The next day brought with it the arrival of the Mountain Clans of the North, a sight that immediately stirred whispers among the southern lords and ladies. These fierce clansmen, known for their wild, untamed nature, marched into Wintertown with all the ruggedness and raw strength that the South had only heard about in tales. They were dressed in thick furs, animal skins, and heavy cloaks, their faces painted in vivid colors that represented their clans. Many carried massive weapons—axes, war hammers, and swords that looked almost too heavy to wield—and their presence exuded the raw spirit of the North.
To the Southerners, especially the Reachmen, they were the very definition of what the South perceived as Northerners: fierce, uncouth, and unpredictable. They moved through the streets of Wintertown like a storm, their voices loud and boisterous as they greeted one another with bear-like embraces and hearty laughter. For the more refined guests from the Reach, this display of unrestrained camaraderie was both fascinating and unsettling.
Lynesse Hightower, ever the gracious hostess, saw an opportunity to educate the Reachmen about the Mountain Clans, using her years of experience in the North to explain the significance of each clan. "That's the Flint clan," she said, gesturing to a group of warriors whose faces were painted a deep green, "they're known for their expert tracking and their loyalty to the Starks. And over there, the Norreys, fierce in battle and masters of the highland terrain. The Wulls are the largest of the Mountain Clans, and those are the men to watch if you ever find yourself in a fight."
The Reach lords and ladies nodded politely, though it was clear they were still uneasy around the clansmen, who paid little attention to the airs of politeness or decorum. As if to emphasize this, one of the Flint warriors, a hulking man with a wild beard and a great axe strapped to his back, strode up to Samwell Tarly and greeted him as though they were old friends.
"Sam Lothbrok!" the Flint bellowed, clapping Sam on the back with enough force to nearly send him stumbling. "We've heard of your battle powers as well as how you built a castle for Starks! You're a hero of the northerners!"
Sam, his face a mixture of shock and pride, managed a polite smile, but before he could respond, the warrior grabbed a pot of yellow paint from his belt and smeared it across half of Sam's face. The clansmen around him cheered, laughing and clapping as they welcomed Samwell into their fold.
Margaery Tyrell, standing nearby, covered her mouth to hide her amusement as Sam stood there, frozen in surprise with one half of his face painted bright yellow. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, Sam seemed to take it in stride, and the clansmen's affection for him only grew as they missed him very much.
"Seems like you've made an impression on them, Sam," Lynesse teased, watching the clansmen cheer him on.
"I... I didn't expect this, I almost forgot what it is to be a clan member," Sam muttered, wiping at the paint but failing to remove much of it.
The Mountain Clans, true to their nature, did not seek the hospitality of Winterfell's walls. Instead, they set up their own camp on a large plot of land outside the castle, pitching tents and lighting fires that soon filled the air with the smell of roasted meats and strong brews. They had brought with them barrels of coffee, a prized commodity in the North, which they shared liberally among themselves and with any Northerners willing to join their camp.
As the day progressed, the Reachmen found themselves increasingly drawn to the spectacle of the Mountain Clans, especially when the fighting began. The clansmen, eager to prove their strength and skill, engaged in bouts of sparring, using their axes and swords with deadly precision. Each clash of steel echoed across the camp, and the Southern lords watched with a mixture of awe and disbelief as the warriors fought with a level of brutality they were unaccustomed to seeing outside of actual battle.
At the center of the action, surprisingly, was Samwell Tarly. Having been welcomed back so warmly by the clansmen, he now found himself at the heart of their camp, standing excitedly as they encouraged him to join in the fun. "Fight! Fight!" they chanted, though it was clear to everyone that Sam had no intention of picking up a weapon.
Instead, Sam remained the reluctant spectator to a series of increasingly brutal bouts, his half-painted face marking him as an honorary member of the clan, much to the amusement of those watching from a distance. The clansmen, for all their roughness, treated Samwell with a curious mix of respect and camaraderie, and while he looked comfortable, he endured their attention with the quiet resignation of a man used to being in unusual situations.
Lynesse, observing the spectacle from a safe distance, pointed out to Lady Olenna and Margaery Tyrell the significance of the Mountain Clans' presence. "The Mountain Clans are some of the fiercest warriors in the North. Their loyalty to House Stark is unwavering, but they also respect strength and honor above all else. Jon Frost won their loyalty long ago, and they follow his example as much as they do Lord Stark's."
Margaery watched the fighting with growing interest. "They're... different from the Northern lords we've met so far. Wild and untamed."
"That's the way of the North," Lynesse said. "Strength is what matters here, not titles or bloodlines. It's one of the reasons Jon Frost commands such respect. He earned it."
Olenna, ever the sharp observer, narrowed her eyes as she watched the clansmen fight. "And yet, they seem to respect Samwell Tarly for something other than his strength."
Lynesse smiled. "The North respects more than just physical strength, my lady. They value courage, intelligence, and the willingness to stand up when it matters. Sam has those in spades."
As the sparring matches continued, and the clansmen reveled in their fights and feasts, the Reachmen and the other southern guests found themselves slowly drawn into the rhythm of Northern life. Despite the vast differences in culture, there was a strange sense of camaraderie that began to form, and even the most skeptical of the southern lords began to understand why the North, for all its harshness, commanded such loyalty from its people.
And through it all, the name of Jon Frost remained on everyone's lips, a constant reminder that in the North, there was one man whose influence touched every corner of the land. The anticipation of his return from the Wolfwood hung in the air, and both the Northerners and the Southerners alike were eager to see the man who had become a legend in his own time.
Jon Snow rode into Wintertown with a quiet, commanding presence that instantly drew attention. He sat tall on his horse, a figure both familiar and legendary to the people of the North. By his side, trotted Ghost, his white direwolf—larger than his siblings direwolfs, but it was the other direwolf that truly captured everyone's gaze. The massive black direwolf, nearly the size of a horse, padded silently alongside them, its eyes gleaming with intelligence and fierce loyalty. Those in Wintertown who had heard tales of Jon's direwolves could scarcely believe the size of the creature walking beside him.
But it wasn't just the direwolves or Jon's own presence that held the attention of Wintertown. Behind Jon rode a woman—wild, ethereal, and breathtakingly beautiful. Val, the wildling princess, was unlike any woman most had ever seen. Her long, golden hair cascaded down her back, and her eyes shone with a fierce, untamed light. Her beauty was not the delicate kind seen in southern courts but something raw and powerful, a reflection of the wild lands beyond the Wall. Clad in furs and leather, Val looked every bit a queen of the wilds, and it was clear to anyone watching that she held Jon's affection.
Margaery Tyrell, standing with her family and the rest of the southern delegation, felt her heart sink. She had thought herself beautiful, and she was—the flower of Highgarden, renowned throughout the Reach for her grace and charm. But seeing Val, Margaery knew that her task had just become monumentally harder. Val's beauty was not only undeniable but captivating, and what's more, it was clear that she already had Jon's heart in a way that Margaery could not hope to emulate.
As the small procession entered Wintertown, the cheers of the people grew louder. The townsfolk loved Jon Snow, or as they knew him, Jon Frost. He had become a symbol of the North's resilience, its strength, and its sense of justice. The large bear carcass that followed in the makeshift carriage was a gift to Wintertown, a beast Jon had hunted to provide meat for the people. His generosity was well known, and it was a tradition for him to share the spoils of his hunts with the smallfolk.
"Lord Jon has returned!" someone shouted from the crowd, and a wave of excitement spread through the gathered people.
The cheers grew louder, and the townsfolk began to chant Jon's name. Many of the children ran forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ghost and the massive black direwolf, their eyes wide with awe. Jon slowed his horse and greeted the people with a small, humble smile, his usual reserved nature in full display. He dismounted with ease and began to walk among them, Val following closely behind with a small nod of acknowledgment to those who stared at her in awe.
"Jon Frost has brought the North another gift," one of the elders in Wintertown said with pride. "A man of honor, just like Lord Stark."
Margaery watched from a distance, her mind racing. Jon Snow—Jon Frost—was nothing like the lords she had encountered in the South. He didn't play the games of court, didn't indulge in idle flattery or politics. He was honest, reserved, and deeply tied to his people. And now, with Val at his side, Margaery knew she would have to work even harder if she hoped to win him over. Jon's loyalty to those he cared about was unshakeable, and it was clear that Val already held a place in his heart that might be impossible to challenge.
Jon's attention shifted to the cheers of the children who had gathered around Ghost and the massive black direwolf. He smiled softly, kneeling down to ruffle the fur of Ghost, who nuzzled his hand in return.
"Are you going to give them the bear?" one of the children called out.
Jon looked up and nodded. "The bear will be shared with everyone. Make sure your families get their share."
The cheers rose again, and Jon stood, glancing over his shoulder at Val. "We should see to it that the bear is delivered," he said quietly to her.
Val nodded, her golden hair catching the light. She didn't need to say anything for it to be clear that she supported Jon in every way. Together, they began to move through the crowd, making their way toward the carriage where the massive bear lay.
Margaery stood watching, her mind filled with new doubts. She had expected to face challenges in the North, but Val was not someone she had anticipated. As she watched Jon and Val work together, effortlessly moving through the crowd, she couldn't help but feel the sting of jealousy. Winning over Jon Frost would be harder than she had ever imagined.
At Winterfell, Jon Snow was the center of attention, not just among the Stark family but also the Northern lords who had come to greet him. They approached one by one, offering their respects, each greeted warmly by Jon. His return to Winterfell, especially with the hunted bear as a gift to the people of Wintertown, had only increased his already high standing among the Northern houses.
As Jon spoke with the lords, Arya Stark and Lyanna Mormont soon joined him. Arya, ever her wild self, bounded over with a grin on her face, her presence lightening the mood even further. "There you are, Jon," she said with a smirk. "We were wondering when you'd show up."
Lyanna Mormont, small but fierce as ever, gave Jon a respectful nod. "Winterfell always feels stronger when you're here, Jon."
Little Jon Mormont, who had been trailing behind his aunt, excitedly rushed toward Ghost and the massive black direwolf, Shadow. His eyes widened in awe, and without hesitation, he reached out to pet the direwolves, who regarded him with calm, intelligent eyes. "They're even bigger than I imagined," he breathed, clearly enamored with the creatures.
Jon chuckled, ruffling Arya's hair. "It's good to be home."
As the Stark family and Northern lords gathered around Jon, a different scene was playing out among the southern guests. Mace Tyrell, the Warden of the Reach, watched the attention Jon Frost received with barely concealed anger. His face grew redder by the minute as he saw how the lords, highborn and lowborn alike, flocked to Jon, treating him with a respect and warmth that Mace believed should be reserved for him.
"An up-jumped bastard," Mace muttered under his breath, seething. "And look at how they fawn over him. I am the Warden of the Reach, and yet they act as though he is their king."
Olenna Tyrell, sharp-eyed as ever, noticed her son's growing anger and sighed. "Keep your voice down, Mace," she said sharply. "We are here to make a deal, not to cause trouble."
Mace, clearly frustrated, huffed. "But Mother, look at them. That boy—he's nothing, and yet they treat him like royalty. This isn't how things are done in the South."
"Perhaps that's why the North has stood for thousands of years, while southern lords squabble over titles and lands," Olenna retorted, her eyes following Jon as he moved through the crowd. She knew well enough that Jon Frost, despite his previous bastard status, had earned his reputation. More importantly, she understood that it was unwise to make an enemy of someone so beloved in the North. "We are here to secure a trade deal, Mace. If you let your pride get in the way of that, you'll find the North much colder than it already is."
Mace, still simmering, grumbled something unintelligible, but he kept quiet after that, unwilling to face his mother's wrath.
Olenna, meanwhile, continued to watch Jon closely. There was something about him that made the North rally behind him, something deeper than his Stark blood. It was his connection to the land, to the people, and to Winterfell itself. The North treated him not as a bastard but as one of their own, perhaps even more so than many legitimate heirs.
As Jon made his way toward the great hall, he was greeted warmly by each member of the Stark family. Sansa gave him a soft smile, her southern grace evident even in her reserved affection. Bran, now older and wiser, looked at Jon with quiet admiration. Rickon, still young and wild, ran up to Jon, excitedly talking about his direwolf, Shaggydog, and asking how Ghost and Shadow had been.
Author's Note:
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