"My Lord, Jon has already left the camp."
Roose Bolton did not turn his head. He continued studying the map stretched before him, his pale fingers tapping idly on the parchment.
"Understood."
The report came from Bolin, one of Bolton's trusted retainers, commander of the Dreadfort's elite archers. Jon had never met him directly during this return, and perhaps that was intentional. Since the matter of Howland Reed, the tension between Jon and Bolton had grown into open hostility.
Jon's martial prowess was monstrous—few doubted that—but Bolton's confidence did not lie in personal skill. Nearly four thousand Dreadfort men-at-arms stood under his command, hardened and loyal. With them at his back, Bolton knew his influence over the Northern host was unmatched. Jon could be as strong as he liked—strength alone did not move armies.
The news that Jon was traveling to the Mountains of the Moon barely stirred him. "Let him go," Roose muttered. "If those tribes could be tamed so easily, the Vale lords would have bent them long ago. He wastes his strength chasing shadows."
At that moment, a raven's letter fluttered onto his desk. The seal was his bastard son's—Ramsay.
Roose broke it open, his pale eyes skimming the words. Then, for the first time in a long while, surprise flickered across his expression.
"Oh?" he murmured, lips curving faintly. "Jon opposed Robb's coronation?"
He leaned closer to the parchment, rereading every word. Ramsay's spies rarely erred.
Slowly, Roose Bolton smiled—a cold, bloodless thing. Already schemes began unfurling in his mind, new paths by which he might unravel Jon's growing influence. A man who openly defied his king could be painted as reckless, dangerous, disloyal. Properly handled, it might isolate Jon within the Northern camp entirely.
Yes. There was much he could do with this.
---
Jon, oblivious to Bolton's plotting, set forth for the Mountains of the Moon.
He did not travel alone. Ten of Winterfell's finest accompanied him, seasoned men-at-arms who had proven their worth in battle. Alongside them came ten veterans of the mountain clans—older, slower perhaps, but strong as ironwood. Their brute endurance balanced the quick blades of Winterfell's younger soldiers.
At their head rode Jon, and beside him Kuno, a wildling woman who had once sought his aid when she was known among her people as the Fire Witch. Now she served as his guide into the high country.
Old York rode close behind, his raspy voice carrying as he launched into yet another of his endless tales.
"Do you know, my lord, the last dragon of the Targaryens was hatched in these very mountains?" York said, eyes glinting. "They called her Dawn. Poor thing died before her wings were strong. And Aegon the Third—hah! A king who feared dragons. What a sorry irony!"
He sighed theatrically, shaking his head as though mourning a lost love. Dragons were his obsession; he could recite their names, their colors, their fates with the precision of a maester.
Jon only half-listened. His mind was already moving ahead, to the peaks looming distant but drawing nearer each day. Dragons mattered little to him unless he could command one outright. A dragon egg, a symbol, a relic—what use was that against the true enemy waiting in the North?
Instead, he spoke quietly with Kuno, drawing from her what knowledge he could of the tribes hidden within those mountains.
"There are at least ten who have not yet bent knee to the Lannisters," she told him. "Proud clans, fierce warriors. They will not march for gold, but for fire, blood, and honor."
Jon's hopes stirred. Ten tribes meant thousands of spears. If even half could be persuaded, his strength would swell.
But as they traveled through the scarred Riverlands, hope soured into anger.
The devastation was everywhere—fields of wheat blackened by fire, orchards chopped to stumps, villages left as charred shells. What little remained unburnt had been trampled by the hooves of Tywin's host. Corpses lay by the roadside, unburied, left for dogs and carrion crows. Mothers carried hollow-eyed children. Men staggered with wounds that festered untreated.
Jon's jaw tightened as he looked upon the ruin.
The lords of Westeros played their games for crowns and pride, and it was always the smallfolk who bled. But Jon fought for something greater. If mankind was to survive the coming winter, their strength must not be wasted in endless squabbling.
He reminded himself again—it was not nobility that drove him. He did this so that, when the Others came, there would still be men left alive to resist. Without that victory, there would be no peace, no life worth living.
---
Days later, the jagged peaks of the Mountains of the Moon rose before them, higher than the Wall itself, stretching wide as a fortress of nature. Green ridges folded into shadowed valleys, a labyrinth impossible for large armies to march through. Only the Bloody Gate offered passage into the Vale—and with that gate closed, the Arryns remained untouchable.
But Jon's goal was not the Vale lords. His eyes were fixed on the tribes that called these mountains home.
After two more days of climbing narrow passes and fording swift streams, Jon reached the edge of a settlement. By the sense that came to him through his strange gift—what he thought of as God's Perspective—he gauged their number at three to four thousand souls.
Kuno stepped forward. "My lord, this is the Painted Dog Tribe. Let me speak with them first."
Jon nodded. "Go. Old York, accompany her."
The two advanced, and soon returned with a band of warriors in leather and rough-woven linen. Tattoos of snarling dogs curled across their arms and faces.
One among them, tall and wiry, sneered at Jon's company. His gaze lingered on the older clan veterans, and disdain twisted his mouth.
"Another pack of iron-skinned outsiders," he spat. "And they drag their elders like baggage. Why do they not give their armor to the young, as any sensible tribe would?"
Kuno ignored him, turning to Jon with formality. "This is Lord Jon. He comes to speak with our elders."
The young warrior, Harken, narrowed his eyes, sizing Jon up. He had recognized Jon as the leader at once, but his youth provoked scorn. Among the mountain clans, only strength and experience commanded respect. Outside, Harken thought, fools gave authority to boys who had never starved or bled.
"You are their leader? Their lord?"
Jon met his gaze calmly. "Something like that. They are my men. Now take me to your elders."
Harken snorted. "Why speak to them? Tell me your words, and I'll decide if they're worth hearing."
"Harken!" Kuno snapped. "Show respect. Lord Jon is our guest."
The young man grudgingly stepped aside, muttering under his breath.
Old York leaned close to Kuno. "Why not tell him outright that their Fire Witch stands with us? That alone would sway them."
Kuno frowned, lips tightening. "Harken is quick to anger. He is also the strongest warrior of our tribe. If he feels slighted, we may be turned away before we even set foot inside."
York gave the youth a measuring look, unimpressed. "Strongest? Then why was he not at the last battle?"
"Out hunting," Kuno muttered.
Soon, they entered the heart of the Painted Dog settlement. It was little more than a mountain village—stone huts, smoke curling from crude chimneys, children with dirty faces and bare feet scattering at the sight of armored strangers.
"Iron-skinned people!" the children cried, scampering to hide.
The alarm spread swiftly, but the panic ebbed just as quickly. Messengers had already gone ahead; the elders knew of Jon's coming.
At last, two men emerged. One was ancient, hair and beard white as snow, eyebrows long enough to brush his cheeks. Yet his bearing radiated authority, the weight of one who had commanded respect for decades. The other, younger, stood beside him but did not match his presence.
The elder fixed Jon with sharp, appraising eyes. "Outsider," he said, his voice carrying easily. "Our warriors have already marched. Do you come to fulfill your promise?"
Jon stepped forward. "No. I am not with the iron-skinned ones you met before. They are my enemies. Your Fire Witch stands with my army. She and I have made an agreement. From this day, I ask your people to join my host and fight beneath my banner."
The words had barely left his mouth before Harken burst forward, fury blazing.
"You stole our Fire Witch? By the Gods of the Mountains and the Moon, I'll have your head!"
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