Jon stood tall, his heart pounding in his chest as he faced Smalljon Umber, who towered over him like a giant. The biting northern wind whipped through the open gates, rustling the cloaks of the wildlings and the soldiers gathered behind Smalljon. The tension was palpable, like the air before a storm.
Smalljon crossed his arms, his eyes scanning Jon and the small band of wildlings that stood a ways off. "My father fought for your brother. Died for him, in fact. And now you come to the Last Hearth with wildlings at your back, talking about taking back Winterfell? You must be mad, Snow."
Jon felt the weight of Smalljon's gaze and the unspoken challenge it carried. He didn't look away. "Your father was a loyal man, and the North needs men like him now more than ever. The Boltons are traitors, Smalljon. They killed Robb. They betrayed the North. And they've taken Winterfell. That cannot stand."
Smalljon's jaw clenched at the mention of Robb, his hands curling into fists. For a long moment, neither man spoke, the only sound the wind howling through the trees. Jon could see the anger simmering just beneath the surface. He knew the Umbers were not men to forgive easily, but they were also not men to kneel to cowards like Roose Bolton.
Finally, Smalljon spoke, his voice low and hard. "You think I don't know what the Boltons are? What they've done? I haven't forgotten the Red Wedding, bastard. I haven't forgotten what happened to Robb. But my father is dead, and we've had no choice but to keep our heads down. Roose Bolton is Warden of the North now. And Ramsay…" His voice trailed off, the disgust clear in his tone.
Jon took a step forward, the cold steel of determination in his voice. "Roose Bolton is a coward. He may wear the title of Warden, but he doesn't command the loyalty of the North. And Ramsay? Ramsay's nothing more than a butcher. You know that as well as I do."
Smalljon's eyes narrowed, but Jon pressed on. "The North needs to rise. We need to take back Winterfell, for your father, for Robb, for all the Northmen who died because of the Boltons' treachery. This isn't just my fight, Smalljon. It's all of ours."
For a moment, Jon feared his words wouldn't be enough. Smalljon was a proud man, and the Umbers had always been fiercely independent. But then Smalljon let out a long breath, his gaze softening just a fraction.
"You've got fire in you, I'll give you that," he muttered. "But fire doesn't win wars. Men do. And right now, you don't have enough men to take on the Boltons."
Jon nodded, acknowledging the truth of Smalljon's words. "That's why I'm here. With the Umbers' support, we can rally the other northern houses. The Mormonts, the Manderlys, the Karstarks—"
"The Karstarks won't follow you," Smalljon interrupted, his voice bitter. "They'll side with Bolton. Their lord's dead because of Robb, and they've no love for the Starks now."
Jon's jaw tightened. "Then we don't need them. There are others. We need to unite the North."
Smalljon stared at him for a long moment, then looked past him to the wildlings gathered at the edge of the clearing. "And what about them?" he asked, nodding toward Tormund and his people. "You expect us to fight alongside wildlings?"
"They're free folk," Jon said, his voice firm. "They've fought harder battles than most of the men south of the Wall. They know what's coming. The White Walkers are real, Smalljon. You've heard the stories. The Night's Watch is readying itself for war, but we need to prepare the North. Winter is coming, and we won't survive it divided."
Smalljon's eyes flicked back to Jon, and for a moment, the two men simply stared at each other, the weight of Jon's words hanging in the air. Finally, Smalljon let out a rough laugh, shaking his head.
"Bloody hell, Snow. I don't know whether you're a fool or a madman."
"Maybe both," Jon said with a small smile, though there was no humor in it.
Smalljon's laughter faded, and he grew serious again. "Alright. I'll give you this. My men will fight. The Umbers won't stand by while the Boltons sit in Winterfell, pretending to rule the North. But if you want the other houses, you'll need more than just our support. You'll need to prove you can lead."
Jon inclined his head, relief flooding through him, though he kept his face steady. "Thank you, Smalljon. I won't forget this."
"Don't thank me yet," Smalljon growled. "There's still a lot of blood to spill before this is over."
---
With the Umbers behind him, Jon felt the first glimmer of hope since Robb's death. The wildlings and Umbers made an uneasy alliance, but it was the first step toward the larger goal: reclaiming Winterfell and rallying the North. They set out the next morning, marching south toward Bear Island, the seat of House Mormont.
Tormund walked alongside Jon, his expression skeptical. "You convinced him, I'll give you that. But you'll need more than the Umbers to win this."
Jon nodded. "I know. We'll head for Bear Island next. The Mormonts were always loyal to the Starks. Lady Maege fought beside Robb, and her daughter, Lyanna, will want revenge just as much as we do."
Tormund grunted. "Let's hope you're right. Otherwise, this war of yours will end before it starts."
Jon said nothing, but the truth of Tormund's words weighed heavily on him. They were still outnumbered, and without the support of the other northern houses, they would be walking into a slaughter. But Jon couldn't afford to think of failure. Not now.
---
The journey to Bear Island was harsh, the winds colder than ever as they marched through snowdrifts and icy rivers. The wildlings were used to such conditions, but Jon knew many of the Umbers struggled to keep pace. Still, they pressed on, driven by the same determination that had brought Jon this far.
By the time they reached the shore of Bear Island, the sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows over the snow-covered beach. Jon stood at the water's edge, staring up at the massive stone walls of the Mormont stronghold. It was a smaller keep than Winterfell, but it was as tough as the people who called it home.
"Bear Island knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark." Those words had been spoken by Lady Maege Mormont herself, Jon remembered, during the War of the Five Kings. The Mormonts were fiercely loyal, and if any house would stand with him, it would be theirs.
"Think they'll open the gates for us?" Tormund asked, his eyes scanning the fortress.
"They will," Jon said, though his voice carried more hope than certainty.
He stepped forward, Ghost padding silently beside him, and called up to the gatehouse, just as he had done at the Last Hearth.
"I am Jon Snow. I've come to speak with Lady Mormont!"
For a long moment, there was no response, only the eerie quiet of the northern wilderness. Then, with a heavy creak, the gates began to open.
Jon's heart pounded as he stepped inside, wondering what kind of reception awaited him on the other side. This was it—the moment that would determine whether his war would gain momentum or die in the snow.
As he entered the courtyard, he was met by a small group of warriors, their eyes wary and their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. At their head stood a young girl, no more than ten years old, dressed in furs and armor far too large for her small frame. Her face was stern, her eyes sharp as they fixed on Jon.
"You're the Stark bastard," she said, her voice steady and cold. "What do you want with House Mormont?"
Jon blinked in surprise. This was Lyanna Mormont, the head of House Mormont, as fierce as her reputation had suggested. He squared his shoulders and met her gaze.
"I've come to ask for your help," Jon said. "The Boltons have taken Winterfell. The North must rise, and we need the Mormonts to fight with us."
Lyanna studied him for a long moment, her small face unreadable. Then, to Jon's relief, she nodded.
"The Mormonts will fight for the North," she said. "We remember the Starks, and we remember what the Boltons have done. But don't think we'll fight for you, bastard. We'll fight for the North."
Jon exhaled, feeling the tension leave his shoulders. "Thank you."
Lyanna's eyes narrowed. "But if you lead us into a fight we can't win, Jon Snow, you'll answer