Beyond the Wall, Jon Frost moved through the icy wilderness, feeling an unfamiliar sense of restlessness settling over him. The initial thrill of bringing order to the North and the lands beyond the Wall had filled him with purpose. But now, with things in order and peace prevailing, that purpose felt hollow.
Jon had once thrived in the chaos—facing threats from criminals, wildlings, and cannibal clans. Each battle, every trial, had forged him into a fierce leader and warrior. He'd grown accustomed to the adrenaline, to the constant edge between life and death. But now, his hard-won victories had left him in a world that felt almost too still. Order reigned; law and peace held strong. The Wildlings, once his foes, now served alongside him, their old hatreds dulled under his rule. For once, he had no one to punish, no insurrections to quash, no looming threats. And that left Jon... uneasy.
As he looked out over the frozen land stretching infinitely in all directions, Jon's mind wandered back to his days at Moat Cailin. Back then, he'd felt this restlessness too—but it had been the restlessness of wanting something more, a desire to prove himself. Now, he'd achieved all he'd once thought he'd wanted. Yet, he yearned for the sharp edge of danger, for the thrill of the unknown.
Without any impending crisis, he felt oddly out of place. He wanted a challenge, something to break this monotony. Even the thought of carrying out justice, of exercising the power he held over life and death, seemed almost appealing in his boredom. He found himself seeking out disputes and grievances among his people, hoping that maybe—just maybe—he'd find a spark of the old conflicts that once kept him sharp. But even there, all was quiet.
The wildlings, seeing his growing discontent, sensed his unease, but they knew better than to voice it. They knew Jon too well; they knew his strength and his ferocity. But they also knew that a restless leader was a dangerous one. He could take risks, bring new enemies into their midst just for the sake of something to fight.
One evening, as the northern sky burned with the faint light of distant stars, Tormund Giantsbane approached him. The old warrior had seen Jon's mood shift, and he had sensed the growing tension in him.
"Something's clawing at ya, Jon," Tormund said gruffly, leaning against a post and watching Jon with sharp, knowing eyes. "What's got ya pacing like a caged wolf?"
Jon shrugged, feigning indifference. "It's... quiet."
Tormund chuckled, a rough, knowing laugh. "Aye, peace can feel like a prison if you've been a fighter your whole life. But we fought for this quiet, Jon. For this moment when our people could live without looking over their shoulder every second."
Jon gave a small nod, feeling the weight of Tormund's words. "I know. It's just... I thought peace would feel more fulfilling."
Tormund let out a low, rumbling laugh. "Happiness is fleeting in our world, Jon Frost. If you want purpose, maybe it's time to look beyond the North. There's a whole world out there—chaos, enemies, things to conquer. You don't have to sit still if it doesn't suit you."
Jon considered Tormund's words, a spark reigniting in his heart. Perhaps his purpose wasn't meant to be fulfilled here in the North. Maybe, just maybe, the peace he had brought to his people was only a step, a foundation for something even greater.
Jon Frost had made up his mind. If there was one place in the North that still resisted the pull of change, that remained wild and untamed, it was Skagos. While the rest of the North had transformed under his influence, Skagos remained as it had been for centuries—a distant island filled with fierce, unyielding people who held to their own laws, their own brutal ways. The thought of it stirred something in him—a hunger for the challenges he'd been lacking, the thrill of bringing order to the wild.
No northern lord had ever shown much interest in Skagos. The island was isolated, its people fiercely independent, and it was often considered a place best left alone. The Starks had long tolerated it as a part of the North only nominally, more out of tradition than any desire to actually rule over it. But Jon had never been one to settle for things as they were, and the more he thought about it, the more he realized how Skagos presented him with a perfect opportunity.
There were whispers of cannibalism on Skagos, of people who kept to the old gods in ways even the North had forgotten. They raised unicorns, it was said—great shaggy beasts that were unlike anything in the rest of Westeros. But Jon knew well enough that many of the stories of Skagos were just that: stories. Still, the people were real enough, and they lived under harsher conditions than most wildlings beyond the Wall. The wildlings had welcomed his rule, found a new life under his guidance. Why shouldn't the people of Skagos have the same?
Jon felt a renewed purpose as he gathered his most trusted men, those who had fought with him beyond the Wall and knew his ways. He told them his plans, and they responded with eagerness, sensing his excitement.
The journey across the sea to Skagos was rough, the waves fierce and the winds cold, but Jon felt alive again, filled with the thrill of a mission. The icy spray on his face reminded him of the untamed North, and he embraced it as a welcome change from the routines that had begun to wear him down.
When they reached the island, the scene was as wild as he had expected. Stark cliffs loomed over the narrow beaches, and rugged forests covered the hills, thick with shadows. Skagos was a land that had defied civilization, and it seemed to look down on his arrival with indifference, as if daring him to try and change it.
As Jon and his men set up camp near the shore where they had landed, they quickly noticed the richness of the sea surrounding Skagos. The waters teemed with fish, their silvery bodies flashing beneath the waves, and seals rested lazily atop the stony cliffs, their dark forms blending into the rugged landscape. The Skagosi, Jon learned, relied heavily on these resources. Seal meat was a staple of their diet, providing sustenance throughout the harsh winters when other game was scarce. The bounty of the sea had long been their lifeline, shaping their lives and traditions.
Jon's choice to bring only sixty men to Skagos was deliberate. He wanted a challenge, not an overwhelming force that would simply overwhelm the island. Each of his men was well-seasoned, having fought alongside him in countless battles. Together, they shared an unbreakable bond and a readiness for the dangers that lay ahead. But even Jon hadn't anticipated just how soon those dangers would arrive.
Only two days after they'd made camp, they were ambushed. The Skagosi attackers came out of nowhere, hundreds of them emerging from the thick forest like phantoms. Clad in rugged furs, they wielded crude but deadly weapons of sharpened stone and heavy sticks. The Skagosi war cries echoed through the clearing, and Jon felt the familiar rush of adrenaline surge through him. Here was the challenge he had craved.
Jon and his men fought with a ferocity born of survival and experience. They defended their ground, each man fighting as if this were his final stand. Jon moved like a storm, his sword cleaving through attackers, his instincts razor-sharp, every strike calculated and brutal. Despite being heavily outnumbered, they turned the tide through sheer grit and strength.
When the fight was over, the forest floor was strewn with bodies. Jon's men had lost six warriors, and ten more were injured, the aftermath of the brutal confrontation etched in the deep red stains on the ground. But the Skagosi attackers lay slain to the last, save for three who had been captured, still bound and struggling in the grip of Jon's soldiers.
As Jon looked over the battlefield, he felt a grim satisfaction. He had come here seeking the challenge of a new land, and Skagos had already proven itself worthy of his respect. But these attackers raised questions he intended to have answered. He turned to the captured Skagosi, their eyes defiant despite their capture.
"Tell me," he said, his voice low and unyielding, "who sent you?"
The captives exchanged glances, their silence a show of pride or defiance—or both. But Jon was patient. He had fought for the North, for the Northmen, and for his own sense of purpose. He would have answers, either through persuasion or force. This land would be conquered by the sword because it's the northern way.
Jon brought the three captives to the center of his camp, his gaze steady as he looked them over. These were not men who would break easily; he could see it in the set of their jaws and the fire in their eyes. He tried a different approach, questioning them calmly, hoping to appeal to some sense of honor or reason. But they gave him nothing—no names, no reasons for their attack, not a single word.
Some of Jon's men, seasoned warriors who had witnessed the most ruthless methods of extracting information, suggested a more direct approach. With Jon's reluctant nod, they began to beat the captives, trying to pry answers out of them with pain. Yet the Skagosi endured with gritted teeth and fierce resolve, refusing to give in. Jon couldn't help but feel a flicker of respect for their resilience; these were men who had clearly lived harsh lives, unbroken by even the worst his soldiers could offer.
But Jon was here for more than respect; he needed answers. He had left Moat Cailin, left the safety of the North, to bring Skagos into the fold and to challenge himself. And now, he faced resistance he could neither understand nor overcome without those answers. He made a decision.
Calling his men to clear the area, Jon ordered two of the captives to be prepared for a blood eagle—a brutal Norse execution method designed to both terrify and break the will of any who witnessed it. He had done of it before, he wanted to burn people alive but he is of Stark blood not Targaryen, but somehow fire comforted him since forever. The captives' back were cut open, ribs cracked, lungs pulled out like wings, their faces contorted in agony, even as their will seemed as unbroken as ever.
Only one captive remained, his face drained of color as he watched the scene before him, his expression changing from defiance to something rawer, filled with fear. He was strong, but not invulnerable. As he saw his fellow warriors, men he'd likely known his entire life, dying in such a terrible way, his courage faltered.
Jon leaned forward, his interest piqued as the captive—identified as Trogga—began to speak. Trogga's voice was low and rough, weighted with both fear and pride as he unfolded the tale of Skagos, a story few outsiders had ever heard.
"Everyone in the North thinks they know Skagos," Trogga started, looking around at Jon's men with wary eyes. "They think we're ruled by three noble houses—Magnar, Crowl, and Stane. But that's not the truth. Not anymore."
He took a shuddering breath, glancing back at the blood-stained ground where his fellow captives had met their end. "Years ago, a man named Thrain the Merciless came to Skagos from beyond the wall. He wasn't like the others. He didn't want to lead one house, or even three—he wanted all of Skagos under his command. He was relentless, brutal. Some say he made pacts with dark powers; others say he was simply too strong, too ruthless for anyone to stand against him."
Trogga's eyes shifted to Jon. "Thrain united the clans and houses by force, killing those who defied him, wiping out entire families if they wouldn't submit. He burned villages and enslaved the survivors, making them his soldiers or servants. And in time, even the houses bent to him. Thrain is a tyrant, and Skagos became his kingdom. He rules from the Iron Crag, his fortress in the mountains, surrounded by the most loyal—and the most bloodthirsty—of his followers."
Jon's soldiers exchanged glances, astonished. They had thought Skagos was wild and dangerous, but this…this was beyond anything they had imagined. Jon himself remained impassive, though inwardly he was intrigued. Thrain the Merciless sounded like a challenge, one worthy of his own ruthless edge.
"And you?" Jon asked, his voice calm but commanding. "Why did you attack us?"
Trogga hesitated, glancing down. "We had orders. Thrain fears anyone who comes from beyond the Wall or the North. He believes the mainland will try to weaken his hold or bring unwanted change. So, when we saw your ships, we attacked as we were told. If we didn't…"
He didn't finish the sentence, but the meaning was clear. Defiance against Thrain was a death sentence, possibly even more gruesome than what Jon had shown these captives.
Jon let the information sink in, his mind already turning over the possibilities. Skagos was wild, but under Thrain, it was also enslaved. There was a raw, vicious strength in this land, but it was bound in fear and tyranny. Jon knew he couldn't simply conquer it with brute force—this was a place that would take cunning, strategy, and perhaps even more ruthlessness than Thrain himself.
"Thank you for telling me this, Trogga," Jon said finally, nodding to his men to release the captive from his restraints. "You'll come with us to Iron Crag. If you're as strong as I think, you might survive what's to come."
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