Because of the Mountain's defeat, the Brotherhood Without Banners requested to join Jon's army the moment they reached Harrenhal. The request pierced the Dreadfort nobles' pride — and with it their fragile pretense of command. Jon left the Hall of a Hundred Hearths under a ripple of jealous and resentful glances to receive them himself.
Roose Bolton felt the slight keenly. The Brotherhood were Eddard's remnants — men sent by Ned Stark to hunt the Mountain. Their choice to attach themselves to Jon exposed Bolton's weakness: the ostensible "Commander of the Eastern Army" was once more sidelined. Vargo Hoat and the mercenaries watched it with the detached curiosity of those who buy advantages wherever they can; Bolton's discomfort coloured the air.
Jon's mind moved past Bolton's wounded ego. What interested him was the Brotherhood's Lightning Lord and his true talent: resurrection. Thoros of Myr — known for enchanting weapons and, more astonishingly, bringing the dead back when the body was intact. Jon had heard rumours: the Red Woman's darker miracles, Thoros's revivifications, Lady Catelyn's return as a thing of vengeance after the Red Wedding. He wanted to meet Thoros, to ask about the Faceless Men, and — if it could be arranged — perhaps use a Faceless Man to remove Roose Bolton quietly. But those were thoughts of contingencies; right now Jon simply welcomed the Brotherhood.
The Brotherhood's contingent looked the worse for war. They were gaunt, their armor mismatched and half-falling, their collars smeared with grease and grime. Their faces were sharp as a bladesmith's edge. Jon did not mistake their poverty for weakness; guerrilla fighters who survive on raids and ambushes carry a cold hunger in their eyes — the kind that makes men dangerous.
A man with a headscarf and one empty eye stepped forward. He was Lord Beric Dondarrion of Blackhaven — once ordered by Eddard to hunt the Mountain, once slain by the Mountain at the Mummer's Ford, and once returned by Thoros. Death had bullied him many times; Thoros had pulled him back each time. Beric paid no heed to Jon's bastardry. Killing the Mountain earned a soldier's respect regardless of bloodlines. "You must be Jon," he said and asked simply to see the demon's head. Jon joked — call it a chamber pot if you like — and the camp laughed. The ice broke.
Jon scanned the Brotherhood and found Thoros: a bald man, with a missionary's intensity and a weathered face shot with white in his reddish-brown beard. The Lightning Lord carried a quiet gravity; Jon held back on introductions, letting courtesy open the way. He showed respect to every Brotherhood representative, keeping his humour and temperate manner; it earned him more points than armor ever could.
Jon invited them to the Tower of Dread: food, wine, a place by a hearth. The Brotherhood accepted. Beric told Jon they numbered fewer than two hundred. He had been resurrected many times; each return cost something in memory and self, but his courage remained. Beric's matter-of-fact tone and readiness to join Jon impressed him.
When Jon prepared to question Thoros about the mechanics and limits of his resurrection, Beric surprised him with a question of his own: when did Jon plan to strike at King's Landing? The Brotherhood had pulled many Riverlanders under its wing; their hunger for vengeance burned hotter than the North's. Beric's political instinct was sharp; as a man who had lived parts of his life close to King's Landing, his sense of the larger game was keen.
"Renly is dead," Beric reminded him. "If Renly had lived, there might have been wiggle-room. Now Stannis stands as the rightful claimant. He will not let the North's independence slide without striking."
Jon knew that already — and he had tried to stop the coronation that birthed this problem. The Northern nobles had chosen, and the choice had consequences. Beric's hand poured Jon wine and said plainly, "This is why I join you, not just because you killed the Mountain."
Jon looked at Beric and felt something rare: kinship. The Brotherhood's brand of justice — raw, improvised, and furious — fit the loose arc of Jon's own needs and ambitions right now. Allies like these paid in danger and devotion rather than titles; they could be honest and useful in ways polite lords never were.
The Tower of Dread's hearths burned while plans and politics mixed with the smoke. Outside, Harrenhal's stones waited like sleeping teeth. Inside, a loose and dangerous fellowship gathered around a young commander who had just proved he could kill gods — or monsters shaped to be gods. The war wound on, an
d so did the alliances.
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