers, nothing of note." Lord Umber shook his head, giving Jon a curt nod before fixing the Weeper with a hard, long stare, who only answered with an equally long sneer. The Greatjon scowled, then turned back to Jon.

"My guess is that the battles at the southerly and western Weeping Water were their last attempts to try and drive us away. We've got the larger army, and the Boltons know it," the Greatjon's eyes turned to Jon's right, growing more hostile. "Must you have that savage here?"

Jon, by deliberate effort, did not look at the Weeper like every other southern lord in the room was. He only hardened his expression - no matter how much he internally sympathized with the Greatjon. "The Weeper commands the free folk host coming out of the Karhold, my lords. He has every right to be here, as an ally, as my general. Whatever you need to say to me about this siege can be said to him as well."

The Weeper's expression was still as dark as it had been following their earlier argument. Even so, the raider chortled. "You hear that, you—"

Jon raised a hand, even as some of the lords bristled. "Enough. How many men are holding the castle?"

"A small garrison, by the looks of it," Ser Marlon replied uneasily, his eyes flickering between Jon and the Weeper. "The majority of their forces have already fled. If it was just us I would wager they'd be more likely to stand and fight, but…"

"But they're scared of the dragon. They won't risk devoting large hosts of men to battles where dragonfire would obliterate them."

"The skinless man has no spine," the Greatjon grumbled.

"Does that not make them more dangerous? Spineless creatures are often the most venomous," Jon sighed. They won't make it easy, the Boltons seem insistent on taking whatever victory they can get. "Will the garrison surrender?

"I very much doubt it, Your Grace," Ser Marlon admitted. "I am told it is being held by a man named Steelshanks, and manned by old, hard Bolton veterans. I sent an envoy to the drawbridge under a banner of truce, and they put four quarrels in the man. They will not negotiate, Roose Bolton wouldn't have left them if they would."

"And they've have had weeks to prepare for us," Robett Glover noted. "I've rarely seen a castle holed up so tightly before. They burnt their own lands, gods only know how much food and grain they have hoarded inside that keep. No, there will be no negotiation here."

"So as far as I see it, we have two options," the Greatjon said. "We either siege the castle or storm it."

"It's a strong castle. A siege could take months." Jon frowned.

"And a storm will take hours." His eyes narrowed. "Can you dragon raze it?"

"Of course."

"Then let's bring the beast here," the Greatjon ordered. "Turn the cursed place into ruin. Show them a storm."

Jon lips tightened. The thought of what he had seen at the Twins had not left him eager to repeat the experience. But if they will not surrender then what choice is there?

Ser Wylis Manderly grimaced. "Your Grace," he said hesitantly. The son of Lord Manderly was a large man, but he looked worn and haggard in platemail that didn't quite seem to fit. "I would urge you to not."

"Is there an alternative?" Ewan Bole asked. "We cannot leave the Bolton's seat of power intact. The Dreadfort must be secured before the march on Winterfell."

"We have enough forces that we can safely dedicate some towards a siege, Your Grace," Ser Wylis argued. "Their garrison cannot threaten us. We secure the area and leave behind, say, two thousand strong to starve the castle and we continue our march."

Jon remained silent, watching as his lords and commanders began to debate. "And how long would that take?" the Greatjon protested.

"No, it will leave us too vulnerable," Ewan Bole said, shaking his shaggy head. "Our men will be exposed."

"It is better alternative than destroying a castle entirely," Ser Wylis countered. "The Dreadfort is an ancient northern castle. Even despite its reputation, it's a historical and influential seat. To raze it into ruins will not endear anyone to our cause. The Dreadfort is valuable enough to be worth a siege. Let us take it, rather than raze it."

"It would cost us time," Robett Glover said quietly. "But there is little risk to our own men."

"Little risk?" an Umber petty lord said incredulously, to the support of others. "Are you mad, man? What of storms? Or starvation? Gods only knows how much food they have stocked in there, they had months to pillage and burn the surrounding lands. You want to leave men hungry and cold outside a castle like the Dreadfort in winter?"

Jon hesitated, eyes flickering uncertainly between the arguing figures. The Greatjon folded his arms. "Bugger that. You want to devote, what, two or three thousand men to a siege like this? We will need our forces against Winterfell."

"We have a dragon," a different lord said. "Surely our armies are already secure."

"No, a siege is folly," the Greatjon insisted. "Just bloody blast the damn thing."

"All the while the Dreadfort stands, we risk Roose Bolton taking back his lands," Ewan Bole nodded. "And it weakens us in the process."

"He won't take it back. How could he, when his forces are amassed at Winterfell?" Ser Wylis objected.

"That's the problem," Ewan Bole argued. "We already left a thousand and a half men behind to garrison our takings, Ser Wyliss. And you say we should be leaving even more men behind? We'll be eating into the core of our strength before even facing the Bolton's main army."

"The Dreadfort has hundreds of prisoners in it, maybe thousands," Ser Wylis dug deeper into his argument. "Where are all the Weeping Town's smallfolk? They're in the Dreadfort!" he turned. "Lord Umber, we were both held at the Twins, surely you agree. We should try to save the hostages."

"They're already dead," The Greatjon shook his head, his voice dark. "Or we're all better off considering them as so. No, we should turn the castle into rubble. Demonstrate just what treatment Bolton scum deserve. Demonstrate power."

Ser Wylis eyes flickered towards Jon. "Or you could demonstrate patience and restraint instead." He lowered his head quickly. "Your Grace."

Jon didn't outwardly react, but he looked to the mood of his allies. The Greatjon wanted destruction, and that might have been seen as an extreme position—but most others seemed to agree. Ser Wylis was the only one who really seemed to object. I want to destroy it too, Jon admitted silently. But…

"There left behind a list of the hostages they claim to have inside the Dreadfort, Your Grace," Ser Wylis said finally. His eyes kept flickering to Jon. "There will be prisoners from the sack of Winterfell and the winter town. Bolton dissenters as well. Their dungeons are vast."

Ah, that's why the man is so hesitant. "What hostages do they claim to have? How many in total?"

"They claim to have Beth Cassel and her daughters. An 'Old Nan', members of the Poole family, various members of House Tallhart and House Glover, several other families associated with the old Winterfell household and masterly houses, adding up to nearly a hundred individuals. Aside from that? The several thousands of smallfolk of this Weeping Town."

"How much food do they have in there?" a lord muttered in the ensuing silence.

"I cannot say," Ser Wylis said. "But their presence inside the castle is a boon to us. If the Boltons have all those thousands of extra mouths to feed, that just makes a siege all the more practical for us."

"Or maybe it just means they have a lot of food inside their castle," the Greatjon muttered.

Ser Wylis grimaced. "But a siege is still the good option," he insisted. Nobody else looked convinced. "When the starvation kicks in and they see our intent, men inside will trade whatever prisoners they have for leeway."

"Bugger that," the Weeper spat, speaking for the first time. "You think these cunts took in their sheepfolk or whatever out of the goodness of their hearts? Do you actually think they're planning on feeding thousands of useless extra mouths in winter? They're a shield, and a siege is a trap. It's what they want you to do."

"What are you saying, savage?" The Greatjon asked the Weeper.

The Weeper's sneer only grew jagged. "I'm saying that these pink cunts are prepared to keep their castle, and I'm saying that they're also prepared to lose it. I'm saying your hostages and your sheepfolk are already dead, and pretending otherwise puts us at risk, not them."

Ewan Bole rocked back, processing the logic. "So you're saying they've set traps for both siege and storm," he murmured, "and we just have to choose what's less painful?"

The Weeper nodded. "It's what I'd do if I were them, anyway."

"Aye," Ewan Bole nodded, agreeing. "It tracks. Lord Bolton is a ruthless man, to leave behind his own seat as that sort of a sacrificial goat."

"So you would support razing it, then?" Jon demanded, turning to the knight.

"I agree with the Greatjon and your wildling general," Ewan Bole grimaced. "It would be a logical decision, Your Grace."

"We can't lose a castle as valuable as the Dreadfort," Ser Wylis said.

"And yet, the Boltons are still expecting us to destroy the castle," Ser Marlon noted, addressing his own cousin. "They only left that garrison behind to ensure that we will not benefit from their loss. I agree with the wildling - they are trying to make our victory as bitter as possible, no matter what path to victory we might choose; perhaps they've filled the castle with smallfolk, but I predict they're lying about some of the more important names, they'd have transferred most of those to Winterfell. There will be no truly important hostages inside. The Dreadfort is too obvious a target, they would not have left anyone that might drastically help our campaign should we recover them."

Ser Wylis was the only commander vocal in favor of a siege, the rest strongly opposed the idea. Robett Glover looked like he might have agreed with Ser Wylis, but he didn't speak out loudly in support either. The discussion continued for some time. Lord Umber snapped at the heir of White Harbour as if he were a fool, and Ser Marlon had to try and mediate between them, while the Weeper just stood contemptuously in the background, leering at all the lords in the room.

"Could your dragon breathe at the castle with more care?" Ser Marlon Manderly suggested finally, looking for a more moderate path. "What if your dragon demolished the gate and walls only, such that men could then assault the keep?"

"Sonagon is a dragon, ser, not a siege engine. He has only one type of attack." Jon shook his head. "No, I cannot restrain him, and I must attack with overpowering force or not at all. To do anything less puts Sonagon at risk from scorpions and iron bolts, as I'm sure Meraxes could testify."

Jon remembered the battle at Hardhome, and how poorly that battle had turned because he tried to hold Sonagon back on the initial strike. No, a dragon's greatest advantage is overwhelming power without restraint. So why am I hesitating?

Ser Wylis was still arguing. White Harbour was a crucial ally and Jon had no wish to dismiss Ser Wylis' opinion, but the whole room was stacked against him. Jon didn't even need to ask to know that Tormund and the Weeper would both object to a siege too.

"Please, Your Grace," the knight said, looking to Jon, "the prisoners inside don't deserve to die. Even just as a statement, we could show the realm…"

He hesitated. Show the realm that I'm not a monster. Jon bit his lip.

I really, really want to destroy that castle. The majority of my commanders agree that it is the tactical move, and they're right.

Still, the image of the Twins, and all those frozen corpses flickered before his eyes. Wylis is right, Jon thought with a sigh. The captives and smallfolk inside don't deserve to die. But the Greatjon and the Weeper are also right, they're being used as a shield by the Boltons, an expendable shield. Is there a third path, something that can save as many hostages as possible, without endangering the army?

That made Jon's decision. "I did not have choice but to raze the Twins," he said finally. There was a susurrus of mutters from throughout the room. "But there is a choice here. We will siege the Dreadfort rather than using Sonagon."

The Greatjon cursed. "It will take months for our men to siege that castle, boy. Months."

"I did not say it would be sieged by men, Lord Umber." Jon turned to the Weeper. "Weeper. Can you have your giants construct battering rams fit to take down that gate?"

The Weeper gave Jon a long stare, then grinned. "Oh, aye, I can do that."

"Do it, then. Prepare siege turtles fit for giants, at least half a dozen of them." Jon's eyes flickered, giving orders to a variety of men in turn. "Ser Marlon, I'm told you have men trained in siege engineering in your retinue. Make them available to the Weeper, to cooperate however they are asked. Ser Wylis, you are to find a way to encourage the Bolton men inside to peacefully surrender with the time they have available. Offer amnesty, a lordship and gold to the man who opens those gates for us, no matter what their rank is. Ser Bole, you are to secure the entire region around the Dreadfort, look for escape tunnels and such. They must have some."

Jon turned to Lord Umber and the majority of the lords in the room. "I don't care how reinforced their gate is, it's not standing against a siege of giants. Yes, we have the resources to spare for a prolonged siege," Jon said firmly. "But I agree that it's too much of a risk to siege this castle for months in this weather, so far away from our supply lines. If the giants can't break the castle in one month, then the dragon will. What sort of commitment will be required?"

"I would wager three thousand men would be a good number," said Robett Glover. "The old Kings of Winter proved that it is a difficult castle to siege."

"For three thousand men, it will have to be a mix of free folk and northern soldiers."

"I… I see. And who will lead them?" Ser Marlon asked, his eyes flickering to the wet-eyed man in the room. "This man of yours, the Weeper?"

"No." Jon shook his head. The Weeper would be the worst possible commander to lead a siege. He would only play support, mostly to control his giants. He briefly considered Tormund, but Jon wanted to keep Tormund by his side. A siege required patience and discipline, a free folk raider would not be ideal, not even Tormund. "Ser Marlon," Jon said finally, turning to the face the knight. "Will you accept the command?"

Ser Marlon blinked, off-guard. The commander of the guard at White Harbour had proven himself capable, level-headed; a good, patient man for a long task. "The- ah, yes, Your Grace. I will." He bowed.

"The free folk will follow you, I will ensure it," Jon promised. "And there will be reinforcements from Eastwatch led by a man named Lord of Bones shortly. The dragon will return regularly to support the siege. The rest of our forces must continue onwards."

"We will take the castle for you, Your Grace." Ser Marlon bowed, eyeing the men Jon had singled out. "For my house, and for the realm."

The Greatjon spat on the floor in disgust, protesting that a month of time was too long. There were a few unhappy objections, but Jon's tone left no room for argument. Jon looked at Ser Wylis and tried to imagine what it what it would be like to be trapped in a prison for all those months.

There was more talk: who else would have command at the siege, who would command the forces that would march to Winterfell. They had much ground to cover - they agreed to split the army into three hosts: One host, the forces belonging to Ser Marlon, the Weeper, and Ser Wylis would stay to siege the Dreadfort, the second host, Jon and Tormund's would march southwest across the White Knife into the Barrowlands, to take Barrowton and suppress the new hosts of House Dustin and House Ryswell that were assembling there, and the Greatjon's host would continue north and northwest, to secure the lands around of the upper White Knife that lay between the Dreadfort, Long Lake, and Tumbledown Tower, and to see to his own lands and rally more soldiers. When it was all done, Winterfell's demesne would be nearly enveloped, and then they would hold position until the armies were ready to triangulate in on the Bolton's core territory around Winterfell and the Wolfswood from north, east, and south. They would link up at Castle Cerwyn when the time came, in preparation for the final assault on Winterfell.

Jon insisted on integrating the northmen alongside the free folk, so each commander had numerous lieutenants from the other side. Jon and Tormund would have Ewan Bole and Robett Glover, for instance, while the Greatjon would have Toregg and Derrick Kingsblood. Jon was reassigning Toregg to temporarily act as the Greatjon's lieutenant, Toregg was more considerate of the south than most free folk, and Lord Umber would need such a man under him to manage the more fractious raiders and chieftains he would be marching with, particularly Kingsblood.

They would need to spread themselves to secure as much territory as they could, to end the Bolton's mounted skirmish attacks and secure their lines of supply. They would use the natural geographic dividing line of the White Knife to do so; the hosts would divide to secure every bridge, every crossing, and wargs would be deployed to keep that land secured. Meanwhile, the next main thrust of the campaign would be happening in the south, in the assault on one of the North's greatest cities, Barrowton. Jon wanted the giants and the mammoths with him as they hit Winterfell, but they would have to be held up at the Dreadfort for a month.

In the end, when all the forces converged, it was to be a pronged attack against Winterfell supported by reinforcements from north, south, and east, combining as many of Jon's forces as reasonably possible.

"What of you, Your Grace?" Robett Glover asked. "Where will you be heading?"

Jon grimaced. Where is my next most urgent priority? It seemed like he was needed absolutely everywhere. "I must fly back to White Harbour with all haste," Jon decided finally. "Lord Manderly should be informed of our strategy, and I must see to our alliances. When I can fly back to the front, I will primarily be supporting Tormund – he's marching into the Barrowlands, and House Cerwyn and House Ryswell are the Bolton's strongest and most loyal bannermen amongst the great houses. The dragon will be needed."

Above him, he heard the flapping of great wings as Sonagon circled above. There were faint cries from the walls of the Dreadfort, and arrows were feebly fired upwards.

The Bolton men inside should know how fortunate they are that they're not being scorched in dragonfire right now, Jon thought foully.

All around him, the camp churned. Ser Marlon and his siege engineers were already nervously talking with the Weeper, and Jon watched for a time to make sure all was well. Across the plains, the dragon followed the scent of a far-off herd of wild cattle, probably aurochs. Sonagon is getting peckish, Jon thought with a grimace. He's hungry and there has been poor hunting across these hills. I must leave quickly before Sonagon's patience burns out.

Still, Jon lingered long enough to watch their siege take formation. He had to arrange supply trains and set commands, and twice he had to interfere between Tormund and the Weeper butting heads. It was getting late and his scouts warned of bad weather, but Sonagon wouldn't return until he had sated his hunger.

Eventually the dragon returned, covered in aurochs' blood down its front. There were only a few hours of daylight left before dusk as Jon climbed onto Sonagon's harness. For once, Jon travelled alone; both of his squires were too young to risk riding Sonagon, and he left them with his Dragonguard to represent him in his absence.

At the first red rays of dusk, the dragon burst into the sky. The ground shrank beneath him, and suddenly the imposing Dreadfort turned so small. All around him, he could see the plumes of smoke scattered across the Lonely Hills as his army marched out to secure all the surrounding villages and towns. Jon could almost smell the winter storms on the air.

Sonagon was restless, the aurochs herd hadn't been enough to sate the dragon's hunger. They made good time, and it wasn't long before Jon saw the pale cliffs of White Harbour in the distance, and the sea's wind blowing over the Bite. It was past dusk now, somewhere in the hours of twilight, but thanks to the moonlight Jon could see there were ships in formation across the harbour, and overflowing camps of free folk refugees stretching out beyond the city's walls and gates. Despite the late hour, Jon heard a bell ringing as soon as the dragon was spotted.

Sonagon has come to the city two dozen times now, and every single time they insist on ringing the bell, he thought with a grimace. They insisted on waking the whole city for his arrival, every time. The dragon's wings caused waves across the harbour as he soared down towards the Seal Rock jutting out of the ocean.

There were torches already moving across the Seal Rock as they made ready for his arrival. The old ringfort was a crumbling, circular structure of ancient stone, but they had cleared the centre and repurposed some old cabins for the garrison, any overflow of men going into some hide tents beside the squat buildings. There were crude wooden structures nestled between the ancient stones, and barricades and fortifications carved into the rock. The top of the Seal Rock stood thirty feet out of the water, and it looked like they had repaired the rickety wooden staircase that led down the cliff to a single dock by the waves.

It's a very good roosting spot for a dragon, Jon thought. The Seal Rock was high, secure and defensible, yet it had a large and open space for the dragon itself. It was isolated enough that the dragon couldn't cause disturbances in the city, and, being an island, nobody could disturb the dragon here either. It even overlooked the harbour - an ideal position for Sonagon to sit protectively should they come under attack.

Occasionally, Jon wondered if the ancient ringfort from the era of the First Men had been designed specifically to house a dragon in its heyday. Sonagon's dreams of Valyria had been causing Jon to wonder many things, and when he had the time to spare, he found himself focusing more and more on Yandel's World of Ice and Fire inn his personal reading.

As soon as Sonagon landed, he curled exhaustedly onto the exact same spot that he had rested in before, right down to the very same grooves he had carved into the stone. Jon heard voices, and saw men pushing carts of meat towards the dragon. Very little warning and yet they are already prepared to meet Sonagon's needs, Jon thought approvingly. My Dragonguard has become very efficient.

He saw men dump the contents of a cart onto a marked spot on the ground, and then quickly backed away. Sonagon sniffed, snorting cold mist hungrily.

"Get the second cart ready!" Jon heard a voice shout as he lowered himself. "Drop the food and get out of there - this dragon doesn't like waiting for his meals!"

He saw the big man standing by the barracks. Hatch wasn't wearing armour, but he still wore his cloak. Jon saw Urwen, Black Maris, Mo and Harle all rushing and giving orders. His Dragonguard didn't have any uniform of their own, but they all wore something white to signify their rank: such as a white cloak or white stones stitched into the shape of dragon on their hauberk.

More and more wildlings from the Wall were arriving in White Harbour by ship. Galleons would ship food supplies to Eastwatch and return carrying refugees. Jon had sent Sam and Grenn back to Castle Black, while the Dragonguard that he left behind had arrived in White Harbour recently.

"Hatch," Jon called. "How goes it?"

"Aye," Hatch grumbled. "The city is in a right state, but we're keeping this rock for you."

"Not a luxurious place," Jon admitted, looking around the gloomy torches and bleak, wind-beaten stones.

"Hells, I've lived in worse," he said with a snort. "And we're Dragonguard, right? Glorified nannies to a giant monster." Jon smiled wearily.

"We should prepare carts three and four," an eager voice called, rushing up to Hatch. "Two of the last five times, the dragon has eaten four carts after long trips. We still have that cut garron that will likely turn rotten shortly, and then there'll be two carts of fish in reserve to break the dragon's fast on the morn, next delivery after that."

"Aye, get to it then," Hatch ordered, and the young man nodded quickly.

"Harlow," Jon greeted.

Harlow grinned as he saw Jon, and then flustered and bowed quickly. He had a white stone on his chest. "Your Grace."

"At ease," Jon said with a wry grin. "You have good response time to Sonagon's landings."

"The meals were prepared in advance, Your Grace," Harlow explained quickly. "Last time the dragon arrived very hungry and… well, the delay was not well-received. Since then I try to keep five carts loaded and ready to be served at any hour."

"It is appreciated." Behind him, Sonagon gouged into his meal with sharp black teeth, his hard tongue scraping the rock. They didn't bother unpacking the food, instead Sonagon just ate the sacks as well. Even a huge sack was a tiny morsel to Sonagon's size - it was little wonder that whole carts were needed.

"It is my honour, Your Grace." Harlow bowed again. Now how can I convince him not to keep doing that? Jon mused. The young man never even met his eyes - he always looked to the floor in Jon's presence.

Hatch was bellowing orders for the men to gather to remove Sonagon's harness. Jon noticed there was something in Harlow's hands. He was fidgeting with a scratch-pencil, periodically glancing back to where Sonagon had already finished his meal. "What is that?"

"Um, just a parchment, Your Grace," Harlow admitted sheepishly, handing the rough animal-skin parchment to Jon. "I have been keeping a tally of how frequently your dragon eats and drinks, Your Grace, and which meals he seems to like more. Like a kennelmaster with his hounds. With the dragon, though, the task was beyond me, so I brought in organisational help. To plan."

The parchment was rough with flint scribbles and markings. Harlow couldn't write well, but he carried a scratch-pencil used crude sketches and tallies to keep notes in messy columns. Jon took the paper from him, looking at it curiously while the man seemed abashed. Jon's eyes flickered over the details, not comprehending any of it quickly - the handwriting was truly crude. It must make sense to him. Then Jon turned the paper over, and saw a far more comprehensive and well-written table of rows and columns. It was as if Harlow was taking notes on one side of the parchment, while using the other as a reference. Something written by a far more learned source.

Jon had been nodding, attention mostly fixed on the parchment, but then he paused as he realised what Harlow had just said. He turned. "You brought someone here?"

"Oh, aye, it was clear to me that the dragon needed more planning put into its feedings. We—houndsmasters do the same for their hounds, why wouldn't the Dragonguard do so for the dragon? However, the free folk here didn't really know what I was talking about, and the task I had in mind was a bit sophisticated, so I sent to the castle for a maester trained in maths. He has been very helpful."

Jon's eyes kept flickering over the parchment, the side that had apparently been written by a maester. He kept noting more and more nuance and insights, patterns and details to Sonagon's feedings that not even Jon had noticed. Different weights and balances of meat and bones, fish and fat, vegetables and even stones and metal. There was even speculation written down along the side margins in a tiny, fine script that the dragon ate more during nights of full moons, and less during moonless nights.

Jon found himself curious. Whoever the writer of these notes were, he was a rare talent. "Is he here, this maester?"

Harlow hesitated, but nodded. "Aye, just up the rock."

"Then let us see him."

The old ringfort that sat squatly in the center of the Seal Rock had a couple of newer, but still old, dilapidated cabins that had been repaired and repurposed for the Dragonguard. One of them had been converted into a small rookery, it seemed, and inside Harlow introduced Jon to an older man, a maester Jon had never met before. He wore grey robes, and was past fifty years old, with a short chain mostly of iron and brass links, with a scholar's build, grey hair and keen eyes.

"Your Grace," the maester murmured, standing from his desk and giving Jon a well-practiced courtier's bow. Jon's eyes flickered to the desk. The maester had been midway through writing a letter, it seemed.

Hatch grinned. "Harlow and this old man of his have been a help, that is certain. Be kind to this one."

Jon ignored Hatch, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked the maester up and down. He had no cause to dislike maesters, but most came from the south, and he knew better than to risk an unknown southerner working so closely with his Dragonguard. Lord Wyman had arrested most of White Harbour's maesters for good cause. "Who are you?"

The maester bowed. "Maester Lednay, Your Grace. I come by way of Ramsgate, where I served House Woolfield for years in one of their branch holdings. I have a letter of introductions from Lady Leona Manderly."

Jon browsed the letter in the rookery's wan light. It said that this Maester Lednay was highly recommended, related to the Woolfields by bastard blood, that he had served since shortly before the outbreak of war, that he was specialized in maths with lesser focuses in warcraft and medicine.

"You are welcome, then, maester." Jon said finally, his features relaxing slightly. "My man, Hatch, speaks well of you."

"He is kind to do so," the Maester of House Woolfield murmured. "Your man here, Harlow, saw the need for more organisation on this rock, and appealed to the New Castle a span of days ago. Lady Leona reassigned me a few days after, though in truth I was eager to be transferred so."

"Why?"

The maester dipped his head again. "It is an honor to serve the realm."

Jon nodded, then spread out Harlow's parchment on the desk of cobbled driftwood. "These feeding patterns I'm seeing here are... interesting. Explain them if you will, maester."

"Of course," the maester said, sitting back down in his chair. "As you can see here," he explained, his fingers tracing from one row and column to the next on the parchment, "the dragon eats five parts of stone and rock for every one part of meat, and four parts grain and veg to fill out the size of the meals. And a larger serving of meat after the dragon has been flying for a long time. It's usually fish, sometimes livestock too. I have arranged for seven butchers and fishmongers in the city, who are now hired to prepare solely for the dragon."

Jon was still staring at the maester's parchments. Why was the style of writing a bit familiar? Slowly, Jon started to make sense of it all. There were columns for servings and rows for days, and the smallest unit of measurement wasn't for one pound of food, but rather, for one hundred. Gods, how much does my dragon eat? It never failed to impress him how gluttonous Sonagon could be. "And the stone?"

"Mostly the white stone from the cliffs," Harlow answered. "Chalk, I think. The dragons seems to prefer soft rock to bedrock, usually. It really likes these yellow rocks, I guess they must be tasty for a dragon?"

"I speculate that it is a draconic form of geophagy, Your Grace," the maester said, clarifying. "There are various animals – bear, cattle, aurochs, deer and so on that are all known to eat clay on occasion, to smooth the movements of their gut. From abroad, elephants, monkeys, parrots are known to do the same. I suspect your dragon is acting on a similar impulse."

"Sometimes the dragon likes chewing on iron or steel as well," Harlow said. "But I'm not sure how often…" he grimaced. Jon could see him trying to stop himself from rambling. "Well, they've brought across barrels of old rusted armor and such as well, just in case the dragon is peckish."

"This… this is good," Jon said after a pause. "The two of you together did this?" Harlow and the maester both nodded. "Talk to the New Castle's maester, Jon ordered. "If they don't have a new one yet, talk to Wynafryd Manderly – have her transcribe your logs into a proper form. And then have copies of this sent via letter to Eastwatch, Castle Black and any other place Sonagon is likely to visit. Make sure they reserve at least a good day's worth of supplies for Sonagon at all times."

The maester nodded, but Harlow only blinked. "Your Grace?"

"His diet is important. It's what keeps him placated. We need to know how to best feed him." Perhaps if I fed him properly, would there be forty-three people at Mole's Town still alive? Jon wondered. I must wear every mistake I make on my chest, and resolve to never make any of them ever again. "This is good work, Harlow, Maester Lednay."

"I… Thank you, Your Grace." Harlow bowed again, more deeply. "It is my honour, Your Grace. I would likely be dead in the wilderness if not for you."

Jon nodded, then turned his eyes to the maester, who only dipped his head, having returned to his seat. "However I can assist the realm, Your Grace."

"Good service must be rewarded. Yours has not gone unnoticed," he said with a smile, looking at Harlow. I shall have think of a rank or boon to grant. "And you don't have to call me 'Your Grace' so often.'

"Got it, Your Grace." Harlow smiling, nodded and then rushed off to prepare Sonagon's meals.

Outside the converted rookery, Hatch was waiting. "Oh aye, that one's good for organising our work, and that gray 'maester' of his seems useful enough," Hatch agreed, motioning at Harlow's retreating form. "Bloody useless with a sword, that one is, but he's eager enough. And it's nice to be able to send and recieve letters from here."

"Well, you said it yourself that the Dragonguard are glorified nannies," Jon mused. "A squireship would be good for Harlow, I think. Perhaps Furs would take him on."

"It's a bit strange, though," Hatch said, rubbing at his chin. "He never gets too close to the dragon, the beastie gets all snappish-like."

"More than Sonagon usually is?" Jon asked, a smile on his lips.

"Eh," Hatch shrugged. "Might be I'm seeing things. But I think there's certain people your dragon don't like in particular, like your old maester from the crow's castle 'fore he died, like some of these sailors from Vys or Lys or whatever it's called. Maybe Harlow's just got the bad luck, or the bad blood. But he doesn't need to get too close for the actual feeding, he's got us for that. Long as he keeps doing the womenwork and taking those notes of his. Things have gotten a lot more…" Hatch snapped his fingers. "—efficient-like with these southerners and their writing around. Might be I should learn how to write too." Hatch paused. "And read, I guess."

Jon laughed, in a rare particularly good mood. "I'd like to see that."

There were men rushing around Jon, all looking between him and the dragon. The Seal Rock was garrisoned by fifty men, but Jon's Dragonguard had command. When Jon had left, it had been a rough military outpost, but it had quickly been established and better fortified. New wooden outhouses had been built between the great slab of rocks to the house men, supplies and arms, and there were at least two dozen scorpions overlooking the rocks pointing down to the water. There were bowmen perches and gates built around the fort. Good, proper defences to guard Sonagon while he roosted and slept. Jon had placed Furs in command before he left, and it looked like he had done a good job.

"Where is Furs?" Jon asked, glancing around.

"Lord Manderly requested him in the city," Hatch replied. "I think there was talk of recruiting stonemasons to rebuild the Seal Rock entirely."

"Good. The Targaryens built the Dragonpit for a reason. I will fully support as much security built around Sonagon as possible."

"We're on a raised outpost in the middle of sea with a fleet of ships stationed around us," Urwen noted. "How much more defence could there be?"

"That depends on whether or not we can trust the fleet," Hatch snorted. Jon sent him a hard glare to mind his tongue, and the large man shifted.

"Your Grace," a Manderly man said, bowing his head as he approached. He was dressed like a sailor. "I have a small boat ready by the port. We can escort you into the city itself."

Jon shook his head. "No. It is late and I am quite tired." And doubtless Lord Wyman will insist on seeing me straight away. "I will rest here for tonight and travel across in the morning."

The man's face paled. "Your Grace, we… Tis a barren outpost here, we have little hospitality to offer you."

Jon could have laughed. "I think I shall survive sleeping rough, ser." And I shall be grateful for it, compared to that hideous suffocatingly soft bed in the castle. "A tent and a blanket will serve just fine."

As it happened, the commander of the garrison insisted on clearing out a storeroom for Jon's sleeping quarters. The building was a cramped and narrow outhouse built at the edge of the rock, previously used to keep their lumber and arrows out of the damp and salt air. It stank of dust, and there were bugs skittering in the corners. Honestly, Jon would have preferred to sleep out in the open sky, but he didn't care enough to make it an issue.

He could hear the waves gushing and crashing against the rocks, rocking him to sleep. There were bells from the nearby ships. Often you could hear the seals shuffling and barking as they gathered on the rocks below as well, but Jon guessed that Sonagon had quickly scared those away.

As he slept, he saw the world through a direwolf's eyes, pacing and scratching at a narrow barge. Ghost was on a ship too; confined in a narrow hull and rocking with the waves. He could smell stone, smoke and earthy scents drifting on the sea wind.

Dawn came too soon. Jon was already up with first light, and he washed his face in cold salt water to wake himself up. Early morning, and a large ship came to ferry him across into the city. Ser Alek met him on the rickety, tiny port built onto the Seal Rock, and he left Sonagon to Hatch's care, bringing Urwen and Harle with him into the city.

There was a crowd waiting for him on the Inner Harbour of the city, but there were no riots at least. It was quiet. Jon glimpsed free folk wearing white stones lingering in the crowd. True to his word, Lord Wyman had been ferrying wildlings to White Harbour. The free folk huddled together in small groups, and the cityfolk kept their distance. All wanted to see Jon, but there were different moods mixed in the crowd.

"How fares the city?" Jon asked Ser Alek.

"White Harbour is prepared for war, Your Grace."

"That is not what I asked, ser."

"It is strained," the knight admitted. "Winter looms closer than ever, rationing has been introduced, and our stores are already suffering. The refugees are already overflowing the city, and there have been disturbances between the wild- the free folk and cityfolk."

"I see," Jon said, keeping his voice firm.

"But we are prepared for war," Ser Alek insisted. "Our forces have been mustering; nearly every house on this side of the White Knife is with us. More and more noble houses are joining the coalition."

"Yes," Jon mused. "Tell me, are they joining because they support us, or because they are too scared of the dragon and the wildlings to do otherwise?"

A brief grimace flickered across the young knight's face. "Does it matter? They are still joining."

Jon smiled hollowly. "Do not act the fool, ser. You're not very good it," he said with a sigh. "It matters a great deal."

The whole atmosphere of the city seemed so different from what it had been a few weeks ago. He saw grey camps and grimy tents set up in the middle of the white streets. The trip up to the New Castle was short and tense.

Jon met Furs at the top of the Castle Stair. He wore armour fit for a knight, but he kept his bone spear. Furs had a lanky body shape, though he still strong. Strangely, Furs bowed low as Jon approached. "King," he greeted. "How was that bow? These southerners have been teaching me to bow properly."

He smiled softly. "Very well. How goes it, Furs?"

"Oh aye, we've been minding the keep sure enough. How is the real war going?"

"Making progress. It's not over yet."

There were nobles and guards milling around him. Jon struggled to remember all the names and faces. "I wish you told us to expect you," Furs noted, "this place always goes in a right panic whenever you just fly in."

"I wish I knew myself. I come back only when I have a chance," Jon muttered. "Have the free folk been settling in?"

"Oh aye. I don't think your southerners know how to handle so many free folk filling up their fancy castle. You know these guys use four knives and forks during meals?"

Jon smiled, but before he could reply he recognised a familiar face. "Galbart," Jon called to the Master of Deepwood Motte. "It is good to see you."

The taciturn man nodded, with a short bow. "Your Grace," Galbart Glover greeted. "How fares my brother?"

"Robett is quite fine. Any news of the hostages from Deepwood Motte?"

"None." There was a grim look in his eyes. "Little news at all of my family."

Too many families have been split in this war. "We will recover them, Lord Glover," Jon promised. "The Dreadfort may not have fallen, but it is lost. When we push against Winterfell, the Boltons will sell their hostages to save themselves."

"As you say, Your Grace. I linger here to aid with White Harbour's defence, though we will join the force against Winterfell's walls."

He turned to walk down the hallway. Galbart walked with him. "Although, I'm glad to speak with you," Jon said. "I was intending on offering Ewan Bole, one of your house's sworn swords, a place in my Dragonguard."

Galbert looked surprised. "Ewan? Aye, I know the man. Loyal and steadfast, but he hails from a minor and unremarkable house."

"I care more for the quality of men than the name they bear, my lord. During the march Ewan Bole proved himself more than capable. I am looking to fill the ranks of the Dragonguard," he explained. "I was also planning on offering Ser Alek the same."

"Ser Alek is a good knight. The son of a landed knight in White Harbour. He's young, but brave. He was the first to volunteer to ride after your dragon on the plains." Galbart frowned, looking confused. "But your Dragonguard will have more influence if you were to name sons of old and great houses. Few highborn will respect such a… mixed grouping."

Jon shook his head. "The Dragonguard needs little status or ceremony, my lord. I care for skill, loyalty and bravery in its ranks."

"Then you should still recruit from good houses. You cannot expect common blood to breed noble qualities," Galbart Glover said as if it was obvious. "Noble families are reliable, their heritage breeds loyalty - they can be trusted. The commonfolk have no past, they must be treated with caution."

"I'd disagree. I find that highborn most certainly have no monopoly on any of those traits," said Jon. There were too many who constantly misunderstood what his Dragonguard was. "Some of the most honorable men I've ever met were men of the Night's Watch, men who shared birth stock with the most indigent peasants. I will happily recruit men from low birth, if they have the right temperament. Months ago, I found a hunter in the woods of no standing whatsoever, but Harlow has continually impressed me with his dedication and resourcefulness. I would more than happily invite many of the same - I have no wish to reward good service anything less than the appreciation it deserves."

Galbart frowned. He doesn't understand, Jon thought. Many lords wouldn't. Perhaps it was a bastard's trait. "Your Grace, if you want this rank of Dragonguard to be respected, then you must fill it with men who can be respected. Not commoners."

"Not so," argued Jon. "In the Night's Watch even those of low birth can rise to high positions and influence. All the way up to Lord Commander in many cases. The sworn brothers appreciated their duty and the skill of those who uphold it more than any name. They appreciate stewards and caretakers more than just fighters. I mean to follow suit."

"So you would fill your guard with farmers and stable boys?" Galbart asked, baffled.

Jon smiled coolly. "Should they earn it, then yes, happily, my lord."

Glorified dragon nannies, as Hatch phrased it, Jon mused. Still, Jon was considering splitting his Dragonguard into two ranks, perhaps dragon guardians and dragon keepers? Jon couldn't expect the stewards and caretakers to fight, and it was a waste of the fighters to have them constantly looking after Sonagon. Perhaps the keepers under Furs could be responsible for Sonagon's care and wellbeing, while the guardians led by Hatch would be the fighting unit responsible for defense? It was something to think about - his Dragonguard were already taking on far more duties and responsibility than he had originally conceived. All of them are good men and women well-motivated to prove themselves, but the system could use improvement.

He excused himself from Galbart, and Jon was met at the stairs by Leona Manderly. The plump woman curtsied towards Jon. He motioned for his guards to stay back. "Your Grace," she greeted. Lady Leona's eyes looked red like she had been crying. "Lord Manderly would see you at the earliest convenience."

"I thought he would. Please, I will see the lord now."

Jon knew the way and Lord Manderly rarely left his quarters, but Lady Leana escorted him nevertheless. Jon noticed how stiff and forbidding her posture was towards him, even despite her forced courtesies. "Your husband rides with the army, my lady," Jon said, lowering his voice. "I spoke with Ser Wylis only last night."

"That is good to hear," Lady Leona replied curtly. "And yet once more my daughters and I must wait for him to come home again."

There was a quiet hurt in her voice that caused Jon to wince. "There is little danger to him," he said lamely, trying to reassure. "We have won every battle we've fought, my lady,"

"So did the Young Wolf, Your Grace."

Jon struggled to come up with something else to say, so, as they reached the main Manderly family's wing of the castle, he eventually added Thank you for making maester Lednay available to my Dragonguard, Lady Leona. He has been of quite some help."

"…Lednay," she muttered distractedly. "Oh. Yes, him," she put on a brittle smile. "Has he?"

Jon nodded. "Aye, he and Harlow of my Dragonguard have considerably helped with the dragon's feedings. I will remember such contributions." Jon met her eyes. "I assure you, ser Wylis will be kept safe."

They reached the corridor towards the lord's solar. "I… I'm glad to hear that, Your Grace," Lady Leona gave Jon a small curtsy, and then without another word, she curtsied and walked briskly away. Jon stopped to stare after her, wondering what cause he had given for this woman to be so fearful of him, before shaking himself off and walking towards Lord Wyman's solar.

As he approached, he heard voices from the room. They sounded polite but strained. The voices were too low for him to make him out, though Jon caught a few snatchets of words; "… rightful and just liege, m'lord… bring the realm to ruin…"

There was something that sounded like a short, sharp dismissal. The door opened, and Jon saw a short, greying and stout man, looking unnerved. Lord Davos Seaworth's eyes widened in shock and horror as he saw Jon standing there. There was a pained pause, and then Lord Seaworth bowed and quickly walked away. Jon watched him go, before stepping inside the solar.

The fat lord stood to meet Jon as he entered, wheezing for breath slightly. "Your Grace," Lord Wyman said. The circles around his eyes seemed darker. "I have just received the raven from our forces at the Dreadfort. You should have come straight to me last night."

"Sleep is an underrated attribute for kings, it seems," Jon said dryly, as he took a seat opposite the desk. The chairs were oak with velvet cushions.

The lord laughed humourlessly. A steward brought wine and pastries into the room. "Yes, too many waking hours do creep up on you. And you have a dragon. Has there ever been a commander who can move around the realm half as fast as you do? Where most men must rely on the use of ravens, you could arrive just as fast in person."

"Aye, it's useful, my lord, but also taxing."

"Indeed." Lord Wyman's voice softened. "And how fares my son?"

"Ser Wylis is a strong man and a capable commander," Jon reassured. "He led the rear flank competently, and is a valuable voice at the war table. Ser Marlon and the Weeper will command the siege of the Dreadfort, and Ser Wylis is secure in a force many thousand strong. They'll strike the castle in one month, if the defenders have not surrendered by then, when the siege weapons are prepared."

"That is good. His captivity was a long and… terrifying thing for our family, and his health and his recovery after were also concerns. And his wife, and daughters, have dearly missed him so," Lord Wyman sighed. "It was a painful thing, Your Grace, to watch my son leave for war once more. I am unable to follow him; my body has become my prison. I know that Wylis must go, and yet…"

There was a quiver in his voice. Lord Wyman usually sounded so strong and booming. For a second, Jon was left unsure what to say. "Your son is at the centre of a large army," he said finally. "He is secure, and wily enough not to put himself at risk. We have soundly won every battle we have faced."

"We both know how quickly wars can turn, do we not? Make no mistake; Roose Bolton has been allowing himself to lose ground. We have the larger armies, yes, but he is not surrendering and he is not fighting back in force. There have been no true battles; only Boltons harrying us and slowing us down. He will be preparing his own campaign too, though what exactly he intends I cannot say." Lord Wyman shook his head, multiple chins wobbling. "No, this is no time to become complacent. I shall not rest easily until both Roose Bolton and his bastard have their heads on spikes above Winterfell."

Yes, Jon agreed. For all the difficulties, our progress so far has been weirdly unchallenged. "I had hoped to face Ramsay Bolton at the Dreadfort," Jon admitted. "But there was no sign of him."

"I have had no word either," said Lord Wyman. "Concerning Roose Bolton, at least, I can be reasonably confident he is at Winterfell, but Ramsay has seemingly disappeared."

Along with my brother. Damn Ramsay Snow. First my sister, and then Bran? The Bastard of Bolton must be brought to justice. The mood over the desk turned grim.

"Do you have any sources of information inside Winterfell, Lord Wyman?"

"In Winterfell, no." Lord Wyman hesitated, then nodded. "Nearby it, aye, that's another matter. The Manderlys are not entirely without allies in the Tallhearts and Cerwyns, though of late my sources have been speaking less to me. Perhaps something has gone wrong, or perhaps there are difficulties with the ravens on account of the weather," the fat lord shook his head, eyes grim. "I can't say."

"You don't have any insight into their strategy?" Jon asked, disappointed.

"I'm no spymaster, Your Grace, and in truth we are hard pressed for one," Lord Wyman grimaced. "My sources are not what you might imagine, just merchant contacts and minor nobility, third sons or daughters of the greater houses at best. I dare not approach the higher members of House Cerwyn or Tallheart; it would be too obvious, they're under heavy watch by the Boltons, and many of their core families are held hostage in Winterfell."

Lord Wyman hesitated on seeing Jon's disappointment, then added, "What sources I have, Your Grace, tell me the obvious; that Roose intends to wage this campaign defensively. That he means to hide behind hostages, harrying your supplies with the intention of letting the winter and starvation win his war for him. To pressure our alliance until it breaks and your political and supplies situation becomes untenable."

Jon nodded, scowling – there was no great insight in those predictions, but even so, they felt akin to a premonition, they were deeply in line with his observations and expectations. But the lack of true information was disappointing.

"Aside from that?" Lord Wyman continued, "I can only say how I would try to defeat you if you were my enemy. I would suggest you sleep lightly, sword always by your side, and that you always, always keep your guards close at hand. I cannot think of a more obvious target for assassination than a dragonrider."

Jon nodded, lips thinning. "Does House Bolton have access to such?"

Lord Wyman shrugged. "I cannot even speculate, Your Grace. All I can say is that I don't think he has tried to contract the Faceless Men of Braavos, the Boltons were never especially wealthy nor strong at sea, there have been no sightings of the flayed banner in the Braavosi ports. That, at least, I am assured of - I have a family of second cousins in the city managing our business there, and they know to keep an eye on such open movements by our enemies."

Jon nodded, then Lord Wyman's voice turned lower. "What of the search for your brothers, Bran or Rickon?"

"There has been no news."

"Well, it is still early in the search. Has your man, this 'Bullden Horn' landed on Skagos?"

"He has," Jon nodded. "If anyone can succeed in locating my brother, it's him, and my direwolf."

"We have other options, it is still…" Lord Wyman's voice paused, and then he shook his head again. "No, enough of this. Obsessing over ghosts and what ifs becomes pointless. I cannot lead any battles, so I will trust the command of our armies to you, Your Grace. In return, I hope you can trust me to manage affairs of state and politics. You lead from the battlefield, I from the city."

"Happily, my lord."

"With the Dreadfort under siege, House Bolton's lands are effectively ours. That means that the lands of Houses Hornwood, Karstark, and, very soon, Umber will be entirely under our control." Lord Wyman had no food at the table, nothing but a cup and bottle of wine, but even so – he was almost chewing the names of the houses, his expression radiating satisfaction.

"That accounts for most of the east coast, while House Bolton still holds power and allies across much of the west. Barrowton will be the next focus of the campaign, I expect, Houses Ryswell and Dustin's second hosts are gathering there." Lord Wyman paused. "Like I said, we have certain allies in the Cerwyns, Your Grace - not all their House is pleased by kneeling to the Boltons, similar to the Tallhearts."

Jon nodded, thinking to how he had essentially press-ganged House Karstark into his service." I'm well aware of the situation of Winterfell's masterly houses, Lord Wyman. Cerwyn, Tallheart, Glover. Many of their family and younger generation are are held prisoner."

Lord Wyman nodded. "Jonelle Cerwyn herself was a staunch supporter of King Robb, but is now being held prisoner, for instance. Perhaps by the time our campaign turns to Castle Cerwyn, we might consider treating Winterfell's masterly houses gently."

Jon had little answer to that, they could only wait to see how the campaign turned, and where these houses stood in the end. House Glover, for instance, had made the choice to stand with the coalition despite prisoners. This was a war, and war was a time for hard choices.

Lord Manderly then continued. "As for the Dustins – I had certain hopes for them, once; of the northern great houses, they had perhaps the most intact strength left after the Red Wedding. I had hoped for a time they would support our campaign. But the other members of the Dustins and Ryswells have all but abandoned control of their House's affairs to Lady Barbrey Dustin, it seems."

"Has something happened?"

Lord Wyman's eyes hardened. "It seems that Lady Barbrey's staked her place. Ryswell outriders have been moving through her lands to harry my lords along the banks of the White Knife. Killing smallfolk, burning farms. Her bitterness has assured that the Ryswells and the Dustins will be our enemies to the last, it seems."

"Do your lords need help?" Jon asked.

Lord Wyman shook his head. "Knights have been dispatched, Your Grace. The best thing you could do is end this war quickly, though mayhaps she should be amongst the first of the Bolton's allies to hang."

Barbrey Dustin. Jon only vaguely knew of her, only in the sense of her being a significant northern figure, a name to memorise. "I'm not familiar with the Lady of Barrowton, Lord Wyman. She never visited Winterfell."

"Aye, there's a reason for that," Lord Wyman said wearily. "Lady Barbrey's avoided Winterfell ever since the end of Robert's Rebellion."

Jom shook his head faintly. "I know little of her, save that she is a bridge between Houses Dustin and Ryswell."

"Lady Barbrey's of the same generation as your father," Lord Wyman explained, "and back then, when they were all young, she was considered the most eligible highborn lady in the North barring your aunt Lyanna. It was a different time, a kinder one. It was thought that she would marry your uncle, Brandon Stark – but your grandfather, Lord Rickard had other plans, and he arranged the betrothal to Catelyn Tully instead. The Dustins never forgot that slight, I think," Lord Wyman shook his head, jowls swaying.

Jon eyed Lord Wyman, wondering where the old Manderly lord was going with this, but then again, he seemed to enjoy telling stories. Perhaps this would lead to a certain point in the end; Jon had known Lord Wyman to wander, but never to ramble.

"Lady Barbrey, Ryswell at the time, went on to marry William, the heir to House Dustin - one of Lord Eddard's closest friends. Unfortunately, William would later accompany Lord Eddard to the Tower of Joy - and he met his end there, struck down by Ser Arthur Dayne himself." Lord Wyman paused, then added, "note that Mark Ryswell also died there. Lady Barbrey has been bitter towards your father ever since, which on its own would be…" Lord Wyman's lips twisted, "somewhat understandable, if petty, but her enmity never died, not even with Lord Eddard. Her anger now envelops the entirety of Stark and all they are, or so I'm being told by my sources. She goes too far." Lord Wyman glowered, his expression dark.

"Lady Barbrey is now perhaps the Bolton's most prominent ally, the most hostile of all the great lords and ladies to the Stark's cause. I blame her for much of the recalcitrance of House Dustin and Ryswell." Lord Wyman grimaced. "Entire great houses lost to our cause, due to the spite of a single poorly married woman," Lord Wyman heaved out a sigh. "It makes me look to the lost opportunities of the past, and wonder. So many of our current problems can be traced to the missteps of your grandfather, Lord Rickard Stark. His choices, his lost opportunities in wedding north to south, Stark to Tully."

"…I've never understood my father's marriage," Jon admitted, finding interest in Lord Wyman's reminiscing. He himself had not dissimilar thoughts over the years, thoughts which had taken new shape after rising to authority. Lord Wyman was right - southern marriages and entanglements had doomed Robb. Jon didn't understand how it had all happened. "Prior to my father's generation, the Starks rarely married outside the North, always to friendly houses with ancient ties to the Kings of Winter like the Blackwoods or the Royces. Why Catelyn Tully, why then?"

"It's all dead history, now," Lord Wyman grunted. "A failed conspiracy, a thing of southern ambitions and northern follies, buried before your time. Do you actually care to know?" Jon nodded, and Lord Wyman sighed before speaking. "Let us begin our luncheon first, then. History is best washed down with a good stew."

As it happened, noon arrived sooner than Jon would have expected, and Lord Wyman did expect Jon to lunch with him. Lord Wyman sent away his scribes, and called on the servants to bring in platters of butter pastries and pots of crab stew, he also had a goodly supply of wine bottles under his desk from which he drank liberally. He offered to share, but Jon was in no mood for drink; he did, however, partake of the food to have something of a meal for himself. The food was excessively rich though, as much cream and butter had to have gone into the stew's broth as all else. Jon could only tolerate it by dipping in bits of plain bread one at a time, while Lord Wyman ate liberally straight from the bowl.

"What I know is not complete, just pieces - fragments that your father shared over the years," Lord Wyman started, after clearing his throat with a cup of pale winter ale. "It would be more accurate to say I stitched together the story on my own, years after it all happened. It started nearly thirty years ago, not long after the War of Ninepenny Kings. At the time, the realm was struggling with the beginnings of what we would later call Aerys' madness, but at the time merely seemed a hostile sort of Targaryen erraticism. It was in that time that your father and Robert Baratheon were both sent to foster at House Arryn, to promote ties between realms. Seven or eight years later, after the disaster of Duskendale, however, it was becoming increasingly clear that the king's judgement was in a downward spiral. That was a bad time. The danger and incompetence of the Iron Throne's edicts kept growing by the year." Lord Wyman grunted, then took a long sip from his wine.

"That's how it started out, your father told me. An unofficial defensive alliance of the more significant northern and eastern lords paramount, starting with the brotherly relationship between that generation of the Starks, Arryns, and Baratheons. Lords paramount with a lesser presence at court, who felt a need to take firmer measures to, politically, defend themselves from the Iron Throne's capriciousness. However, a particularly ambitious lord later came to them - or mayhaps he was approached by them, I was never clear on which. Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun, who saw opportunity in Aerys' madness to not simply defend against the increasingly mad Targaryen king, but to counter the Iron Throne and increase the Tully's standing over their increasingly fractious riverlords in the process." Lord Wyman took a large bite out of a blueberry pastry, teeth gnashing as he chewed over memories.

"At this stage, the lords paramount were still not dreaming of outright removing Aerys, I think. They only sought to create an alliance of sufficient standing to countervail the Iron Throne's less competent edicts and pettier misrules. However, to a mad king's eyes, even these half-steps and half-measures could so easily have been misinterpreted; it was Aerys' way to see knives beneath every shadow. However, in that decade after Duskendale, as Aerys' reign truly began to fall to corruption, the four lords paramount must have believed in the necessity of action regardless. And so, not long after, for the first time - you began to see intermarriages between paramount Houses. Not long after, Aerys distanced himself even more from those kingdoms. Are you following this?"

Jon nodded, considering certain unanswered questions from the sometimes strange nature of the Stark's household, topics that either Lady Catelyn or his father had refused to speak of. "It does map to what I know, Lord Wyman. More or less."

"Aye," Lord Wyman nodded, leaning forward as he chewed over his words. "Hoster was full of ambition in those years, grasping high and far, and he found reluctant partners in Lords Rickard Stark, Steffon Baratheon, and Jon Arryn, and do I believe he went so far as to try to bring Tywin Lannister into this alliance of paramounts. Not even your father knew everything, little and less of the details of this conspiracy were ever put to ink, and much of this conspiracy died with Lord Rickard. There is a reason why your father dismissed Winterfell's old maester, Walys, from service and replaced him with the Luwin you knew. Rickard's old maester was a bastard of House Hightower, and if you are to ever heed any political advice of mine, hear this – never trust a Hightower." Lord Wyman leaned back, seemingly in a better mood. "In total, and skipping over all the tragedy of Rickard's and Brandon's fates - that is how a daughter of House Tully ended up at Winterfell, I think." Look Wyman shook his head, reminiscing. "I'm told that she was not kind to you in your childhood. It's unfortunate, but these riverlords have always been rather particular on matters of bastardy, and Catelyn Stark was a Tully to her bones, for good or ill."

Jon nodded, lips thin, and Lord Wyman paused. "However, the story doesn't end there. Few remember that it was Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard, a close friend of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, who convinced his brother, Lord Walter Whent to host the grand tournament at Harrenhal. Lord Hoster was no doubt involved somehow at the earliest stages – he and Walter were thick as thieves."

"Really?" Jon found himself fascinated, he had already suspected or intuited most of the hidden alliance of lords paramount. But this intersecting twist – that was new information to him. "Oswell Whent. A knight of the Kingsguard, you're saying he and Hoster Tully assembled the tournament on a pretext, but the true purpose was—" Jon repeated, then cut himself off as he realized. "Wait, are you saying—"

"Aye," Lord Wyman smiled thinly. "In those very last months before Robert's Rebellion began, Prince Rhaegar was summoning the dissident lords paramount, the very same ones who were conspiring against his father, and he did so in cooperation with Hoster Tully. It took me over a decade to learn the truth of that affair. I know few details. But I know that a meeting happened, secretly and quietly, and that during it, Rhaegar Targaryen presented four lords paramount an offer; their assistance in usurping the rights of succession and removing Aerys before he could do further harm to the Targaryen's dynasty, and in return, he would assure their rights and the stability of the realm." Lord Wyman took a breath, then continued.

"The great game of intermarriages between the lords paramount had already gone on for several years at that point. There were successes, like the Tully sisters to Houses Stark and Arryn, but there were also failures. Lyanna Stark to Robert Baratheon, Jaime Lannister to Lysa Tully, and to cap it all, Rhaegar Targaryen to Cersei Lannister. Had these all marraige alliances succeeded, the coup would have been easy, bloodless. With a stroke, Aerys would have been exiled to Dragonstone, and Rhaegar left with a web of alliances that would have assured his dynasty's continuance and quelled any dissent." Lord Wyman sighed, then let out a breath.

"Unfortunately, however, events would go on to outpace their conspiracy. Aerys was not without cunning of his own. He named Jaime Lannister, a fifteen year old boy to the Kingsguard, which at a stroke removed the Lannister's heir from the Tully's game of marriages. Then Steffon Baratheon died in a storm, and then Rhaegar stole your aunt in a fit of madness, which alienated his ties with the rest of the lords paramount. Consider it all closely. By themselves, each one of these events might have only been setbacks, no one of them would have broken the realm and so irrevocably shifted the secret alliance of paramounts towards overthrowing the Targaryen's dynasty." Lord Wyman grunted. "But then Aerys murdered your grandfather and your uncle, and then had the insane gall to send letters demanding more heads still. That was when Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark and Hoster Tully all finally raised their banners in vengeance, the realm erupted into rebellion and war, and so on and so on." Lord Wyman waved a hand dismissively "It's all dead history now. A failed conflict of the shadow politics of Mad Aerys' reign, a war fought not with swords or knives, but with letters and marriages. Only useful for knowing how even the failures of the past shape the present, and how the shape of the true war to come a decade after - Robert's Rebellion – was determined."

As their talk of the past ended, their luncheon too ended. Jon begged leave to see to his body's needs, and after that, he walked the outer balconies for a few tens of minutes, he needed the movement of cold wind over his skin; to clear his head, to recenter himself, to think on all he had been told of the past. None of it mattered, and yet, he felt both lighter and heavier in the knowing. It was a good weight. A weight of knowing.

Sonagon was nowhere to be seen, so Jon closed his eyes and reached out through the warg connection they shared, and soon Jon was staring down over the Bite, the isles of the Three Sisters in view; it seemed the dragon was developing a taste for whaleflesh, which made Jon sadly remember his hunt with Alvin Whaletooth, months and months beforehand.

When he returned to Lord Wyman's solar, he found the lord seated again with his two scribes and his castellan. Their talk resumed, and soon turned to the matter of alliances.

"Can we expect more forces from the Wall mustering for us?" Lord Wyman asked.

"Some. The Lord of Bones and Sigorn of Thenn are readying new hosts to assist," Jon hesitated. "Though I dare not reduce the defence on the Wall much more. There are other threats to consider than just Boltons."

Lord Wyman straightened slightly. "You mean your white walker?"

"Aye. Malvern, we call it. Just the one, but it has proven itself too strong and too cunning to be tracked. I can't commit entirely to this campaign so long as Malvern is a threat."

He looked uncertain. "Just for one of these fiends?"

"Malvern has proven itself capable of fighting and defeating a hundred men singlehandedly, my lord. Its power is not to be underestimated. It has been haunting holdfasts and farms in the Gift, killing any party small enough to be taken easily and hiding otherwise. Perhaps I am lucky that Malvern was left so injured in its crossing through the Wall, because I fear that it is capable of doing much more." Jon grimaced with the thought. How many had Malvern killed already? At least hundreds, but they hadn't found most of the bodies. "Though the good news is that so long as my hunting parties are hounding it and my castles are fortified, the walker's options are limited too. It still cannot face an army. I need only keep on the pressure, and sooner or later an obsidian arrow will find its mark." I hope.

"And you sound concerned."

"I am very concerned. But there is naught I can do about it," Jon confessed, his gaze twitching. "Malvern is an extremely dangerous creature and one that I don't know the location of. I prefer my enemies where I can see them, my lord." And this war is proving a poor one on that front.

"Yes," Lord Wyman said with a sigh. "If there is anything I can provide—"

"Obsidian, my lord. Dragonglass. Do you have a means of purchasing obsidian? We require large quantities."

"I cannot say that I do. Obsidian is usually used in trinkets, not typically needed in bulk. I will make inquiries," he promised. "I must speak with merchants in the city, and find captains willing to scour the free markets on our behalf."

"Are there any?"

"Not many," Lord Wyman replied, reluctantly. "Most independent merchants and captains have shunned White Harbour's docks ever since the dragon appeared in the harbour.

"Of course they have." Why couldn't anything just be simple?

"It is not yet dire, but our trade is being stifled."

"Can I assist?"

"Not with force. A softer hand is required to secure trade, I think."

He nodded, and conceded the task to Lord Wyman. I trust Mance to guard the Wall, and the Weeper to lead his raiders. I must trust Lord Wyman to his duty too. Still, Jon paused, and then frowned. "Mind, what was Lord Seaworth speaking to you about before?"

"You, of course," replied Lord Wyman. "The Onion Lord tries to convince me to support Stannis Baratheon instead."

"Ah. Lord Davos is a loyal man."

"His loyalty cannot be faulted." Lord Wyman nodded. "Neither can his earnestness. Both are traits that I admire, except it is his sense that I question."

"What arguments does he make?"

"The same ones that I hear several times a day. He says that our alliance is doomed for collapse. That the wildlings will not recognise authority, or accept laws, be controlled. He says that this war will schism and ruin the north in the worst possible way. He urges me to return to the fold of the Seven Kingdoms. Lord Seaworth then supports and defends Stannis Baratheon and his actions, but that is the point where his bias becomes apparent." The lord paused. "Still, it is rare to see a man who chooses to act from loyalty rather than fear."

Lord Wyman sounded mildly impressed. Perhaps Lord Davos made more of an impression than he realised, Jon wondered. "Lord Davos is a good man," Jon said finally. "I have no wish to let him suffer unduly. I took him as a hostage, but there is naught needed from him and no family wealthy enough to pay a worthwhile ransom. His continued captivity seems pointless, perhaps he should just be released and allowed to return home."

"Perhaps. Though Lord Seaworth is still held in high regard by Stannis Baratheon. If Stannis' campaign musters support and gains strength once more, Lord Seaworth could still be a valuable piece."

"How likely is that to happen?"

"Unlikely," he admitted. "But who knows? Stannis has been doing remarkably well in the battles he's been leading. In any case, to release Lord Seaworth now would be folly: there are many wars and outlaws about, the crownlands are in turmoil, Dragonstone is under blockade and he has no means of travelling safely. He would likely not make it home to his wife. No, the Onion Lord is being treated fairly in New Castle; he can remain here until a better solution appears."

"Very well," Jon conceded reluctantly. Lord Davos was a good and loyal man, though Jon knew that he would never be loyal to him.

Lord Wyman picked up a pastry from the platter. "Another of your associates has reached out to me from across the Narrow Sea. One Salladhor Saan of Lys."

Ah, now he was the opposite of Davos. "A pirate," Jon said with distaste. "A pirate lord, he calls himself."

"I am aware. But the man is ambitious and eager enough to ally himself with us. The man has been quite capable too, and well-motivated to earn influence to rebuild his former fleet and wealth. I received a letter; Salladhor is in Braavos, working with the Manderly trading house there, and he approached the Iron Bank on our behalf."

"A pirate isdealing with the Iron Bank?"

"Oh, the Iron Bank never turns away potential customers. They are the greatest pirates of them all, in many ways," Lord Wyman said with a scoff. "But yes, Salladhor Saan was largely dismissed in Braavos, they saw him as but another failed captain – that is, until you flew south, and then there could be no doubt that there is a dragon in the North. In the wake of that news, I imagine the pirate was looked upon in a different light by the Braavosi."

This was completely outside of Jon's expectations. I expected certain outcomes from destroying the Twins, certain kinds of support, but certainly not Essosi bankers. "I allowed Salladhor Saan to sail free on the promise that he would broker trade and supply for me," Jon said, slightly sourly. "Has he?"

"I believe so. It is a planting that might provide fruit. I cannot understate how useful the Iron Bank's support would be, if we are able to secure it. I have hope; the news of a dragon causes stirs, and perhaps a savvy banker would rather be on the right side of that wager."

"But you don't sound convinced."

"From what your pirate writes, there is a conflict of interests," he explained. "The Iron Bank has already entered a contract with Aegon Targaryen, financing him to claim the Iron Throne. It was to be expected; when the Lannisters burnt that bridge, the Iron Bank sought other ways to reclaim their debt."

"Ah. And I am in conflict with this Aegon." As indirect as it is. "The Iron Bank can't support me without jeopardising their interests in their chosen champion?"

"Just so. A difficult position for them. However, the Iron Bank does not like being on the losing side. The deal they made with Aegon was agreed upon before your presence was widely known, and suddenly the young Targaryen does not seem such a promising wager, since there is a dragon stacked against him. A new loan could perhaps be negotiated."

"For how much gold?"

"Millions. Enough to establish a new kingdom in earnest," Lord Wyman said with a nod. "The interest will be steep, to be sure, but such a loan is not to be dismissed. It could pay for food all winter, let us to repair the damage all the North's strife has done to our kingdom."

Jon leaned forward in his seat. "And what must I do?"

"For now? Nothing. I only wished to alert you to the possibility. After Winterfell is secure, taking your dragon to Braavos may be a useful thing. I cannot afford to bankroll this campaign on my own indefinitely."

The conversation continued for some time. The lord quizzed him on every step of the campaign, the individual movements of troops, the quantity of supplies in the far north or lack thereof, progress on the wildling's exodus south through the Wall, significant chieftains and such among them, and on and on until eventually the scribes begged leave for a break of their own; writing for hours on end was taxing them.

"Where is your steward, King Snow?" the lord aske, when they were alone in the room once more. "The Tarly boy. I've been wondering at your lack of a scribe here."

Jon shook his head. "Sam is not my steward, he has been appointed the Lord Steward of the Night's Watch. He left to return to Castle Black along with Grenn." Jon paused, hesitating. Sam had a duty of his own to see to - to search for more information on the white walkers. The last Jon had seen Sam, he was departing from Eastwatch escorting Mance's wife and babe to Castle Black. "I have been debating whether to send Sam to Oldtown, in truth," he added. "The Citadel may be the greatest source of knowledge in the world, and I need someone to scour it for information for us."

"I have libraries of my own," Lord Wyman said. "And connections further still. If you're searching for dragonlore, I can find it. I have a partway complete copy of Fires of the Freehold, for instance."

Jon had heard of that one. Just about any lord with any education in Valyria or High Valyrian had read at least pieces of that massive historical compendium, a histography written by Galendro of Lys - the most complete history of the Valyrian Freehold ever published.

"Galendro is not what I need, Lord Wyman. Rather, I want…" Jon paused, trying to remember maester Aemon's words from near a month past. "I believe it's called Blood and Fire, or perhaps The Death of Dragons. I'm not quite sure."

"Ah," Lord Wyman grimaced. "That is a problem. Even I've heard of that tome. Archmaester Marwyn wrote of it in his Book of Lost Books. The only surviving copy in Westeros is hidden away under by the Citadel, locked away to all but the archmaesters, I'm told."

"Do you know anything more?" Jon asked.

"Little and less," Lord Wyman admitted. "Even as a boy, I was never particularly fascinated by dragons or dragonlore like half rest of my generation were during the Blackfyre Rebellions. But that tome is infamous in certain circles, it's supposedly a record of sorceries as applied to dragonlore."

"There is more still that I would have Sam search for," Jon admitted. A spell to repair or restore the Wall's barrier. "Lore on magic, the Long Night and the Last Hero and so on. I need someone in Oldtown's Citadel, and Sam is the one I trust most."

Lord Wyman sighed. "I've never put much stock into sorcery and such myself, Your Grace. I lived my life thinking all of it nothing but children's tales, exaggerated interpretations of the deep past at best. However, recent events lead me to question, question how you control your dragon at distance and without words. I hear things of these wargs and woods witches who follow you, and then there's these rumours I'm hearing from the Wall and out of Slaver's Bay and such."

Jon smiled tightly. "I'm no sorcerer, Lord Wyman. I barely know anything, I only know that higher powers exist, I've seen their shadow too many times now."

"Then I wish your steward luck in his search, but I would strongly advise against sending him by sea," Lord Wyman said. "Not while the ironborn still reave those routes, it is too perilous a journey at this time of year. The west coast's waters are far harsher than the east's in winter. If you wish to send the boy, send him overland with an escort. But the journey might take a solid month, even mounted." There was a knock at the door, and Lord Wyman's scribes let themselves back into the solar. "Let us move on to other matters."

Jon agreed. Too many duties as king, too little time. The New Castle's castellan, Ser Wylan brought a thick stack of letters that the lord insisted on going through with Jon. Jon found himself forlornly looking out the window, noting that it was already well past noon. Jon reluctantly resigned himself and took a glass of wine.

There were five more acceptances of the betrothals from northern lords that Jon had to sign off on. There were petty lords that needed promises of safety and protection from Jon before they agreed to the coalition, and a dozen other matters that needed attention.

Then, Lord Wyman brought out a series of letters Lady Maege wrote from the Flint Holdfast in the northern mountains. The northern mountain clans had been reluctant to join with wildlings, but they had strong relationships and respect towards Houses Mormont, Umber and Glover. The letter said that Lady Maege was having success where Jon did not in persuading the mountain clans to declare alongside them. They were eager to fight for 'The Ned's girl', though they were far less certain about doing so alongside wildlings. Jon had not been able to convince the mountain clans when he had visited, but where he had failed, Lady Maege was having more success.

There will be more promises made before the day is done, Jon thought with a grim sigh. But there is nothing for it; the mountains clans represent another three thousand fighting men, disciplined and sorely needed.

As he added up the numbers of free folk and northerners, the force of their combined, deployable fighting men started to reach over twenty five thousand. And rising.

Not even Robb had so many men, Jon realised.

Even if his brother's army had been higher quality on average, better trained and armed and armored, with far more cavalry, Jon was starting to realise how significant his forces were becoming.

The discussion turned towards the Hornwood lands, which were to the north and east of House Manderly's. Even though Ramsay Bolton claimed to be the Lord of the Hornwood, whatever hold he had on the lands had disappeared quickly after White Harbour's declaration of rebellion. Most of the minor lords previously under House Hornwood were all too quick to declare against House Bolton. The ones that had remained loyal were mostly concentrated to the northern stretches Hornwood land that were near to House Bolton's lands, and they would of course have to be replaced after the war was over.

"Your Grace, Lady Hornwood was my cousin, and a fine woman," Lord Wyman said, pushing the paper to one side. "I offered myself as a suitor to Lady Hornwood once," Lord Wyman said, his expression growing a little sadder. "House Manderly has close ties to the area, and it is a tragedy that their house has gone extinct in this war. I suggest that Hornwood lands and titles be granted to House Manderly."

Jon paused, frowning. "You would take the Hornwood's lands for yourself?"

"None have stronger blood claim," Lord Wyman shrugged, but his eyes glinted with determination. "The Manderlys and the Hornwoods have intermarried for centuries. With those lands, a cadet branch of House Manderly could be formed," he explained. "And who has staked more on this cause than I? It seems a fair reward."

Except the Hornwood's lands are an extremely large, rich and valuable region. They were the most fertile lands in the north; insofar as the north had a breadbasket, it was the Hornwood lands.

Acquiring those lands would leave House Manderly as undoubtedly the largest and most powerful great house in the North on paper, even more so than House Stark – even if Winterfell and the surrounding masterly houses of its desmesne were to be fully reconstituted, which was far from assured. To take another great house's holdings in their entirety is a bold demand.

"Aside from you, who has first claim by law to those lands?"

Lord Wyman grimaced. "If you were to discount my own claim, there is a Larence Snow, a natural son of the deceased Lord Halys Hornwood. He was being fostered at Deepwood Motte by House Glover—his mother was a Glover bastard whom Halys took a fancy to. However, the boy was taken by the Boltons, and is no doubt a prisoner at Winterfell now along with most of the Boltons other captured highborn. None of their prisoners at the Dreadfort quite have the same importance."

"You don't seem sad to see the Hornwoods gone," Jon observed.

"Halys Hornwood was a problem for the Manderlys," Lord Wyman admitted frankly. "He had a damn fool notion to dam the White Knife to create a massive lake in the Hornwood lands, which would have benefited his industry at the expense of our own."

Jon paused. "I had no idea."

"It never went far, thank the gods. Had this ambition of his gone much further, we would have been forced to appeal to Winterfell." Lord Wyman grimaced, then sighed. There was a slight bitterness to his eyes.

"Still, I never wished Halys ill. He was Donella's husband – one of my second cousins, you'd know her as the former Lady Hornwood. Halys died on the shores of the Green Fork, and their heir was one of King Robb's own personal guards, killed not long after in the Whispering Wood by Jaime Lannister. As for Donella's fate, we're all well aware. Larence is the last living issue of Hornwood, and except if you succeed in recovering Winterfell's prisoners, I expect the line will wither to its last with him. This is why I feel comfortable in pressing my claim to those lands, Your Grace."

"I cannot make such a decision here," Jon said eventually. It may upset too many others. I cannot afford any schisms right now. "It is a… huge request, Lord Wyman. This is a matter to be decided by a rightful liege, once Winterfell is secure."

"Very well. Although I do intend to push my claim, and I will wage this war loyally. I will look after the future of my house."

"It seems too early to consider such while the war has yet to be won, my lord."

"You can be sure that others are doing the same," Lord Wyman insisted. "The easiest way to win this war is to ensure that it is in the best interests of all parties that the war is won. The Greatjon will want security for his lands, Lord Glover will want security for his family. And I have high hopes that Lady Maege will marry her daughters to the strongest of your free folk leaders, such that an alliance could be made and Bear Island could start providing ships to evacuate the wildlings remaining on the Frozen Shore. More will follow suit. Even Lord Karstark decided to support us, when it was made clear that was the only way he could keep his lands."

Jon paused. The thought of the Weeper's words came back to him. "Lord Karstark," he said slowly. "You hold his wife, do you not?"

"Alys Karstark is being transported to White Harbour as we speak. Wynafryd is seeing to it herself. The girl will be kept safe in my castle."

"I hear that Cregan Karstark only claims lordship through his marriage to Alys Karstark - was the marriage legal as he claims?"

Lord Wyman paused. "Perhaps," he admitted. "Lady Alys was the last of the main branch of the house, and with her father's death her uncle Arnolf became custodian. He was within his rights to marry her to her cousin Cregan. Legally married? Justifiably so. Happily married? Most certainly not."

"My… my commander, the Weeper. He said that Alys asked him to kill Lord Cregan for her."

"Hmm. Unfortunately, that does not surprise me. She is a girl of seventeen and Cregan is, from what I hear, a hard and brash man of fifty. She is now his third wife, he has buried two previously. It was hardly a desirable marriage for her."

How bad could any marriage be if she would prefer the Weeper over Cregan? Jon thought foully. The Weeper is the most psychotic man I know.

Lord Wyman looked at him, measuring his expression. "The marriage could, perhaps, be annulled," the lord said carefully. "If there was an alternative."

Jon grimaced. "And how divisive would that be?"

"Potentially problematic. But Karstark only nominally supports us as is; they still have forces from Arnolf Karstark alongside Boltons," Lord Wyman mused. "And this 'Weeper' of yours is a strong candidate for the same marriage betrothals we are offering others. With Lady Alys' agreement in the matter, we could—"

Jon shook his head. "No, Lady Alys does not know what she is asking. The Weeper? No, no. I trust the Weeper to lead my armies, but I've never deluded myself concerning what sort of man he is. Do you know how he earned his title, Lord Wyman?"

The old lord shook his head, and Jon smiled bitterly. "He made sport of the severed, eyeless heads of Night's Watchmen, and he did the same to his former wife, or lover, or whatever she was. The free folk don't have marriages as we understand it. Even so." Jon shook his head tiredly. "The man is not to be considered a marriage prospect; he's a renegade that I happen to have under control. He's liable to cut her eyes out himself if Lady Alys even looks at him the wrong way. No, when she arrives in White Harbour, we must keep her well out of sight from him." I do not trust him not to become obsessed.

"As you say, your Grace," Lord Wyman hesitated. "And what of Lord Cregan?"

Jon's jaw clenched. There was a moment of painful indecision. "Lord Cregan Karstark is a vicious and unlikeable man," Jon said finally. "But I cannot dispose him of his lordship. He has committed no crimes that would justify me so."

Lord Wyman frowned. "House Karstark has many crimes to their name, Your Grace."

"Oh yes. His father is a traitor who sided with the Boltons," Jon said foully. "Even his cousin, Rickard Karstark was a child-murderer who played a role in dooming my brother's cause. But that doesn't matter - I can't punish any man for acts of other members of his family. Maybe killing Cregan Karstark would be the right action, but it wouldn't be lawful. The law must work both ways."

"House Karstark's offenses against their lords paramount have been numerous in recent years, Your Grace," Lord Wyman's expression was dark. "With you acting on behalf of the Starks currently, you would be within your rights to intervene. House Stark of the past rarely tolerated such unreliable bannermen."

Jon shook his head. "House Karstark is ancient. Intervening so deeply in their rights of succession… they've reigned as a great house for nearly a thousand years, Lord Wyman. They're not as old as the Manderlys in the north, but they're close. Only a true Stark in Winterfell should make the choice of declaring the Karstarks - or at least, Lord Karstark - attainted. Their name is too significant for less."

Lord Wyman hesitated, then nodded. "Fair, I'll agree to that. But there is one true offence to Cregan Karstark's name. He did fight against you," Lord Wyman noted. "He led his forces to attack your wildlings."

"And in that he was well-justified to defend his lands." Jon shook his head. "And the Umber lords did the same. If I punished House Karstark for fighting wildlings, I would have to do the same against others."

"Aye, that would be unwise," Lord Wyman said with a grimace.

"Aye. And I cannot make up laws to kill a man just because of a grudge." Jon shook his head. Damn being king. "For now, Lord Cregan has little option but to support us. He is being kept under close supervision." It was a bitter thought. Legalities or no, Cregan Karstark was an abusive brute who should have protected his deceased lord's daughter, and had instead forced her to marry him. "Perhaps we should do something concerning his marriage later, but for now let us not risk causing problems."

"Very well," Lord Wyman said, though he didn't sound in agreement. "Although, it occurs to me, that there is another marriage that deserves consideration."

"Whose?"

"Yours, Your Grace."

There was no immediate reaction. Jon felt his hands stiffen. Lord Wyman sucked his lips, seeming to consider his words carefully. "I have considered it. You do not have lands, house or rank in the north, Your Grace, and it would be beneficial for your status and our cause if you did. So. I offer you my granddaughter's hand in marriage, and an alliance between us stronger than steel."

"Your granddaughter." There was no reaction or emotion. Jon kept himself like stone. Do not react until you have figured out how.

"My son's eldest, Wynafryd. She is nearly of an age with you, and you've met before. A more fair, brave and capable girl you could not hope to find. Have you given any thought of what should happen to you and your dragon after this war?"

"The end of this war will be the start of the next, my lord."

"Preparations must still be made," he insisted. "Your dragon is the greatest advantage the North has, it should not stay in Winterfell. Winterfell would struggle to house Sonagon, and struggle further to feed it. Winterfell may be the heart of the North, but the heart of the north's economy is here, in White Harbour. And I am not speaking from a place of bias when saying that. It is simple fact." The lord placed his goblet on the desk of papers.

"In the future, when the North truly becomes an independent kingdom of Westeros, it seems only fitting that White Harbour, the gateway to the Free Cities and trade with the rest of the continent should be our capital city. A dragon would be a great boon to White Harbour, to the North in entire."

He wants to move the north's capital? Jon blinked, struggling to understand. No, he wants to move the dragon. "You… you want me to marry into House Manderly?"

"I considered it, but no. It would not send a good message. Far better to create a new house; a house of northern dragonlords," he explained. "Take a new banner - a white dragon, perhaps. This is my proposal; I will grant you lordship of the Wolf's Den in the city. It's an ancient castle with a long history of serving House Stark. It was once named to House Manderly, but truthfully it has been neglected ever since the construction of New Castle. Right now it is used only as a prison, currently under the custodianship of an old knight who once served me well." Lord Wyman took a breath, then continued.

"I will provide the funds for the Wolf's Den to be renovated to its former glory," Lord Manderly offered. "Perhaps the streets near it can be repossessed, and it can even be expanded. Likewise, your dragon appears quite comfortable upon the Seal Rock, so I shall name you the lord of that too - to turn the Seal Rock into our version of the Dragonpit and to provide defence of the harbour and kingdom. And if you were to marry my granddaughter, then that would be the beginning of an alliance that could see the North in very good stead indeed."

"And Sonagon will reside in your city."

"What other city has the trade to provide for it?" he challenged. "You will become a great and influential lord in White Harbour. How many tens of thousands of your free folk will eventually come to live here? They'll need a lord to represent them, lead them – who better than you? Perhaps, in time, our two houses will rule over a White Harbour as large as King's Landing itself. I hope that this alliance will prove greatly beneficial to us both."

But especially to you. White Harbour would benefit immensely from this proposal. Even if the city was partially divided between them, between the Manderlys and whatever house he founded, the overall balance of benefits still heavily tilted towards the Manderlys. And what would that mean for the rest of the north?

Jon knew that the new Kingdom of the North would be created by the dragon, and the dragon would be at the centre of it, wherever that center might be. He had always known.

But, Jon admitted internally, this was perhaps not the time to be concerned over an excessive centralisation of power. Rather, given the outside threats they faced, perhaps that would be more benefit than harm.

"And your granddaughter?"

There was a flash of pride in Lord Wyman's eyes. "Wynafryd. She is precious to me. Both my granddaughters are. My youngest, Wylla is willful and strong, while Wynafryd has always been determined, brave and dedicated. I do not offer her hand in marriage lightly, Your Grace."

Marriage. Jon remembered Wyndafryd from the treaty negotiations, remembered Wylla more vaguely. Wynafryd had looked a few years older than him; throughout the dinner, she had been holding the hand of her little sister tightly. The youngest girl had dyed green hair, while Wynafryd was tall and full-bodied, with brown hair tied in a long braid. Not a great beauty, but more than fair; an attractive and comely woman.

Politics relies on marriages. I always knew it would be on the table, even for me, but…

The thought of Val's golden hair flashed before his eyes.

Jon shook his head. "I cannot make any such commitments now, my lord."

Lord Wyman only nodded calmly. "I do not expect you to. I am not Walder Frey, Your Grace; I will not pressure you into an unhappy marriage. I hold my granddaughter far too dearly for that. Consider the options in full, and I will discuss and treat with you honestly and fairly," he said, leaning back on his chair. The wood groaned. "However, I do hope that you will consider the benefit it might bring to us both. Spend time with Wynafryd, if it pleases you."

"And is your granddaughter aware of the proposal?"

"I broached the subject to her, briefly," replied Lord Wyman. "I spoke to her mother in great length. Leona eventually agreed that it was in our family's best interests. My son does not know, he left before I could talk to him about it, but he will agree."

Jon didn't reply. Lord Wyman is an ambitious man. He fought for House Stark unrepentantly, he was perhaps the House's most loyal bannerman, but he was most certainly looking after his own house's interests as well. A marriage to bring a dragon into White Harbour—even without the Hornwood's lands, if he succeeded in the marriage, the Manderlys would have standing preeminent among the North's great houses. But if he had both?

Still, he makes good points. It would benefit me and my cause. Yes, the Manderlys would become very powerful, my father would have never agreed, but perhaps centralisation of power under a loyal bannerman is what is needed for this war, the wars to come. He would give me a castle. The dowry would be great, Sonagon would be cared for.

…

All in return for a wife.

…

But I've only barely even spoken with the girl before. I don't have a bad impression of her, true, but—

There was a long moment of silence. The lord tried to measure his expression. "Nothing need be decided now," Lord Wyman said finally. "As you say, Your Grace, there is a war to be won first."

There was more small talk after that, but Jon grew more and more reserved, and distracted. How did I think it was going to end? Sooner or later I was always going to have to marry to solidify my standing.

Which standing, though? My standing with the free folk? Or my standing with the north? With the Seven Kingdoms? Should I be considering gold, influence or martial strength?

Too many different concerns, benefits and costs and opportunity costs - all of them reliant on marriage.

And how can I rank my happiness compared to matters like these?

By the time they retired, it was already late in the day, late enough that the sun was only an hour away from setting. Jon was left feeling worn and gloomy, with a somewhat scratchy throat from spending most of a day doing nothing but talking.

Lord Manderly would doubtless insist on feasting tonight with the highborn, they would all take their dinner at the turning of the bat's hour, so that was soon and he was expected to be there - but Jon was already feeling bloated just from the pastries served in Wyman's solar. It was all too easy for lords to lose control of their gut. Is it queer that one day in this castle makes me miss weeks of hard marching through the north?

Jon left the solar walking stiffly. He asked a servant about sleeping arrangements, and then Lady Leona Manderly came to escort him to his quarters. "Your… um… household has been settled within the castle, Your Grace," the lady said, curtseying. She still didn't quite meet his gaze. "The west wing has been reserved for you and your court."

"And have there been any issues?"

"Few. Your pet, the shadowcat," her voice was haughty, "proved troublesome to relocate."

"Phantom can be stubborn," Jon said with a grimace. The ship journey moving the shadowcat from Eastwatch had not been a pleasant experience for anyone. "Provided she has her privacy she is no trouble."

"The cat has a room by itself, by yours. The windows barred and the door locked from the servants." Leona's tone was slightly icily. I wonder, has any noble castle ever hosted a shadowcat before? "And I directed your paramour towards your chambers."

Jon stopped. "Excuse me?"

"Your… Lady Val of Whitetree. She was placed in the other room adjoined to yours," she explained. "Is that suitable, Your Grace?"

Val has arrived in White Harbour already? His heart pounded.

My paramour. For a moment, Jon was left fazed. "Um, yes. Yes, thank you, my lady."

Is Val really my paramour? His instinctive reaction was no, but then… well, they weren't betrothed and they were together. Though the word 'paramour' implied that Jon was a highborn lord, and that was a concept he was still struggling to get his head around.

Paramour. Mistress. Is that what they will view Val as?

The wildlings looked they had made themselves at home in the west wing. Tapestries were missing from the walls. Jon passed a sketch of a dragon drawn on the wall in chalk.

Lady Leona's eyes lingered on the crude marking. "There was a… a conflict at the Sept of the Snows last week," she said, breaking the quiet. "A mob of your… free folk tried to burn the statues of the Seven. They tried to raise up a totem of the dragon instead."

Jon didn't reply. He didn't know how to. The issue of the dragon cult that had arisen among the free folk, now calling themselves a circle or such was still something he had not even begun dealing with. Largely because they were unfailingly useful and helpful to the war effort; whatever needed to be done about them, he had figured it could wait until after the North was secured. But, increasingly, he was starting to question that notion.

Then he blinked, and realized that Lady Leona had just kept walking without him. Jon had to catch up as they walked to the west wing.

His Dragonguard were waiting for him, sprawled out before and along the spiral staircase leading upwards. The wildlings kept weapons in their hands constantly. Lady Leona looked scared by their presence, shuffling and averting her eyes.

Jon noticed that his own chambers had been marked with a white crown. "If there is anything else you require, Your Grace," Lady Leona said, with a stiff curtsey.

"My lady," Jon asked. "Do you know of the betrothal Lord Manderly has offered me?"

"I do." Her arms were tight at her sides. Still she didn't meet his eyes.

"I would like to know what you think of it? Do you support it?"

She hesitated. Jon heard the quiver in her voice, like she wanted to say something else. "I support stability for the north, Your Grace," Lady Leona replied, refusing to meet his eyes. "I… I want to see my family safe, and the realm brought to order again. The Seven know that there's so little of either safety or order left these days. Goodbye, Your Grace."

Lady Leona turned and left. She's scared, Jon thought. She's scared in her own castle.

Jon hesitated for a good while before placing his hand on the door and walking through. Val is here.

The first thing he heard was a low growl. A bloodthirsty snarl. "Close the bloody door, will you?" a voice called. "Last thing you want is this girl bolting away."

Jon blinked, and when his mind caught up to what his eyes were seeing, he forgot all about Leona Manderly.

Val was in the room, standing at the far end. She's wearing a dress, he realised. An actual dress.

It was a white and blue samite and silver-lined winter dress, of fine, thin wool with a cream ermine shawl, highlighting her golden hair. She wore her long hair pinned upwards in a southern style, with only a few locks coiffed down from her crown. With her high and sharp cheekbones could have easily been mistaken for highborn. She would have looked right at home in any southern court in the Westeros. If she had walked into the Merman's Court like this, her beauty would have drawn every gaze in the hall, and the dress only reinforced that impression.

No, Val would draw gazes no matter what she wore, he thought with a shallow breath. She could be wearing rags and look like a queen. Wearing finery made her so attractive it seemed unfair. She still kept a sheathed sword on her waist.

Jon had to blink again as he realised she was holding a slab of raw, bloody meat in her hand as she turned to him. At least she had not seen him staring.

"Well," Val chided. "You've finally got here. I was wondering how long it would take you before you deigned to pay me a visit, King Snow."

"I didn't know you had arrived."

"Well, you do now." Val turned back to her task, carrying the meat towards the adjoining room. Jon heard that growl again. He recognised it instantly.

"Careful, Val!" Jon called, but she just tutted.

Though the doorway of the guest bedroom, he saw a pair of pale gold eyes staring back at him, almost glowing in the darkness. Jon was suddenly reminded of why shadowcats were such feared predators among the free folk.

Phantom had a whole chamber for herself. There were velvet blankets over the mattress, but the shadowcat had shredded the pillows and clawed the sheets to shreds, before curling up underneath the four-poster bed. The room was dark; the servants must have blanketed the double windows so the shadowcat would be more comfortable in the gloom.

Phantom was growling as Val threw the cut of bloody meat, and sharp teeth flashed hungrily. Val just watched curiously, already pulling out another cut from a platter the kitchens must have provided.

Jon could have reached out into Phantom's skin, but he didn't. "Careful, Val," he warned. "She's not tame."

She looked at him curiously, raising a perfect eyebrow. "Would you expect her to be?"

"I… I suppose not."

Val threw another slice of meat at Phantom. "She's just a cat," she said with an affectionate stare. "A beautiful cat too. Her fur is lovely, but I don't dare touch it. She wants to eat, she wants to hunt, she wants to be kept safe, like any other girl." Val let out a sigh, staring under the bed of the adjoining room.

"She might attack me, I know it's possible, but so long as I don't threaten her and as long as I keep her sated, I don't think she will. She isn't so bad."

"And if she does?" Jon took a slow step forward cautiously.

"That's why I have a sword, Jon." Her other hand never left the blade, he noticed. "I'm not stupid, but neither is she, so it's fine."

Phantom gulped down the meat with a hungry growl. Val watched, entranced, as she threw down the last of the meat. "You control her, don't you?" Val asked curiously.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "I can take her skin, or share her senses. But most of the time I don't, I can't, I—" Jon considered explaining how it was easier to control Phantom if he was in a certain emotional state, anger, but decided against, opting for a partial truth. "I usually don't have the concentration to spare for her. She's still a wild animal, and it only works so long as she's kept contained or isolated any time that I'm not present."

"Well," Val said, "that's where the similarities between her and me end, I suppose."

Phantom took the last of the meat in her mouth back to her lair under the bed. The shadowcat disappeared into the dark. Jon could hear the shadowcat gulping down the meat. Phantom seemed comfortable enough not to lash out. He felt himself relax.

"She has mellowed somewhat," Jon admitted. "When I first found her she was feral, I dared not let her close to me unless I was in her skin, and she resisted me every time. For a while I couldn't even bring her into camp. But she has grown more comfortable around people, I think. She doesn't lash out so much. I can leave her alone for longer periods."

"And you're still nervous to be in the same room with her?"

"She's still a shadowcat."

"True."

Very cautiously, Val stood up and moved to close the door. The door thudded, and Val latched it shut. There was a splatter of blood from the meat on the stone floor. Val wiped her hands clean on her dress.

Then, without a word, she reached across and pulled Jon into her. There was a sharp intake of breath, and then their lips touched. The kiss caught him off-guard and her touch… he could feel her hands moving across his chest, causing his whole body to tremble. She tasted warm, fiery, alive.

"I'm glad you're back," Val whispered as the kiss broke.

Gods, she was beautiful. Everything about her was beautiful. She was slender, toned and full-bodied, the type of body shape that was universally stunning. Dark golden hair and pale grey eyes. Even just being in her company left Jon feeling nervous, hesitant. He tried to reply, but the kiss stole his words.

Val looked at his expression and smirked. There was a playful glimmer in her eyes.

"Have you been treated well?" Jon managed finally.

"I have indeed." She turned to look around the room. "These southron castles do not lack for luxury, I'll give them that. I even wear these dresses that they insist on placing on my bed, but you should see the queer looks they give me when I wear the sword too. And at every feast your fat lord insists on parading me through his court."

"Lord Manderly does that? Why?"

"To show off the savage wildlings dressed like 'proper' folk?" Val snorted. "Every meal it's always one knight this or noble lord that who tries to approach me."

They think you are my paramour. Jon could almost understand it too, looking at her now. He wondered how many of those in the Merman's Court could only see the beauty, and not the strength underneath. "Should I be worried?" Jon asked.

"What of? Of me entertaining one of them or gelding them?" Val laughed.

"The latter more than the former," he admitted.

"I'll have you know, I have been the picture of grace, Your Grace," she chided, with a smile. You always are. "I've been sharing their smiles, even using all of their little titles. A few have asked me to dance, but I always decline politely." She rolled her eyes. "Isn't that why we are here? To make all of these kneelers like us?"

"I am sorry for the torment you've endured. It sounds horrible."

"Well," she said with another smile. "I am sure you can make amends for it."

Jon really, really wanted to step forward and kiss her again. Gods, how I've missed her. Even the weeks of being apart had left him craving her touch. Her voice. Her scent. Her taste.

Still, he hesitated. They call her my paramour. I was only just offered a marriage betrothal by the lord of the castle who is hosting me, and here I am with another woman. It felt wrong, disrespectful, even, but….

Val paused, stepping forward. "You look tired," she noted. "How goes the march?"

"Long. Too long. If every man had a dragon to ride upon we would have reached Winterfell by now. But we are winning."

"You don't seem triumphant about it."

"It is hard to feel triumphant when the battle is not over," said Jon. "They have not been good victories."

"Ah." That word seemed to linger in the air. She paused, as if remembering something. "I have a letter for you. Two, actually, written by that old crow. He passed two or so weeks ago."

"I heard," Jon said sadly. Maester Aemon had lingered for only twelve days before succumbing to his wounds from the assassination attempt, and had been unconscious for most of that time. "He wrote to me? I'll look soon."

"Good." Val took another small step closer. "How long until you must fly out again?"

"Not long," he replied with a grimace. "Too soon."

"Very well then."

Casually, Val pulled her dress off her shoulders. In a smooth motion, she twisted her arm out of the sleeves, and her shawl fell to the floor. And then the dress itself fell too. She was not wearing any smallclothes. She bit her lower lip, a smirk playing across her eyes.

Jon was left staring at her bare breasts, mouth agape. Her skin was smooth, soft and unblemished, with full breasts. Her nipples were erect. Val quietly pulled off her belt and kicked off her dress. Jon could see the bush of dark blonde hair beneath her legs. Val's pale grey eyes didn't even twitch away from his.

There was a long moment of quiet. "Perhaps I can stay a bit longer," Jon said dumbly. Val only laughed.

He stepped forward to hold her. Their kiss was much more forceful, aggressive, hungry. Her naked body pressed against his armour. Jon's clothes had never seemed so restrictive.

Whatever hesitation, doubt or worry seemed to just vanish. Perhaps Val dragged it out of his mouth. No, Jon thought, there is absolutely nothing wrong with this right now.

Fumbling hands tried to unfasten his belt and chainmail, clumsy trying to strip his clothes off him without breaking their embrace. His cloak fell off him, and then his belt. Dark Sister clunked to the floor. Val fumbled to unfasten his breeches, yet Jon held her off.

Instead, he kneeled down onto the cold ground, his lips trailing downwards from her breasts, kissing down her navel. He could feel Val shivering as he lowered himself towards her moistness.

He could smell her. One hand was on the back of his head, pushing him into position, the other hand rubbing her own breasts.

"So," Jon whispered. "Kneelers, huh?"

"Oh be quiet," Val gasped. "And don't stop."

Jon grinned as he pressed his mouth towards her lips. Val was shivering, muffled groans from her throat as she pushed his tongue forcefully towards the right places. Jon pushed her backwards onto the bed, and she fell on her back, her thighs wrapping tightly around his head.

She was all he could taste. It was a bitter, sweaty taste that he hardly noticed. He loved that moment where she lost control, her body convulsing and the cry breaking her lips. She was normally so stiff, tight and composed, and at that moment when he pushed her to the point of breaking down… that felt special.

Val didn't scream, instead she just gasped. She would bite her lip trying to restrain herself, and all that would come out were short, raspy groans and moans, building in pitch. Jon loved that sound.

At some point, Jon's breeches were lost and he climbed into bed, into a tangle of limbs and hungry kisses. It stunk of sweat and sex, but he didn't care. He could have spent an eternity wrapped with her wrapped around her, and it wouldn't have been enough.

By the gods, how did I ever go so long without this?

Nobody disturbed them. Vaguely, he was surprised that no summons came for him from Lord Manderly, he supposed his Dragonguard must have heard the sounds and held the servants back. Perhaps that was disrespectful to his host, but he couldn't find it in him to care.

By the time it was dark outside, they were both left gasping for breath. Jon could hear Phantom scratching at the wall in the adjoining room.

She was laughing. He didn't know why, but Val was left chuckling throatily as she gasped and shivered. "Have I amused you?" Jon asked, feeling the grin spread.

"Somewhat," she replied, closing her eyes and taking deep breaths. Her hands were on her breasts as she stretched outwards across the bed. "So if you're a king and you kneel in my presence, than what does make me?"

"A goddess?" Jon leaned across her to take another kiss.

Val flicked his nose. "Flatterer," she chided, and then kissed him again.

Jon was left grinning like a fool. Something about her face, the sweat dripping from her breasts, that moment, he couldn't stop chuckling even as he kissed her again. Trying to breath, kiss and laugh all at once felt painful, but he couldn't help it.

All of the weariness and achiness from the march felt like it was creeping out of his bones. He hadn't even realised how tense and stiff he been until now, until her.

Val's long, long leg wrapped around his torso and pulled him closer, her foot stroking against his back. She grabbed his hand, and pulled it to cup her breast. It felt so comfortable, with her muscles squirming softly beneath him and the scent of her skin all around him.

"I want you with me," Jon whispered in her while as he kissed her neck. "Val… will you come with me when the host sets out?"

"What? To warm your furs at night after a long march?"

"If you'd like," he spoke between the kisses. "I don't like being apart from you. And I want to show you Winterfell."

She paused, and smiled. "Aye. Alright, let's go see this castle of yours, Jon Snow."

He froze. There was a slight shiver down his back. Those words… it made him think of Ygritte. Then Val kissed him and that thought disappeared from his mind.

"And in return," Val whispered. Her cheeks were still blushed red. "I expect more of those king's kisses of yours, Your Grace."

"Happily, my lady," Jon grinned.

Her fingers traced the scar on his chest. "I'm sure," Val whispered, smirking. With a gentle push, she shoved him around and onto his back. Val pulled herself up from the blankets. "But I can take the hint."

"Where are you…" She stood up and walked around the four-poster bed across to his side. And then she kneeled down by his legs. "Oh."

Val was still smirking. Somehow, that smirk was even more enticing that her breasts. He felt her fingers playing around his groin, running through his hair. He could already feel himself turning stiff again, and then the sight of her moving downwards between his legs, and her mouth, and her lips…

Jon groaned. His fingers clenched, and clawed at the mattress. "So…" he said, strained, as he took a deep breath. "… you lose all right to criticise southerners for being kneelers."

She looked up at him with a sour expression. "If ever you make that jest again, I'll bite you," Val warned, but then they were both grinning and giggling like fools.