“Can I get you some more? Don’t be so damn shy, this is my village,” Tormund grinned, watching Jon scrape the last of the soup from his wooden bowl. Jon sat by an open fire pit. Surrounding him were dozens of dilapidated shacks that resembled a nomadic camp.

  The houses were constructed of pine wood, their walls made of various animal hides loosely lashed together; they bulged and shivered against the biting wind. Encircling the village was a sharpened palisade over two meters high. It looked more like a military outpost than a place to live. The Free Folk in the village all looked upon Tormund VI with visible respect. The direwolf lay sleeping by the fire, whimpering occasionally and paddling its paws in the air, seemingly lost in a dream.

  “Thank you, I’ve had enough,” Jon said, placing the empty bowl on the ground and wiping his mouth.

  “Your resting place is over there. If you’ve nowhere else to go, you can stay with us,” Tormund VI offered, his wide eyes fixed on Jon, waiting. After all, Jon had been a dear friend to his ancestor, Tormund.

  Jon took a branch and poked the fire, coaxing the flames higher. He shook his head. “No, I cannot stay. It would put everyone here in danger.”

  “Danger?” Tormund exclaimed in surprise, waiting for an explanation.

  “Yes. I am the man Bran and the Night’s Watch are hunting. If I stay, he could lead the Watch here at any moment. The Night’s Watch—the Sworn Brothers—they aren’t what they used to be. I’ve seen them slaughtering Free Folk,” Jon said sadly, memories of a distant past flickering in his eyes.

  “Bran? He couldn’t possibly know where we are,” Tormund said, shaking his head and sending a few snowflakes tumbling from his beard.

  “Why?” Jon asked, straightening his back and leaning toward Tormund.

  “Because we have the Hawk’s Eye,” Tormund grinned. He reached into the layers of his thick furs and pulled out a blackened pendant shaped like a hawk’s eye.

  “This is an ancient charm of our ancestors. It hides the nomads from the prying eyes of evil gods. Almost everyone in this village has one,” Tormund explained, fingering the pendant.

  “Tell me more,” Jon urged, his eyes locked on the necklace.

  “That’s all I know. If you want the full story, you’ll have to see the village witch,” Tormund pointed toward the most substantial-looking tent at the center of the camp. Atop the tent sat a wooden hawk, its sharp talons clutching a crow. A three-eyed crow.

  A strange sensation washed over Jon. This was perhaps what he needed to understand—or know—to calculate his next move, including the assassination of his half-brother. Jon stood up quickly and strode toward the tent, glancing back at Tormund. “Take me to see the witch.”

  Tormund let out a booming laugh and stood up, overtaking Jon in a few strides. As they drew closer to the tent, the sound of a woman’s moaning reached their ears. It was the sound of mating—the kind that stirs the wildest instincts in men, driving them to frenzy. But there was something else in these moans; they sounded ancient and wheezing, like an old man coughing in the night or a dying person gasping for their final breath.

  Tormund stopped and held out a hand to bar Jon’s path, looking embarrassed. “Wait a moment,” Tormund whispered. Jon halted, his face flushing. In that moment, his mind flashed to Dany. He tried to push the thought away, but the moaning made it impossible to stop thinking about his Queen—the woman he had knelt to, sworn his life to, and ultimately murdered. Instinct and guilt warred within him, making him feel like a wretch. No decent man would act as he had: one moment sharing tender love, the next driving a blade into her heart.

  Jon took deep breaths, trying to suppress his instincts and his inner torment. He regulated his breathing, redirecting his self-loathing toward Bran—his cursed brother who had caused all of this. He tightened his grip on the hilt of Longclaw. Even if it cost him everything, he would find a way to settle the debt Bran owed him. Only then could he close his eyes and leave this godforsaken life. A dog’s life. The line of the wolf. Bullshit, Jon cursed internally.

  “Calm down,” Tormund said, misinterpreting Jon's agitation.

  “I’ll find you a fine lass later, just stay calm,” Tormund whispered in his ear. He assumed Jon was losing his mind from being on the run so long, craving the warmth of a woman—soft breasts and wet, fertile caves. Thinking of it, Tormund felt his own blood stir. He glanced toward a nearby hut where the widow Kayleigh lived alone. “Wait here for me,” Tormund patted Jon’s shoulder and bolted toward her house.

  Jon stood alone outside the witch’s tent, looking up at the sky. It was a murky, dull grey, mirroring his own mood.

  Soon after, the sound of the tent flap rustling caught his attention. A man about Tormund’s age stepped out awkwardly; a closer look revealed a hint of terror in his sunken eyes. Clutching his trousers, the man hurried away, avoiding Jon’s questioning gaze. Like Tormund, he vanished behind the shacks in an instant.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Jon took a breath and pulled back the dried buckskin curtain, poking his head inside. A foul stench made him gag. It was a nauseating cocktail of sweat, sex, and rotting food—rank and fishy.

  “What do you seek?” a voice rasped. It was old and weary. A woman’s voice.

  “I want to ask about the Hawk’s Eye,” Jon replied, hesitating at the entrance. Half of him wanted to enter; the other half wanted to run. Instinct told him this tent was a dangerous place for men.

  “Come in. I won’t eat you,” the ancient voice called out.

  Jon took the risk and slipped inside. The buckskin flap fell shut behind him. Inside, a flickering lamp hung from the center. In the far corner, a bed made of woven branches was covered in various animal pelts. The interior was draped with bizarre objects: dried rats hanging from strings, wolf skulls on a table with white fangs and hollow sockets, and moldy wooden cups. Two or three necklaces like Tormund’s hung from the center post.

  An old woman scrambled down from the bed. She pulled a cloak over her wrinkled body, covering breasts that sagged to her navel. Her hair was matted and foul-smelling, and the skin on her thighs looked as though it might slough off like a thick liquid in a fragile bag.

  Jon nearly retched and took a step back.

  Wrapping her cloak tight, the old woman grabbed a staff and tottered toward a wooden table. She sat down, looking into a mirror and smoothing her thinning white hair. Jon’s eyes widened; above the mirror hung a necklace set with a hexagonal ruby. His spine went cold. He realized this woman might be a Red Priestess of the Lord of Light. Pieces of the puzzle began to click into place in his mind.

  Seeing Jon staring at the necklace in the reflection, the woman reached out, grabbed it, and tucked it into a nearby box.

  “Are you a Red Priestess?” Jon asked, watching her movements.

  “Some things cannot and should not be explained. Who I am matters not; what matters is what you want and what you need,” she replied.

  “You are a messenger of the Light. You stayed here in the North to protect Dany from Bran by teaching the Free Folk and the Giantsbane line to make the Hawk’s Eye charms.” Jon grew agitated, speaking as if he had finally unraveled the mystery.

  The old woman smiled at her reflection but did not answer. She didn't deny it, either. Jon took her silence as a confession.

  “Then why didn’t you resurrect Dany immediately? Why wait three hundred years?” Jon demanded, stepping toward her.

  Again, silence. She simply sat there, combing her sparse hair. Jon’s patience wore thin; he needed answers.

  Just as Jon moved to confront her, a horn blast echoed from outside. Then came the sound of thundering footsteps.

  “Cavalry! Cavalry is coming!” The shouts from outside startled Jon. Has the Night’s Watch found the village? he wondered.

  Putting the mystery aside, Jon exhaled sharply and pushed his way out of the tent. He unsheathed Longclaw and ran toward the men gathering at the village gate. In the distance, he saw a force of several hundred horsemen slowly emerging from behind the trees.

  Tormund ran out, one hand holding up his trousers and the other gripping his axe. The direwolf ran at his heels, eyes red and fierce. “What the fuck is this? I was just getting to the good part!” Tormund cursed loudly.

  The village’s fighting force—over a hundred strong—blocked the gate, waiting for the approaching riders. Jon and Tormund stood at the front, weapons drawn and alert.

  “When they reach that rock, the archers attack. The pike team behind us: when the cavalry charges, the front line retreats behind the gate, and you push the stakes forward to create a wall. When the first horses go down, everyone charges,” Jon commanded loudly.

  The men around Jon and Tormund exchanged looks. They didn't know who this stranger was to be giving orders. They all turned to Tormund.

  “Dammit, do what he says! What are you staring at?” Tormund roared. The men nodded, their doubts silenced.

  The air was thick with tension as Jon gripped Longclaw. For the first time in centuries, he felt the warmth of fighting alongside brothers-in-arms. It chased away the crushing loneliness he had endured—the life of a lone wolf hiding in the shadows.

  However, Jon and Tormund noticed something odd. The cavalry wasn't charging; they were moving slowly, in formation.

  “They’re traveling, not deploying for an attack,” Jon whispered to Tormund.

  “It’s House Wull!” a man at the back shouted, spotting the banner of three wooden buckets.

  “House Wull has no quarrel with the Free Folk!” another cried.

  The tension broke. Weapons were lowered as the riders reached the gate. The leader of the troop turned to the man beside him. “Is this the right village, Uncle?”

  “Aye, this is a place I could never forget, lad. Right where I’m standing, I once bedded an old crone,” the man replied.

  “Marrok the Crone-fucker! It’s really him!” one of Tormund’s men cheered.

  “Bastard!” Marrok barked back, glaring at the laughing soldier.

  “Who is in command here?” Kenvin Wull asked, nudging his horse forward.

  “He is,” Tormund said, pointing straight at Jon.

  Kenvin tilted his head, studying Jon for a long moment before smiling. “Brother, I am Kenvin Wull, Prince of the North. I am pleased to inform you that the Night’s Watch has been destroyed. The Wall’s gates are now open to our brothers of the Free Folk. Your days of hiding are over. Now is the time to wash away the bitterness that has lasted far too long. We march on King’s Landing to topple the crippled Pope, Bran. Who is with me?”

  A wave of shock and joy swept through the crowd. For years, they had lived like rats to escape the hunt sanctioned by Brandon Stark. Now, they were truly free—free to live, to move, and to fight. They all turned to Tormund VI, who in turn looked to Jon.

  Jon knew he had only one goal: to kill Bran. He looked up at Kenvin. “The Free Folk fight for themselves. They kneel to no one.”

  A flash of anger sparked in Kenvin’s eyes, but he suppressed it quickly. Flashing a bright smile, he extended a hand toward Jon. “The Free Folk shall remain free and fight for their own ideals. What do you say to an alliance, friend?”

  “A Northern Alliance,” Jon replied.

  Kenvin nodded approvingly. “The Northern Alliance. I like it. Very much. Now, forgive me, but how should I address the leader of the... well, the soldiers of the Free Folk?”

  “Jon Snow,” Jon replied.