The distant island of Skagos.
Jon slowly awoke, coughing violently. The bone-chilling cold still seemed to cling to his very bones, but his body was surrounded by the warmth of furs and the crackling heat of a hearth fire. He shot up abruptly, his first instinct a hoarse cry:
"Ygritte!"
The last memory before his unconsciousness flooded back. On the boat near Hardhome, he had seen Ygritte surrounded by the Others. He had desperately tried to row back to save her, but the fragile skiff had shattered under the impact of ice, and the freezing sea had swallowed him whole...
"Awake? Sooner than expected."
A voice with a heavy Tyrosh accent called out.
Jon turned warily and saw a middle-aged man wearing rich furs entering the room, a smile on his face as he held a steaming bowl of broth.
"Who are you? Where is this? Where is Ygritte?!"
Jon fired off his questions, trying to get out of bed but feeling weak and helpless.
"Relax, Jon." The man set the bowl of broth down next to the bed. "I'm Moreo Tumitis, a Tyrosh captain in the service of His Grace Lo Quen. This is Skagos Island. As for the lady you speak of, I'm afraid my men found only you near some drift ice. You were nearly frozen solid. There was no sign of anyone else."
"His Grace Lo Quen? The Eastern conqueror across the Narrow Sea?"
Jon froze, his suspicion growing. "Why would his men save me?"
Since King Robert sent ravens demanding that Castle Black hand over Jon, he had been on the run with Alliser for nearly a year. He had no idea what had happened in the realm.
Moreo chuckled, pulling a chair over and sitting down. "It seems you've been beyond the Wall too long to know what's been happening in the south. That's not surprising. Let me fill you in on some things you should know."
For the next quarter-hour, Jon's world was turned upside down. Moreo spoke calmly, recounting the dramatic events that had unfolded south of the Wall since Jon's departure from Castle Black.
Great Lord Eddard Stark had been beheaded in King's Landing. Robb Stark had declared himself king, marching triumphantly until the "Red Wedding," where he and his mother, Lady Catelyn, were treacherously murdered by House Frey and House Bolton. Many northern lords had joined in the king's brutal slaughter.
Theon Greyjoy, sent by Robb to the Iron Islands, had immediately betrayed him, invading the North with his forces, capturing Winterfell, and allegedly killing Bran. And before his death, Robb had betrothed Sansa to Lo Quen to gain support.
"No... impossible! This can't be true!"
Jon roared, struggling to move, but his weakened body betrayed him, sending him crashing back onto the bed. He could only scream in vain:
"How could this happen?! I'll kill them! I'll avenge them!"
Moreo did not stop him from venting his anger. He simply watched, calm and composed.
"Revenge? Alone? With this weakened body, you'd go back to a North that's changed beyond recognition, filled with betrayal and death?"
Jon's roar choked into a sob, his vision blurring with tears. The grief and rage nearly tore him apart. Even though he knew that Lord Eddard was not his biological father, the debt of years of upbringing weighed on him heavily. And his bond with Robb was deep—Robb's brutal death was a pain Jon couldn't bear.
To see his own lords stab the king in the chest had shattered the last of Jon's defenses. Even Lady Catelyn's death was too much for him to accept. Though she had treated him harshly, she had still been family.
Jon's voice cracked with pain.
"I must return. Stark blood and the North's blood run through my veins!"
"No one is stopping you from returning."
Moreo's voice had a hint of temptation. "Quite the opposite. His Grace wishes to help you. Lady Sansa is his betrothed, the future mistress of Winterfell. His Grace's loyal servant, Ser Jorah Mormont, was sent to negotiate with the northern lords over Winterfell's return, but he was treacherously captured by House Bolton. His fate is uncertain. His Grace considers Ser Jorah a pillar of the realm and will not tolerate House Bolton's theft and atrocities."
Jon snapped his head up, his eyes burning with intensity.
"How will he help me?"
"An army."
Moreo smiled. "Fifteen thousand fierce Dothraki warriors and five thousand slave soldiers. They'll answer to your command. You'll land in the North in the name of House Stark, with Lady Sansa at your side, and you'll drive the Boltons from Winterfell once and for all."
Jon's heart raced.
Twenty thousand strong!
He couldn't help but feel a bit more favorably toward the Eastern king. It seemed Robb had been right to marry Sansa to the Easterner—at least they would avenge the Starks.
Moreo shifted his tone.
"However, His Grace's main forces are currently engaged in war against Volantis on the continent of Essos. He cannot spare more troops. You must lead this army alone. Your first destination should be White Harbor. Lord Manderly is the only great house that remains explicitly loyal to the Starks. One of his sons was captured in the Riverlands, and another died at the Red Wedding. He bears a blood feud against the Bolton and House Frey. You must secure his allegiance to gain supplies and a foothold."
Moreo's expression suddenly darkened as he added,
"One more thing. According to our latest intelligence, Ramsay Bolton—that bastard son of Roose Bolton who was legitimized—now claims he will wed your sister, Arya Stark. He intends to use this marriage to strengthen House Bolton's claim over the North. We haven't verified the truth of this report, but..."
"Arya?!"
Jon cried out, the rage he'd barely contained erupting once more.
His closest sister.
She had fallen into the hands of the Bolton house?!
He couldn't bear to imagine the torment she must be enduring.
"Beasts! The beasts of House Bolton!"
Jon's eyes blazed crimson as his fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms.
"Quick! Get me a ship! Get me back to the North! I'll fight for your king, for Sansa, for Stark vengeance! I'll rescue Arya! I'll hang the Boltons, the Freys, and every other traitor, one by one!"
Endless fury and a thirst for vengeance surged within him.
He had to return!
...
After recuperating for over ten days on Skagos, Jon finally recovered. He no longer dreamt nightly of Ygritte's pale face. Instead, visions of Winterfell burning and the horrifying torment Arya might endure haunted him. These images lashed at him like a whip, urging him to rise.
The supplies and guides Moreo had arranged were ready. On this day, the sky hung gray, and the cold wind still bit at him as Jon boarded the ships Moreo had arranged. These vessels had shallow drafts, well-suited for navigating the North's winding, treacherous coastline.
After several days battling wind and waves, skirting Skagos Island's jagged reefs and pervasive fog, they sailed southward into the Bite.
Soon, the distant horizon finally revealed the coastline.
And farther still on the sea, an even larger fleet was slowly approaching.
It was dozens of massive flat-bottomed transport ships, filling the entire bay.
On board were fifteen thousand Dothraki warhorsemen.
Even at sea, they retained the untamed spirit of their steppe people. Curved blades hung at their waists as they gazed curiously and restlessly upon the land.
Their warhorses were stowed in the holds, occasionally letting out uneasy whinnies.
On the other side lay five thousand slave soldiers from the Three Daughters.
They wore uniform studded leather armor, wielding spears and shields, their eyes flickering with desire.
His Grace had promised them Free folk status if they distinguished themselves in this campaign.
Jon's small boat was the first to reach a secluded yet suitable gravel beach. As he stepped ashore, the icy air filling his lungs brought a sharp pang of pain. This was his homeland, now overrun by enemies.
The vast fleet began launching countless small boats, ferrying soldiers and horses onto the shore. Such a massive army appearing suddenly beneath White Harbor's watchful eye could not go unnoticed.
Soon, figures mounted on horses appeared on the distant hills along the coastline, alert and watchful, bearing the mermen sigil of House Manderly. Jon knew the moment had come to persuade Lord Wyman. He rode alone toward those knights.
...
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