15 North of the Wall

"Easy does it! Easy does it!" The massive sled lurched forward slightly, nearly hacking off limbs and crushing bodies. "Hold it steady, you fucking lummox!" Tormund Giantsbane snarled at the giant. "I almost got me leg crushed! Keep that beast cunt in line." He got a roar of answer from the bearded giant, but nothing else. No one messed with Tormund, even one 25 feet tall.

Making sure the towering lummox kept the mammoth calm, Jon went back to unloading sacks from the sled. "Those things make good beasts of burden," he remarked offhandedly to his… friend? Tormund tolerated him well enough, not nearly as much as Ygritte - Jon shuddered at the thought of Tormund in that position - but aside from a general abrasiveness the relationship was more of a benign rivalry. Styr on the other hand… he'd eat Jon as soon as look at him.

Tormund simply snorted. "Aye, once you beat the wild out of em." A belly laugh left his throat. "One thing about us north of the wall, ya can never beat the wild out." Jon had to agree. The northerners were practically Essosian nobles compared to the Free Folk.

"I wouldn't attempt to try," Jon deadpanned. He placed the last pack down, filled with chopped firewood. Far better than the dried mammoth dung chips. They had plenty of those, but they smelled rancid - and from someone that grew up near stuffy northern stables, rancid for Jon was rancid.

"You better not, crow. I'd make a worse foe than a charging cunt beast."

"Jon Snow barely survived that time, didn't he?" Feeling a punch on the shoulder, Jon rolled his eyes. Some people expressed their affection in different ways. Some, such as Sansa, would kiss on the cheek. Some, such as Arya, gave off affection in the form of physical attack. Ygritte was among the latter. "Now excuse me Tormund, he's mine now. Unless your shit hide has something else?" A half-mutter, half-growl left Tormund's lips. Intelligible, but from how Ygritte pulled him along, Jon felt that it meant he didn't need him anymore.

As night fell, the tent the two of them shared - chastity among the Free Folk were a recurring joke, much like the Dothraki - had a roaring fire going in the center. Jon hated himself for succumbing to his baser desires with Dany still out there, with his love for her still strong. 'She's better off without me though.' A bastard was not fit for a queen. Fit for her bed perhaps, but not by her side. "I long to see the land beyond the wall," mused Ygritte, allowing her hard exterior to slip off. "To see the forests where the leaves fall, where the snow doesn't carpet the ground." She sat next to him, a cup of steaming coffee - or whatever the wildling's figured was coffee - gripped in her fingers. "To sit outside all night to watch the stars. The great hunter must look amazing while doing so."

It took a while for Jon to realize what she was talking about. "We call it 'Azor Ahai' back home." He put his hands close to the fire, seeking out the toasty warmth. "If you do go over the wall, my brother would probably hunt you all down." It wasn't personal, just a statement of fact. "Wildlings are hated for their raids and piracy, killing and stealing everything not nailed down."

A low laugh left the wildling's lips. "You still know nothing, Jon Snow." Pouring yet another steaming helping into her clay cup, Ygritte looked Jon in the eye. "We don't seek to get over the wall for greed. Our lives depend on it."

Eying her warily, inwardly Jon filed away every word. "In what way? Life here is hard, but we're all making due."

"When winter comes, Jon Snow, it will be unlike any winter in a thousand seasons." Pulling him to her, the two of them clung to each other. Holding the shaking Ygritte, all Jon could see when he closed his eyes was a pair of azure blue dots glowing in the distance.

'Winter is coming.' Did the motto of his House exemplify the answer well enough?

Hoofbeats filled the din of the small forest road - more of a sunken clearing through the trees rather. "What the bleedin' fuck are you fucking about for?!" hollered the team leader. "Walder Frey isn't paying us half our weight in gold to mill around like idiots." He was paying the bounty hunters handsomely to find Robb Stark - and would have an even bigger reward for the team that brought him to the Twins dead or alive. Janos Clint could just taste that reward, and would slit a thousand throats to get it before the other teams did.

"Thought I heard something in the brambles," replied the trooper, spear out as he peered through the bushes while still on horseback.

"It's fucking nothing!" Clint screamed back. "We have a bead on the cunt. He's headed to the Westernlands. Either you get on his tail or I kill you myself." Scowling, the trooper nevertheless complied.

With the hoofbeats nothing but faint memories, Robb finally emerged. His heart was racing, eyes wide and scanning for any form of human life. 'Nothing.' Even alone, the former King in the North turned fugitive refused to let his guard down. Months of little sleep and constant panic left him near emaciated and fatigued. But he kept going.

Why, he did not know. He had essentially lost everything. His father's title, his title, his land, his wife, his child… But something kept him going.

After managing to crawl out of the collected feces of the Twins - the bouts of vomiting had been intense afterwards - Robb had headed due south, deeper into the Riverlands. Frey and Bolton likely expected him to go north and stick on the banks of the Trident to get across, so he did the exact opposite. Now, the bounty hunters were following him here.

Waiting for nightfall, the cloudless night easily exposed the North Star. Robb knew his path: Castle Black. 'If there's any refuge for me, it's with Jon.' He only hoped his brother was still alive. Or that he'd stay alive long enough to find him.

Disaster had struck - the entire city was in uproar. An Unsullied commander, one well liked in his occupation district for his fairness to all sides, had been found murdered in an alley. Tips led to the whore that helped set up the killing, and other tips led Daario and Grey Worm to find the murderer hiding in the wall of an inn. In custody, the assassin was identified as the second son of a prominent nobleman, one of the 30 hardliners Dany had singled out to execute for their support of the slave crucifixions. And, causing her the most grief, he was a member of the Sons of the Harpy. Relegated to raiding supply convoys and killing freedmen, now they were more directly targeting the Targaryen forces.

Something had to be done, but her small council was divided. Ser Barristan reminded her to resist the same course of action as her father, to hold a trial. It went against her initial instinct that had led to the crucifictions and the burning of Astapor. Needless to say, many agreed with that initial instinct.

"A trial is just a waste of time, Mhysa. Due process…" Mossador protested, borrowing the word from the common tongue, albeit it being a rarely used one at that. "Means nothing to the Masters, or freedmen. All they understand is force!" His intelligence and passion for his fellow freedmen had impressed Daenerys (joining other top freedmen such as Grey Worm or Missandei), leading to his appointment to her council as a representative of the community. "He should be executed tomorrow." Both Daario and Jorah nodded, agreeing with the sentiment.

Taking a drink from her water goblet, sunlight glinting from both the liquid and golden rim, Daenerys pondered the quandary. There was a dividing line, Mossador, Daario, and Jorah standing on the side of summary execution while Barristan, Hizdahr zo Loraq, and Hizdahr's father in favor of a trial. Pleasing one side would alienate the other, and with the Sons of the Harpy running about that was dangerous. Ruling was not easy, and she had heard her brother Rhaegar often say that the reason no one placed a cushion on the Iron Throne was to remind a ruler of that fact. "Grey Worm." Her Unsullied commander clicked his heels in acknowledgement. "You are a freedman. What say you?"

"If you wish for deterrence, killing him is the only way."

"Khaleesi, may I speak." Eyes turned to Missandei, who received a nod from her queen. "If deterrence is your goal, then agree with those arguing immediate death. But Ser Barristan makes a point about honor, and respect. I have been beside many leaders in my life - some less noble than others - but the only thing keeping them together was belief and respect in themselves. If you cannot abide by what you choose, then you do not deserve leadership, Khaleesi." Silence rested in the conference chamber following Missandei's blunt words, the interpreter having care to hang her head in humility. Daenerys glanced at her other advisors. Grey Worm seemed impressed, while the others were a mix of shocked and… uncertain. Barristan's tale of her father, the Mad King, weighed heavily. 'He had killed the two Starks without even a hint of legitimacy. The grandfather and uncle to my beloved. To my children.' Could she live with herself if she made a decision similar to his in the most important respect? Daenerys did not know.

Luckily, one person spoke up at that time. "Your Grace, there may be an alternate avenue of decision," said Theodosius, Barristan's nephew. While mediocre as a soldier, he exhibited a genius in innovation and tactics. He and Daario were responsible for Yunkai's fall, and certain modifications to weapons brought from the far east had greatly assisted the slave rebellion that put the Targaryen banner atop the Great Harpy. As such, Dany appointed him her Master of Science - it was rare he stepped out of his workshop ever since.

"Speak, Ser Theodosius."

Given the floor, he looked her straight in the eye - confident, it impressed her greatly. "I believe that you must do the honorable thing, and have a trial for the prisoner." Mossador glared at him with daggers in his eyes, Daario smirking, as if saying Theodosius was an idiot. "You must be shown as just, if only to counter the perception of your… ancestors once you return to Westeros." He did have a knack for tactics, Dany admitted. "The judges must be three, one from the masters, one from the freedmen, and one not of Meereen."

It seemed reasonable. "And how would you then deter further violence?"

"Not with the trial, your Grace. One must look elsewhere." A small smirk rested on his face. "The Unsullied are too valuable to you to waste on garrison duty. They should be the tip of your spear, and have no source of replacement." Grey Worm said nothing, but Dany knew it to be true. They were powerful, but irreplaceable in the short term. "The Second Sons… they are nothing but sellswords."

At that, Daario was on his feet. "My men are the elite. I'd like to see you last one minute in a fight with the worst warrior among them." The outburst caused Dany to frown. Daario was… sweet in his own way to her, but rarely got along well with her advisors. His skill on the battlefield and loyalty kept him in her esteem, however - such was what caused her, in a moment of weakness, to accept him in her bed. Missing Jon, wine proved itself a bad idea for loneliness. It was no question that he wanted it to happen again, but Dany rebuffed every hint thrown at her since.

"I meant no disrespect, Ser Daario," Theodosius said, but the sparkle in his eye belying how he did intend to. "But they are sellswords. What Meereen needs to keep the Sons of the Harpy in line is something special. Something unique. I propose that we train and arm able bodied men in the freedman community." He let the point sink in, a pregnant pause lasting for several moments. "As my illustrious colleague Mossador has said, the former slaves of Meereen are loyal to their Mhysa. I expect them to flock to the cause - less powerful than the Unsullied for sure, but an untapped pool of hundreds of thousands that can easily be replaced if lost."

His cavalier regard for the replaceability of her people notwithstanding, Daenerys found the plan a welcome one. As the table descended into mindless squabbling, she noticed that the pro-trial side felt this to be an insult while the summary execution side wasn't placated enough. "This solves nothing about the treatment the masters gave us!" Mossador hissed.

"I would think having your own men in arms would lessen your fears," countered Theodosius.

"There will be a massive outcry. The people will be up in arms!" Loraq Senior wailed.

"If they weren't already in arms, then we wouldn't be here now would we?" asked Jorah.

"Enough!" Had she been alone or had less self control, Dany would have laughed merrily. "When neither side is satisfied, that means the plan is the right one. You may have your auxiliary force, Ser Theodosius." Offering her a small smile, he bowed, eyes twinkling with ideas. "Ser Jorah, you, Mossador, and Loraq will be the judges in the prisoner's trial, to be held tomorrow."

"It is an honor to serve you in any respect, Khaleesi." Jorah was on board, Loraq the younger seemed resigned to his fate, while Mossador glowered but swallowed the bitter pill. Dany resolved to have a talk with him before sunset.

The room emptying, Dany was left alone with Ser Barristan. The grizzled warrior had lost none of his skill, and quickly joined Jorah and Missandei as one of her top confidants. "That was not an easy decision to make, your Grace." He found a spot on the stone wall to lean on, close to where she sat on the window ledge looking out at the city. "You did the right thing."

"Your nephew made it easier to do so, in all fairness," Dany replied with a wry grin. "The freedman levies will assist greatly when I finally land on Westeros." Her eyes flickered back to the city. Above, she could see Edderon and Balerion soaring high in the sky. Her white-scaled child dove steeply to the sea - fishing. He was joined soon after by his brother. A tear pricked her eye. "Do you think Rhaegal is safe?" It had been months, and there was no sign of her child.

"I'm sure he is, your Grace."

"I couldn't bear to imagine him dead." A horrible thought came to mind. "I will not lose any of my children, Ser Barristan." The flash of Targaryen resolve glowed in her eyes.

Nodding, he placed a hand on his heart. "I will defend all of them with my life." His own eyes softened. "Young Rhaegar… I didn't know his father, but I knew Ned Stark. I see much of the Stark nobleness in him. He's brave, but has honor."

A warm feeling passed over Dany, remembering her Stark.

"He reminds me of your brother as well, Arya too. There isn't a man I knew more closely than Prince Rhaegar - the stories they tell… it's just not him."

"Tell me about him, what kind of man he was." All she had heard were either the normal horror stories or the skewed stories Viserys pushed on her.

A wistful smile crossed Barristan's face. "He was a strong warrior, skilled at fighting. But he hated it. The Prince loved the simple arts, especially music. He would play his fiddle all day sometimes. Often, he and I would sneak into Flea Bottom in disguise and play for the children." Dany beamed at the story, loving the side of her family not mired in conquest and madness. 'I would live a life like that if it meant I could be with Jon," she thought. Then, Barristan's smile changed. "You need to talk to Ser Jorah."

Daenerys cocked her head. "Jorah? Why?"

Standing, Barristan was back to pure formality. "I heard things at home, your Grace, things I have just now pieced together. Ask him where his real loyalties lie." And with that, he walked out, leaving Dany to ponder his warning.

It was called the 'Blue wind' in the words of the Free Folk. Jon didn't understand the meaning of it, and everyone laughed at him when he asked about it. Blizzard, swirling winds and snow drifts as far as the eye could see - which wasn't far. Vision was restricted to only an arm's length in front of the eyes at the worst point. Wildling tents were built for weather like this shrieking in from inland, allowing the hardened inhabitants of this godsforsaken land to ride it out. Dressed in the thickest furs, rations and Longclaw strapped to his back, the blue wind made a perfect cover for Jon to escape.

Snow clinging to his scraggly stubble, Jon took one last look back at Hardhome. The blizzard obscured… everything, but he could still make out the walls. His mission - if it could be called that - was a wash. Jon was now an expert on the Wild… Free Folk. Their culture, customs, lifestyle, future plans… everything. 'Castle Black needs to know what's coming.' A whole army, dozens of tribes totaling nearly one hundred thousand wildlings descending on the wall. Only the best of preparations could even hope to grant victory to the Watch. On the other hand, no sight of the white walkers nor wights had been found. Whatever information he could draw out about the unknown specters had been gleaned from King Mance, Tormund, or… Ygritte.

Whether it was coincidence or the providence of the old gods, the women Jon seemed closest too were always the most difficult of the fairer sex. 'First Dany, then Ygritte.' Oh how Robb would have laughed, Arya and Bran too. A loud sigh left his lips, sound lost in the howling wind. In his time here Jon had grown close to her - even cared for her as a husband would a wife. Noble to a fault, he couldn't bear to break her heart, which as strong as she was, his leaving would end up doing.

But his heart always belonged to another. For all his aloofness and insane bravery in the face of peril, Jon Snow remained in the thrall of Daenerys Targaryen - and always would be. Selfish as it was, his relationship with Ygritte was always just to banish the loneliness. He did care for her, but she would never be Dany. 'And Dany can never be mine.' A Queen could never belong to a bastard.

"I'm sorry," he said into the vast whiteness, no one hearing him but the snow. "But I have to go home." Trudging off into the wilderness, not one part of Jon realized that deep down, 'home' referred to Daenerys.

Waking up, the redheaded archer stretched under the thick furs. The patch next to her was empty. "Jon Snow?" she called out, looking around. Feeling the chill, Ygritte wrapped the furs around her slim, nude form. Feeling a bile rise from her gut, she peeked outside. There was nothing to be seen but snow - blowing, blinding snow.

"JON SNOW!"

Above, masked by the grey-white clouds of the angry heavens, a single crow circled the ground. Two milky eyes zeroed in on the lone figure - black form visible in the swirling white mass. Far away, its handler processed everything. The hue and cry would be raised momentarily. It was now a race, time and endurance all that mattered.

Even in what was still summer in most of the world but early autumn at this latitude, the chilly wind out from the great ocean penetrated the thin cloak. 'Back in Westeros at last.' For Viserys Targaryen, it was not as he expected it - at all. In his mind there had been blaring trumpets, massive crowds throwing confetti and flowers into the path of marching soldiers ahead of his golden chariot entering King's Landing.

Instead, he had to draw the thin fabric tighter over himself, muttering low curses at White Harbor and House Manderly. Viserys hated the north, hated the cursed land and its inhabitants - especially one particular bastard. If he had his way, Viserys would kill Jon Snow himself. But first… 'There is nothing left for me in Essos.' Illyrio had abandoned him. The Iron Bank wouldn't even entertain his claim. With the North in disarray after the death of Robb Stark - any Stark's death brought a smile to his lips - the people would flock to their rightful king…

Not looking where he was trudging, Viserys was knocked to the ground. Hunched above him was what would be a handsome man in his prime apart from the hobbled gait, trembling form, and faraway eyes. He apparently led a group of horsemen.

"Reek!" demanded the leader. "Watch where you're going. And who is this shit?" The heavy northern accent masked what Viserys figured was an authoritative demeanor. "Fegan, get him out of here." Down descended a burly fellow with bulging muscles, marching to where Viserys cowered.

"What the hells?" The guard grabbed Viserys' gloved hand, causing the fallen Prince to howl - the burns still hadn't completely healed. "E's got gold on 'is arms." Grabbing up the battered rucksack, he pulled out the glinting blade. "A pretty fine sword too."

The leader dismounted, advancing. "Let me see that." Inspecting the sword with pensive, peering eyes, Viserys felt a sinking dread as his milky eyes twinkled with recognition. "Reek, come forward." The hobbled, broken shell of a man obeyed his master. "Tell me, what is the inscription on the sword?"

Trembling, shifting eyes avoiding eye contact with anyone, he finally spoke up in a meek yelp. "Fire and blood. It's… Valyrian, but recognizable. It has a dragon head."

Smiling, he patted the man's head as one would pet a dog. "Good job Reek." A malevolent grin spread out over Ramsay Bolton's face. His mind raced with all that could be gained from this, once far-fetched notions now charging into the realm of the possible. "Well call me a bitch. Get the chains Reek, we're going back to Winterfell. Looks like I found me a Targaryen."