'The link between warg and animal flows both ways, it is less like a river which only carries water in one direction, but more akin to a highway, where horses and carriages travel both ways. Much as the warg can affect the animal, the animal can affect the warg, a man who spends time in skittish animals like rabbits or deer can grow cowardly, one who spends time inside of a rabid dog will become vicious and insane with time.'
What did spending time in Zephyr do to him then? Did it make him arrogant? Aggressive? Distant?
'The effect will be minimal unless the link between warg and animal is maintained for years, if a warg were to possess an angry mother bear to save his life, he would not immediately become protective and violent. But if he was to spend many hours across many years living as an animal, the animal will gain intelligence, sociability and longevity, while the warg will grow more animalistic.'
When he first cracked open the book Baldrick had given him, he had not been expecting to find mention of his… ability in it's the pages, let alone such a detailed explanation of its many facets.
Baldrick must know I am a warg then, or at least suspect as much.He thought. Is father also a warg? Are my siblings wargs or is it a curse reserved only for the taint of bastardy?
He looked off from where he sat near the stream that ran down the mountain to the mines, around him were endless blades of grass aligned like a spearwall and opposite him a sight of the sun setting down on the rolling vistas of the evergreen Vale.
He put away the book in his bags and climbed to his feet, he had wished for an afternoon away from the mine, but soon it would get dark, and they needed to be back in Willowbrook by then.
But as he began the long climb down to the mine, Zephyr flew overhead and cawed at him, he waved the hawk off at first, but as it persisted, he stopped and crossed his arms, then grew curious enough to follow it.
It led him along a somewhat treacherous mountain path, the greenery around him disappeared and turned into jagged rocks and narrow walkways. Just as he was close to turning back, he spotted the mouth of a cave, he gave it some thought, then unsheathed his sword before going inside.
There was no bear or mountain men waiting for him, only drawings and etching on the walls, he saw badly painted men shooting arrows, he saw men with crowns and beasts of every kind, and he saw an armored man wielding thunderbolts as swords against giants and birds.
I wonder how old this is…It was clearly older than him, perhaps even older than Winterfell itself, dating back to the Age of Heroes, it brought back memories of Old Nan's stories, of heroes and monsters. He took a moment to ponder what times the men and women who painted these must have lived through, before returning to reality and continuing towards the mines.
From there, he joined the caravan heading back towards Willowbrook, along a road with which he had grown sickeningly familiar in the week they'd been here. He'd come to know every bend and tree one would pass in the thirty-minute trot, for he took the road at least twice a day, sometimes even more, as he tried to juggle both the militia and the mine.
Yet, this would be the first day they would be returning to the town with their wagons ladened, not with leftover food, a mistake they had done once or twice, nor with injured men, a result of an accident in one of the ruined houses, but with newly smelted and minted ingots of steel.
The efforts of the carpenters rebuilding shafts, the miners digging out the iron, and the smith's apprentice blasting it into steel for an entire week had netted them half a wagon full of ingots, amounting to a little less than one thousand pounds of steel.
How many wagons like this do the Gates consume? How many more wagons of other materials besides?
When the wagon finally arrived at the town square, he stood atop it surrounded by dozens of milling bodies and declared what he intended to sell. They were then near swarmed as the square descended into frenzy, quarrymasters eager for new pickaxes, farmers eager for repairs to their hoes and scythes and smiths eager to fill their reserves.
Silver flew in one direction and steel in the other, until they had parted ways with near a fifth of the pile, at which point Jon waved the eager crowd away, much to their blooming disappointment.
"There's still plenty to go around!" a merchant decried.
"The rest are for the Gates!" Jon shouted back, "There'll be more next week!"
Far, far more, two wagons' full if he had to guess, it would be enough to feed the Gates, Willowbrook and still have enough left over to arm and armor their militia.
The biggest hurdles still in their path was a lack of real miners; there were plenty of veins with no one to work them, and of the laborers they did have, most were farmers who'd never held a pickaxe before, men who struggled to maintain the same output as the experienced quarrymen.
More men working the mines would not go amiss however…
But before he retired to the tavern, he paid a visit to a local seamstress. He collected two rolls of thick cloth from her and paid her in gold for her work, though this coinage came from his personal purse, the same gold he had won in the melee a year ago.
The next day, before they set off the Gates, it seemed as though Jon's prayers had been answered as a band of over fifty commoners arrived at the walls of Willowbrrok. They looked as though they had not washed or rested in weeks, and it was not only working age men who had come, among them were many women and children.
"Good day, ser." A man from among them said, he approached him, extending a hand which Jon took. He looked to be in his forties, with a thick mustache and a head of sandy hair, the others looked towards him with a soft glint in their eyes, the same look he had seen many people give Brynden or his father. "We heard tell of a mine near here offering honest work."
"You heard right." Jon said, eyeing the crowd behind the man. "But what happened to you and your people? To push you here?"
"Clansmen." The man said, his expression turned stern and his face wore a bitter scowl. "They slaughtered half of our village and burned it to the ground, would have slaughtered us had the Arryn knights not arrived. But what was lost is lost, and though we are left penniless and landless, we remain an honest, hardworking people, our men can work your mines, our wives can wash and cook and clean, we only wish for a roof over our heads and food to feed our families, not too much food or too n—"
"You and families will have enough to eat, my good man." Jon said, waving him off, there was place aplenty for more miners producing more steel, and he had more than enough to feed all of them. "Come, I have business at the Gates, but I can introduce you to Domeric, and he can introduce you to quarrymaster."
Jon felt somewhat guilty leaving Domeric to handle them alone, but the Bolton seemed content enough to do it, and so they split up once more. Domeric, the miners and the newcomers went to the mines, Tristan and the knights would train the militia for the day, while Jon, Mya and Millicent took the road to the Bloody Gates.
The ride was quiet and the company pleasant, they spoke of the mines and the militia, of the village and its people, of the refugees and the clansmen, Millicent after some childhood friends and how they were performing in the militia and Jon asked about what progress the carpenters were making on the houses.
The answer to both was still steady progress.
"My lord Royce!" Jon called out to Nestor Royce as they rode into the Bloody Gates, the man looked to be mounting his steed, likely to ride it back to the Gates of the Moon.
"Snow? Stone? Sister?" the old man asked, his brows furrowing and his hand moving to scratch his sideburns. "What are you doing?"
"Returning with our first shipment of steel, milord." Mya declared, turning in her seat to lift the tarp and reveal their pile.
The lord moved over to look, his eyes widening as they fell on the back of the carriage, before he moved to weigh an ingot in his hands.
"I trust you can get these to where they need to get to?" Jon asked, the man was the administrative force of the Gates, distributing any resources that entered the castles fell entirely under his purview. "I must go speak with the blackfish."
"Aye, I can, you'll find him in his solar, we just finished a meeting." The lord said, his surprise fading as he nodded with respect. "Well done, Snow, well done. Come find me after for a stipend."
"I could not have done it alone." Jon said honestly, without Domeric to steer him right, Mya to organize caravans, Millicent to help him recruit and Tristan to train guardsmen at Lady Eleanor's behest, he doubted he would be riding back with a single pound of ore.
No one man can do anything alone.He thought, remembering his father in Winterfell, with Poole, Jory, Rodrik and the Maester always whispering in his ears.
He gave the man a bow of goodbye and left him with Mya and Millicent, then climbed the familiar steps leading to the Blackfish's solar. A part of him was happy to return to such familiar surroundings, another part of him wondered how it would feel to be in Winterfell again.
"I asked not to be disturbed." Brynden said as Jon cracked open the door to the solar. He stood near the table in the center of the room, neck bent and eyes scanning maps upon maps, behind him the large window showing the endless mountains and meadows of the Vale. "Jon? You're back soon."
"First shipment by the end of the week, just as you ordered." Jon said, moving to stand opposite him. "Eight hundred pounds of steel."
"Steel or iron?" Brynden asked, his eyes narrowing, the man looked much worse for wear, he had bags under his eyes and his shoulders were slumping more than Jon had ever seen them.
"Steel, we've our own smith and clay furnace, we'll have even more next week." Jon said.
"Well done, son." Brynden said, cranking his neck upwards and bringing his hand to rub his temple. "That's one last thing to worry about."
"Is the situation of the Gates so dire?" Jon asked.
"The Gates will stand, it's lands under our protection that I worry for." Brynden said. "The clansmen… I've been in the Vale a decade, and never have they been so well equipped or coordinated, never have they wrought such destruction."
A sense of dread traveled up his spine at Brynden's words, but with it came a familiar wroth, an eagerness to fight.
"How come?" Jon asked, looking over the maps, some were of the Vale proper, some were of the domains of every lord, from the Snakewoods and the mountains near Strongsong, to lands sworn to the Corbrays and those sworn to the Arryns. He saw many castles and towns drawn on them, and even smaller farmsteads and hamlets with many a figure of knights and barbarians scattered across them.
What a nightmare to navigate.Jon thought, it was no wonder Brynden looked so exhausted. And he has no Donnel or Albar or Hersey to rely on, all left to join Robar, he is left only Lord Nestor.
"They've somehow acquired steel arms and armor, enough to equip every raider they have." Brynden said, leaving Jon surprised at the news. How?"They are also in greater number than I have ever seen them, they must have discovered a safe path down the Mountains, that is to say nothing of how coordinated they are."
"How coordinated?" Jon asked.
"Look here." Brynden said, waving over to a map of Hunter lands, which laid on the far eastern coast of the kingdom . They've made it that far into the Vale?"What do you see?"
His eyes scanned the map in question, the lands near Longbow Hall were nearly untouched, but those in the far edges of their holding were grievously struck, with many crosses scratched across them. That's to be expected…If he looked more closely however, he noticed it was mostly farmsteads the raiders burned, they ignored most minor castles and towns in their path, despite having them holding greater loot and the clansmen having the strength to challenge them.
"They're only burning farmlands and smaller hamlets." Jon said, furrowing his brow as Brynden nodded. "Why?"
"I do not know, but this is not some mindless rampage." Brynden said. "And we've heard no tales of the clansmen infighting among each other."
"You speak of an alliance among the Mountain clans…" Jon said, "How do Robar's knights fare against it?"
"They crush them underhoof every time they clash, they shattered a force of three hundred a few days ago." Brynden said, "But their progress is slow and there are still many large bands everywhere in the Vale, some even close to us. I cannot allow any of them to slip into our lands."
"I can help you with this." Jon said, looking towards the older man with a pleading look in his eyes. "I am not made for this coin counting or mine building, put a sword in my hands and let me at them."
"It is what I would have of you, under any other circumstance." Brynden said, shaking his head. "But I cannot leave the Gates to look after you, and then it would only take a stray arrow to make me an oathbreaker."
"Lord Stark truly make you take a vow for my safety?" Jon asked, he had no doubt his father wished him to stay alive and in good health, but to go to such length for his safety seemed… strange.
"Your father loves you greatly, regardless of if you hold his name or not." Brynden said, looking down at the maps. "Just keep building this mine, and you'll be helping me aplenty."
"Very well." Jon said, sighing. "I did however, get you a gift, it's been nearly two years since you took me for a squire."
It was Brynden's turn to quirk an eyebrow, while Jon took off the bag from his shoulder, then pulled out and unrolled one of the two tapestries he'd commissioned from the seamstress in Willowbrook. Embroidered across it were three young children of auburn hair and blue eyes, they were smiling and running and playing by a riverside with the two girls were teasing their younger brother in the scene.
"Your nieces and nephew, I know you love them dearly." Jon said, he gave the tapestry to Brynden, whose eyes now gleamed and whose face wore a rare smile, a mirth Jon shared.
"This is incredible, I, thank you Snow." He said, taking a moment more to appreciate the scene, before he turned back to Jon. "How did you know what Edmure looked like?"
"I described you as a child, I thought you two would share many features." Jon lied, he knew Catelyn's features from sharing a castle with her for a decade and a half, he remembered Lysa from that fateful tournament a year ago, and he had gotten a look at Edmure from sending Zephyr to Riverrun to look for the heir. Two of these children would grow up to dislike me.He thought. I wonder if Edmure at least would be fond of me if we met."I also got this one."
He unfurled the second tapestry, embroidered across it were two young men near Jon's age, they stood back-to-back at different elevations, both wore armor and were wielding weapons against some unseen foe, one had the blue fish of Tully across his chest and the other, a familiar black fish.
"I know there is a rift between you and Lord Hoster, but you spoke fondly of fighting alongside him once and I thought…"
"It's perfect." Brynden said, his expression was less joyful than it had been at the tapestry of his nieces and nephews, he did not look mad or angry, more so… melancholic. "What have the years done to us, Hoster?"
"Have you ever tried making amends?"
"Would accept an apology from Robb if he had said something unspeakable to you?"
"I cannot pretend to know if I would or nto." Jon said honestly, the type of conflict Brynden had described was completely foreign to him. "But I would like to think that I would try, for the sake of the brother I once knew, if nothing else."
"Aye…" Brynden said, "Thank you again for these, Snow."
"It's nothing compared to what you've given me." Jon said, before shaking head straight. "Regardless, I must return to the mine."
"Safe travels." Brynden said, he opened his lips to speak again, before locking them shut and looking down at his maps once more. Something Jon was thankful for, though not as thankful as he was that the blackfish had not asked how Jon knew what Hoster looked like
Sometime later, Jon and Mya would ride the now empty wagon into Willowbrook, it was near nightfall and the dark streets and homes were once again alit with hearth and lanternlight. Yet at the gates of the town, he saw Domeric with the sandy haired leader of the newcomers, both were arguing, and Jon felt some unease bubble in his chest.
"What's the matter?" Jon asked, cutting between the two of them.
"We've nowhere to sleep!" the man exclaimed.
"The tavern?" Jon asked.
"Not enough rooms for all of us, they says." The man argued. "And those 'houses' in the mine are infested with mold and prone to falling! I'll not have mine spend the night in one and awake poisoned or dead."
"As I've told you, if you don't like it, you're free to sleep in the streets or the fields." Domeric said, rolling his eyes once more, though the man's lips and features tightened at the suggestion.
"This, this is not what we agreed to!" the man objected, Domeric looked ready to argue, but Jon cut him off.
"It is not." Jon said, jumping off the wagon and sighing. "And it no fault of anyone but myself for not accounting for your housing before agreeing, worry not good man, I will go speak to lady Eleanor to see if something can be arranged."
With that, Jon headed for the market square in the center of the town then for the manor at its edge, a town as rural as Willowbrook tended to doze off early, but he still ran into teenagers and lovesick couples wandering the streets and the sound of distant singing from the militia at the tavern.
He was loath to go crawling back to the lady, especially after turning away her aid once before, but he had no other options if he wished to keep his word. And so he informed the servant that opened the door at his knock that he wished to speak to their lady.
She met him in her solar, a small, quaint office at the highest floor of the manor, with few maps and lock boxes scattered around it. She wore an evening gown, and her long dark hair hung loosely at her shoulders as she sat behind the wide hardwood desk, he doubted she expected his visit, but she did not betray her surprise.
"My lady." He said, giving her a small bow of greeting.
"Snow." She said, waving for him to sit. "What brings you to my door at such an hour?"
"I…" He started, then hesitated, then figured he may as well get out with it. "I must ask for assistance in a matter, though mistakes of my own, I have fifty men and women and their children with nowhere to house them, and I do not wish for them to spend the night with no roof over their heads."
She gave his words a curious look and he groaned internally at her demeanor. Does she need me to beg?
"I know I turned down your assistance before but—" he continued, but she cut him off.
"No, no, it is not that, back then I feared you might spoil the entire operation, but half a wagon of steel in your first week is nothing to scoff at." She said. "A mistake like this, however? That is to be expected."
"I cannot claim to be a great administrator or planner."
"You're not, but the only way to improve is by doing and by repeating mistakes like this again, not because you're you, but because you're human." She said, nodding her head to him. "A beautiful thing is it not? One can only discover themselves when they fall short."
"I know that much, my lady." He said with a reminiscing grin, it not too dissimilar to his swordwork then, Greyjoy had fed him dirt a hundred times before he had finally bested the older boy. "And I have never been one to stay down."
"Not only that, but on who suffers for your mistakes. It could have been the people in your care who were punished and forced to sleep in the dirt and elements, but instead you bore the responsibility yourself at the cost of your own pride." She said nodding to him. "A bastard you may have been born ser, but you are a good man, come, we will find beds for them, in my manor or in some of our townsfolk's houses."
