Jon Snow crouched near the fire, his gloved hands held out to catch what little warmth the flames offered. The night had fallen, and with it came the biting wind that howled through the frozen wilderness. The free folk camp around him was quieter now, with only the crackle of the fire and the occasional murmur from wildlings keeping watch. Ghost lay beside him, his white fur blending with the snow, eyes glowing in the dim light.
Across from Jon, Tormund sat on a log, chewing on a piece of dried meat, watching him with his usual blend of suspicion and curiosity. The wildling leader had always been a man of instinct, and though he had agreed to speak with his people, Jon knew trust would not come easily.
"They'll follow me," Tormund said, breaking the silence. "Most of 'em, at least. Those who remember what you did at Hardhome. Some think you're still a crow, but most... they'll come."
Jon nodded, grateful for even the smallest chance of support. He could sense the weight of the decision he had made pressing down on him, the enormity of what he was about to do. Reclaiming the North, taking Winterfell—it wasn't just about avenging Robb. It was about survival, about giving the North a chance to stand against the real enemy coming from beyond the Wall.
Tormund's eyes narrowed as he looked Jon over. "You still haven't told me how you plan to do this, lad. Marching on Winterfell with a few hundred wildlings won't be enough. Roose Bolton's holed up there now, and his men are some of the nastiest bastards in the North. He's got the Lannisters backing him, too."
Jon frowned at the mention of the Boltons. Roose Bolton, the man who had betrayed Robb at the Red Wedding, the man who now wore the title of Warden of the North like a stolen crown. The thought of him seated at Winterfell's high table, in the Stark family's hall, turned Jon's stomach.
"I know," Jon admitted. "We can't do this alone. But there are still houses in the North that remember their loyalty to the Starks. The Boltons are feared, not loved. If I can rally the northern houses, we'll have a chance."
Tormund snorted. "And what makes you think they'll follow you, bastard or not? Half of them probably don't even know who you are."
Jon stared into the fire, thinking. It was true—he was a bastard. To many in the North, he was Jon Snow, the son of Eddard Stark's dishonor, not a trueborn heir to Winterfell. But he couldn't let that stop him. He had seen enough of the world to know that bloodlines didn't make a man worthy of leadership. Actions did.
"They don't have to follow me," Jon said quietly. "They just need to fight for their homes. For the North."
Tormund grunted. "I hope you're right. Because if you go knockin' on the doors of these lords without a good reason, you'll end up with your head on a spike."
Jon didn't respond. He already knew the risks. He had been preparing for them since the moment he left the Wall. But no matter what happened, he would not let Winterfell remain in the hands of the Boltons. He couldn't.
The fire crackled, casting shadows on the faces of the wildlings gathered around it. Some sat in silence, sharpening their blades or chewing on stale bread, while others spoke in low voices, eyeing Jon curiously. It was clear that many still didn't fully trust him, but they respected him for what he had done during their desperate retreat at Hardhome. That, at least, gave him a foothold.
Jon leaned forward, catching Tormund's gaze. "How soon can we move?"
Tormund scratched at his beard, thinking. "We can start marching south by dawn, but you'd better have a plan for what we're walking into. Bolton's not the kind to sit around waiting to be attacked. His men will be patrolling, looking for trouble."
Jon's jaw tightened. The thought of Ramsay Bolton, Roose's sadistic son, prowling the North sent a chill down his spine. Ramsay was a monster, and the stories of his cruelty were enough to make even seasoned warriors shudder. But Jon had no choice. If he hesitated, if he faltered now, it would all be for nothing.
"We'll stay off the main roads," Jon said, thinking aloud. "We'll make our way south and start gathering allies. We'll need to be fast and quiet. I don't want the Boltons knowing what's coming until it's too late."
Tormund nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Then we leave at dawn. Best get some rest, Snow. Tomorrow, you start your little war."
As Tormund rose and moved away, Jon remained by the fire, watching the flames dance and twist. His mind was racing with thoughts of what was to come—of the battles that would follow, of the blood that would be spilled. He thought of Robb, of the last time they had spoken before Jon left for the Wall. He had been so full of hope then, so eager to prove himself.
Now, it felt like a lifetime ago.
Ghost shifted beside him, his massive head resting on Jon's lap. Jon scratched the direwolf behind the ears, finding comfort in the familiar weight of his companion. Together, they had survived the horrors of the North. Together, they would face whatever came next.
---
At dawn, Jon stood at the edge of the camp, watching as the wildlings prepared to move. Tormund had rallied them as best he could, but their numbers were still small—a few hundred, at most. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
"Ready to be on the move, lad?" Tormund asked as he approached, his heavy axe slung over his shoulder.
Jon nodded. "We'll head for the Last Hearth first. The Umbers have always been loyal to the Starks. If we can win them over, we'll have a strong ally in the North."
Tormund grinned. "Umbers, eh? Good fighters, them. Mad as a hornet's nest, but they'll give the Boltons a proper fight, if they're with us."
Jon felt a flicker of hope at that. The Umbers were a proud house, known for their fierce warriors and loyalty to the Starks. If Jon could convince them to join his cause, it would be a huge step forward in reclaiming the North. But there was always the risk—loyalties had shifted after the Red Wedding, and Roose Bolton had a way of enforcing fear. Jon could only hope the Umbers still remembered what it meant to be true to their blood.
"Let's move," Jon said, pulling his black cloak tighter around his shoulders. The wildlings began their march, and Jon led them south, away from the Wall and deeper into the heart of the North.
---
The journey was long and grueling. They traveled through thick forests and across frozen rivers, avoiding the main roads as much as possible. The weather grew harsher with each passing day, the winds howling and snow falling in thick sheets. But Jon pressed on, driven by the knowledge of what lay ahead.
After several days of travel, they reached the outskirts of the Last Hearth, the seat of House Umber. The castle loomed in the distance, a hulking fortress of stone and ice, its walls high and imposing. Jon's heart pounded as they approached the gates. This was the moment of truth.
Tormund stepped up beside Jon, glancing at the castle with a wary eye. "Hope your Umbers are in a friendly mood, Snow. I'd hate to have come all this way just to have my head bashed in by a giant."
Jon forced a tight smile, though his nerves were beginning to show. "We'll know soon enough."
As they approached the gate, Jon raised his hand, signaling for the wildlings to halt. He stepped forward alone, Ghost at his side, and called up to the gatehouse.
"I am Jon Snow," he shouted, his voice carrying through the wind. "I've come to speak with House Umber!"
There was a long pause, the silence stretching out as Jon waited. Finally, a voice rang out from the battlements.
"Jon Snow, you say? The Stark bastard?"
Jon clenched his fists but kept his voice steady. "Yes. I've come to ask for your help. Winterfell has fallen to the Boltons. The North must rise against them."
The gates remained closed for a moment longer, and then, with a creak, they began to open.
Jon held his breath as the massive doors swung inward, revealing a group of men standing just inside. At their head was a hulking figure, tall and broad-shouldered, with a wild mane of hair and a beard to match. Jon recognized him immediately—Smalljon Umber, the son of Greatjon, one of Robb's most loyal bannermen.
Smalljon stared down at Jon with narrowed eyes. "You've got some nerve, coming here with wildlings in tow. My father wouldn't have let a crow like you near our gates."
Jon met his gaze evenly. "Your father was loyal to Robb. He knew what it meant to fight for the North